Chapter 1: Here Some Money, Boy.
All right—being poor sucks, man. It just sucks so much.
Jaxon Ryder Mercer, the oldest son of two Haitian immigrants, both working exhausting CNA jobs, knew the struggle well. His little brother? Annoying as hell. His youngest sister? Grade-A brat. His older half-sister? Couldn't keep a job for more than three weeks and always had her three kids begging for food.
Not like Jaxon was doing better. He quit college because he couldn't afford the tuition. Not like he had a major anyway—just general studies. Waste of time. Remedial classes kept pulling him back in. Growing up poor didn't bother him too much as a kid. ADHD made sure of that.
Never having food? Eh. He'd just ignore it. He was Haitian and had a crazy fast metabolism. Always hungry, always broke. He didn't care much about driving either. He liked walking. Or biking. Until he turned eighteen. Then life started sucking really hard.
Car issues after three crashes stacked up. Credit card after credit card to help out his family. Took out a loan to build his credit—mom got cancer right after. More car problems. Then came a brutal wisdom tooth infection. Ended up paying a disgusting amount just to get it pulled.
All that stress. It beat the compassion out of him.
He was stuck working soul-sucking jobs. Dishwashing. Fucking Walmart. God, how he hated Walmart. Publix wasn't so bad. But every place he actually wanted to work? Required a degree for shit anyone could do.
No wonder Americans keep shooting each other.
In a world ruled by money and strength, Jaxon didn't care about it either. He just wanted stability. Maybe a few kids one day. But no marriage. TV and real life ruined that dream early.
At 25, Jaxon was just done. Not suicidal done. Just done-done.
He'd tried everything but he was not ready for adult life. Jaxon was honest. Carefree. It was just who he was—even if it wore him down. He couldn't even complete a renegade run in Mass Effect. Couldn't drink alcohol either. Always tried, never got past the first sip.
He sighed, walking through the blistering Miami heat, thinking about how he'd been fired again. Worked for a labor company for months. Got canned because some rich bastard complained about him. Funny part? Jaxon wasn't even on the job that day.
But the boss still fired him. Why? Because the customer was a congressman—an old white bastard who didn't like a Black man inside his $61 million mansion.
Or maybe his wife of that year was a snow bunny. Not his life the woman could pass of his daughter.
Racist, but that racist paid $50K a job to move shit his spoiled-ass son would just break again. Jaxon hoped the bossman would find someone else to suck up to. He was alright guy and have kids in collage, so Jaxon understands but fuck him. The fat Batard fried a guy hadn't missed a day in eight months.
He trudged toward his studio apartment. One of the few perks in his trash life.
To save face and win over minorities, President Trump had pushed a bill to award 1,000 luxury apartments to Blacks, Latinos, and underserved folks.
He no problems with Trump politics never got his notice plus trying to explain the political party was near impossible and Jaxon the fucks his give about other people opinions are way too low. But still Jaxon won the lottery.
Now he had an apartment at Faena House—one of the most expensive buildings in Miami. The penthouse. And the floor below it. Paid off for thirty years.
Yeah, he got lucky. Too bad his family couldn't move in with him because of the contract.
Click.
Jaxon opened the door, already thinking of side hustles, when he heard a sound.
[Ding! Activating the W.A.R.M.I. (Wealth Acquisition & Resource Manipulation Interface) system. System binding in progress!]
[Name: Jaxon Ryder Mercer Age: 25 Sex: Male Sexuality: Pansexual (Girls-based) Wealth: $0 Intelligence: 5 Agility: 5 Stamina: 5 Physique: 5 Skill: None]
A translucent screen popped up in front of him.
Jaxon had read enough unbelievably bad and racist Chinese system novels to know what was happening.
"Have I finally lost it?"
[Congratulations, host.]
Great. Now the voice in his head sounded just like Call from Mighty No. 9.
[The gods have chosen you for the W.A.R.M.I. System. Based on your life choices and actions, they believe you will provide... exceptional entertainment.]
"The fuck?" Jaxon muttered. Low-key hurt and on the stats. He wasn't that basic.
[You have been granted a chance to improve your life. Not like you have a choice. Complete missions to gain wealth, power, and influence. You begin now.]
"Fat—"
The system cut him off.
[Providing starting funds. Balance: $1,000,000. Objective: Spend all $1,000,000 in 24 hours. Failure: Your penis will fall off.]
"...."
"How do I spend the money?" Jaxon gave in immediately. Like Charlie Harper folding in front of a goth chick—he knew when to give in have sex with thirteen women to make demon baby or his dick will fall off. And he always believed in divine stuff anyway.
Well mostly that Heaven and Hell exist, destiny and fate are real, karma, and lady luck with a dash of Buddhism.
He wasn't risking losing his junk. He was black and member of the BBC. That was the one thing he was really proud of.
[Ding!]
[Access your funds via the new card in your wallet. Countdown begins now.]
Blinking, Jaxon pulled out his PS1-themed wallet and opened it.
There it was—a sleek black card he'd never seen before.
The design was exotic. Black, matte, gold emblem. It shimmered like it was made of real gold. No numbers. Just his name. And the bank's:
U.N. Universal Bank of Commerce.
"Fuckkkkkkkkkkk...." Jaxon's eyes widened. He read about them in history class.
The U.N. Universal Bank of Commerce (UNUBC)
Motto: "Stability in Every Currency"
Headquarters: Geneva, Switzerland.
Founded: 1949.
Officially, the UNUBC was conceived in the wake of WWII as a covert economic stabilizer—a failsafe financial mechanism designed to support global balance during economic meltdowns, black-market overspill, and unmanageable geopolitical events. It operated through secret annexes tied to the original Bretton Woods agreements and was maintained in utmost secrecy with quiet approval from every major global power.
It wasn't just a bank—it was the bank. The one the rich whispered about. The one the powerful feared.
Behind every IMF bailout, every silent transaction that kept nations afloat or leaders in power, there was a sliver of UNUBC influence—greasing palms, balancing currencies, covering up debts the public was never supposed to know existed.
Its board members? Unknown.
Its client list? Redacted.
Assets? Trillions. Maybe even quadrillions.
It didn't run ads. It didn't need branches. It simply existed, above the law, above oversight, and somehow above consequence.
Anyone with a UNUBC account was beyond elite. Presidents. Oligarchs. CEOs of megacorporations. Military leaders. Hollywood kingmakers. Secret societies. Criminal empires. Some even said alien diplomats.
Just having a card meant you were important enough to be tracked, tailed, or even taken. Kidnapped. Ransomed. Or worse.
And now Jaxon—unemployed, broke, pansexual ex-college dropout with bad credit and a PS1 wallet—had a card.
A real one.
It hummed in his hand like a loaded gun. A trillion-dollar passport to somewhere both heaven and hell knew well.
[23 hours, 20 minutes, 17 seconds remaining]
"Holy shitz," Jaxon whispered—then bolted out the door like his dick was already halfway gone.
--Jaxon Ryder Mercer: He Rich---
The Miami sun was unforgiving, the kind of heat that cooked the sidewalk and burned through worn sneakers. But Jaxon didn't care. He practically sprinted, weaving past annoyed tourists, local drifters, and too-rich-for-their-own-good influencers posing on rented scooters. His destination loomed ahead like a temple of money and status: the Shōra Complex.
It was a vertical sprawl of absurd opulence, wrapped in polarized glass and brushed chrome. The kind of mall you needed a badge, background check, and bank account with at least seven figures just to breathe inside. Guards in black suits and mirrored shades stood at every entrance, speaking softly into earpieces. Drones floated overhead—silent, watching, armed.
Digital billboards shimmered with full-spectrum ads, each one scanning passersby before customizing their messages in real time. "Welcome, Mr. Mercer," a display greeted as Jaxon passed under a chrome archway. "Enjoy your stay."
Inside was a different planet—cold air, scented with lemongrass and faint ozone. Floors gleamed like liquid gold. Every step echoed. Marble fountains wept mineral water. Even the escalators ran silently, like luxury whispered into a machine.
Stores weren't stores—they were experiences. Names like VALTIER, HEXALEX, and ARC VISION. Places where bags cost more than used cars, where the mannequins wore expressions of disdain and indifference.
The clientele? Ultrawhite teeth, eyes filled with disdain. Corporate daughters in sunglasses big enough to eclipse faces. Gulf princes in jewel-toned robes. Grown men in velvet sneakers. Everyone either armed with wealth or pretending they were.
Jaxon looked wildly out of place in a graphic tee, beat-up jeans, and sneakers that had more sole than style.
Alright Jaxon, you've got money to burn. Time to go full Hollywood. But how do you spend a million bucks in a day? he muttered, scanning the crowd.
His eyes landed on her: Xia Cheng. Long black hair with silver-dipped bangs. A low-cut designer dress that made her legs look like they were sculpted by gods, crossed like she owned the air around her. Nineteen years old. Famously gorgeous. Famously cold. Famously living with some aging rich simp who bragged nonstop to Jaxon about her as if she'd ever so much as touched him.
Xia was complicated. Her beauty was her armor, her currency. Her looks got her the penthouse, but her mind kept her there. She read market reports like horoscopes and could sniff a social climber in two seconds flat. She never slept with her sponsor—but she let him believe she might one day. That was her art. Her skill. Her edge.
[Beauty Alert! Mission Activated][Name: Xia Cheng][Age: 19 | Ethnicity: Chinese | Height: 167cm | Weight: 46kg | Bust: DD][Current Favorability: -20%]
Oh yeah she is utterly a bitch Jaxon
The poor bastard he was quite an ok fat dude that is pretty much a closet gay guy but still he tried way too hard on bragging about a hot girlfriend when all he does is start at the pool guy with longing eyes. Normally, he wouldn't even approach. But if anyone knew how to spend a million before sunset, it was her.
"Xia, got a minute?"
She didn't even look at him at first. "Loser, what do you want?"
"Ayo chill. I'm just asking for some expert advice. How about a drink? Sparkle Tea?" The woman said doubtfully. She knew about the poor black in front of her. It wasn't for Trump's lotttery that she wouldn't have had to deal with poor people.
"Treat me to Sparkle Tea? Nah. We're not that close." Xia looked up the man. "this isn't regular Sparkle Tea. This is Elden Sparkle. Elf made from the Tree of Water every day."
She pointed to the sign. Limited to 300 cups per day. Each $300.
Xia cocked an eyebrow. "Can you even afford one? That's like your month's salary at McBroke's." She crossed her legs. Slowly. Deliberately. She'd never admit it, but she loved the way Jaxon always paused when she did that. As if he couldn't help himself. He always hated himself for staring, too.
RING!
The cash register chimed. Xia blinked.
Jaxon was already at the counter.
"How many cups left, miss?"
The barista—an elven-looking girl—smiled. "298, sir."
"Cool. I'll take them all. One for her. One for me. The rest? Hand them out."
Xia's mouth dropped. "Are you insane?! That's $89,400!"
"Swipe it again, please."
[Transaction Complete: $89,400]
"Sweatness. Treat yourself to drink on the house from me. Give some to your parents and I will come back tommorw and do it again."
The barista blinked and sweat dropped at the actions. Nicest rich guy she'd ever seen.
Behind them, the ripple hit like shockwaves from a bomb of absurd generosity. A retiree collapsed into his wife's arms mid-sip, fanning his face and gasping, convinced he was witnessing either a robbery or divine intervention.
A teenage girl let out a shriek that echoed across the atrium, fumbling for her phone as she screamed, "Are you somebody?!" In the corner, a Twitch streamer leaned close to his mic, whispering with reverence, "Chat, we just caught a legend," while thousands spammed emotes in real time.
A grandmother nearby squinted from behind oversized glasses, shaking her head and muttering darkly, "NFTs, probably," like it was the worst crime she could name.
One of the mall's bodyguards stiffened and reached for his earpiece, tracking Jaxon with a gaze trained for high-stakes drama.
Xia held her tea like it was liquid royalty, her thoughts stuttering under the weight of confusion. Jaxon just smiled and handed her the cup like it was no big deal.
"Now about that favor…" he said.
"…What favor?"
"Help me spend some money."
Starting Balance: $1,000,000
Transaction: -$89,400
Remaining Balance:$910,600
[Time Remaining: 20:35:12]