The Slum King’s Claim
The dawn broke gray over Neo-Shanghai, a weak smear of light clawing through the smog, the rain dialed back to a drizzle that tapped Orion Tower's windows like impatient fingers. Jun Xi stood on the 15th floor, hoodie sleeves rolled up, his dark eyes tracing the city's sprawl—slums a rusting patchwork south, Midtown's neon veins throbbing, the Northern Towers a distant glint of steel and secrets. 35,071,114 Union Coins. The Money Makes Money System had ticked up 1,753,555 UN overnight, a quiet roar in his skull that drowned out the hum of the 50-server grid behind him—half-revived, its quantum hub glowing a steady blue. Eleven days ago, he'd been a ghost—1,500 UN, a slum coffin, parents burned alive by his own hand, unintentional but final. Now, XiTech was a spark catching fire, and NexCorp's sabotage only stoked it hotter. His smirk was calculative, calm—a slum kid's edge sharpening into something lethal.
Lina slumped against a server rack, her jumpsuit smudged black, a screwdriver dangling from her fingers—her voice cracked, tired but fierce. "50's stable—hub's holding. 100 by noon if Kai's ass moves." The grid's hum pulsed stronger now, X9 cables snaking across the concrete, and Jun Xi felt it—a heartbeat, his heartbeat, XiTech breathing again. Kai groaned nearby, hauling a crate of server racks, his buzzed hair damp with sweat, tattoos flexing under his soaked vest. "Ass moves plenty—50k hub's heavy, gear queen." Jia giggled, lanky frame hunched over her holo-pad, tweaking MarketPulse—her voice bright. "Sales hit 2,000—20 mil UN banked, Jun Xi. You're at 37 mil now—nuts!"
Tara sprawled on a folding chair, boots kicked up, her holo-pad flickering with Midtown's signal—green lines danced, narrowing the ghost. "37's cute," she rasped, silver stud glinting as she chewed a mint strip. "Signal's tighter—Midtown hub tower, NexCorp Holdings. Northern Towers link's close—tomorrow, maybe." Her grin was sly, chaotic, and Jun Xi caught it—flirty spark in his chest, natural as breathing. "Tomorrow's gold, Tara—37 mil says we're not cute, we're dangerous." She laughed, sharp and wild. "Danger's my vibe, lightning kid."
The system chimed, bold and cold: "Funds: 37,824,669 UN. Interest: 1,891,233 UN daily. Mission: Secure XiTech—Reward: 5 mil UN, Network Security Knowledge. Progress: 80%." His smirk widened—80% meant the reward was close, and that knowledge would arm him against NexCorp's next punch. He glanced at his phone—MarketPulse pinged again, 200 more users, 2 mil UN added—39,824,669 UN now. "Lina," he said, voice low, chill, "noon's tight—push it. Kai, Jia—racks and code. Tara, signal's yours. We're not stopping."
Lina nodded, wiping grease on her thigh, her smirk tired but real. "Pushy bastard—100's on me." Kai grunted, hauling faster, while Jia's fingers flew—MarketPulse's predictive tweak hummed, sales climbing. Tara's pad beeped, her eyes narrowing. "Hub tower's a shell—NexCorp's laundering through it. Towers are the prize—deep shit, Jun Xi." He paced, boots scuffing concrete, his mind spinning—100x learning wove threads: grid power, signal routes, NexCorp's game. "Deep's where I thrive," he shot back, flirty mask slipping over calm. "Dig 'til it bleeds."
By 10 AM, the grid hit 75 servers—Lina's wrench clanged, Kai's curses echoed, the hum swelling like a storm. Funds ticked to 40 mil UN—interest and sales a steady drum. Jun Xi slipped out, hoodie up, the drizzle cold on his neck as he hit Midtown's streets—neon buzzed, vendors shouted over sizzling woks, a kid in a patched coat darted past with a holo-ball. He aimed for Lucky Coin, the corner store he'd slaved at post-fire—50 UN a day, a boss with a sneer who'd called him "slum trash" every shift. Today, he'd bury that ghost.
The bell jangled as he stepped in—stale air hit him, shelves sagged with cheap ramen and holo-chips, the counter scratched and greasy. Mr. Han leaned there, mid-40s, balding, his gut spilling over a stained apron—his sneer flashed, same as always. "Well, shit—slum kid's back. Begging for your job?" Jun Xi's grin was slow, sharp, his hands in his pockets as he leaned on the counter—boots clicked, hoodie dripped. "Nah, Han—buying it. 500,000 UN, cash now. You're done."
Han's laugh barked, sour and loud. "You? 500k? Piss off, trash—store's mine." Jun Xi pulled his phone, wired the funds—499,500 UN left Orion's account, 40,325,169 UN total—and the deed pinged, legal and final. Han's face froze, eyes bugging as the holo-screen confirmed it—Lucky Coin, Owner: Jun Xi. "You're nothing!" Han spat, red-faced, lunging over the counter—Jun Xi sidestepped, calm as ice, and let the man stumble. "Nothing owns you now," he said, voice low, flirty edge cutting. "Pack up—slum king's claiming his turf."
The door jangled again—Lina, rain-soaked, her jumpsuit clinging, wrench still in hand. "100's live—grid's purring. What's this shit?" She eyed Han, smirking. "Face-slapping the past, huh?" Jun Xi grinned, natural charm flaring. "Past's a punching bag—hit it 'til it breaks. Grid's up?" She nodded, stepping close—grease and rain mixed on her skin. "100 servers, X9s locked—50 mil UN's safe. Tara's signal's hot—Midtown's bleeding." Funds ticked—41,816,402 UN—interest rolling, MarketPulse steady.
Han scrambled, cursing, grabbing a box—Jun Xi watched, boots on the counter now, his smirk cold. "Slum trash built this—40 mil UN says you're the ghost, Han." Lina laughed, raw and bright, leaning on him—her warmth sank in, steadying the storm inside. "King's right—store's ours. What's next?" He met her gaze, rain drumming outside, his hand brushing hers—grease-slick, real. "Next, we grow—NexCorp's bleeding, we're the blade."
Back at Orion, the grid roared—100 servers glowed, quantum hub a deep thrum, funds hitting 43 mil UN with MarketPulse's climb. Tara's pad beeped—signal narrowed, Midtown hub tower's shell cracking. "Northern Towers link's tomorrow—NexCorp's sloppy," she rasped, grin wild. Kai slumped on a crate, wiping sweat. "100's heavy—Jia's tweak's gold, though. 43 mil? Slum king's nuts." Jia beamed, holo-pad glowing—MarketPulse at 2,500 users, 25 mil UN banked.
Jun Xi stood by the window, drizzle streaking glass, Midtown's neon a jagged pulse below. The system hummed: "Funds: 43,309,635 UN. Interest: 2,165,481 UN. Mission Progress: 85%." His eyes glinted—85% meant the reward was near, and NexCorp's signal was cracking. He'd claimed Lucky Coin, face-slapped Han, locked his crew—Lina's fire, Tara's chaos, Kai's grit, Jia's spark. Slum king wasn't a title; it was a promise, and Neo-Shanghai would feel it.
Night crept in, the grid's pulse a steady beat, rain a soft hiss beyond the glass. Lina crashed beside him, her head on his shoulder—sweat and grease, her breath warm. "43 mil—10 days ago, you were broke. Proud of you, Jun Xi." His smirk softened, hand squeezing hers—raw, real. "Proud's us—slum kids don't break." Tara's voice cut through, sly. "Break? Nah—we burn. Signal's mine tomorrow—NexCorp's toast." Kai snorted, Jia giggled, and Jun Xi felt it—his spark, his crew, his city. 43,309,635 UN—NexCorp thought they'd cracked him, but he'd crack their spine.