Chapter 2

"Damn... this is really it?"

Elon tilted his head back, staring up at the towering skyscraper gleaming gold against the morning sky, and gulped.

Axom Capital.

One of the country's top private equity firms.

For an ordinary graduate from a second-tier university—an unemployed youth who couldn't even land a job—this place was practically a temple gilded with diamonds. Normally, even glancing at it too long would feel like overstepping.

And yet, here he was, about to walk inside as an employee.

"I haven't even told Mom and Dad..." He still felt like he was dreaming. How could someone like him deserve a place in such a legendary company? What if he turned out to be useless, just a burden, and got tossed out in a matter of days?

The thought gnawed at him. When leaving the house, he hadn't dared to tell his parents the truth. He'd only muttered something vague about going to an "interview," then bolted before they could ask more.

"Ugh, this suit... feels too tight."

During his years freeloading at home, he had at least quit late-night snacks to avoid his mother's death glares and endless nagging, so his body hadn't ballooned completely out of shape. But judging by how this suit pinched at his shoulders, he really needed to start hitting the gym.

Just a subway ride and a short climb up a few stairs had left him embarrassingly winded.

Still... was it really normal to start work this early?

[Report before 7 a.m. sharp.]

When he'd first read that line in the onboarding message, he'd thought it was a mistake. To make sure he wasn't late, he'd dragged himself out of bed before dawn and stumbled into the first subway of the day, still half-asleep.

Looking at the empty carriage, he'd muttered to himself, "Am I the only idiot showing up this early? What if the building's not even open yet?"

But the moment he reached the financial district, the sight floored him.

'Good lord!'

The entire street was packed shoulder to shoulder with men and women in sharp suits, a flood of professionals moving in unison like a dark tide.

'Seriously? Finance is this cutthroat?'

Then again, it did make sense. A private equity firm starting at seven wasn't unreasonable. After all, the stock market opened at nine-thirty. If you wanted to be fully prepared, you had to start early—painfully early.

These people weren't just working with money. They were masters of time itself.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

The caller ID lit up: Guild Master.

"Guild master... no, wait—Chairman?"

A laugh came from the other end. "Hah, no need to change how you call me. Between us, just stick with 'bro.' So? You at the office yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm downstairs now. But... bro, I don't know a thing! What if I just drag everyone down?"

"Relax. I checked for you. You'll be a junior trader—basically errands, grunt work, maybe a bit of slacking. You'll be fine. Oh, and just make sure you carve out some time to get your Series 7 license."

"Thanks, bro. I'll work hard."

"And one more thing. If anyone asks how you got in, keep your mouth shut. Just say you don't know. Especially about the game. Not a word, got it? Alright, I'm hanging up. See you online tonight, same time for the raid. Don't be late."

"Got it, bro! I won't forget!"

The line went dead. Elon stood there dazed, as though caught in a dream.

The same man he'd been raiding dungeons and cracking jokes with in-game was actually a financial tycoon in real life? And just because they played together, he'd parachuted Elon into the company?

The plot twist was more absurd than a K-drama. Who on earth would believe it?

…

Inside the manager's office of Trading Desk One, Brock Magnus studied the newcomer that the HR manager had personally escorted in. The HR manager's eyebrows were twitching with unspoken hints.

Elon Shaw.

A "new hire."

Brock had been deep in analysis, parsing freshly released overseas macro data and the resulting shifts in global markets, fine-tuning his strategy for the opening bell. The last thing he needed was a disruption.

And yet, here one was—standing in his office, shattering his concentration and pulling him away from the razor-sharp focus he needed to maintain.

The irritation prickled like an itch under his skin.

"Have you ever worked in finance—or any industry, really?"

"Uh... no. This is my first job."

"Any simulated trading experience? Investment of any kind?"

"N-no... but I'll work hard to learn!"

In his mind, Brock cursed so loudly it could've shaken the walls.

'Good god. A total novice. A blank slate. A complete greenhorn from head to toe.'

They hadn't just parachuted someone in—this was the ultimate rookie, the kind that needed hand-holding for everything.

But as his initial anger cooled, Brock realized the move from HR wasn't entirely without logic.

Yes, trading was a brutal, high-stakes pressure cooker—but that was only true for the seasoned pros who battled the markets directly, with their performance metrics looming over every decision.

Junior traders, however, were insulated from that pressure. They weren't trusted with real capital or live orders. Their duties were pure grunt work: fetching coffee, organizing files, running spreadsheets. On a good day, they might be allowed to dabble in simulated trades while shadowing a senior employee.

They were kept far from the actual nerve center.

In other words, this position was the perfect camouflage—a meaningless pit stop for someone meant to "gain experience" before being elevated straight into management. A classic corporate fast-track for the well-connected.

Which meant Elon was destined to breeze through and move on.

With that thought, Brock's irritation eased. If Elon were only a passerby, then he'd treat him like one.

"Charlotte," Brock called.

"Yes, Sir?" A crisp, capable voice answered as a young woman stepped in.

"This is Elon Shaw, our new junior trader starting today. Charlotte, you'll be in charge of showing him the ropes."

"Understood, Sir." She nodded.

...

For Charlotte Larson, training newcomers was nothing new.

Over the years, Desk One had become a revolving door. Countless bright-eyed rookies arrived, bursting with ambition and dreams of conquering the market.

Most didn't last three months. They fled, shell-shocked and swearing never to return.

It wasn't their fault. The demands of this desk were beyond what any ordinary person could endure.

Take the schedule. Every new junior was required to be at their terminal by 7:00 a.m. at the latest. Their morning was a gauntlet: preparing the pre-market briefing, configuring the conference room, and conquering a mountain of administrative drudgery. Running themselves ragged was the baseline expectation.

And the workload only exploded from there. As they grew more familiar with the rhythms of the desk, the demands became more intense.

The market shifted by the second. Senior traders made decisions at lightning speed, and at any moment, they might bark out requests for obscure data sets, complex charts, or immediate analysis.

Juniors had to function like battlefield couriers—delivering exactly what was needed, with precision and speed.

A single delay or misstep would earn them a verbal lashing on the spot.

And for good reason. This was a financial war zone where trillions flowed every day.

Here, speed meant money. Efficiency meant survival.

Even if someone managed to endure the brutal initiation and secure a permanent role, harsher performance evaluations awaited. Every month was a trial by fire. Fail to turn a profit, fall short of your targets—and you were out, no matter who you were.

Without iron willpower, no one lasted long.

"First lesson for a newcomer—learn how to make coffee," Charlotte said matter-of-factly. "Everyone here runs on caffeine. You have to prepare it before every morning meeting. Oh, and Mr. Magnus—he's a fitness nut. Doesn't drink coffee. You can skip his."

As she spoke, she worked the coffee machine with practiced ease.

"Got it, Charlotte!"

Elon bobbed his head like a pecking chick, dutifully pulling out a small notebook and jotting down every word.

The earnestness gave Charlotte a decent first impression.

"Besides coffee, you'll also be handling all kinds of paperwork. You won't be directly involved in analysis or decision-making at the start, but don't underestimate it. It's a golden opportunity to learn. Read every research report carefully. If something confuses you, ask."

"Yes! Understood!"

His crisp response and positive attitude made her even more satisfied.

As she went on, rattling off a list of dos and don'ts, a sudden thought struck her. She glanced at him curiously.

"By the way, Elon, which university did you graduate from?"

"Uh... university?"

"Of course. You seem so capable—you must've come from a top school, right? Maybe even the Ivy League? Who knows… you might even be my junior."

"I... graduated from Brecken Industrial University."

"Brecken Industrial…University?"

Her smile froze.

If she remembered correctly, that was a lower-ranked, fairly ordinary second-tier university.

And someone from that kind of background... had landed a spot at Axom Capital? One of the top private equity firms in the country?

Impossible. Unless...

"Ahaha, never mind that. Let's not get into it now. The morning meeting's about to start. Come on, let's head to the conference room."

"O-okay!"

...

"...This NFP print smashed expectations, and with that hot CPI reading adding fuel to the fire, we're in for a spike in volatility..."

"On the equity side, our core mid-to-long term thematic plays are still AI and automation. Short-term, keep a close eye on earnings season. And last week's darling—the gold miners—gave us a nice pop, but the sector is deep in overbought territory now. We're due for a pullback. Look to structure short exposure through equity swaps or OTC puts. Also, monitor the arbitrage spread between COMEX and London spot gold..."

"Copy that."

Elon listened, completely lost, his expression blank.

What the hell? Every word was English, but strung together, it might as well have been alien code. He couldn't make sense of any of it.

Still, he forced himself to look composed, nodding seriously while secretly jotting down every unfamiliar technical term at lightning speed. He planned to ask Charlotte about them afterward.

At the head of the table, Brock sat upright, listening as his traders took turns reporting the latest market updates and data analyses. With calm precision, he issued a steady stream of trading instructions, laying out the day's overall strategy.

Watching this, Elon suddenly felt a bizarre sense of déjà vu.

This was just like a raid in an online game—right before storming a massive dungeon, the raid leader would brief the team, assign roles, and distribute tactics.

That thought jolted him awake. What had been incomprehensible jargon a moment ago suddenly seemed thrilling. His blood quickened.

"Alright! That's our morning strategy. Everyone to your stations—prepare for battle!"

Brock's final words rang out with sharp authority, bringing the information-packed meeting to a close.

Chairs scraped back as everyone rose and streamed out, heading to their desks at speed.

"Charlotte, today you'll walk Elon through the simulated trading process. Start from the basics," Brock instructed.

"Got it," Charlotte replied briskly, then led a still-bewildered Elon back to her workstation. She powered up her computer. A complex trading interface bloomed across the screens, a dizzying array of charts, tickers, and flashing lights.

"We start everyone on the sim for a simple reason," she explained, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. "The firm isn't about to hand you a live book to burn. You need to build instinct and learn the rhythms of the market right here, first.

"And just so we're clear, your simulation results are also one of the key criteria for evaluation."

Her words finally gave Elon a clear picture—simulation wasn't just training; it was a test.

"So... if I crush the sim, I get a shot at a real book?" he asked.

"Absolutely. This is trading. Performance is the only thing that talks. Not your degree, not who you know.

"The only question is: how much money can you make? How much value can you create for the firm?"

Performance above all. Those words carried both the intoxicating allure and the brutal cruelty of this industry.

Riiing!

A sharp bell shattered the last calm before opening.

"Oh! The market's open!" Charlotte exclaimed.

The office erupted instantly, like a lit fuse reaching a powder keg. The air turned electric with frenzy and fire.

Traders hammered their keyboards, screens flickered wildly, phones rang nonstop. The clicks of mice and the frantic clatter of keys crashed together in a chaotic, fevered symphony.

"This is the one time we juniors are actually free," Charlotte explained over the din. "The senior traders are too busy trading to bother with us. Perfect time to practice simulations and build real experience. Come on, I'll show you how to place an order—"

But Elon wasn't listening.

His eyes locked on the screen, transfixed by the unfamiliar candlestick charts, the dizzying ticker symbols, the ceaselessly blinking red and green numbers.

A jolt tore through him like lightning. His whole body went rigid.

A strange current surged from his fingertips through every nerve, leaving him trembling, scalp tingling.

"What... what is this?"

The sensation drew him straight to the chart in front of him—ZRN, a stock that was a blazing, triumphant red in the sea of data.

To Elon, it wasn't just a stock. It was like a treasure chest in a game, waiting to be opened. And somehow, with bone-deep certainty, he felt it held something earth-shaking inside.

That instinct, that wild pulse pounding from his soul and hammering his brain, sent his adrenaline skyrocketing.

All reason shattered.

As if possessed by some unseen force, he grabbed the mouse.

Click!

The sharp sound of a mouse button echoed.

The red Buy button lit up, pressed down with every ounce of his strength.