Money wasn't just currency. It was ammunition.
And right now, Adrian was going into war with an empty magazine.
"Adrian, please," Tubby Tom whined, clutching his backpack like a life vest. "This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. My mom will kill me. Then she'll resurrect me and kill me again."
They weren't in a library. They were standing outside "The End Zone," a grimy sports bar on the edge of campus known for three things: watered-down beer, sticky floors, and an illegal backroom bookie named "Big Mike."
Adrian checked his phone. Date: September 14, 2019.Time: 1:45 PM.
He ignored Tom's panic. He was searching his memories—not the hazy memories of a 22-year-old alcoholic, but the sharp, filing-cabinet mind of a 38-year-old tycoon.
2019. September. The Underdog Weekend.
He remembered it vividly because, in his past life, he had lost $50,000 betting against this specific team. It was the day a bottom-tier team crushed the league champions in a freak upset.
"Tom," Adrian said, turning to his roommate. His voice was calm, anchoring Tom's anxiety. "How much is in your bank account?"
Tom turned pale. "No. No way. That's my rent money! That's $800!"
"Invest it," Adrian said, holding out his hand. "Give me two hours. I'll turn it into next semester's tuition."
"And if you lose?"
Adrian smirked. The "Know-It-All" Smirk.
"I've seen the script, Tom. I know the ending."
The backroom smelled of stale tobacco and desperation.
Old men sat hunched over race slips, and students with shaking hands watched TV screens screaming at horses they didn't own.
Adrian walked to the counter. He didn't slouch. He moved with the Silhouette of a man who owned the building—shoulders back, hands loose, eyes scanning the room like a predator.
Big Mike, a man whose neck was wider than his head, looked up from his ledger.
"ID?" Mike grunted.
"Cash," Adrian replied, slamming a stack of bills on the counter. $2,300. Every cent he owned.
The sound silenced the nearby table. Thwack.
"Cute," Mike sneered, counting the bills with thick, sausage-like fingers. "Putting it all on the favorite? The odds are trash, kid. You'll make fifty bucks."
"No," Adrian leaned in. The dim light caught the intensity in his eyes. "Put it all on the 'Norwich City' upset against Manchester City."
The room went quiet. Someone laughed in the corner.
"Norwich?" Mike wheezed, laughing so hard his gold chain rattled. "Kid, they're playing the champions. The odds are 15 to 1. You're basically lighting this money on fire."
"15 to 1," Adrian repeated, his voice devoid of doubt. "Take the bet."
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[Logic Check]Host is relying on memory. No System Assistance active.Warning: Butterfly Effect is negligible for this event.Probability of Success: 100%
Adrian ignored the blue box. He didn't need a System to know that in exactly ten minutes, a striker named Pukki was about to ruin a lot of parleys.
Tom, standing behind him, looked like he was about to vomit. He had reluctantly handed over his $800.
"If we lose," Tom whispered, "I'm sleeping in your bed."
"If we lose, Tom, I'll sell my kidney to pay you back."
The game started on the big screen.
The first 10 minutes were brutal. Manchester City dominated. The bar patrons jeered at Adrian.
"Hey, Nostradamus!" a guy in a jersey shouted. "Kiss that tuition goodbye!"
Adrian didn't flinch. He just tapped his finger on the counter, counting down the seconds.
3... 2... 1...
On screen, the Norwich striker broke through the defense. A clean shot.
GOAL.
The bar erupted. Not in joy, but in shock.
Mike stopped wiping a glass. He stared at the screen.
Twenty minutes later. GOAL. 2-0.
By the time the final whistle blew—Norwich 3, Man City 2—the backroom was dead silent.
The only sound was Adrian tapping the wooden counter. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Pay the man," Adrian said softly.
Big Mike looked at Adrian with a mix of fear and respect. He opened the safe. He counted out the stack.
$34,500 (Total Payout).
Adrian took his share—roughly $25,000 profit. He tossed a stack of $12,000 to Tom.
"Return on investment: 1,500%," Adrian said, walking past the stunned crowd. "Rent is paid, Tom. Buy yourself a better hoodie."
Tom stared at the money in his hands. He looked at Adrian like he was a god.
"How..." Tom stammered. "How did you know?"
Adrian stopped at the door. The sunlight from the street framed his silhouette.
"Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity," Adrian lied. "And I prepared eleven years ago."
1 Hour Later.Location: "The Gilded Stag" - Luxury Menswear Store.
Adrian stood in front of a three-way mirror.
Gone was the hoodie. Gone were the frayed jeans.
He was wearing a Midnight Blue bespoke suit. It wasn't just clothes; it was armor. The fabric hugged his shoulders perfectly, giving him the V-taper of a CEO. He adjusted a gold watch on his wrist (a decent replica, for now).
Base: Midnight Blue Suit (Authority/Mystery). Secondary: Crisp White Shirt (Purity). Highlight: Gold Cufflinks (Ambition).
The sales assistant, a woman who had ignored him when he walked in, was now hovering nervously, adjusting his tie.
"It fits... perfectly, sir," she blushed.
Adrian looked at his reflection. The 22-year-old face finally matched the 38-year-old eyes.
He smelled of fresh mint and expensive fabric. The transformation was complete.
[SYSTEM STATUS UPDATE]
Current Wealth: $18,000 (After suit purchase). Charm Stat: +5 (Item Bonus: 'The Power Suit'). Confidence: MAX.
"Tom," Adrian said, turning to his sidekick, who was struggling to put on a decent jacket Adrian had forced him to buy.
"Yeah?"
"We have the money. We have the look." Adrian checked the time. "Now, we have a piano to hijack."
"You still haven't explained the piano thing!" Tom cried out.
Adrian walked out of the store, the bell chiming behind him.
"You don't capture a Queen with a pawn, Tom," Adrian said, the System Glint flashing in his eyes. "You capture her with a performance."