Where Did I Have 90 Billion Licking Gold Originate In Lore?

Weirdly, the phrase '90 billion licking gold' reads like a deliciously surreal image, the kind that makes me smile and squint at the same time. To me it first smells of excess turned into sensory language: not just a pile of treasure, but gold that moves and tastes, an almost living wealth. In fanfic, that can symbolize an obsession with material power—characters who surround themselves with impossibility until the wealth itself becomes animate and intrusive. It suggests money that's pervasive, intimate, and even invasive, like a memory you can't stop tasting. On a deeper level, the number '90 billion' pushes the idea into the realm of cosmic exaggeration. That scale says this isn't about everyday greed; it's mythic. It calls to mind 'Midas' energy—wealth that promises everything and inevitably takes something critical in return. Fanfiction often uses such imagery to exaggerate a character flaw or a societal critique: the gold that licks could be the seductive voice of corruption, the way fame or fandom adoration can lap at a person until they lose boundaries. I also see it used for absurdist comedy—characters who plainly don't know what to do with such a ludicrous sum, highlighting how out-of-touch they are. Personally, whenever I bump into a line like that in a story, I start mapping it onto tone and theme. Is the narrator marveling, horrified, or deadpan? Are other characters ruined by it, or are they complicit? It invites visual and tactile descriptions—gold on skin, on lips, in dreams—which makes scenes memorable. I love when writers use a strange phrase like this as a motif, repeating it in different contexts to show how wealth reshapes a life. It feels theatrical, dangerous, and oddly intimate all at once.

Imagine a cinematic heist unfolding: you've got 90 billion licking gold sitting in the middle of your plot — who walks away with it? For me, the most compelling thieves are the ones you least expect, the people who live in the margins of your protagonist's life. A trusted aide who’s been quietly siphoning funds through phantom shell accounts, a charismatic rival who stages an elaborate distraction like something out of 'Ocean's Eleven', or a hacker collective that treats the treasure as a challenge to their pride. I love the idea of social engineering being the real weapon — someone who knows the protagonist’s weaknesses, their guilty pleasures, their soft spot for a cause, and exploits that to get authorization or a signature. Then there are the grand, almost mythic takers: state actors or organizations that legally freeze assets overnight, corporate raiders who engineer hostile takeovers and convert gold into legal claims, or even supernatural thieves — a dragon who sleeps on vaults or a curse that compels treasure to walk away at midnight. Each option brings different stakes: a personal betrayal hurts, a legal seizure feels cold and inevitable, and a fantastical theft lets you play with symbolism. If I were plotting twists, I'd mix types: a public legal action that masks an inside job, or a hacker who is secretly working for a rival noble. Defensive measures are also fun to invent — decoy vaults, distributed ledgers that split the true claim across dozens of innocuous accounts, enchantments or biometric locks, and a protagonist who learns that keeping everything in one place is the real crime. Personally, I love the idea of the gold being stolen because the protagonist wanted it gone, which flips the emotional stakes in the sweetest possible way.

Tracing the roots of the possession in the lore feels like digging through a family attic full of bloodstained letters and superstition. In the universe of 'Mafia', the possession isn't an overnight curse—it’s a slow, inherited rot that began centuries ago when a secretive brotherhood performed a ritual to bind loyalty to land and line. I like to imagine an old coastal village where vendettas and faith braided together; a charismatic outsider offered the founding families a pact: power and protection in exchange for a sliver of their souls. That bargain, sealed with a relic—often described as a coin or rosary—became the anchor that let a spirit latch onto bloodlines. By the time the modern crime families form, that spirit has adapted. It no longer needs priests or altars; it feeds on fear, reputation, and the rituals of organization—oaths, scars, and the passing of heirlooms. Whenever a leader’s name is spoken in the right cadence, or a family holds a funeral with exactly the wrong prayers, the old presence stirs. The possession shows up as uncanny charisma, a sudden signature in violence, or those moments when a capo seems to move like a single, inhuman mind. I’ve read accounts in in-universe journals—letters that hint the spirit prefers negotiated control rather than full takeover, letting human ambition do most of the work. Personally, I love how this origin marries folklore with organized crime: it makes the brutality feel inevitable and tragic, rather than just strategic. It turns loyalty into something sacred and dangerous, and it gives every heirloom and whispered tradition weight beyond simple superstition.

If you're chasing a gigantic 90 billion licking gold boost to speed up RPG progress, think like a player who treats currency like a toolbox, not a trophy. I’d start by breaking down what actually moves the needle in your game: permanent power increases (skill unlocks, account-bound gear), time-savers (auto-travel, stash expansions), and marketable goods (high-demand crafting mats). I usually lock the majority into things that stick — account-wide upgrades, skill respecs, and a handful of endgame craft recipes that save playtime later. That way the cash isn't evaporating after a single raid. Next, I carve out a tactical chunk for market play. I like scanning the auction house for arbitrage windows around patches or events; buy low on crafting mats before a patch and flip after demand spikes. If the game has housing or vanity items, those can be safe sinks too because they retain value and make the world feel lived-in. I also keep a rainy-day stack (small percent) for experimentation — a new build or a limited-time item — because discovery is half the fun. Finally, don't forget social leverage: buying guild perks, hiring mercs, or funding community runs can boost progression indirectly and makes the ride way more enjoyable. Above all, prioritize permanence and flexibility over flashy short-term boosts. I've burned currency on novelty before and learned that long-term progression is a much sweeter payoff.

If I were holding 90 billion licking gold right now, my brain would immediately go into three modes: value-check, safety-first, and long-game creativity. First off, you can definitely trade a huge stack like that for rare items, but the feasibility depends entirely on the game's economy, item binding rules, and the community’s trust infrastructure. In markets like 'EVE Online' where player-driven exchange is the core, high-value trades are normal and the trick is finding the right buyer or broker who understands market depth. In games with more restrictive rules like 'Final Fantasy XIV' or 'Diablo II', many rare items may be bound or limited, so straight currency-for-item swaps might be impossible or risky. Practically, I’d split the haul. Instead of trying to flip 90 billion in one go, I'd parcel it into sensible chunks to avoid slamming the market and tanking prices. Use in-game auction houses, reputable forums, and verified middlemen where available. When a middleman is used, always pick someone with a long, positive history and public references—no blind trust. Also be aware of rules: many games ban RMT (real-money trading) and serious hoarding or transfer patterns can flag accounts. I’ve seen people lose huge sums for trying shortcuts. Finally, think beyond pure item swaps. With that much currency, you can commission crafted sets, fund a guild treasure that yields exclusive items, or create a bundle that appeals to collectors (cosmetics + stat items + services like carry runs). Pricing rare things is as much art as math: watch recent sales, set a tiered buyout, and be ready to negotiate. Personally, I’d enjoy turning a giant pile of gold into a memorable, well-documented trade — it’s more satisfying than a quick cash-out, and you often get stories (and friends) out of it.

It always blows my mind how fans stitch together lore to explain a magic level of 99999 across all attributes, and I love dissecting the most imaginative takes. One popular idea is that the protagonist isn't simply powerful — they're a convergence point. In this version an ancient artifact, sometimes called the world core or 'Godseed', fused with the character's soul over several lifetimes. Fans borrow imagery from 'That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime' and 'Solo Leveling' to describe a process where repeated reincarnations, timeline loops, or accumulated XP stack permanently until stats break every known ceiling. The theory often includes an ugly trade-off: world-entropy or memory bleed, where NPCs start remembering different lives or the environment gains sentience as a side-effect. I find that juicy because it gives the absurd number a narrative cost. Another cluster of theories treats the 99999 threshold as a systemic exploit or authorial device. Some people imagine the world literally runs on a 'game engine' — not always in a mocking way, but as lore: admins, debugging, or an in-world patch gone wrong. That spawns fun headcanons like the MC being the outcome of a failed balance patch, or an NPC being debugged into a player with maxed stats. Then there's the divine/contract angle: a pact with a cosmic entity or a bloodline of forgotten gods that unlocks absolute stats in exchange for an oath, or the role of a 'world guardian' class that automatically caps attributes to preserve cosmic law. These ideas let fans explore consequences beyond power — isolation, expectation, and the narrative tension of being too strong to belong. Finally, I like the more subtle, thematic takes: authors use such numbers to signal change in the story's rules. It might be satire of RPG power creep, a metaphor for burnout (you gain everything but lose meaning), or a way to force creativity — what can't be solved with numbers must be solved with choices. A neat hybrid theory I often see combines soul fusion with system keys: the MC gathers fragments of an ancient being, each fragment granting a stat milestone, culminating in 99999. That explains multi-arc power growth and leaves room for later reveals that the number is only the beginning. Personally, I prefer explanations that come with emotional or world-level repercussions; pure god-mode without cost feels hollow to me, while a fragile, earned omnipotence makes the lore sing.

If you trace it back through myths and old guild records, the lightning degree often reads like a marriage of superstition and craft. I picture early storm-priest orders who treated bolts as language — a deity speaking through flashes — and they started to teach apprentices how to ‘listen’ and replicate that language. Over centuries those rituals were smoothed into curricula: pulse exercises, rune-inscription on conductors, and ceremonial exposures during tempests. That slow formalization is what most lorekeepers point to as the origin. Later, once scholars and smiths got involved, the lightning degree became a credential rather than just a rite. Academies wrote treatises — one in particular got famous among collectors, called 'The Stormbinder Codex' — and guilds used measured trials to grade mastery. To me, this dual origin (divine-feeling rite + practical academy) explains why the degree has both mystical flourish and technical rigor in so many stories; it feels lived-in and believable, and I like that mix.