The rains descended upon New York like the tears of the old gods, merciless and cold, washing away the city's golden veneer to reveal the grime beneath. In the cramped kitchens of the Golden Dragon establishment, Li Trum polished a worn porcelain plate, his once-fine hands now roughened by labor. The faded apron he wore seemed a mockery of his former station—a banner of his fallen house.
Steam and kitchen smoke swirled around him like the ghosts of lost fortunes. From financial prodigy to dishwasher in a minor house of the Chinatown district, his descent would make even the most skilled bards hesitate to sing such a tragic fall. Two years past, he had owned chambers in a Manhattan tower and controlled a portfolio that made lords take notice. Now, he dwelled in a damp basement in the district of Brooklyn, scrubbing away at strangers' leavings, earning barely enough copper to keep starvation at bay.
"Little Li, come forth," the voice of Master Huang, proprietor of the establishment, cut through the kitchen's clamor with the authority of a minor lord addressing his servant.
Li Trum wiped the sweat from his brow, removed his apron, and traversed the narrow corridor. Master Huang stood at the entrance, holding a package wrapped against the elements, a strange gleam in his eyes.
"Tonight brings a special commission, a delivery to a private keep on Bellevue Hill. A patron of high standing who never requests outside food, yet today specifically asked for you to deliver it." Huang regarded him with significance, as if passing along a message not fully understood. "The lord's name is Wang, and he claims acquaintance with you."
Li Trum's brow furrowed as his mind rapidly sorted through possibilities. Bellevue Hill housed some of the realm's most powerful residents, those who pulled the strings of Manhattan's financial kingdom from comfortable remove. A lord named Wang... a possibility flickered at the edges of his consciousness.
"The location?" he asked, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.
Huang handed him a slip of parchment bearing an address written in precise strokes. As Li Trum read it, his pupils dilated imperceptibly. That address—he knew it by reputation. During his days among the financial elite, he had heard whispers of this place but never beheld it with his own eyes: the private keep of Wang Wei Ke.
Wang Wei Ke, the phantom of Wall Street, a pioneer in the arcane art of quantitative trading. Twenty years past, he had vanished from public view, yet his influence remained legendary among the initiated. Tales were told of his ability to foresee market collapses, how before the great financial crisis of 2008, he had liquidated all his holdings and taken massive short positions, reaping a fortune that would make even the Iron Bank of Braavos take notice.
"Go now, before the storm worsens," Huang pressed a small umbrella into his hands. "Do not keep such a valuable patron waiting."
Raindrops pierced the darkness like silver needles, creating translucent barriers between the world's various strata. Li Trum navigated his humble transport device up the winding hill path, the rain soaking through his garments, cold as the feeling that had gripped his heart when his dreams crumbled. Through the watery veil, Bellevue Hill's panorama appeared distant and ethereal, the lights of Manhattan twinkling below like scattered gold dragons, tantalizingly close yet impossible to grasp.
His former empire, his aspirations, his trading chamber—all now belonged to others, visible only from afar, like a smallfolk gazing upon a lord's castle.
At the path's end, the feeble light from his transport illuminated an iron gate, behind which stood a classical structure surrounded by dense foliage, reminiscent of a hidden fortress from tales of old. Li Trum halted before the speaking device mounted beside the gate, rainwater streaming down his face like the silent mockery of fate.
"Food delivery," he announced.
After a moment of silence, the gate opened soundlessly, as if the keep itself were welcoming him to some secret ritual. Li Trum guided his transport along the lengthy approach, each step feeling like progression toward an unseen destiny. A strange prescience filled him, a sense that this rain-soaked night, this seemingly mundane delivery, might represent a crucial turning point in the scrolls of his life.
The great door swung open before his knuckles could touch it, as if the master within had been tracking his approach with a seer's precision. A middle-aged man of Eastern features stood framed in the doorway, clothed in finery that spoke of wealth without ostentation. His countenance remained as still as a frozen lake, yet his eyes cut like freshly honed daggers, capable of dissecting a man's innermost secrets.
"Li Trum, your reputation precedes you," the man extended his hand, his voice deep and commanding as a battle drum. "Wang Wei Ke."
Li Trum's heartbeat quickened despite his attempts at composure. Though he had anticipated this revelation, hearing the name spoken aloud sent a tremor through him like the distant rumble of approaching thunder. He clasped the offered hand, feeling a curious power transfer between them—not physical strength, but something deeper, almost mystical, like the market's own pulse made manifest.
"Enter, the night grows cold," Wang turned, leading him into a vast entrance hall.
Unlike the gaudy displays common to new money, the interior spoke of restrained opulence—minimalist modern furnishings harmoniously blended with classical Eastern elements. Several exquisite ink paintings adorned the walls, subtly revealing the master's deep cultural roots and appreciation for enduring value rather than fleeting trends.
"You must wonder why I summoned you through such means," Wang gestured for Li Trum to follow him across the hall toward a concealed lift. "Perhaps the answer will cause you to reconsider your life's journey."
The lift descended silently, as though sinking into unknown depths. When the doors parted, the sight before him caused Li Trum to hold his breath, like a commoner granted his first glimpse of the Iron Throne.
A vast underground chamber, comparable in size to a tournament field, had been transformed into a financial nerve center of extraordinary sophistication. Dozens of massive viewing screens covered an entire wall, displaying real-time data from every significant market across the known world—stocks, bonds, futures, foreign currencies, cryptographic assets... each minute pulse of the global financial heart captured with perfect precision.
At the chamber's center stood a curved command station, equipped with multiple high-performance computation devices and professional trading terminals. Several operators worked with intense focus, their eyes rarely leaving their screens, fingers dancing across input devices like master harpists performing a complex market sonata.
"Welcome to my ark," Wang's voice resonated with calm authority. "The outside world calls it the 'Ghost Trading Room.' Here, we monitor every heartbeat of the global financial markets, day and night, without cease."
Li Trum stood motionless, rendered speechless by the spectacle. This was no ordinary trading floor, but the nexus of a financial empire, a center capable of sensing and influencing the flow of capital throughout the known world.
"Why... why me?" he finally managed, his voice uncharacteristically faint, like a smallfolk addressing a high lord.
Wang did not immediately answer but guided him through the trading floor to a more private solar. Beyond the reinforced glass windows, New York's stormy night continued its assault, raindrops striking the surface in rhythms reminiscent of market volatility—sometimes steady, sometimes chaotic, never truly predictable.
"I have observed you for some time, Li Trum," Wang seated himself, indicating Li should do likewise. "Since your first quantitative fund was established, I noted your presence in the game. You possess a rare market intuition, an ability to sense currents hidden beneath the ocean of data that most cannot perceive."
He pressed a subtle control on his desk, activating a wall-mounted screen that displayed Li Trum's trading history and investment portfolio over several years. Every decision, every purchase and sale, had been meticulously recorded and analyzed, forming a comprehensive chronicle of his financial life.
"Even in your ultimate failure," Wang's gaze cut like a maester's scalpel during dissection, "you came within a hairsbreadth of perceiving the truth. Your mistake was continuing to believe in market fairness, in trusting those so-called 'expert analyses.' That was the root of your downfall."
Li Trum felt a sharp pain, like a blade between his ribs—the sting of having his pride laid bare, mixed with the shock of truth's first light. "Then what is the truth?" he asked, his voice blending curiosity with caution.
Wang remained silent briefly, then approached a corner safe. After entering a combination, he withdrew a small data storage device and presented it to Li Trum.
"This contains certain... information you should examine," Wang's tone grew hushed and mysterious. "After reviewing its contents, you will understand your past errors and grasp the game's actual rules."
Li Trum accepted the device, feeling an unusual weight in his palm, as if it contained not merely data but knowledge that might forever alter his destiny's course.
"Whatever choice you make afterward, return here tomorrow at this same hour," Wang gazed toward the storm beyond the window. "Some truths can only be fully comprehended when witnessed firsthand."
When Li Trum emerged from Wang's fortress, the rain had ceased. He stood upon the stone steps, clutching the mysterious device, feeling fate's mechanisms reengaging within his life, like the turning of vast wheels that had momentarily paused.
The sky began lightening toward the east, heralding a new day's arrival. Yet Li Trum knew that for him, the true dawn might lie within the small storage device he held. He mounted his humble transport and headed toward his meager dwelling, feeling long-dormant fires rekindling within—the hunger for knowledge, the seeds of vengeance, and the determination to forge himself anew.
The rain-washed streets of New York glistened like freshly minted coins, awaiting collection by new masters to reenter the great game of wealth and power.