Everything was happening too fast. Too loud. Too bright.
Jax sat on the edge of his bed, the giant penthouse screens flickering against his face as the world roared in real-time. It was election day, and the countdown banners ran like blood across the holo-news.
*PRINCE ADRIEL DECLARES VICTORY—THEN LOSES IN DRAMATIC SWING.*
*ROYAL HOUSE ROUTED: 9–1 MARGIN.*
*THE KANES TAKE NEW AVALON.*
Every headline was a bullet. Every bullet had his fingerprints.
The anchors talked about sabotage with crisp professional shock, as though they hadn't secretly prayed for the scandal that broke the prince's spine. They replayed footage of the prince's last speech—eyes tired, voice cracking, conviction hollow.
A whisper followed each segment:
*The Nasty Troll Lord did this.*
*That ghost on the net.*
*The boy who ruined royalty.*
Jax huffed. He knew for sure, if it hadn't been for the deal he just signed with Kane, he'd have been dead.
He realized the internet can make and mar, give life and kill. To stay alive, you gotta keep chancing your arm.
Then Sera's message buzzed into his inbox: SERA KANE: Thank you, Jax. You just rewrote an empire.
Before he could react, another ping:
> GENERAL KANE: You delivered. New Avalon remembers its hero.
And then—
The mayor himself appeared on live TV, adjusting his tie, voice swelling with victory.
> "Without the establishment of truth about my opponent," he said, "I would not be standing here. Whoever brought clarity to the people, whether from the light or in darkness—may your work continue."
Jax swallowed. His conscience fluttered like a dying bird, pecking at the edges of his chest. He shoved it away. There was no room for guilt here.
His notifications exploded.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. More requests for scandal. More threats disguised as admiration. More messages from A-list celebrities begging:
*Hope we're cool?*
*If you have anything on me, let's talk.*
*Tag me, don't tag me, just tell me what you need so we're good.*
Influencers—three million followers, ten million followers, thirty million—were publicly tagging him, dropping winks and heart emojis beside contracts worth a lifetime each.
One actress—global superstar, face on every billboard—posted: @LiraNova: "Signed with @TrollLordOfficial today. Loyalty is everything 😘"
He hadn't signed anything. He didn't even need the money anymore. He didn't need anything. Except a life, like he used to.
He looked outside the window. The operatives were still there, armed, tech, survey and all. But he didn't trust them. They answer to Kane. If they wanted him dead, easy meat.
his own team.
Still flooded by noise, he opened his public page and typed a hiring notice in one clean, brutal line:
*HIRING. The hoi polloi. Graduates feeding on crumbs, waiting at the edge. Your financial record is your audition. If you've never made more than your degree promised, apply.*
Within minutes, thousands poured in. Developers, strategists, risk-hungry analysts. Some sent naked desperation. Others sent digital portfolios so polished they could blind a man.
He leaned back. This was power. Raw, unfiltered, ugly, intoxicating.
But aside from that, there were more tags.
*Nasty man… more tea!*
*I said it, he's out of trolls*
*Troll Lord, proof them wrong*
Hence, one thing still burned in him like a worm: The Eros Vault. He typed it into his search bar. The screen throbbed red.
ACCESS DENIED — FIREWALL CLASS OMEGA.
He stood abruptly, grabbed the keys to the sleek black Aurora GT, and walked toward the elevator. He needed to breathe.
He needed to see the city as a billionaire, not the pauper who'd once trekked these streets with dust in his shoes and empty in his pockets.
When the elevator doors slid open, the field operatives straightened instantly—hands checking holsters, comms flicking alive, armored vans humming. His car would be sandwiched, guarded, escorted.
He almost laughed. A week ago, no one would have spat in his direction. He drove.
He drove past the market where a shop owner once told him he smelled like hunger. Past the alley where he slept after a job rejection left him with nothing but bruised dignity. Past the overpass where a group of boys had mocked his torn backpack and thrift clothes.
He remembered everything. Every sting. Now the city bowed.
Applications still poured into his AR display as he drove, scrolling like an endless waterfall.
Then, one application made him slow down.
TECHNAME: NULLSHARD.
Specialty: Infiltration, quantum firewall slicing, deep-net forensics
Message:
> Sir, I've followed you since you were a ghost. I want in. Not for money alone—I need stability, backing, and a place to build what I am meant to build. Give me a role, and I'll give you everything. Even my loyalty in blood. Just let me prove myself.
Attached was a clip—Nullshard bypassing a multi-layered Senate encryption in under forty seconds.
Jax's pulse stirred. He replied instantly:
> JAX: Break into Eros Vault. That's your audition.
NULLSHARD: On it, boss. If you want a monster, I'll be one.
Jax parked at Crystal Ridge Mall, ready to step into the marble-floored world he once thought he'd never touch. Just as he opened the car door, his phone buzzed with a long, urgent message.
NULLSHARD:
> Boss, I'm in. I broke the firewall.
Jax stiffened. He played the voice note.
*Listen carefully, boss. Eros Vault is not a database. It's a club. A hidden, off-record, elite-only den. A house of masked lust. Male and female exotic dancers trained like art pieces. Celebrities, politicians, CEOs—all going there to burn their morals under anonymity. It also has a dark side, trafficking. Girls are being sold and traded for sex, in a game called Sex-a-ton. Eros Vault is run by a man known only as THE CURATOR. Membership is impossible unless you're invited. And you? Troll Lord? They fear you'll expose them. They'll never let you in unless you do the one thing they can't ignore… Go berserk. Drop something earth-shaking. Something that forces them to negotiate for their survival.*
Jax froze. This game was bigger than the Kanes. Bigger than the royal house. This was the artery of the powerful. If he could break through, he'd have huge leaks that would remain atop charts for weeks, then he can rest.
He turned around immediately.
The operatives hurried to regroup, forming their protective shell. "I'm not stepping out again," Jax muttered, sliding back into the car.
Inside, his fingers flew across the holo-keyboard:
> JAX: How do I go berserk?
Nullshard responded almost instantly.
> NULLSHARD: I've located one careless member—Councilman Tate. We can jump him. Get his ID. Steal his mask. Infiltrate the Vault and see everything you want to see, boss. Just give the word.
Jax exhaled slowly, tension curling through his spine. The notifications on his public page were swelling again—celebs calling him out harder than before. Others asking for more tea.
It was hysteria. Beautiful, desperate hysteria And he could bend it.
He typed back to Nullshard:
> JAX: Video call by 9 PM. I'll decide then.
He ended the message. Closed his eyes. Let the hum of the protected escort swallow him. This was no longer about scandal. This was survival. This was ascension.
As the convoy rolled through the night, his AR display blinked again. An unknown number requesting a secure call.
Encrypted. Gov-level. And the ID signature was stronger than the general's. Jax's eyes snapped open. Someone bigger than the Kanes wanted him. And they weren't asking.
> Yo! Nasty Troll Lord, wanna try something really nasty? There's a rising in space, no one has the balls to snitch but you could. Can you snitch on some alien planet trying to attack Earth?
"What the fuck?"
"Boss, what's it?" His chief of guard asked.
"Nothing, just nothing."