Chapter 198: Albano Shirou, A God Of Wealth [II]

The entire hotel staff exploded into chaotic motion.

Dozens of uniformed attendants, security guards, and concierges sprinted toward the VIP elevators, frantically executing the emergency relocation orders.

Within minutes, the lobby was filled with the loud, indignant, outraged sounds of wealthy high-status guests being escorted down from the top floors.

"What is the meaning of this?!" a rotund, richly dressed corporate executive roared as security guards guided him toward the lower lounge. "I paid two hundred thousand credits for my penthouse! Who has the authority to kick me out of my room?!"

"This is an outrage!" a high-ranking Awakened commander barged out of the elevator, clutching his luggage and glaring furiously at the manager. "I am a Blue Crest officer! Who the hell bought out three whole floors?! Why should one single person have that much damn money?!"

"Who did this?!" another wealthy woman shrieked, fanning herself furiously. "Who is this person?! I’ve never even heard of such a person! How dare he evict us?!"

The grumbling, complaints, and bitter resentment echoed loudly throughout the grand lobby, creating a massive scene.

Every single aristocrat, merchant, and undercover informant in the room was staring at the central desk, trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious silver-haired young lord who had just casually thrown ten million credits to kick the city’s elite out of their beds.

Koya stood in the center of the storm, completely unbothered by the glares and angry whispers surrounding him.

In fact, inwardly, he was thoroughly satisfied.

’Perfect,’ Koya thought, his crimson eyes gleaming softly beneath his silver bangs. ’The entire hotel is talking about it... Within an hour, every major syndicate and mafia boss in Isle City will know that an untouchable whale named Albano Shirou just checked into the top floor with bottomless pockets so phase one complete.’

Even if he was still uncomfortable about spending such a massive amount of money.

Marcus, trembling from head to toe, approached Koya holding a velvet-lined tray.

On the tray sat a single shimmering golden keycard... the Master Access Card for floors 88, 89, and 90.

"Y-Your Master Card, Lord Albano," Marcus said reverently, handing the tray over. "It grants private control over all three top floors. The elevators will not stop on those levels for anyone else. My staff has already finished clearing the 90th floor Imperial Penthouse for your immediate entry."

Koya reached out and picked up the golden keycard, sliding it smoothly into his suit pocket.

"Good," Koya said, turning toward the private express elevator at the far end of the lobby.

He looked down at Mable, who had just finished the last bite of her golden vanilla ice cream and was happily licking her silver spoon clean. "Come along, Mable."

"Okay, Papa!"

As they walked toward the elevator, Koya paused, turning his head slightly to glance back at the sweating General Manager.

"Send up room service in thirty minutes," Koya ordered casually. "Every high-grade steak, seafood dish, and premium dessert your kitchen can prepare. Money is no object so just don’t bore me."

"R-Right away, Lord Albano! The head chef will personally oversee the feast!" Marcus bowed repeatedly until Koya stepped onto the private elevator.

The heavy gold-plated elevator doors slid shut with a smooth thud sealing them off from the noisy lobby outside.

The private express elevator began its silent, high-speed ascent toward the 90th floor penthouse, the floor counter above the door rapidly ticking upward: 10... 20... 40... 60... 80...

The moment the doors closed and the outside world was cut off, Koya let out a long dramatic breath.

His cold and arrogant billionaire persona instantly vanished. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the back of his neck, leaning back against the mirrored wall of the elevator.

’Man, acting like a snobbish, mega-rich prick is genuinely exhausting,’ Koya thought, chuckling dryly to himself. ’I don’t know how actual nobles do this every day without cringing into a ball.’

He looked down at Mable.

With a soft affectionate smile, Koya reached down and scooped his daughter up into his arms, lifting her comfortably against his chest.

Mable immediately wrapped her small arms around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder.

"So," Koya whispered softly, looking into her bright crimson eyes. "How did Papa do? Did I play the arrogant young lord well enough for Mama Hakai’s plan?"

Mable looked at him, her face breaking into a bright sunshine smile.

She leaned forward and pressed a warm sweet-tasting kiss directly against his cheek.

"You did very, very good, Papa..." Mable declared happily, her small dragon wings giving a tiny cheerful flutter in her clothes.

She rubbed her cheek against his face, leaving a tiny smidgen of sticky vanilla cream on his skin. "You were super scary and super cool... You made all the grumpy rich people cry!"

Koya laughed, patting her head gently. "Glad I passed your inspection, Princess."

Mable giggled, then pulled back slightly, her crimson eyes gleaming with mischievous hunger as she patted her stomach.

"Papa?" Mable asked innocently, tilting her head.

"Yeah?"

"Since you’re so rich and cool now..." Mable grinned, showing her tiny draconic fangs. "Can we order more ice cream when room service gets up here? I want the strawberry one next!"

Koya shook his head fondly as the elevator chimed, arriving at the 90th floor.

"Sure thing, Mable," Koya smiled. "As much ice cream as you want."

...

The heavy gold-plated doors of the private express elevator slid shut with a soft hydraulic hiss, completely cutting off the sound of the chaotic lobby below.

As the elevator began its silent, high-speed ascent toward the 90th-floor penthouse, the atmosphere in the grand reception hall of The Sovereign Grand Hotel & Towers descended into pandemonium.

The lobby was a battleground of outrage and fury.

Dozens of high-profile guests who had been unceremoniously evicted from their luxury suites on floors 88, 89, and 90 were now standing around the obsidian front desk, surrounded by frantic security guards, concierges, and sweat-drenched luggage attendants.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?!" a rotund, richly dressed corporate executive roared, slamming his manicured fist onto the obsidian counter.

His face was flushed bright crimson with his silk tie crooked. "I am a senior board member of the Supercity Energy Syndicate! I reserved the 89th-floor South Wing three months ago! You can’t just kick me out because some arrogant brat threw money at you!"

General Manager Marcus stood behind the counter, wiping his sweating forehead with a trembling silk handkerchief.

He bowed so repeatedly his back looked like a folding chair.

"My deepest, most sincere apologies, Director Vice!" Marcus stammered, his voice hoarse from pleading. "We are offering full instantaneous refunds for your entire stay, plus complimentary upgrades to our 80th-floor Presidential Suites! Furthermore, the hotel will cover all your dining, spa, and entertainment expenses for the next month!"

"Complimentary upgrades?!" a high-ranking Awakened commander barked, shoving his way to the front.

He was a broad-shouldered man with a Blue Crest glowing across his face.

His hand rested angrily on the hilt of his sheath. "I don’t care about your damn spa vouchers, Marcus! I was in the middle of a high-priority mana-cycle meditation! Who the hell has the authority to buy out three entire floors simultaneously?!"

"I-It was a direct, full-cash transaction, Commander!" Marcus squeaked, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Ten million credits paid upfront in a single transfer... By hotel policy and high-tier VIP protocol, full-floor buyouts take precedence over standard reservations!"

A heavy stunned silence briefly rippled through the angry crowd before the whispers erupted like wildfire.

"Ten million credits...? For a single night?!"

"Who is he? Did anyone catch a name?"

"Albano Shirou... I heard the manager call him Lord Albano!"

"Shirou? Is that an Empire name? Or one of the secluded ancient clans from the Outer Sector?"

Many of the evicted guests, despite their initial rage, began to slowly swallow their anger.

In a city governed by capital and Awakened power, someone who could casually throw ten million credits... enough money to purchase a fleet of luxury airships or an entire corporate subsidiary just to secure private floors for his daughter wasn’t someone you carelessly crossed.

They were wealthy nobles.

They knew that if a man had ten million credits to throw away on a whim, his total net worth and military backing were incomprehensible.

Gradually, grumbling and cursing under their breaths, several of the delegates and Awakened commanders accepted the golden keycards to the 80th-floor Presidential Suites provided by the sweating staff, opting to cut their losses rather than risk provoking a mysterious titan.

A few others, too proud or too furious to stay in a hotel that had subordinate-zoned them, angrily demanded their private vehicles, breaking away from the crowd to check into competing luxury establishments across the city.

Truthfully, none of them could genuinely blame Manager Marcus.

In their heart of hearts, every single noble in that lobby knew they would have done the exact same thing if handed ten million credits in cash.

But one question burned violently in everyone’s minds:

Who the hell was Albano Shirou?

Among the disgruntled crowd, a sharp-featured man wearing a sleek grey tailored suit slowly backed away from the reception counter.

He had sharp hawkish eyes and a subtle earpiece tucked beneath his slicked-back dark hair.

Unlike the outraged nobles around him, his expression remained completely stone-cold and focused.

He smoothly slipped through the glass doors of the grand entrance, stepping out into the warm night air of the portico.

He walked past the liveried attendants and stopped near the edge of the fountain terrace, ensuring he was well clear of any hotel listening arrays.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out an encrypted satellite communicator, and tapped a single speed-dial button.

The line connected on the first ring with a soft, electronic beep.

"Report..." a deep voice rasped from the speaker.

"Boss," the hawkish man said into the receiver, his eyes scanning the street. "We have a massive situation at The Sovereign Grand. A foreign whale just pulled up in a custom military-executive Supercar. Silver hair, crimson eyes, carrying a young child. He just dropped ten million credits in a single instant transfer to buy out the entire 88th, 89th, and 90th floors."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"Ten million... in cash?"

"Yes, Boss. He completely evicted the Trade Syndicate delegates and a Blue Crest commander without blinking. The whole hotel is in an uproar. He registered under the name Albano Shirou."

The line went quiet for three seconds as the man on the other end processed the information.

"Track his background," the gravelly voice commanded sharply. "If he’s a foreign government operative or a military scout, we need to know immediately... If he’s just an absurdly loaded noble brat with no political brain, we bait him. I’m dispatching an executive squad to your location now."

"Understood," the hawkish man replied. He clicked the communicator off, slid it back into his breast pocket, and snapped his fingers at the head valet standing nearby.

"Get my Supercar," the man barked smoothly, tossing a silver token to the attendant. "Now. I have somewhere urgent to be."

...

Miles away, slicing through the neon-drenched elevated highways of Isle Supercity, a grey luxury executive sedan was speeding at twice the legal limit.

The anti-grav thrusters purred like a hungry beast as the vehicle effortlessly wove through the late-night traffic, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the towering holographic advertisements lining the skyscrapers.

Inside the spacious leather-lined rear cabin of the sedan, two people were sitting opposite a massive holographic display terminal.

On the left sat a burly, middle-aged man with short black hair, a thick full beard, and a jagged scar running along his jawline.

He wore a sharp black three-piece suit with a crimson silk pocket square... the signature attire of a high-ranking executive within the Isle City Mafia.

Sitting beside him was a striking woman in her early thirties with cascading chocolate-brown hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a tailored burgundy suit that accentuated her sleek, athletic figure.

The bearded man known in the underground as Executive Martu tapped the glowing glass screen of his terminal with a heavy, ring-adorned finger.

"Did you get the file?" Martu asked, his deep voice vibrating through the leather seats. "I want every single detail on this ’Albano Shirou’... If some foreign hotshot thinks he can parade ten million credits through our territory without paying respect to the Syndicate, he’s gravely mistaken."

The holographic screen flickered, blue light swirling before settling into the high-definition image of a thin pale man wearing thick glasses and an oversized headset.

He sat in a dark room surrounded by floating monitors displaying cascades of encrypted code, financial ledgers, and public records.

This was ’The Cipher’... the Isle City Mafia’s chief information broker.

"Relax, Martu," the Informant’s voice echoed through the car’s crystal audio system. "I’ve been scrubbing the continental networks and deep-web registries since the moment the ten-million credit ping hit the hotel’s central bank. Honestly... I didn’t even know the guy existed an hour ago but once you dig past the surface-level civilian databases, his paper trail traces back thirty years."

The brown-haired woman seated beside Martu leaned forward, her hazel eyes narrowing with intense interest.

"Thirty years? So he isn’t a fake identity fabricated yesterday?"

"Not a chance, Executive Irene," the Informant replied, sweeping his hand across his console to push data onto their car’s display. "The records are old, handwritten, and deeply archived in the Isle Supercity founding vaults. Albano Shirou is a direct blood descendant of the main branch of the ancient Shirou Family."

Martu’s heavy brow furrowed. "The Shirou Family? Name sounds vaguely familiar..."

"It should be," the Informant explained smoothly, pulling up black-and-white architectural blueprints from decades prior. "Thirty years ago, when Isle Supercity was nothing more than a chaotic dangerous development zone in the Outer Sector, the Shirou Family was one of the core merchant houses that funded the foundational infrastructure... They owned three primary mana-refining grids and built the original subterranean transit lines. They were genuine pioneer nobility."

"Were?" Irene caught the past tense immediately. "What happened to them?"

The Informant leaned back in his chair, letting out a soft sympathetic sigh.

"A tragic story, really," the Informant said, his voice dropping slightly. "Twenty-five years ago, during the Great Barrier Breach in the eastern sector, a horde of monsters broke through the perimeter. The Shirou main estate was right in the center of the breach line. Albano’s grandfather, father, and entire extended family were wiped out in a single night trying to defend their refineries... His mother survived the attack, but died of mana-poisoning a few years later."

Irene crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand as she studied the glowing text. "So he’s an orphan of a fallen pioneer house?"

"It gets worse," the Informant continued, pulling up medical logs and financial transfers. "Albano was raised in near-total isolation by his family’s remaining loyal retainers. He grew up extremely reclusive, dedicating his life to managing what little remained of his family’s residual holdings. About seven years ago, he married a young woman from a minor noble branch... a quiet sweet girl and they had a daughter together."

"The little girl in the hotel," Martu muttered, staring at the screen.

"Precisely," the Informant nodded. "Tragedy seems to follow the Shirou bloodline, though. Three years ago, his wife contracted a rare incurable soul-wasting illness caused by residual Outer Zone radiation. Albano spent fortunes trying to save her... importing rare elixirs, hiring grand healers from the Central Empire, exhausting millions. But she passed away anyway, leaving him alone to raise their daughter, Mable."

The car was quiet for a moment as the tragic backstory hung in the air.

"After his wife died," the Informant added, sweeping to the current financial portfolio, "Albano completely snapped out of his depression and threw his entire existence into ruthless and aggressive business expansion. And the man turned out to be a genius of capital. Over the last three years, he consolidated his family’s remaining mana-refining patents, bought out six high-tech logistics firms in the central district, and launched Shirou Global Logistics and Aether-X Refining."

Columns of green numbers and corporate logos illuminated the holographic screen.

"His current personal net worth," the Informant stated dramatically, "is estimated at roughly ten billion credits."

"Ten billion?!" Martu gritted his teeth, a glint of greed flashing in his eyes.

"And that’s just his liquid and tangible physical assets," the Informant added, leaning closer to his camera. "Here’s the kicker, Boss... My deep-level clearance just flagged a high-security corporate filing from two weeks ago. Albano Shirou officially signed a exclusive high-tier logistics partnership contract making his firm a primary affiliate to Star Enterprises."

Both Martu and Irene went completely stiff.

"Star Enterprises...?" Irene whispered, her breath hitching slightly. "Owned by... Amagi Hakai?!"

"The very same," the Informant confirmed with a dark chuckle. "The terrifying woman who took control of the Supercity’s highest-tier technology sectors and the Number 2 Business behind the White King Industries. Albano Shirou isn’t just rich, guys... He’s an aristocratic pioneer orphan with a tragic past, bottomless pockets, a motherless daughter he spoils endlessly, and direct backing from Star Enterprises."

The Informant leaned back, clapping his hands together.

"In my professional opinion? This guy has a high potential to be a literal God of Wealth for our Syndicate if we handle him correctly. He throws ten million credits around just to get peace and quiet for his daughter! Imagine what he’d drop at our high-stakes tables if we stroke his ego properly. We shouldn’t intimidate him... We should invite him."

Martu sat back in his leather seat, rubbing his bearded chin as a wide, calculating smirk spread across his face.

"A God of Wealth..." Martu chuckled darkly. "An arrogant emotionally damaged billionaire throwing money around to cope with his dead wife... He’s the perfect target! If we play our cards right, we can drain a hundred million out of his pockets before the sun comes up."

Martu turned his head, his sharp eyes locking onto the woman sitting beside him.

"Irene," Martu commanded smoothly.

"Boss?"

"This mission is yours," Martu said. "Take the VIP invitation. You have until tomorrow evening to make contact with Albano Shirou, charm him, play into his aristocratic pride, and convince him to attend our underground high-stakes VIP session at the Grand Casino."

Irene offered a confident alluring smile. She smoothed down her burgundy suit jacket, adjusting the lapels to subtly emphasize the swell of her chest.

"Consider it done, Boss," Irene said softly, her hazel eyes gleaming with intent. "Billionaires with tragic pasts are my specialty. They’re always so desperate for a little... comfort."

The luxury sedan pulled up to the side curb half a block away from The Sovereign Grand Hotel & Towers.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Irene stepped out onto the sidewalk with her high heels clicking against the pavement.

She turned, offered Martu a respectful bow, and watched as the sedan sped away into the night.

Recomposing herself, Irene smoothed her chocolate-brown hair, checked her reflection in a skyscraper window, and began walking gracefully toward the glowing entrance of the hotel.

Meanwhile, on the 90th floor of The Sovereign Grand, the atmosphere was the definition of peaceful luxury.