Wealth Ascension System

Chapter 5: The Clock and The Parade

Ethan woke to the sound of a diamond-edged chime in his skull.

Light from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Imperial Suite stabbed his eyes. He’d slept a dead, dreamless sleep for ten hours. As consciousness returned, so did the blue, glowing text burned against the back of his eyelids.

[TASK 2: ACQUIRE PRIVATE EQUITY STAKE - ‘VENTURE DYNAMICS, SERIES B’ - 85,000 SHARES.]

[TIME LIMIT: 10 HOURS.]

[REWARD UPON SUCCESS: $20,000,000.00]

[PENALTY FOR FAILURE: OCCIPITAL NEURAL LOCK. PERMANENT 50% VISUAL FIELD REDUCTION.]

The message had been sent 7 hours and 14 minutes ago.

[TIME REMAINING: 2 HOURS, 46 MINUTES.]

A jolt of pure adrenaline burned through the last of his grogginess. The System hadn’t waited. It didn’t care. It had issued a command, and the clock had started ticking while he drowned in sleep.

[Failure to complete task: Permanent 50% vision reduction.]

Not death. Something worse. A lifetime of half-sight, a living disability forged by his own failure. The cold precision of the punishment was more terrifying than any threat of violence.

He moved. A scalding three-minute shower, scrubbing the last of the river and hospital from his skin. He pulled on his only clothes, the stiff, reeking khakis and the button-down with the faint brown scorch on the collar. The emperor’s suite, the marble tub, meant nothing. He was a soldier with a broken radio and a desperate mission.

On his new, untraceable phone, stock and trading apps were already installed. He found the listing. A private equity share block, being offloaded by a minor heir named Julian Thorne. The contact method was a secure messaging line. No digital transfer. The note was clear: “Serious buyers only. Physical meet for verification and immediate wire. Time-wasters will be blacklisted.”

Ethan’s fingers flew. “I am a serious buyer. Ready to transact for the full block at asking price. Wire ready. Name the location.”

He stared at the screen for five agonizing minutes. No reply.

[TIME REMAINING: 2 HOURS, 11 MINUTES.]

He called the luxury concierge. “I need a car. Now. The fastest, most discreet you have. I will be downstairs in ninety seconds.”

“Sir, at this hour, with the parade, our fleet is—”

“Now. Bill the suite.”

He was in the elevator, descending from the penthouse, when the reply came through.

Julian Thorne: “Larkspur Coffee, Financial District. 30 minutes. Don’t be late.”

The car was a silent black sedan, but it wasn’t fast. Three blocks from the hotel, traffic congealed into a solid, honking mass. A sea of people lined the sidewalks, waving little flags. Police barricades funneled all vehicles into a single, crawling lane.

“What is this?” Ethan barked at the driver.

“Parade, sir. For the Voss-Hayes engagement. The billionaire and the tech queen. They’re doing a ‘public celebration’ motorcade. Gridlocked the whole district.”

Claire. And Marcus Voss. Of course.

Ethan watched, a stone in his gut, as a procession of open-top vintage Rolls-Royces glided down the cleared opposite lane. In the lead car, flanked by outriders, stood Claire and Marcus. She was radiant in a ivory dress, waving with a regal, practiced smile. He had his arm around her, waving to the crowd like a crowned prince accepting their homage. Confetti rained down. A banner on the side of the car read: “CELEBRATING OUR MERGER.”

The symbolism wasn’t subtle. It was a corporate takeover made flesh.

His car didn’t move an inch for twelve minutes. He watched them pass, close enough to see the diamond on her finger catch the sun. The hollow calm inside him cracked, filled with a searing, silent rage.

[TIME REMAINING: 1 HOUR, 32 MINUTES.]

“I’m getting out,” Ethan said, his voice deadly quiet.

“Sir, we’re blocks away—”

Ethan threw a hundred-dollar bill over the seat, shoved the door open, and launched himself into the crowded sidewalk. He didn’t walk. He ran.

He weaved through the gawking crowds, his ragged clothes earning him sneers and shoves. His lungs, still tender, burned. Each footfall sent a jolt through his healing body. He ran past the confetti, the cheering, the image of her perfect, triumphant life.

He arrived at Larkspur Coffee—a minimalist, overpriced pitstop for financiers—drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

[TIME REMAINING: 58 MINUTES.]

He scanned the room. Only one person fit the profile: a young man in a painfully trendy suit, sipping an espresso while scrolling on a tablet, a look of profound boredom on his face.

Ethan approached. “Julian Thorne?”

The man didn’t look up. “Do I know you?”

“Ethan Cross. I’m here for the Venture Dynamics shares.”

Julian finally glanced up. His eyes did a slow, dismissive sweep from Ethan’s soaked hair to his scuffed shoes. A smirk played on his lips. “Right. The ‘serious buyer.’ You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I have the capital. Let’s complete the transaction.”

Julian set his tablet down, leaning back. “Look… Ethan, was it? This isn’t a flea market. This is an $8.5 million private block. The people I meet with have offices. They have lawyers with them. They don’t show up looking like they’ve just lost a fight with a lawnmower and a puddle.”

“My appearance is irrelevant. My money is verified. Name the final price and the account.”

“Verified?” Julian laughed. “By who? Your mom? Get out of here. You’re wasting my time. I’ve got actual buyers to deal with.” He picked up his tablet again, dismissal absolute.

Panic, cold and sharp, mixed with the rage. [TIME REMAINING: 41 MINUTES.] The clock was a drumbeat in his skull.

“Name. Your. Price.” Each word was ground out like glass.

Julian sighed, as if put upon by a persistent insect. “Fine. You want to play? The price is **$2,500,000**. Flat. Non-negotiable. My final offer to make you go away.” It was a mockery. The asking price had been $2 million. He was inflating it to humiliate him.

Without a word, Ethan took out his phone, pulled up the wire transfer, and input the details Julian provided. He showed the screen to Julian. “Confirm your details. It will be sent now.”

The smirk vanished from Julian’s face. He checked the account numbers, his eyes narrowing. This was real. The ragged man in front of him had just called his bluff with terrifying calm.

“Do it,” Julian said, his voice losing its bored tone.

Ethan pressed send. $2,500,000.00.

They sat in silence for the longest ninety seconds of Ethan’s life. Then Julian’s phone chimed. He looked at it, and his jaw tightened slightly. He gave a cur looked at it, and his jaw tightened slightly. He gave a curt nod.

“Transaction received. The shares are yours.” He slid a data stick across the table. “Documents.”

As Ethan’s fingers closed around the stick, the world shifted.

The blue text in his vision dissolved in a wave of overwhelming, euphoric clarity.

[TASK 2: COMPLETE.]

[REWARD: $20,000,000.00 - TRANSFERRED.]

A second later, his phone buzzed. The balance update: $20,000,000.00.

He was broke, and then he was richer than he could comprehend, in the space of a heartbeat.

Julian Thorne stared, his earlier arrogance replaced by dawning, unsettled realization. “Who the hell are you?”

Ethan stood up, pocketing the data stick. He didn’t answer. He was already turning away when the new message appeared, blood-red and urgent against the fading euphoria.

[PUNISHMENT PROTOCOL FOR TIME OVERRUN: ACTIVATED.]

[CONSEQUENCE A searing, white-hot needle of pain lanced from the base of his skull directly into his visual cortex. The world in his left eye fractured, then reassembled in a nauseating, blurred mosaic. Colors swam. Depth perception vanished. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table.

Julian stared, now looking genuinely alarmed. “Hey, are you—?”

Ethan righted himself. Through one clear eye and one chaotic, blurry mess, he saw the final System message, cold and inexorable.

[NEXT TASK: PENDING.]

[RECALIBRATE.]

The punishment for imperfection had been delivered instantly, automatically. The next demand was already coming.

He walked out of the coffee shop, half in a blurred nightmare, twenty million dollars richer, and utterly, completely owned. The System giveth, and the System punished. And it was never, ever done.: OCCIPITAL NEURAL DISCHARGE. 12-HOUR VISUAL DISTORTION.]