Godly Investor: A Hundred Trillion Dollars For Investment And Donations

At that moment the sharp ring of his phone broke through his thoughts. Ethan hesitated, staring at the screen for a moment before finally pulling it out of his pocket. His grandmother's name flashed on the display.

With a steadying breath, he answered.

"Ethan," her voice came through, warm but firm, "I'm just reminding you about this weekend. You must come, no excuses. And," she added after a brief pause, "stay safe."

Hearing Lady Madison words Ethan nodded, even though she couldn't see him.

"I will," he said simply.

"Good," she replied, her tone softening slightly before the call ended.

As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, a sudden flash on the nearby system console caught his eye. A message scrolled across the screen:

[Host has ascended to Level 2. The Intermediate Level.]

Upon seeing what system display. Ethan's gaze lingered on the words, his mind now racing with questions and possibilities.

Ethan stared at the flashing message, his breath caught in his chest. [Host has ascended to Level 2. The Intermediate Level.] The words seemed almost surreal, but the details that followed left him stunned.

[200 billion dollars spent. All attribute points have passed 100+. Ascending to the next level.]

At that moment Ethan's pulse quickened as he read on, the messages rolling in faster than he could process.

[A trillion dollars in system funds have been released.]

Immediately his hands gripped the edge of the desk as the next line appeared, almost mocking him with its weight.

[Host must spend five trillion dollars to ascend to the next level.]

The sheer magnitude of it hit him like a freight train, his mind spinning. Five trillion dollars. The number was astronomical, almost unfathomable.

However but the system didn't stop there. More messages flooded the screen, the cascading notifications reflecting in his widened eyes.

[Hi, I am Poppy Hardy. We can finally start having a conversation.]

Upon hearing what voice Ethan froze, the unexpected introduction pulling him out of his overwhelmed state. Poppy Hardy? His eyes darted back to the screen, his thoughts colliding in a mix of disbelief and intrigue.

**

The hum of machinery filled the large telecommunication building, blending with the faint murmur of voices and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards.

Amid the organized chaos, a woman in a sharp black suit rose from her desk, her expression grim and unreadable. Without a word, she strode purposefully toward an unmarked corridor, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.@@novelbin@@

The corridor stretched long and dimly lit, the air heavier with each step she took. At the far end stood a single red door, its surface unassuming yet oddly foreboding. Reaching it, the woman paused for a moment before rapping twice, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness.

At that moment the door creaked open, revealing a large, burly man standing on the other side. His piercing red eyes glowed faintly, his presence filling the narrow space like a shadow that refused to fade. However he didn't say a word, merely stepping aside slightly, his gaze fixed on her with quiet intensity.

The woman met his eyes without flinching, her voice steady but carrying a weight that lingered in the air.

"Mark Phoenix is dead. Killed in action."

Upon hearing what the Lady just said.

The burly man's expression didn't change, but his posture stiffened, the silence that followed her words stretching unnervingly long. The faint hum of the corridor seemed louder now, as though the building itself was reacting to the weight of her statement.

Immediately the woman handed over a thick folder of documents, her movements precise and deliberate.

The burly man took them without a word, his red eyes narrowing as he stepped back and shut the door with a low creak.

The heavy thud echoed through the dimly lit room, its oppressive silence broken only by the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

Turning away, the burly man walked toward the figure lounging on a sleek leather couch.

Smoke curled lazily from the glowing tip of a cigar held between the fingers of the man seated there. His sharp, calculating eyes were half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat tilted low over his face. The air around him carried a tension that made the burly man straighten his posture instinctively.

Setting the documents down on the glass table in front of the couch, the burly man cleared his throat. His voice was deep and steady, but there was a faint edge of unease as he spoke.

"Master," he began, glancing at the cigar momentarily before locking eyes with the man, "there's a problem."

However the figure didn't respond immediately, instead exhaling a plume of smoke that lingered in the air like a sinister omen. Finally, he tilted his head slightly, a silent cue for the burly man to continue.

"One of the circle was found dead this morning," the burly man said, his tone heavier now. "Mark Phoenix. He was murdered—alongside all of his disciples."

Upon hearing what the man just said.

The man on the couch leaned forward, the light catching the sharp angles of his face as the room grew colder. He picked up the documents, flipping through them slowly, his expression darkening with every page. The weight of his silence filled the room, the smoke now curling more erratically, as though it mirrored the storm brewing in his mind.

At that moment the Master's eyes darkened, the sharp glint of cold fury overtaking the casual demeanor he'd worn moments ago. Without a word, he stubbed out the cigar in a sleek ashtray beside him, the sizzle of extinguished tobacco filling the tense silence.

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Then He extended his hand toward the burly man, who quickly handed another documents without hesitation.

The boss leaned back, flipping through the pages methodically, his sharp gaze scanning every line. Each page seemed to harden his expression further, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the details.

The room's oppressive air grew heavier with each turn, the burly man standing nearby like a statue, waiting for his next command.

Then the Master stopped, his fingers lingering on the final page. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto a specific line, his lips pressing into a thin, dangerous line.

Recruitment.

Progress: 90%.

Identity: The Goldy investor.

The silence that followed was deafening. The boss's grip on the paper tightened slightly, the creases in the document now mirroring the tension rippling through the room. His mind raced, connecting threads, piecing together a puzzle that had just taken a sharp, unexpected turn.