By the first frost of winter, the name of Li Trum had spread throughout the seven boroughs of New York and beyond, carried on digital ravens and whispered in trading halls from Boston to San Francisco. The "Voice of the Financial Master" had grown from a minor scroll to a mighty tome, its predictions fulfilling themselves with such uncanny accuracy that even the most skeptical maesters of finance had begun to take notice.
"Trum named BlueSky Pharma three days before its cancer trial results!" "He foresaw the Eastern Kingdom's currency devaluation a fortnight before the announcement!" "The Master said Valerian Steel would find new ore deposits, and yesterday they announced the greatest discovery in twenty years!"
Each success was another stone in the foundation of Li Trum's growing keep. What few realized was that these were not mere predictions, but carefully orchestrated campaigns—companies selected not for their promise, but for their malleability, their stocks chosen as a carpenter selects wood: for how easily they could be shaped to his purpose.
In the heart of Chinatown, beneath the golden dragons and red lanterns of the Year of the Tiger celebrations, Li Trum moved through a crowd of admirers at the Eastern Alliance Banking dinner. No longer the dishwasher delivering dumplings in rain-soaked clothes, he now wore fine silks from the Southern Kingdoms, his dragon-head cufflinks crafted of white gold, his manner that of a lord born to privilege rather than one who had seized it through cunning.
"Master Trum!" An elderly merchant approached with a deep bow. "Your guidance on MicroVision Technologies brought my family great fortune. My son can now attend the Citadel of Harvard because of you!"
Li Trum accepted the praise with practiced humility, a mask he now wore as comfortably as his tailored garments. "The markets reveal their secrets to those who listen carefully," he replied, the same mystical half-wisdom he offered to all supplicants. "I merely interpret the whispers that others cannot hear."
The crowd parted as Zhao Ming approached, whispering in Li Trum's ear: "One hundred thousand subscribers as of this morning, my lord. The gold flows like a river."
Li Trum permitted himself a small smile. The subscription fees alone now brought a million gold dragons each moon's turn, but this was mere copper compared to the true wealth: the massive pool of capital that moved at his command. When the Voice spoke, one hundred thousand pairs of hands reached for their trading devices in unison, creating waves that those in his inner circle could ride to fortune's shores.
Later that evening, in the private chamber reserved for House Trum at the Golden Phoenix restaurant, he met with the twelve wealthiest merchants from the Eastern enclaves, men and women who had built import empires and real estate kingdoms after fleeing the turmoil of their homeland decades ago.
"My friends," Li Trum began, standing at the head of the table, his voice commanding yet intimate, as if sharing secrets among conspirators, "for too long, our people have been denied entrance to the inner sanctums of Western finance. The great houses of Goldman, Morgan, and BlackRock guard their gates against those with Eastern features, no matter how clever our minds or how full our purses."
Nods circled the table. This was a truth they had all tasted, bitter as winter berries.
"Today, I propose we build our own citadel." Li Trum unveiled the documents before them. "Trum Capital Partners—a fortress for our combined strength, guided by the same vision that has brought fortune to so many who heed the Voice."
The prospectus detailed a hedge fund structured unlike any other: minimum commitment of five million dragons, a management fee of two percent, and a performance fee of thirty percent—higher than the industry standard, yet none raised objection. For what was ten percent more when the returns promised to be multiples greater?
By midnight, pledges totaling three hundred million dragons had been secured, each merchant eager to claim their place in this new alliance. As they departed, bowing deeply to their new financial liege lord, Li Trum stood at the window overlooking the harbor, the same waters that had carried him to these shores years ago with nothing but dreams and determination.
"They worship you now," Wang Wei Ke observed, materializing from the shadows as was his custom. "Like smallfolk before a prophet."
"Faith is the most powerful currency," Li Trum replied, watching the merchants' luxury carriages disappear into the night. "More valuable than gold, more persuasive than steel."
Wang's expression remained impassive. "And when the day comes that their faith is tested?"
Li Trum turned, his eyes reflecting the distant harbor lights. "By then, it will not matter. We are building more than wealth, old friend. We are building power—the kind that transcends mere money."
The following fortnight saw House Trum expand its walls and banners. A new floor was leased in the obsidian tower that bore their standards, filled with an army of the realm's most unique talents: former Braavosi mathematicians from Renaissance Technologies; psychology masters from the Citadel of Stanford; data-seers who had once served the algorithmic war machines of Wall Street's greatest houses.
Most prized among the new recruits was Song Mei Lin, a slender woman with eyes that missed nothing and a mind that had crafted predictive models for House Goldman's most successful trading strategies. Now she bent her considerable talents toward a new endeavor: the Sentiment Tracking Engine, a scrying glass that could monitor the emotional tides of millions of smallfolk investors across their digital proclamations.
"Show me," Li Trum commanded one crisp morning, standing before the great viewing screen in what his subordinates had taken to calling the War Room.
Song's fingers danced across the control surface, conjuring a visualization that pulsed like a living thing—a great map of the realm, with rivers of red and blue flowing across territories, representing fear and greed in real-time.
"Here we see the smallfolk in the Western Kingdoms growing fearful of tech stocks," she explained, pointing to deepening blue currents across California. "While those in the Southern realms remain greedy for energy." The visualization shifted, zooming toward specific strongholds. "And here, we can isolate sentiments around specific houses—watching in real-time as they shift from optimism to panic."
Li Trum circled the display, his eyes absorbing every detail. "And you can predict when these emotional tides will crest? When fear will overcome greed, when panic will replace hope?"
Song nodded, a rare smile gracing her normally stoic features. "With 89% accuracy over a three-day horizon. Give me another moon's turn, and I shall raise it above ninety."
"Magnificent," Li Trum whispered, more to himself than to his audience. What he beheld was not merely a tool, but a weapon—a dragon that could be unleashed upon the financial kingdoms at his command.
That night, alone in his chambers, Li Trum updated his private ledger—a book seen by no eyes but his own. The smallfolk assets under his influence, through both direct management and the Voice's guidance, now exceeded one billion gold dragons. A fortune that would have satisfied most men's ambitions for several lifetimes.
Yet as he closed the ledger, a strange emptiness settled in his chest, a void that neither wine nor wealth seemed capable of filling. He had climbed from the deepest pit to command heights that few ever reached, transformed from prey to apex predator.
Why, then, did victory taste like ashes in his mouth?
He poured himself another goblet of Dornish red and moved to the window, watching as a storm gathered over the distant sea. Perhaps it was merely that the game proved too easy, the sheep too willing to be shorn. Or perhaps...
The thought remained incomplete as the viewing screen on his desk illuminated with an urgent message from his intelligence network: "SEC Investigating Nova MedTech for Unusual Trading Patterns."
Li Trum smiled into the darkness. Now came the true test—not of his financial acumen, but of his ability to navigate the treacherous waters of power. The game would grow more dangerous, the stakes higher.
And strangely, as lightning split the sky above the darkened city, he felt the emptiness recede, replaced by a familiar fire—the thrill of battle, the challenge of survival against worthy opponents.
"Let them come," he whispered to the storm, raising his glass in silent toast. "The dance has only just begun."