One might have wondered what the secret chairman of a venture capitalist fund actually did with nearly one billion dollars of funds at his disposal. The image most people would imagine was something dazzling, lavish spending, endless parties, or hidden offshore retreats. But the answer was far simpler, and far less glamorous. Most of the time, he spent it inside his room or down in the training facilities.
Max had made it his routine to notice the small details, to stay sharp even when no one was watching. From his position he could always tell when the training rooms of the Fortis Group were left unused. He learned their timings, the silence that filled them, and the echoes that followed when everyone else was gone. He had made a habit of keeping on top of these patterns and seizing the chances when he could train without interruption.
Although his Vow gave him strength, fueling his growth in ways others couldn’t quite explain, he never relied on it alone. He knew too well that it was the body that carried the fight, the muscles, the stance, the reflexes sharpened through repetition. The Vow was a bonus, a multiplier, something that made him stronger when the time came, but it wasn’t the foundation. That part depended on him. And if he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t maintain his own form, that same Vow could just as easily take strength away as it could grant it.
Recently, the investments he had made, choices that secured his position and expanded his influence, had chipped away at the bonus the Vow once gave him. He could feel it. The edge wasn’t as sharp as before. The strength he had leaned on so often seemed to be slipping, dwindling down little by little until he felt more mortal than he wanted to admit.
When Max wasn’t training, he often remained in his room. Luxurious didn’t even begin to cover it. With a single press of a button, the curtains would slide aside, revealing the sprawling view beyond. Glass stretched wide to show the distant cityscape, buildings rising like stone giants in the horizon, shimmering faintly as though they were watching him as much as he was watching them.
Though he moved through the Fortis Group like an intern, appearing here and there, never settling in one place, every real decision he made passed down to Tim and Nesa. To anyone on the outside, it looked like the orders came from them, like they were the ones calling the shots in the Billion Bloodline Group. It had to be that way. If Max gave too many direct commands himself, if he was too visible, the disguise of the secret chairman would crumble. And secrecy was power, he understood that better than most.
For now, Max kept himself busy by drawing maps in his head and on paper, planning out his next moves. Information had become his greatest weapon, and he had been gathering plenty. Updates came from all sides, from members of the Bloodline Group, from Aron, and from every whisper he could get his hands on. All of it, lately, pointed to one name.
The Black Hounds.
"Wolf didn’t know much," Max muttered to himself, turning a page of notes as if the ink itself held the answers. "He’s from Mancaur City, not Notting Hill. But the older leaders, the ones from back then, they’ve been more helpful than I expected."
Piece by piece, he was putting together the picture of the Black Hounds’ operations. The focus of his attention was the underground fights they ran. These weren’t small back-alley scuffles. Some stretched outside the city into other regions, but their heart, their core, beat strongest in Notting Hill. That was where they were rooted. That was where they were organized.
There were two main areas in Notting Hill that came up again and again: Yellow Mountain and Silverton.
Yellow Mountain was a place of wealth and reputation. Mansions crowned its cliffs, overlooking the endless sea. Its streets glittered with high-end restaurants, extravagant events, and an unspoken rule that power lived there, just hidden behind glass windows and long driveways. It was the same district where Sheri had hosted her event, where the air itself seemed painted with luxury.
Silverton, by contrast, bordered Brinehurst. It wasn’t poorer, not in the slightest. It was affluent, polished, and alive with wealth, but its shine felt more public. Karen had her main shopping mall there, a beacon where the rich gathered for events, fashion, and trade. It was a place that balanced opulence with opportunity, where eyes met across transactions and whispers traveled fast.
Max suspected that between the two, Silverton was where the Black Hounds truly operated. The reasoning was clear in his mind. The Black Hounds were linked to the Gilt Rats, a gang powerful enough to be spoken of like a syndicate. The Gilt Rats were known to have their base in Yellow Mountain, planted right beside a string of research facilities. Yet being linked didn’t mean they were one and the same. It was more like a parent company and its subsidiary, part of the same world, but operating individually, making choices that suited their own interests.
"When they pulled out of Brinehurst," Max murmured under his breath, piecing it all together, "I thought maybe that was their way of offering peace. Like they were giving us that small area, claiming they’d leave it alone. But now... was it really peace? Or just a move to prepare something else?"
The questions kept multiplying in his head.
"Is it because I’ve been expanding the gyms?" he wondered aloud, fingers drumming lightly against the desk. "Or maybe it’s about the two businesses I absorbed recently. Could that be it?"
He remembered Dipter’s words, his warnings. Most of their deliveries, most of their biggest customers, they all tied back to the Gilt Rats. If that was true, then perhaps the Black Hounds feared that the Bloodline’s relationship with the Rats would become too close. Closer than the one they themselves had. Was that it? Was it fear, plain and simple?
Max sighed and raked his hand through his hair. It was a tangle, one he hadn’t wanted to deal with. The truth was, he had no desire to wrestle with these smaller gangs. The only enemy he wanted to face was the White Tigers. But to do that, he needed the Bloodline Group to grow, to expand until their size and strength matched their rivals. And growth always attracted attention. No matter how careful he tried to be, feathers would get ruffled.
"So what’s the move?" he asked the empty room. "Do we hit them first? The Bloodline group has been training nonstop, and we’ve built up a decent number of strong people. We could target the underground facilities, lower their numbers, pull more information out of them." He paused, biting at his lip. "But the problem... is me."
Should he take part directly? Should he throw himself into the fight? Or should he use this time to build his strength further, to prepare in case the Black Hounds had dangerous individuals waiting in the shadows? It was a decision he couldn’t make lightly.
While Max wrestled with those thoughts in the quiet of his office, outside the story was shifting.
Several large black SUVs pulled up to a halt just beyond the doors of the Billion Bloodline building. Their engines died into silence, and the scene cut clean from the quiet of Max’s thoughts to the street below.
From one of the vehicles, a man stepped out. The sound of the door closing echoed like a signal. Jett Corbin. The enforcer.
He stretched his back as if shaking off years, then looked up at the building.
"It’s been a long time since I’ve done something with my own hands," Jett said, voice low but sure, his eyes narrowing with a sharp glint. "What a fancy building."