Chapter 21: The Changed Ghost
"Status", Ethan called up the system status
Host: Ethan McCain
Wealth: $9,859,931,780,000,000.00
LEVEL 1 Sub-Stage: Body Refining (Pseudo)
Body: 100 (Peak)
Mind: 100 (Peak)
System Points (SP): 45
Skills: None
Ethan sat on his chair in the center of the Royal Suite looking at his stats, the silence around him vibrating with the frequency of his own newfound power. His mind was no longer a chaotic storm of anxieties; it was a cold, crystalline lake. Every thought was a precise calculation. He recalled his earlier upgrades, the data points scrolling across his vision with perfect clarity.
According to the System's unbreakable logic, every $100,000,000 spent earned him 1 System Point. To have reached his current peak of 100 Body and 100 Mind, he had to effectively secure 200 System Points. That meant he had already cycled through $20,000,000,000 ($20 Billion) in recognized expenditures. While that was a staggering sum to any normal human, to Ethan, it was a drop in an ocean that spanned quadrillions.
However, the path forward was steepening. The System pulsed with a new notification, a blue light flickering at the edge of his consciousness. To break through the bottleneck of Level 1 and ascend to Level 2, he wouldn't just need a few dozen points—he needed 1,000 System Points. To fully cap out Level 2 and reach the next threshold of evolution, he would require a total of 2,000 System Points.
His internal processor hummed as he did the math instantly. To generate 2,000 points at the current exchange rate, he would need to spend a staggering $200,000,000,000 ($200 Billion).
Two hundred billion dollars, Ethan thought, his lips curving into a predatory smile. In South River County, that's enough to buy the entire skyline ten times over. If I spend that much on real estate alone, I'll be on the cover of every magazine on the planet by sunset.
He knew he couldn't just keep buying hotels and Ferraris. Such blatant, repetitive consumption was the mark of a "New Money" fool, and more importantly, it was a beacon for the world's intelligence agencies. He needed to be more than a spender; he needed to be an architect. He needed a way to move hundreds of billions of dollars while staying beneath the detection of the global powers that lurked in the shadows.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his Mind at Peak Level 1 spinning through thousands of scenarios per second. Then he thought, I need a front, he realized. A conglomerate that doesn't just hold wealth, but creates it. A global entity that serves as a shield.
He began to map out a grand strategy. He would establish a venture capital firm, but not a typical one. He would call it Black Global Holdings. Through Black, he would seek out the "dreamers"—brilliant scientists, engineers, and social innovators who had world-changing ideas but lacked the capital to fight the monopolies. He would provide the funding they needed, taking a percentage of shares in exchange for massive, quiet injections of cash.
If he funded a green-energy startup in Germany, a satellite firm in the US, and a biotech lab in Singapore, he could move billions across borders under the guise of "innovation investment." He would buy shares in the world's largest companies, slowly becoming the silent majority shareholder of the world's infrastructure.
But it wasn't just about the money. He felt a strange, lingering sensation in his chest—a remnant of the boy who used to go to bed hungry. I will change the lives of the people, he vowed. I will establish charities on a scale the world has never seen. I'll build schools that look like palaces and hospitals where the poor are treated like kings.
He stood up, his gaze turning cold and sharp. By promoting others, he would establish himself as the hidden ruler of the world. He would be the kingmaker, the man behind the curtain, the Sovereign of the Zillion System.
"It's time to rule the world," he murmured, his voice echoing with a low, underlying power. "But first... I need a place to call home. A base of operations."
He walked to the walk-in closet and selected a new ensemble. He chose a bespoke, midnight-blue suit crafted from Vicuña wool—the rarest and most expensive fabric in the world. It was understated, looking like a simple dark suit to the untrained eye, but to an expert, it screamed of wealth beyond measure. He paired it with a crisp, white shirt and a pair of handmade Italian leather oxfords.
As he walked down the corridor toward the Imperial Solar Chamber, his footsteps made no sound on the thick carpets. The staff he passed instinctively bowed lower than usual. They didn't know why, but the air around Ethan felt heavy, as if he carried the gravity of a small planet within him.
The Imperial Solar Chamber was the hotel's most exclusive dining room, a space usually reserved for visiting royalty or heads of state. Ethan sat alone at the long, obsidian table. Within minutes, a small army of waiters began to serve him.
The dishes were a culinary map of the world: bluefin tuna flown in from Tokyo's Toyosu Market; white truffles from Alba; A5 Wagyu beef from Hyogo; and rare, golden Beluga caviar. Every bite was a masterpiece of flavor, textures he couldn't have even imagined forty-eight hours ago.
Despite the incredible spread, Ethan barely finished half of it. His new metabolism was efficient, but his mind was already miles away. He signaled to the head waiter, a man who had spent thirty years serving the elite.
"This food," Ethan said, gesturing to the untouched plates of delicate seafood and prime cuts. "What do you do with the waste?"
The waiter bowed deeply. "Sir, it is the Golden Dragon's policy that all untouched, high-quality surplus is immediately vacuum-sealed and donated to the local St. Jude's Food Bank and three other registered charities. We ensure that the finest ingredients do not go to waste."
Ethan nodded, satisfied. "Double the donations from today. I'll cover the extra logistics costs."
"Of course, Mr. McCain. Most generous."
Ethan stood up, his Mind already calculating the day's itinerary. He needed a house. Not just a house, but a fortress. He recalled the most exclusive neighborhood in the region: The Obsidian Heights. It was a gated mountain community where the "Old Money" of South River County lived—families who looked down on anyone who hadn't been wealthy for at least four generations.
He knew exactly what was going to happen. He looked like a young man, perhaps a college student playing dress-up in an expensive suit. He knew the real estate agents in Obsidian Heights would see his age and his lack of a "family name" and try to show him the door.
A cold, amused smile touched his lips. I've been a ghost for long enough. Let's see how they react when the ghost buys their entire mountain.
Then he walked back to his room to change into his ordinary clothes—a worn-out hoodie and faded jeans not worth up to $100. He wanted the raw experience of the "Face Slap" to be authentic. If he showed up in the Vicuña suit, they might hesitate; in these rags, their arrogance would be unrestrained.
He walked out of his room and headed toward the main lobby. As he approached the grand revolving doors of the Golden Dragon, his Peak Mind picked up the shift in the atmosphere outside. Through the tinted glass, his eyes—sharpened to a Peak Level 1—scanned the parking lot. He saw them immediately. Thirty men. They weren't even trying to hide. They were leaning against blacked-out SUVs and cheap sedans, their jackets bulging with the tell-tale shapes of pipes, brass knuckles, and folding blades. At the center of the group stood a man with a scarred face, holding a phone, likely waiting for the signal from Julian.
Ordinary people were scurrying away, sensing the violence in the air. The hotel security was hovering near the doors, looking nervous, hesitant to interfere with a gang of thirty armed thugs on the public sidewalk just outside their jurisdiction.
Ethan didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He adjusted the cuffs of his cheap hoodie as if they were the midnight-blue silk from earlier. Thirty men, he thought, his Mind instantly simulating thirty different ways to dismantle them. With his Body at 100, he could move faster than their eyes could track. He could strike with the force of a hydraulic press.
He pushed through the revolving doors and stepped out onto the granite steps of the hotel. The humid air of the morning hit his face, but he didn't feel the heat. He felt like a predator stepping into a field of tall grass.
The man with the scarred face looked up, squinting at Ethan. He checked his phone, then looked back at Ethan, a cruel grin spreading across his face. He whistled, and the thirty men began to peel away from their cars, forming a semi-circle that blocked the entire exit to the street.
"You the kid Julian's crying about?" the leader called out, spitting on the ground. "He said you were some kind of martial arts expert. You look like a scholarship brat who's about to lose his teeth."
Ethan continued to walk down the steps, his hands casually in his pockets. He didn't look at the leader. He looked at the street beyond them, where his sedan was parked—a car delivered yesterday just for this purpose.
"You're blocking my car," Ethan said, his voice quiet but carrying a terrifying resonance that seemed to vibrate in the chests of the men.
The thugs laughed, the sound harsh and jagged. They began to pull out their weapons. Lead pipes scraped against the pavement with a rhythmic skree-skree sound. One man flicked open a switchblade, the steel gleaming.
"We're doing more than blocking your car, kid," the leader said, stepping forward. "We're going to break every bone in your body, and then we're going to take whatever pennies you have left and—"
Before the man could finish the sentence, Ethan moved.
To the thugs, it looked like Ethan simply vanished. To Ethan, the world had slowed to a crawl. He saw the leader's eyes widen in slow motion, the pupils dilating in sudden, instinctive terror. He saw a fly hovering in mid-air near a thug's ear, its wings beating in sluggish, heavy strokes.
Ethan stepped into the leader's space. He didn't use a flashy move. He simply placed a palm on the man's chest and pushed.
The "push" carried the concentrated force of a 100-stat Body. The leader was launched backward as if hit by a speeding truck. He flew fifteen feet through the air, his body slamming into the windshield of a parked SUV with a sickening CRACK of shattering glass. The man didn't even have time to scream before he lost consciousness.
The other twenty-nine men froze. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence. Ethan stood where the leader had been, his ordinary clothes untouched by the violence. He looked at the remaining thugs, his eyes cold and void of any emotion.
"I have an appointment at Obsidian Heights," Ethan said, his voice calm, as if he were discussing the weather. "I'm going to count to three. If you're still in my way, I won't just push you."
The thugs looked at their leader, folded like a ragdoll into the shattered windshield. They looked at Ethan, who stood there like a god carved from obsidian.
"One," Ethan said.
The man with the switchblade dropped it. The metal clattered loudly on the pavement.
"Two."
Panic broke. It wasn't a retreat; it was a rout. Thirty men—hardened street thugs—scrambled over each other to get back into their cars. Engines roared to life, tires screeched, and within fifteen seconds, the parking lot was empty of everyone except the unconscious leader and the terrified hotel valet.
Ethan didn't spare them another glance. He walked to the waiting sedan. He climbed in, gripped the steering wheel, and looked toward the mountain peaks.
"Obsidian Heights," Ethan said. "Let's go do some face slapping."