A Wall Street Genius’s Final Investment Playbook Chapter 307: The 100-Billion Race (3)

Chapter 307: The 100-Billion Race (3)

I gave Pierce three days.

But during that ti, I couldn’t just sit around and wait either. After all, the goal of gathering a hundred billion dollars wasn’t for so petty ga of money. My ultimate goal was to develop a cure.

If I succeeded in raising the funds, the next step would be imdiate investnt, so I had to lay the groundwork for it now.

I began by ensuring that every Pareto employee clearly understood the identity and purpose of the new fund.

“The na of the new fund is The Cure Fund. It ans creating the one and only ultimate cure that transcends all diseases. More specifically, we’ll be focusing our investnts on WFOXO3A gene activation technology and the infrastructure to make it a reality.”

In short, while therapeutic research had been mainly conducted through the Castleman Foundation until now, from this point forward that work would officially beco part of our fund’s domain.

‘It can’t be helped.’

Until now, we’d been limited to using existing drugs off-label for clinical trials, so the Castleman Foundation had no choice but to handle the process despite its complications.

However—

‘Things have changed.’

The WFOXO3A gene activation project was essentially the act of creating a brand-new drug from nothing. To make it possible, we needed to scour the world for promising investnt targets and, when necessary, use financial leverage to tighten the reins on managent.

No matter how you looked at it, this was work far better suited to a fund than to gentle David.

‘The Castleman Foundation’s role is limited to clinical trials.’

To put it another way—in Russian roulette, the fund designs and manufactures the trigger, while the Castleman Foundation is the one that actually pulls it.

Still, even if the people at Pareto had recently begun to treat my words like gospel, if I suddenly declared that I’d go all-in on a non-profitable therapeutic project worth a hundred billion dollars, they’d definitely object.

That ant I needed a convincing justification everyone could accept. Fortunately, I had one ready.

“The WFOXO3A gene is often called the longevity gene. Studies show that it may be applicable not only to longevity, but also to dentia, cancer, and other intractable diseases.”

Well, it wasn’t a lie. The gene’s potential really was extraordinary. The employees’ reactions exploded instantly.

“Whoa! Are you serious? That’s practically a cure-all!”

“So we’re going to monopolize the ultimate panacea?”

“If this succeeds... we’ll be swimming in money!”

Hook, line, and sinker.

“Until now, isolating WFOXO3A mutations was nearly impossible, but we recently found an important clue. In patients with Castleman’s disease, this gene is abnormally expressed...”

If WFOXO3A was a supporting actor in diseases like dentia or cancer, then in Castleman’s disease, it was the leading role. That ant if we could cure Castleman’s, we’d essentially hold the key to the cure for everything else.

Judging from the wild cheers erupting across the room like a zoo, my exaggeration had landed perfectly.

‘Looks like they’re convinced.’

With that settled, the next step was team selection. Separate from Pareto Innovation, I needed to assemble a team dedicated solely to the new fund.

After an internal tournant process, eight final mbers were chosen. Surprisingly, Dobby made the cut, and Gonzalez’s na appeared on the list as well.

‘Probably more due to bribery than rit...’

For a mont, I considered removing Gonzalez, but I decided to let capitalism take its natural course. Even if I forced him out now, he’d just bribe soone else and end up right back where he started.

Anyway—

Right now, what mattered far more was the research team. For the new fund, I mobilized headhunters to scout a number of experienced professionals in the dical field.

“My na’s Alex Lin. I majored in bioinformatics at Harvard and launched several drug design startups under Flagship.”

We poached key talents from major biotech funds and incubators. Thanks to Pareto’s reputation, I managed to bring them in at a bargain.

‘Excellent.’

I imdiately gave the new recruits their first task. They were to compile a list of potential investnts related to WFOXO3A gene activation.

Then—

“As of now, there are five practical strategies we can invest in.”

The newly hired experts were more capable than I’d expected. Their briefing was so systematic it was nearly identical to the outline I’d already drafted in my mind. And because their explanations were so technical that other mbers looked lost, they even added vivid analogies to clarify.

“Think of WFOXO3A as the body’s final safety brake. If that brake malfunctions, there are five ways to fix it. The fastest approach is epigenetic treatnt—like cleaning and oiling a rusted, squeaky brake. RNAi or ASO thods, on the other hand, are like removing the pebbles stuck underneath it...”

After a couple more analogies, the rest of the team seed to get the general idea. We imdiately began gathering and analyzing data.

‘Five approaches, huh...’

Of course, that didn’t an there were only five possible drug candidates. To be exact, there were five ways to approach the problem. Even if we decided to “oil the brake,” there were countless kinds of oils to choose from—each representing a different drug candidate we’d need to test.

For the record, even I didn’t know which one was correct. This was an area even my past life couldn’t predict. The only way forward was trial and error.

‘There has to be an answer in here sowhere... right?’

If all five approaches turned out to be dead ends—

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. But then I noticed sothing.

[Ti of Death: March 11, 2023]

[Ti Remaining: 2,256 days]

[Survival Rate: 39.1% ( 0.3%p)]

The survival rate printed on my death notice. When I finalized the team, the rate had risen by 0.5%. After we mapped out the five action plans, it went up another 0.3%.

It was a small change—but it was at least proof that I wasn’t heading in the wrong direction.

‘Still, I can’t put blind faith in those numbers.’

Just like with Milo—sotis you find critical clues during failure, and the rate still goes up as a result. Even if that’s what this was, it still ant one thing—that I was on the right path.

But to reach the end of that path would require ti, and soone’s life as the price. The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth. Only one of these five paths could be the correct one. The others... would lead to death for the patients who took them.

It wasn’t fundantally different from what I’d done before, and yet—this ti, it felt heavier. Before, the results had been completely random—pure chance. Now it was a matter of probability and choice. Maybe that’s why it felt worse.

Still, there was no alternative.

‘So what then, just give up?’

That would be even more foolish. When you consider the greatest possible number of lives saved—this was the only path that made sense.

***

But still. No matter how I tried to rationalize it, the unpleasant feeling wouldn’t go away.

It’s like a trolley dilemma, I thought. To save five people, I’d have to switch the train onto the track where one person was standing. The problem was that I was the one standing at the lever.

If soone asked, “Who are you to make that decision?”—I wouldn’t have much of an answer. Because I wasn’t even sure I was capable of making the right one.

But.

Whether I liked it or not, I was the one who had to play that role. Each “opportunity” like this required astronomical capital to even exist—and right now, the only person in the world with both the power and the will to make it happen was .

And even for , this wasn’t easy.

I was one of the most recognized investors in the world. People might assu that if I launched a new fund, investors would line up with bundles of cash in hand—that a hundred billion dollars would flow in the mont I blew the whistle. But that kind of thinking only cos from people who have no idea how this world really works.

In reality, it was a far more complicated—and much more exhausting—problem. If anyone wanted proof, they just had to look at Pierce’s face. After only three days, he already looked like a trader who’d just watched his portfolio crash.

“You do know we’ll need an anchor, right?” he said.

An anchor investor—the very first and most crucial investor in any fund. Just like the na suggests, an anchor’s role is to drop the figurative weight that keeps a ship steady in the volatile sea of the market. They typically provide 10–30% of the total fund.

But money alone doesn’t make soone an anchor. A true anchor investor is one whose re participation spreads credibility throughout the market—pulling in hesitant investors who were waiting on the sidelines.

In other words, they’re like the first custor in a restaurant. No matter how good the food is, who wants to walk into an empty place? Once soone takes that first seat, others follow. And if that first custor happens to be a famous gourt? Then the place fills up in no ti.

Every major fundraising needs an anchor like that. When I’d first launched Pareto, old man Kissinger had played that role for .

But now... even he couldn’t serve as my anchor. Because the scale of this ga had grown far too large.

“For a fund worth a hundred billion dollars,” Pierce said, “an anchor would need to invest at least ten billion at minimum—maybe even thirty billion.”

Anchors usually take on 10–30% of the total fund. But for a hundred-billion-dollar fund, that number wasn’t small at all. Only a handful of entities in the entire world could casually put up that kind of money.

“And the bigger issue,” Pierce added, “is that the field you’re targeting is still in its infancy. That makes the pool of potential anchors extrely limited.”

The Cure Fund was designed as a hybrid—investing in both listed companies and erging startups. In other words, we’d be taking on the inherent risks of venture investnts as well.

But unfortunately...

Most institutional investors had very strict internal rules regarding venture-type investnts. They usually capped their commitnts to such funds at around one to three billion dollars.

Why? Two reasons.

First, because venture investnts didn’t require huge sums to begin with—seed rounds were typically in the tens of millions, maybe a hundred million at most.

Second, because the return cycle took too long. Seven years if you were lucky, ten if you weren’t. It was, in a sense, the art of waiting.

Of course, for the big players who handled tens of billions, a few hundred million wasn’t much—they could say, “We can let that sit for a while.”

But ten billion? That was a whole different story.

Anyway—

After filtering through all the institutional restrictions, Pierce finally said, “That leaves six possible anchor candidates. All sovereign wealth funds.”

Only six in the entire world. The list in his hand read: Saudi Arabia, UAE, Singapore, China, Norway, and Canada.

“But China and Norway only invest in liquid assets, so they’re out,” he continued.

That left four.

“Saudi Arabia and the UAE already committed $45 billion and $20 billion respectively to the Visionary Fund, so they’re tapped out. We can cross them off, too.”

In the end, only two realistic options remained—Singapore and Canada. Of course, regulations weren’t always unbreakable; there were ways to bend the rules.

I was just about to bring that up when Pierce, noticing the look on my face, cut off first.

“If I may, I’d actually suggest another option,” he said. “Your ho country—Korea.”

Right. There was always Korea. Koreans were famously warmhearted and loyal.

And if a Korean happened to be making waves overseas—especially one with the label of “genius” and the reputation of being a self-made millionaire on Wall Street—well, that was no longer just my success. It was a national achievent.

I could already imagine the YouTube titles: “Descendant of Dangun Conquers Wall Street!”

And apparently, I’d already earned another title back ho—Korea’s Dutiful Son. The last ti I checked the comnts on a portal site, soone had even written, “This guy should patent his genes.” At the ti, I didn’t get what that ant.

But now...

That sa “dutiful son” was stepping up again—this ti to develop a cure for incurable diseases. Would they really just sit back and watch?

Co on. We’re Koreans, aren’t we?