All Chapters of The Trillionaire System: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The mansion’s heart beat differently now. What had once been a fortress of ruthless efficiency was becoming a place of dread. Men moved in silence, boots striking marble without rhythm, voices hushed even in the barracks. Fear was not unusual in Kane Veylor’s empire—fear had always been the mortar holding the stones together—but this was different. This was corrosive.Ethan’s forged message had landed in Kane’s hands, and paranoia had spread like wildfire. Kane believed he was on the hunt for a snake. In truth, he was tearing apart his own flesh.The War Room of DoubtKane summoned his lieutenants at dawn. The war room smelled of stale smoke and sweat, curtains drawn against the gray light outside. The long mahogany table was littered with half-empty glasses, open ledgers, and a single sheet of paper: the forged message.Kane didn’t sit. He prowled at the head of the table, eyes scanning his lieutenants like a wolf circling sheep. Rourke sat rigid, sweat glistening at his temple. Dono

The cracks in Kane Veylor’s empire no longer whispered—they groaned like timbers about to snap. For years, Kane had ruled with an iron fist, his name enough to make grown men flinch, his wrath enough to silence whole neighborhoods. But fear, wielded without wisdom, had begun to rot the very foundation of his throne.And Kane, blinded by rage and pride, could not see that the empire he had built with blood was slipping through his fingers like water.Missing in ActionIt began with a single report.“East checkpoint failed to report, boss,” a courier said, trembling as he stood before Kane’s desk.Kane barely looked up from the papers he was shredding. “Traffic. Or they’re lazy. Dock them half pay.”But when the second report came—another squad missing in the South District—Kane’s patience thinned. By the time the third message arrived, delivered by a guard pale with sweat, Kane’s fury boiled over.“Men don’t just vanish in my city!” Kane roared, flinging his glass against the wall. The

The city was alive with whispers of collapse. Ethan sat in his penthouse, the rain streaking down the glass like rivers of time, watching the data streams pour across his monitors. Kane’s empire, once so tightly wound, was unraveling thread by thread, and every thread was another life trying desperately to slip free.The System SpeaksThe System lit up before his eyes, cold and clinical:[Defection Wave Detected] — Current deserters: 9% confirmed. — Predicted deserters within 10 days: 25–30%. — Primary risk: deserters vulnerable before reaching safehouses. Recommendation: Intercept deserters before Kane’s hunters reclaim them.Ethan rubbed his temple. Numbers weren’t abstract anymore. Every defector was a man dragging his family, risking execution, praying for escape. If Kane’s hunters got there first, the deserters would die in alleys, abandoned, their stories erased.The System made it sound like a game of percentages. But Ethan knew this was blood and fear, played out in real s

The laundromat’s faded sign rattled in the drizzle, its paint peeling, its neon letters long since gone dark. To passersby it was nothing but another relic of a city corner forgotten by progress. But above the dead machines and cracked tiles, life stirred. Not the kind born of commerce or routine, but something fragile and desperate—families exiled from Kane’s empire, operatives who had chosen the impossible path of defection.And Ethan Cross was waiting to catch them.The Flow Becomes a StreamWhat had begun as two families became four, then seven. Every night, more shadows slipped through Kane’s unraveling grip. Some came in pairs, some in clusters. A courier dragging his wife and three children. A soldier who had carried Kane’s banner for six years but now carried only his sister on his back.By the end of the week, thirty-one souls had gathered across three safehouses. The laundromat was overstuffed, its narrow rooms crammed with sleeping mats, whispered prayers, and the smell of

Night came hard and angry over the city, wind whipping plastic bags down alleys and rain slashing straight, a hundred mirrors breaking at once. Under that gray curtain the two empires moved—one tearing itself apart with brute force, the other knitting itself together with quiet, clinical care.Kane’s hand tightened like an iron trap. If he couldn’t make his men obey by promises, he would make them obey with terror. If he could not find the traitor, he would burn his house until nothing remained but ash and charcoal where something like trust might have once stood. The cost did not frighten him. The cost was the point.Ethan, meanwhile, had stopped pretending the fight was a series of skirmishes. It had become a campaign. The safehouses had to become cells. The cells had to have commanders. The commanders needed doctrine, logistics, and communication that could survive fire. He would not simply catch deserters anymore—he would build an apparatus to absorb them, to turn them into a disc