Max returned to his room feeling the gravitational weight of his own victory.
The negotiation with Isa had been a tactical success, but it had left him with a mental ‘hangover’ that was hard to ignore.
The cost of activating [Conceptual Black Box] wasn’t just a number in the System; it was a palpable drain, a hollow sensation behind his eyes, as if he had forced his mind to process a forbidden language.
On top of that, his muscles were still sending echoes of protest from the morning workout.
He dropped onto his solid mahogany bed—an asset won with the same cunning that now defined his life—and sleep claimed him almost before his head hit the pillow.
Before consciousness faded completely, he summoned the interface one last time.
The numbers glowed in the dim light:
[Stat: Strength (STR)]
Current Value: 0.9 (training progress: +0.1)
Progress on Quest [Warrior’s Foundations]: 0.1 / 0.2
A small, almost invisible smile of satisfaction crossed his face.
He was halfway to his first physical milestone.
Progress was slow, agonizing at times, but it was real.
Unlike his past life, where effort dissolved into mediocrity, here every drop of sweat was recorded as a brick in his future building.
The next three days melted into a disciplined, almost military routine—the monotonous rhythm of someone who knows that empires aren’t built on miracles, but on habits.
Mornings belonged to iron, sweat, and the scent of magnesium.
In the university gym, the dynamic with Laura transformed.
It was no longer just the interaction between a star and a rookie; it became something more comfortable, a complicity forged in shared effort.
Laura pushed him to his absolute limits, showing no mercy, and Max responded with a silent, icy determination that she was clearly starting to respect.
His progress was remarkably fast—a secret advantage Laura attributed to hidden genetics, but Max knew was the System’s efficiency working on his muscle tissue.
“At this rate, you’re going to have to start paying me, rookie,” she teased during a break while he tried to catch his breath.
Max, leaning against a weight machine, looked at her with a playful smile that brought the spark back to his green eyes.
The fatigue was there, but his confidence was growing alongside his muscles.
“To be honest,” he replied, lowering his voice just enough to sound direct and suggestive at the same time, “I wouldn’t mind paying to have a personal trainer like you.”
The response surprised even him.
The confidence with which he dropped the flirtatious comment completely disarmed Laura.
She, who was used to dominating any physical space with her presence alone, felt a treacherous and adorable blush stain her cheeks.
She stammered an unintelligible reply about breathing technique and quickly turned back toward the weights to hide her reaction.
He wasn’t just rebuilding his body; he was learning to handle the board of emotions with the same precision as the markets.
Afternoons were dedicated to absorbing knowledge.
He attended his classes, Dr.
Finch’s lectures, and spent time at the Investors Circle—no longer as a novelty, but as a silent, observant member.
He listened to the rumors, the failed strategies, and the small triumphs of others, gathering data for his own arsenal.
Nights were for the hunt.
In the privacy of his headquarters, he dove into research.
His process was a symphony of his skills: his knowledge of the future gave him a starting point—a vague memory of a sector or a company that had boomed.
His intelligence and [Eidetic Memory] allowed him to devour financial reports and news.
And his [Predictive Analysis] confirmed the probabilities.
On the sixth night, he found his primary target: “Vireon Therapeutics”, a biotechnology firm whose shares were stagnant.
Max remembered from his past life that they were on the verge of announcing the massive and unexpected success of Phase III for a revolutionary drug.
It was the perfect mid-term play, with a three-month horizon—exactly in time for the end of his agreement with Isa.
But he knew he couldn’t ask a genius like Isa to wait three months to see results.
He needed short-term victories to build trust.
So, he spent the rest of the night identifying two minor opportunities: a software company about to release a successful update and a logistics firm on the verge of signing an unexpected contract.
By the end of the week, following the close of the Investors Circle session, Max moved through the room with a poise that would have been unthinkable days ago.
It wasn’t just the impeccable cut of his new clothes that projected authority; it was the change in his center of gravity.
Training with Laura had begun to correct his posture, granting him an air of physical solidity that backed his calm gaze.
He located Isa as she was packing away her tablet with rhythmic, precise movements.
Max approached, stopping at the exact distance that signaled professional respect.
“Isa, do you have a moment?
I want to talk to you,” he said, his tone calm—as an equal.
From across the room, Victoria Mont, who was about to approach Max, stopped.
She watched the interaction, seeing how Isa nodded at Max’s words.
Her expression became indecipherable—a mix of curiosity and a shadow of annoyance at seeing her ‘protégé’ moving his own pieces with such independence.
“My office is in this building.
“Follow me.”
He followed her through silent corridors to a study that was the very definition of minimalist functionality.
The place—a small office Dr.
Finch had secured for her—was filled with monitors emitting a soft bluish glow, where economic theory books shared shelves with pure mathematics treatises.
It was an analyst’s refuge, a place where the noise of the outside world was strained through logical filters.
Isa offered him coffee—black, no sugar, as efficient as she was—and Max connected his laptop to a large-format monitor.
“I know our agreement is for three months, so I’ve found an opportunity that aligns perfectly with that timeline” he began.
On the screen, his detailed analysis of “Vireon Therapeutics” appeared—an impeccable investment thesis explaining why it was a safe mid-term bet with massive profit potential.
Isa listened without interrupting, absorbing every data point.
“But,” Max continued, switching the slide, “I know you don’t like to wait.
And neither do I.
So, while we let that investment mature, I’ve identified two short-term opportunities.
Lower yield, but they’ll give us results in weeks, not months.
We can use them to test our working dynamic and so you can start seeing the results of my…
method.”
The analyses of the two smaller companies appeared on the screen.
Isa remained silent, her eyes scanning the data.
Max hadn’t just brought her a prediction; he had brought her a complete strategy, one that anticipated and respected her need for analysis and verification.
Finally, she looked at him, and for the first time, he saw an unmistakable flash of approval in her eyes.
“Alright, Max.
I’ll analyze these reports tonight.
Tomorrow morning, we’ll execute the short-term trades.
Let’s see what your ‘black box’ can do.”
Max nodded, hiding his satisfaction.
The trial by fire had just begun, but he had already won the first battle: he had stopped being an interesting phenomenon and become, in the eyes of the university’s brightest mind, an architect of success.
This wasn’t just a partnership; it was the start of his legion.