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Host: Noah Carter
Age: 28
Shop Level: 2
Daily Revenue: $2,153,000 (or equivalent)
Current Assets: $25,162,340
Shop Points: 32,890
Attributes: Strength: 90, Vitality: 420, Intelligence: 270, Agility: 90
Skills:
[Level 15:] Mana Control, Aura, Wind Manipulation, Body Tempering
[Level 14:] Swordsmanship
[Level 5:] Photographic mory, Fire Manipulation
[Level 3:] Surviving on Ran, Cooking, Finance, Gaming
[Level 2:] Programming
—
Staring at his status screen in the quiet of his bedroom, Noah clenched his fist until his knuckles went white. He had thought he had co so far in his journey, having reached levels of power that never in a million years could he have even dread of achieving back when he was struggling to afford instant ran.
Being able to battle master-rank beasts at his current rank without any enhancents had made him feel capable. Being able to stand against grandmaster opponents when using his premium items had filled him with confidence that he was finally becoming soone who mattered, soone who could protect what he cared about.
Yet even then, it wasn’t enough.
All that power, all that growth, all those improvents—and he’d still died. He’d been killed while unconscious and vulnerable, unable to defend himself or the people depending on him. Lola had fought desperately to protect his helpless body, and he couldn’t even rember what had happened to her after his death.
"Am I really such a loser?" Noah whispered to himself, the question cutting deeper than any physical wound.
He began to doubt everything—his capabilities, his decisions, his worth. His previous failures from before the system ca flooding back with renewed weight. All those job rejections, all those tis he’d failed to provide adequately for his father, all the monts where he’d felt powerless and inadequate. And now his current situation added to that crushing burden. Despite having a literal cheat system that should have made him unstoppable, he’d still failed when it mattered most.
What good was money if he couldn’t protect people? What good was strength if he could still be killed? What good was any of his advancent if Lola was suffering or dead because he’d been too weak to stay conscious during a critical mont?
Noah sighed heavily, the sound carrying the weight of all his accumulated self-doubt and frustration. Hours still remained before he could return and face whatever consequences his failure had created.
As Noah was driving aimlessly through the city streets, trying to clear his head of the oppressive thoughts weighing him down, his phone rang. Ethan’s na appeared on the car’s display screen.
Noah answered through the GTR’s hands-free system. "Hey, Ethan."
"Noah, are you still coming?" Ethan’s anxious tone ca through the speakers imdiately, without any greeting or pleasantries. His voice carried genuine worry mixed with desperate hope.
Noah’s mind suddenly snapped back to sothing he had completely forgotten in the chaos of recent events. Ethan’s father had been pulled into that insurance scam—the staged car accident followed by extortion. Noah had told them to arrange a eting with the criminals since he’d been occupied with the tournant at the ti.
The appointnt must be today.
"Yes, I’m still coming," Noah confird imdiately, his earlier self-doubt montarily pushed aside by the need to help his family. This was sothing concrete he could actually do, a problem he could solve with the resources and capabilities he possessed.
He changed direction and drove toward Ethan’s house with renewed purpose. When he arrived, Smith was waiting outside, looking considerably more stressed than Noah had ever seen him. The normally composed corporate executive showed visible signs of strain—dark circles under his eyes, wrinkled clothes, and a haunted expression that ca from weeks of being extorted and threatened.
"Thank you for doing this, Noah," Smith said as he climbed into the GTR’s passenger seat. "I know you’ve been busy with your tournant. Ethan told you won—congratulations."
"Thanks," Noah replied simply, starting to pull away from the house.
"Wait!" Ethan’s voice called out as he rushed from the front door. "I want to co too."
Noah paused the car and looked at Ethan for a long mont, considering whether bringing him into a potentially dangerous confrontation with criminals was a good idea. Then he turned toward Smith, silently asking the father whether he wanted his son present for this eting.
Smith’s initial instinct was protective. "No, Ethan. You should stay ho. This could get ugly, and I don’t want you involved in—"
"Dad, please," Ethan interrupted with unusual firmness. "This is happening to our family. I deserve to be there. I’m not a child anymore, and I can’t just sit at ho worrying while you two handle everything."
He stepped closer to the car, his expression showing determination that went beyond simple curiosity. "Besides, there’s safety in numbers. Three people are better than two if things go wrong."
Smith looked conflicted, clearly torn between his parental instinct to shield his son from danger and recognition that Ethan had a valid point about being old enough to face family crises directly.
After several seconds of internal debate, Smith finally sighed with resignation. "Alright. Get in. But you stay behind us if anything dangerous happens. No argunts."
"Deal," Ethan agreed imdiately, quickly climbing into the GTR’s back seat before his father could change his mind.
Noah pulled away from the house, now carrying both father and son toward a confrontation with criminals who had been destroying their family’s peace for weeks.
They arrived at the location that had been agreed upon for the eting. It was a cafe, but a lowkey establishnt—not one of the trendy chains or upscale coffee shops that dominated the city’s main streets. This place was older, with worn furniture and faded wallpaper that suggested it catered to neighborhood regulars rather than Instagram-seeking custors. The kind of place where people minded their own business and didn’t ask questions.
Noah parked the GTR by the curb and exited, followed by Smith and Ethan. The three of them approached the cafe entrance with varying levels of tension visible in their body language.
Once inside, Noah scanned the interior quickly, his enhanced perception taking in every detail—the sparse afternoon crowd scattered across tables, the bored barista behind the counter, the layout of exits and potential obstacles. His eyes swept over each occupied table, looking for anyone who matched the profiles of criminals running an insurance scam operation.
"Are they here?" Noah asked quietly, continuing his visual assessnt.
Smith shook his head, his expression showing both relief and increased anxiety at the delay. "No, not yet. We’re a few minutes early."
Noah nodded and led them toward a table positioned further away from the other custors, choosing a spot that provided clear sightlines to the entrance while maintaining so privacy from casual eavesdroppers. The tactical positioning was unconscious at this point, his combat experience automatically selecting advantageous ground.
Once they were seated, Noah looked at both father and son and could see the tension radiating from them in waves. Smith’s hands were clasped tightly together on the table, and Ethan kept glancing nervously toward the door.
"What do you guys want to drink?" Noah asked, his tone casual. "We’ve got a few minutes. Might as well ease your nerves a bit before they show up."
"No, I’m fine," Smith said automatically, clearly too stressed to think about beverages.
"I don’t need anything either," Ethan added, though his voice carried less conviction than his father’s.
Noah insisted, his expression firm but friendly. "You’re both wound up tighter than springs. Trust , having sothing in your hands will help. Coffee, tea, water—I don’t care what it is, but we’re getting drinks. My treat."
He stood up before they could protest further. "Besides, sitting here staring at the door anxiously is just going to make the wait feel longer. So what’ll it be?"
In the end, Smith opted for a coffee latte and Ethan wanted coffee frappe, his favourite drink.
Thirty minutes passed by, and the criminals still hadn’t arrived. Noah didn’t get frustrated or show impatience. He recognized this imdiately as a classic intimidation tactic—making the victims wait deliberately to establish psychological dominance, to make them feel small and unimportant while the perpetrators demonstrated they could waste their ti with impunity.
Smith kept checking his phone nervously, his coffee sitting mostly untouched as anxiety prevented him from drinking. Ethan fidgeted with his cup, clearly uncomfortable with the prolonged tension.
"Noah, maybe they’re not coming," Smith suggested quietly, uncertainty evident in his voice. "Maybe this was a mistake."
Before Noah could respond, Smith suddenly stiffened and pointed subtly toward the entrance. "Wait...There. That’s them."
Noah turned to look and found a middle-aged woman entering the cafe with deliberate casualness. She had average looks—nothing particularly morable about her features—but her clothing imdiately stood out as expensive. She wore well-tailored pieces from popular designer brands that suggested soone with disposable inco to spare. The calculated appearance of wealth and success was clearly ant to intimidate victims who were already financially stressed.
Behind her ca two n, they were built like enforcers—approximately 6’4" and 6’5" respectively, with heavy builds. One weighed perhaps 245 pounds, the other closer to 280, their bulk filling doorways as they entered.
Both n were scruffy and rough-looking. Just like the woman, they maintained themselves well, and good clothing.
They weren’t trying to look respectable or professional. Their entire purpose was clearly to loom threateningly and make victims understand what would happen if paynts weren’t made or disagreents were made.
The woman’s eyes swept across the cafe until they landed on Smith, and a cold smile spread across her face as she began walking toward their table with her guards following close behind.
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