CHAPTER 1

  When I was a kid, I loved watching my dad work on his computer.

  I would sit on his lap, mesmerized as numbers flashed across the screen—green and red, sometimes eight or nine digits long.

  At the time, I thought that much money was normal.

  Looking back now… it was obscene.

  One day, curiosity got the better of me.

  "Dad, why are some numbers red and others green?"

  He glanced down with that faint, knowing smile he always had.

  "Red means someone used money they didn’t own."

  "Green means there’s more money than they realistically need."

  I frowned. "Then why doesn’t green help red?"

  He chuckled—not mocking, just tired.

  "It doesn’t work like that, my boy. Green helps green. Red… red gets worse until…"

  "Until what?"

  His smile thinned. That serious glint returned.

  He pointed toward the distant, worn-down buildings.

  「Until it turns bloody. People like me go down there to collect what’s owed. Even if it costs someone their life.」

  Harsh.

  But in its own twisted way, it made sense.

  We weren’t poor.

  Even if our green numbers weren’t eight digits, they were high enough to earn us invites to lunches with the six elite houses of Portvale.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I hated it.

  Driving up the mountain. Dressing up to impress human-shaped aristocrats.

  Listening to their children brag like CEOs trapped in adolescent bodies.

  Every visit felt like attending a funeral.

  The estates were monstrous—living countries of their own.

  Our home sat in a gated community with over a hundred houses, each big in its own right… yet the surrounding gardens and vegetation of the elite dwarfed everything we had.

  Over a thousand servants lived on each estate.

  It was an ecosystem, not a household.

  The driveway alone stretched past orchards and sculpted fields, marble-lined and impossibly long.

  The stairs at the end rose like a declaration.

  Columns towered on either side—white, imposing, ancient.

  Fountains spilled water into dark basins, shimmering under the sun.

  At the top, the mansion dominated the horizon.

  White marble streaked with black veins.

  Gold filigree catching every ray of light.

  A triangular pediment carved with abstract, almost ritualistic motifs—more temple than home.

  Arched windows reflected the orchards.

  Terraces jutted out like layers of authority.

  The roof rose in sharp angles, crowned with domes like a tyrant’s coronet.

  Dark ivy crawled across the stone.

  Statues stood in perfect formation.

  Gardens spread with geometric precision.

  Nothing felt human.

  Standing there, you were dwarfed.

  Small.

  Insignificant.

  This wasn’t a place where people lived.

  It was a monument to power—an altar built to demand awe.

  Lunches were worse.

  A long mahogany table.

  Fine china with engraved crests.

  Conversations dripping with venom disguised as politeness.

  The children played social chess.

  One mistake—calling the wrong fork “silver,” folding a napkin the wrong way—earned looks sharp enough to cut skin.

  I learned to keep my head down and count seconds until dessert.

  It was during lunch at the Kravitz estate that I learned what this world truly was.

  One of the younger Kravitz boys, a year older than me, was whipping a maid clearly old enough to be someone’s mother.

  All over the placement of a teacup.

  His name was Vonven.

  Calling him sadistic would have been a mercy—sadism at least implies pleasure.

  This was emptier.

  Hollow.

  Mechanical cruelty.

  The words still cling to my memory:

  "Young master… I have sinned against you. Please forgive me."

  「Silence. What are you worth if you cannot place my cup ninety degrees from the sun?」

  "I… I apologize… Pitié..."

  "None."

  The whip cracked.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Five times.

  I froze.

  Powerless.

  And painfully aware of why my family was here.

  We weren’t equals.

  We were seeking favor.

  The scent of polished wood.

  Incense.

  Sunlight slicing the room into harsh contrasts.

  Even the air felt heavy—like it remembered every injustice that had ever taken place within those walls.

  I wanted to look away.

  But in that world, everything watched you.

  Everything judged.

  And in that moment, I finally understood what it meant to be a green or red number.

  How digits decided whether you mattered.

  Or whether you were disposable.

  How a screen full of numbers could dictate not just wealth—

  but a person’s humanity.