Chapter 7

Brock was never much of a gamer. Not because he disliked gaming, but simply because it never stirred any real interest in him.

What charm did those bizarre, dazzling virtual worlds hold that could keep people so enthralled—losing sleep, losing themselves, until time slipped by unnoticed like water through their fingers?

He couldn't fathom it, nor did he care to. To him, it was like staring at an impenetrable fog, knowing something lay beyond but never feeling compelled to step inside.

And yet, ever since he set foot on the silent battlefield of the stock market, he had begun, strangely enough, to understand the mindset of those gamers.

Because when the opening bell rang each morning, his soul was just as firmly shackled to the rising and falling lines, drawn into the abyss of numbers and candlesticks, unable to break free until the market finally closed.

Today was no different.

In the blink of an eye, another day of slaughter was over.

"Phew—"

Brock exhaled, the breath thick with the smoke of the trading floor, and glanced toward the corner of his screen to confirm the day's results.

+1%.

One percent.

At first glance, it looked insignificant. But in their world, where survival meant licking blood from the edge of a knife, that one percent was no small gain. Especially in today's brutal market.

"Mr. Magnus, you handled it really well today. Rock solid, beautifully done," one of his younger subordinates said, relief thick in his tone, like a man who had just crawled out of a wreck.

"What about the others?" Brock kept his eyes on the screen.

"Don't even ask... It's a bloodbath. Not just our team—word is the others took heavy losses too, the market cut them to pieces."

Lately, the market had been like a deranged monkey, leaping up and crashing down, tossing traders around until their nerves were frayed to shreds. That was the nature of stocks.

Even the brightest minds armed with the most sophisticated models and the most exhaustive data couldn't hope to predict its next move with certainty.

Because the market was nothing less than a mirror of human nature's rawest impulses—greed and fear laid bare, collective irrationality dressed as a carnival. Against that, logic and data were often fragile, crushed in an instant.

"At this rate, no team is going to hit its monthly target," Brock muttered, rubbing at the dull ache in his temples.

"True, but..." the subordinate tried to salvage a little hope. "There's still about a week left. Maybe… maybe we can make one last push at the end?"

Every trading team carried monthly performance targets, usually between five and ten percent, depending on conditions. Outsiders often assumed that short-term specialists like Brock's team were gunning for outrageous numbers—fifty percent, even a hundred. They thought these traders were bloodthirsty gamblers, dancing on the market's razor's edge to chase the fattest profits.

The truth was the exact opposite.

At its core, the trading floor believed in two words: safety first.

Survival trumped everything.

Any form of reckless speculation was strictly forbidden. Leverage limits were set in stone, and a rigorous risk-control system governed every move.

Because of that ingrained caution, ending a day with a 0.1% gain—or even less—was perfectly ordinary.

"As long as we don't lose—or lose less than the rest—that's victory."

It was the iron law of the trading floor, carved into their very bones.

"Enough. Do your best, that's all we can do." Brock rapped the desk lightly, cutting through the heavy mood. "Go grab a coffee, clear your head. Five minutes—meeting room. We'll review today's trades."

"Yes, sir."

Brock himself felt parched, so he turned toward the break area, intending to pour a glass of water and let his restless thoughts settle.

He was filling his cup when a shadow slipped up behind him, silent as a ghost.

"Well, well, Brock, not bad today," came a voice, oozing mockery with just the right touch of sourness. "Your formation looks a little too... deliberate, doesn't it?"

Brock didn't even need to turn around. The tone alone told him who it was—Lawrence Harrington, manager of Desk Two, hired the same year as him.

His brows knit instantly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play dumb." Lawrence darted a furtive glance around, making sure no one was paying attention before leaning closer, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves had ears.

"Pretending not to understand, huh? My rookies spent the whole day running themselves ragged thanks to you. The market's punishing enough as it is, and they were scrambling all over, covering for that pampered 'nepo hire' in your team."

Ah. So that was it.

Brock understood immediately.

"That bigshot chairman's darling! I hear you gave him the cushiest day imaginable. Sat there without lifting a finger, didn't he? Ha! Never thought I'd see the day—the famously straight-laced Brock Magnus, suddenly learning the fine art of survival, bowing and scraping early to pave the road for tomorrow."

"You're overthinking it," Brock said flatly, his voice giving away nothing.

"I get it, I get it!" Lawrence smirked, wearing the smug look of a man who thought he'd pierced the truth. "He's the chairman's golden boy, and they dumped him right in your lap. Who wouldn't tread carefully? Now's the time to suck up to him, isn't it? Otherwise, when he climbs the ladder and ends up above our heads, it'll be too late."

The words were unpleasant, but they weren't entirely without truth.

Elon's connection to the chairman was like an invisible thorn in everyone's heart. Even if one tried to ignore it, there was always a constant reminder to tread lightly, to restrain oneself.

Lawrence noticed Brock's silence and mistook it for guilt. Emboldened, he leaned in, prying with a sly grin.

"So, have you talked with the little prince yet? What exactly is the chairman's relationship with him? They've got to be connected somehow—family ties, maybe? Otherwise, how would he be getting this kind of treatment?"

Brock recalled that Elon himself had insisted he had nothing at all to do with the chairman. The thought flickered through his mind and was gone.

"I wouldn't know," he said.

"Tch." Lawrence curled his lip in open disbelief. "Come on, Brock, don't hog all the good stuff for yourself. That's not very friendly of you."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Brock finally snapped, irritation seeping into his voice. "He's just a kid, clearly here for nothing more than a bit of polish. How long do you think he'll stay in our tiny pond?"

"Well..." Lawrence rubbed his chin, eyes gleaming with calculation. "You're not wrong. But even if he's just gilding himself, shouldn't I still go make his acquaintance? Make a little connection before he leaves? After all, you're working so 'hard' already. If I don't show at least a little courtesy, won't that make me look bad?"

Brock couldn't be bothered to argue. He shook his head, lifted the glass of water he'd just filled, and strode out of the break room, leaving Lawrence alone to scheme.

The truth was, Elon's easy treatment had nothing to do with currying favor, much less choosing sides.

It was a test.

Brock wanted to see whether this mysterious "connected" newcomer had any real skill—or if he was nothing but dead weight propped up by pedigree.

Back at his desk, Brock's fingers tapped the keyboard, pulling up Elon's simulated trading records for the day. His eyes locked onto the portfolio summary, and his pupils sharpened to a point.

"GreenOracle?"

The company specialized in mineral development and the recycling of new-energy batteries.

In the current macro environment—hell, for weeks now—the stock had been a toxic wreck. Its volatility was savage, the liquidity non-existent. It was the kind of name even the most reckless traders on the desk knew to avoid.

And yet, this rookie had gone full port into it. Again.

"All in... again?"

The glaring "POSITION: 100%" stared back from the screen, making the vein at Brock’s temple pulse

Was the kid trying to send him a message? Using this suicidal, all-in bet as a silent, defiant protest against the entire evaluation process?

Or was Elon simply a clueless fool, lazy and thoughtless, defaulting to an all-or-nothing gamble, leaving his fate entirely to luck?

"Forget it. What the hell was I expecting, anyway?"

A wave of helplessness rose in Brock's chest. With a wry, bitter smile, he shook his head and closed the window.

He had entertained a fleeting hope—that perhaps this newcomer wasn't useless, that maybe he possessed some hidden spark of talent. After all, the chairman had personally vouched for him.

But now? The truth was plain: this was just another ordinary, incompetent hanger-on, here purely through connections. He didn't even grasp the most fundamental principle of risk diversification. Too lazy to think, too careless to plan—he'd dumped all the eggs into a basket that was already tilting over.

Just looking at such a half-hearted and sloppy move made Brock's chest tighten with suppressed anger.

But the flare of irritation lasted only a moment before he forced it down.

"Why the hell should I get worked up over someone like this? Is it worth it?"

He gave a short, self-mocking laugh and shook his head again.

The kid was here to gild himself, nothing more. He wouldn't last long before using his connections to climb elsewhere.

There was no need to curry favor—but even less reason to make an enemy of someone with a murky background over such trivial matters.

Not worth it.

Best to ignore him.

...

For Elon, today was perhaps the most awkward and dullest day since he'd joined the company.

From the moment he stepped into that office, heavy with tension and the scent of money, until the final bell at dusk, he sat rooted to his chair like a wooden post. Aside from a brief trip to the restroom, he barely moved an inch.

Especially after he gave in to that overwhelming instinct—an almost electric jolt that coursed through his body, making even his fingertips tingle—and pressed the buy button on a stock called "GreenOracle."

In that instant, his meager virtual funds were completely drained.

All of it. Gone. He had gone all in—again—on a single stock.

After that reckless move, there was nothing else for him to do. He sat staring blankly at the screen, feeling completely out of step with the tense, frenzied energy around him.

"Elon, how did you do today?" Charlotte's cheerful voice floated over from beside him.

"Uh, just... so-so," Elon mumbled, embarrassed to admit he'd gone all in again.

"Oh? Let me take a look?"

"Um... maybe not. It's a little—"

But Charlotte's sharp eyes had already caught the position data in the corner of his screen. That glaring "GreenOracle // 100%" froze her on the spot.

Her eyes widened, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"Wha—!! Elon!!" Her voice shot up an octave, loud enough to draw stares from nearby desks. "What on earth did you do?!"

"Doesn't look... great, huh?" Elon gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head.

"'Doesn't look great'?! That's an understatement! Did you just ignore everything I told you before? The most basic rule of investing—the rule—is to spread your risk! Diversify, diversify, diversify! Important things need to be said three times!"

Hands on her hips, she puffed herself up like an indignant little pufferfish.

"Last time, you went all in and claimed it was a slip of the hand, which was barely forgivable. But this time? You've done it again?! And not just on any stock… You went all in on GreenOracle? My goodness! Tell me, why would you even buy this one? Don't tell me... was this another 'accident'?"

Elon had no response. He kept up that polite but awkward smile, scratching his head even harder in an attempt to ease the heavy air.

What could he say? That he'd bought it based on some strange, inexplicable "intuition"? Who would believe that?

He quickly forced the subject elsewhere. "So... what about you, Charlotte? How did you do today?"

As expected, the moment the topic turned to her own results, Charlotte's attention shifted.

Her pout vanished, her back straightened, and she planted her hands proudly on her waist. Chin tilted up, she looked every bit the smug victor, her expression practically begging to be praised.

"Hehe! With me in the game, of course success comes easy. Let me tell you, my final profit today reached... 2%! A full 2%! In this terrible market, who else in our entire division could walk away with a stable 2% profit? I'd say... no one but me!"

As she spoke, her face glowed with triumph. Yet instead of being grating, her pride carried a certain endearing charm.

"Wow! Amazing! That's incredible!" Elon gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up, both hands raised, his tone over-the-top in admiration. "Charlotte, you're definitely passing the evaluation this time!"

"Ahahaha... Oh wait, no, this isn't the time for that!"

She quickly reined herself in, forcing her smile away, and put on a stern face again, glaring at him.

"Elon, listen carefully! Next time, you absolutely cannot dump all your money into one stock like this! Do you hear me? You need to diversify. Even if the market is bad, you should never take on such reckless risk! Got it?"

"Yes, Charlotte! Got it! I'll never make the same mistake again!" Elon nodded fervently, sincerity written all over his face.

The two of them were still chattering away and laughing when a cold, stern voice cut through the air like a bucket of icy water.

"Charlotte, Elon! You two seem awfully free. Still have time to sit here joking around?"

The speaker was a senior trader passing by their desks—if Elon remembered correctly, his name was... Zane Frost?

Elon recalled his face: always stiff, always severe. Definitely not someone easy to deal with.

"Ah, s-sorry!" Charlotte startled and apologized at once. Elon also dropped his smile in a hurry.

"Go prepare the meeting materials. Now." Zane snorted coldly, tossing the words over his shoulder before walking off without a backward glance.

"Right away..."

In his few days here, Elon had already picked up on one unspoken rule: the mood in the office was directly proportional to the state of the stock market.

When the market was good, everyone wore smiles. When it was bad, they looked like they'd swallowed gunpowder, snapping at whoever crossed their path.

"Don't take it personally, Elon," Charlotte whispered when she saw him freeze for a moment. "The market dropped hard today. I heard Zane lost big. That's why he's in a foul mood. Honestly, I'd be surprised if anyone on the desk finished green today. When everyone's losing money, the whole floor gets sour."

Maybe so, Elon thought, but what kind of logic was that? Losing money didn't give you the right to dump your anger and resentment on innocent bystanders.

Then again, he sighed inwardly—wasn't this just how the adult world worked? This so-called "workplace," with all its absurd rules and injustices, you simply had to swallow.

"But compared to other teams, ours isn't so bad," Charlotte added quickly, as if worried he'd be scared off. "You haven't seen the others. Those are real pressure cookers. I've got a few friends who joined at the same time as me—they just couldn't take it. The stress, the constant scheming... in the end, they all quit."

"Really?" Elon blinked, surprised.

He had always assumed their team was the most suffocating place in the company, with the stern, imposing Brock at the helm.

But now it turned out... Desk One was the gentlest team?