Young Marchis had infiltrated the wealthy man's residence flawlessly… almost effortlessly.
The man hurried to treat the boy's bruises, carefully applying rare ointments with steady hands.
Marchis slowly opened his eyes.
Then suddenly—
He flinched violently.
"Don't touch me! Please—I'll listen! I'll do anything! Just don't hurt me again… it hurts… please…"
The fear in his voice sounded real.
It wasn't.
"Hey! Calm down—you're safe here," the man said quickly. "No one will hurt you. What happened? Where are your parents?"
Marchis lowered his head. His shoulders trembled.
"My parents…" His voice cracked. "They'll kill me if they see this. I'm useless… I ruin everything… If only someone cared…"
Tears fell.
Perfect timing.
The wealthy man froze. Something in the boy's eyes felt familiar. Not fear—
Loneliness.
He gave a gentle smile, the kind that comforts people.
Marchis analyzed it instantly.
Lonely. Emotionally empty. Searching for purpose.
"Sir…" Marchis whispered weakly. "Where am I?"
"You're safe," the man replied. "I'm just someone who found you outside."
Marchis let his breathing slow… then pretended to fall asleep.
The man placed his palm on the boy's forehead and smiled softly.
He had no idea.
The hunter was already inside the cage.
Farhinstone
In a private hall in Farhinstone, twelve powerful individuals sat around a dark marble table. Each of them controlled industries, money, and influence strong enough to shake nations.
At the head stood Mr. Svandhill.
"I have gathered the twelve most capable people in this room for a reason," he said calmly.
One man frowned. "You called us here without even explaining why."
Another added, "Encrypted invitations. Anonymous sender. You forced our curiosity."
A third man leaned back in his chair. "You researched us. Dug into our secrets. Maybe even found things you think you can use against us."
The air grew heavy.
Svandhill's blue eyes remained calm.
"I did my research, yes. But I did not gather you for blackmail."
He activated a small device. A screen lit up, showing names and photos.
"Few people should be removed from this world..They were not public leaders—but the hands behind them. Invisible architects of wars, market crashes, assassinations, and regime changes. They controlled debt systems, private armies, energy choke points, and classified intelligence leaks. Remove them, and governments would fall like dominoes. Chaos would spread quietly… and a new order could rise from the ruins."
The room erupted.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"You think we're assassins?"
Only one man remained silent.
Atiarnad a man with a stron aura,
"Explain," he said simply.
Svandhill clasped his hands behind his back.
"The world is poorly managed. Governments are weak. Markets are predictable. Real power needs structure. I am building an organization that will quietly control everything."
A man stood up angrily. "You filthy insect you're fit to rule us?"
Svandhill slid a document across the table.
"Mr. Grayson. Hundred and seven deaths connected to companies under your control."
Grayson's face darkened. "I will have your face wiped off this world".
Atiarnad slowly stood.
The room instantly quieted.
Grayson sat back down.
"Before coming here," Atiarnad said calmly, "I arranged for assassins to surround this building. If this is an attempt to threaten us, reconsider."
Svandhill let out a slow breath.
Then he said five words.
"I have the Pinnaclster File."
Silence.
Not confusion.
Shock.
The Pinnaclster File wasn't just information.
It was rumored to be a hidden master archive—containing secrets about the most powerful people in the world. Psychological weaknesses. Financial backdoors. Private crimes. Hidden alliances. Even predictions of their future moves.
Whoever controlled it could destroy empires without ever showing their face.
For the first time—
Real fear appeared in the room.
Newland
At the same moment, Marchis opened his eyes slightly.
Timing mattered.
"C-can I have some water…?"
The man handed him a glass personally.
Attachment forming, Marchis calculated.
"Thank you… and I'm sorry for the trouble…"
"If you're comfortable," the man said gently, "tell me what happened."
Marchis hesitated… then spoke.
"Some senior boys at school… they make me do humiliating tasks. If I refuse, they beat me."
He let his voice shake just enough.
"Didn't you fight back?" the man asked.
"I tried once."
Marchis lifted his shirt.
A long scar stretched across his side.
The man's eyes turned red with anger.
"Where do they live?"
There it is.
Controlled rage.
"Please, sir!" Marchis said urgently. "If my parents find out, it'll get worse for me. I want to handle it myself."
He clenched his fists.
"I just need to become strong."
The wealthy man's expression softened.
"Being weak is not a sin. Bullying the weak is. Strength should protect, not dominate."
Marchis looked at him and smiled.
Innocent. Bright. Grateful.
Inside, his thoughts were ice cold.
Being weak is the only unforgivable sin.
This world doesn't reward kindness. It rewards power.
In my previous life, the weak were crushed without mercy. This time… I will stand at the top.
Out loud, he said softly:
"You're right… I really admire that. I wish I had a father like you."
The words hit deeper than anything else.
The wealthy man's eyes softened.
Hope.
Meaning.
Purpose.
Marchis saw it clearly.
Hook secured.
The real game had begun.