Chapter 2:Is fate playing games?
The stage was a half-moon of polished glass, suspended above a glimmering water feature that rippled beneath the spotlight. The Young Billionaires Summit logo floated above in gold holography, rotating silently as murmurs filled the hall.
When Liam Storme stepped up to the podium, silence fell like a velvet curtain.
He adjusted the mic once, his eyes sweeping across the sea of well-dressed elites, journalists, investors, and curious students seated in the upper tiers. His face was unreadable, but his presence filled the room.
"I was sixteen," he began, his voice smooth but cool, "when I realized I didn't want to inherit a throne—I wanted to build my own."
A few nods from the audience. Whispers. He had their attention.
"I grew up in a house where every move was mapped out. My meals were scheduled. My clothes were chosen. Even my friends were pre-approved. Everything was tailored to fit the legacy my parents wanted me to continue."
He paused, the lights glinting off his collar pin.
"But I didn't want their kingdom. I didn't want their money if it meant selling my freedom. So, I walked away. At eighteen, I left with nothing but an old laptop, a list of problems I wanted to solve, and a vow—to never be someone else's puppet."
A ripple of applause moved through the crowd.
"Storme Synergies wasn't born in a boardroom," Liam continued. "It was born in a cramped apartment with a cracked ceiling and zero connections. What I had was vision. Discipline. Hunger. And that was enough."
The screen behind him lit up with footage—Liam at a shabby desk with notes spread everywhere. News clips of early market wins. Shots of new tech labs bearing his company's name.
"Today, Storme Synergies operates in over 40 countries. We're developing tools in artificial intelligence, smart agriculture, and clean energy. But this summit isn't about what I've done. It's about what you can still do."
He looked directly at the students in the audience.
"I'm announcing the 'I Have a Vision' contest. Open to every young entrepreneur in Asia between the ages of 16 and 25. Pitch your idea. Build your team. Submit your dream."
He stepped away from the podium and turned to face the crowd fully.
"I'm putting twenty million dollars on the table—not for corporations, not for family names—but for those of you sitting here wondering if your background disqualifies you. It doesn't. If you have the vision, I'll help fund it."
Applause erupted. Louder this time. Students stood up. Journalists scrambled for photos.
But Liam was already turning, descending the steps, walking past executives who clapped more out of admiration than understanding. Cameras followed him as he exited the summit floor with practiced ease, flanked by two silent guards.
He didn't linger.
The valet was already bringing the Bugatti around. As he stepped outside, the chill of the early afternoon breeze kissed his face. His assistant handed him a folder—new acquisitions. He waved it off.
"I'll review it tonight," he muttered, sliding into the driver's seat himself.
"Sir," the assistant said hesitantly. "About the university panel request from—"
"I said tonight."
The door closed with a hiss. Liam tapped the dash. The Bugatti roared to life like a beast uncaged.
As the luxury vehicle pulled away from the summit tower, Liam didn't take the highway back to his estate. He preferred the long way. The city—no matter how glossy its center—always had shadows in its corners. Forgotten alleys. Markets with faded signs. Streets that still smelled like coal fires and childhood dreams.
He didn't usually drive through this part of Hanamura.
But something about today, about standing in front of hundreds of idealistic eyes, left him strangely restless. He needed to breathe.
His gloved fingers tightened on the wheel as he turned into a narrower street lined with old shops, tiny fruit stalls, and low apartment blocks. The city changed here. Billboards were replaced by clotheslines. Luxury sedans gave way to delivery bikes and chipped scooters. Neon lights were replaced by hand-painted signs.
That's when he saw her.
Or rather—he almost didn't.
An old woman, hunched and carrying two grocery bags, began to cross the street ahead, half-obscured by a truck parked too close to the curb.
Liam's eyes widened. His foot slammed the brake.
But the car didn't stop in time.
At least—it wouldn't have.
Until a blur dashed out from the opposite sidewalk.
A girl.
She ran like lightning, her arms pumping, her feet silent against the cracked pavement.
She reached the old woman in a heartbeat, shoving her to the sidewalk with just enough force to knock her out of the path of the incoming car.
The Bugatti screeched.
Tires burned. The world slowed.
The girl turned just as the hood of the car stopped a breath from her legs. Her hair whipped across her face. She blinked. Not in fear—but defiance.
A crowd gathered. People began shouting.
"What the hell!"
"Are you blind?!"
"You almost killed obaasan!"
Phones rose. Cameras flashed.
Then someone shouted:
"Wait—isn't that Liam Storme?!"
And that, right there, was the moment.
The second Liam Storme and Mira Tanaka—two forces from opposite ends of the city—saw each other for the first time.
Not with names. Not with introductions.
But with fire in their eyes, and the whole city water