Chapter One: Ashes of Gold
The sun was still low in the sky, casting long streaks of amber across the glimmering skyline of Hanamura City—a sprawling, ultra-modern metropolis that towered on the eastern coast of the Asian continent. Skyscrapers laced with glass and chrome pierced the sky like blades, reflecting the golden hour with a blinding brilliance. Streets buzzed with early traffic, a river of sleek black sedans, chrome-plated motorcycles, and electric buses humming along their routes.
But none of them turned as many heads as the car gliding down the central boulevard.
A matte obsidian Bugatti La Voiture Noire—custom built, one of one. Its curves were as sharp as a blade and twice as deadly. With black diamond accents embedded in the grille, an engine that purred like a lion in slumber, and gull-wing doors that opened like the wings of a dragon, the car didn't just move—it prowled.
Behind the wheel was the man who owned it all—Liam Storme.
His name was known not just in Hanamura, but across financial circles around the world. At just twenty-two, he was already labeled "The Phantom Tycoon" by Forbes Asia, and "The Untouchable" by local tabloids. He was the youngest guest of honor at this year's Young Billionaires Summit, an event that would see heirs, self-made magnates, and digital kings all gather at the Grand Atlas Convention Tower—a glass palace at the heart of the city.
But Liam wasn't smiling.
Dressed in a crisp black mandarin-collared suit with obsidian cufflinks and an engraved golden pin bearing the Storme family crest, he cut a striking figure. His dark hair, sleeked back with surgical precision, gleamed under the filtered sunlight seeping through the car's tinted roof. A platinum watch clung to his wrist—quiet, efficient, unassuming, like him. And in his eyes? Cold calculation.
The kind that came from years of being groomed to inherit power.
Only he never wanted it.
Born into the illustrious Storme dynasty—owners of the largest private banking network in Asia—Liam was the eldest son of Ichiro and Helena Storme. His father, a man of towering presence and an even more towering ego, believed in one thing: control. His mother, colder than winter in Sapporo, was elegance defined but warmth denied. Their expectations were ironclad: wear this, say that, marry her, crush him. Life was a business.
But Liam wasn't made to be anyone's puppet.
At sixteen, while other heirs were busy learning fencing or rehearsing speeches at elite prep schools, Liam was already mapping out digital economies and silent acquisitions. He studied by moonlight, in secret. The floor of his room was often littered with rejected prototypes, business models, and hacked startup accounts. His passion wasn't in finance—it was in freedom. At eighteen, on the day he came of legal age, he walked out of his father's corporate tower in the middle of a board meeting.
He didn't take a single cent from his inheritance.
Not the mansions. Not the cars. Not even his trust fund.
He built Storme Synergies—his own company—from scratch. Leveraging cryptocurrency markets, AI development, and rare mineral trades, he forged an empire so fast, the headlines couldn't keep up. Now, with just a handful of loyal staff and a portfolio that spanned five continents, Liam Storme stood alone. Independent. Unbent. Unbought.
And yet, as his car sliced through Hanamura's morning haze, he felt the familiar sting of discontent.
Freedom, it turned out, was lonelier than he had imagined.
Meanwhile, far from the shimmer of central Hanamura, nestled in a slum hidden between crumbling brick buildings and an old train track that hadn't run in years, stood Sunrise Haven Orphanage. A place forgotten by most, dismissed by many, and cherished by only a few.
The gates—once painted sky-blue—were now more rust than color. Vines crawled up the edges of the cracked concrete walls, and the metal sign creaked in the wind. The windows were smudged and cloudy, the wooden doors chipped, and the garden patch out front was a mess of wild grass and broken flowerpots. The only color came from the mural painted long ago by one of the older kids—an image of children holding hands under a paper sun.
Inside, the scent of rice porridge clung to the air, mixing with the distant hint of cleaning fluid. A ceiling fan spun half-heartedly in the dining hall, where a group of young children sat cross-legged on tatami mats, eating quietly.
Sixteen-year-old Mira Tanaka stood at the kitchen sink, her hands raw from scrubbing.
She wasn't tall, but there was something about the way she stood—back straight, shoulders squared—that made her seem bigger than she was. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were what people noticed most. Deep, brown, with a glint of sharp intelligence and shadowed pain.
Mira had been here since she was six. And unlike the younger children, she didn't expect to leave.
No one adopted her.
No one even considered it—not after what happened.
Her parents had died in a fire that consumed half their home. A gas leak, a forgotten oven, a birthday request for a cake. The story spread fast: the little girl who survived while her parents perished. Some whispered she was cursed. Others said she was just unlucky. Either way, no one wanted bad luck in their homes.
Mira had stopped crying long ago.
She cooked. She cleaned. She helped with homework. She translated paperwork when needed. And when it rained hard and the roof leaked again, it was Mira who fetched the plastic buckets.
The orphanage was breaking apart—literally.
Government funding had dried up. Donations were rare. Miss Emiko, the head caretaker, had tried everything—from local charity events to selling handmade trinkets in the market. But nothing lasted. The water heater was dead. The ceiling leaked. Food was rationed. Just last week, their old delivery truck had finally refused to start.
"We don't have enough for next week's groceries," Miss Emiko had whispered to Mira during laundry folding. "I don't know how much longer we can keep going."
Mira didn't cry. She only nodded.
And then stayed up late stitching holes in uniforms, planning how to stretch rice into three meals, and praying, though she'd stopped believing in miracles long ago.
Back in the city, Liam's car came to a stop beneath the massive arch of the Grand Atlas Convention Tower. Reporters and photographers were already clustering near the crimson carpet that ran from the entrance to the private elevators. Security moved like shadows—smooth, fast, and invisible.
As Liam stepped out of the car, the cameras began their furious clicking.
"Mr. Storme! One shot please!"
"Liam, any comment on your rumored bid for ArcTech Japan?"
"Who are you wearing today?"
He ignored them.
A personal assistant scurried behind him, barking quiet orders into an earpiece.
Inside, gold-trimmed elevators whisked him up to the 60th floor, where the summit had already begun. Crystal chandeliers dangled from cathedral ceilings. Rows of round tables lined the ballroom, each with pristine place cards and gold utensils. Holographic screens floated in midair, displaying live market stats and AI-generated predictions.
Liam took his seat at the head table, flanked by the children of oil tycoons, digital game lords, and crypto queens.
But as the keynote speaker droned on, his mind drifted.
He wasn't here for approval. Or applause. He already had power.
What he didn't have… was peace.
And far away, in a forgotten part of the city, a girl was washing dishes, rationing rice, and preparing to step unknowingly into the eye of his storm