The sunset light bled across the glass ramparts of Manhattan, casting long shadows over the great houses and turning the steel towers into molten gold. Li Trum stood vigil by the window of a modest coffeehouse across from the House of Morgan, his eyes tracing the movements of the men and women who departed in their fine garments. Their expressions varied, yet in their eyes danced the same hungry light—the glimmer of those who worshipped at the altar of coin and ambition.
He sipped from his bitter cup, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. At eight-and-twenty years, Li Trum was no longer the green boy who had journeyed from the small township of Handan in the Northern Province. The rhythms of New York had honed his gaze into something sharp as Valyrian steel, capable of piercing the veils that obscured the true machinations of the market.
"Li, are you certain of this course?" Zhao Ming, his companion since their days at the Citadel of New York, spoke with trepidation in his voice. "You risk all you possess."
Li Trum did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed upon the mighty keep across the street, as though his eyes could penetrate stone and steel to glimpse the great lords of finance who moved coins and futures like cyvasse pieces upon a board.
"I am not only certain," Li Trum said at last, his voice as cold and unyielding as winter in the North, "this is but the first move in a greater game."
He displayed the glowing screen of his communication device, where numbers danced and shifted. Central Energy Holdings: 42.7 gold dragons per share. Li Trum had committed his entire treasury to this venture, with borrowed coin besides—a gambit worthy of the boldest player.
"Li, the patterns you've divined remain untested..."
"Sometimes, Zhao," Li Trum's eyes gleamed with a fierce intelligence, "one must trust in visions others cannot see. The market is no mere collection of numbers, but a living creature driven by fear and greed. I have studied the entrails of this beast and know its heart."
Zhao Ming fell silent, remembering how they had met five years past. Li Trum had been different from the other initiates at the Citadel—a stranger from distant shores, armed only with a modest scholarship and a mind that could solve the most complex number-riddles as though born to the task.
By his third year of study, Li Trum had turned five thousand dragons into sixty thousand through his knowledge of market patterns. They called him the "Eastern Prodigy," a rising star in the firmament of New York's financial realm.
As darkness fell upon the kingdom of Manhattan, the lights winked to life like stars falling to earth. Li Trum's device vibrated suddenly, and the numbers upon the screen began their dance.
42.7...43.2...44.5...47.8...
Zhao Ming's breath quickened, his eyes widening at the swift ascent. "By the gods, how is this possible? The trading floor has closed for the day..."
"The futures market never sleeps," Li Trum replied with unnerving calm, as though he had foreseen this very moment in a green dream. "When the bells ring tomorrow, it shall breach fifty dragons. The day after, five-and-sixty. Before the week's end, it will soar beyond eighty."
His voice was soft yet carried the weight of prophecy. The city lights reflected in his eyes like twin flames, burning with cold fire.
"How... how could you know such things?"
Li Trum pocketed his device and rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as a water dancer from Braavos. "Come. The hour grows late. On the morrow, you will read in the chronicles of Wall Street that Central Energy is to be acquired. The ravens will fly at first light, when the bells toll four-and-forty."
Zhao Ming followed, half doubting, half marveling. Li Trum's certainty had always unnerved yet fascinated him. In this city that never yielded to slumber, Li Trum moved like a predator among prey, each step precise and purposeful.
Three moons had waxed and waned since that night. In a tower overlooking the great thoroughfare they called Fifth Avenue, Li Trum stood before windows that reached from floor to ceiling, surveying his growing domain. The banner of "House Trum Investment Advisors" gleamed in gold leaf, a sigil of his rising fortunes.
The prophecy of Central Energy had been fulfilled, yielding a tenfold return on his investment. This solar, this company—these were but the foundation stones for the castle of his ambitions.
"Li, you must see these," Chen, his steward, entered with a stack of parchments bearing the seals of great houses—Goldman, Morgan, and others. "The realm's most powerful banking houses express interest in your methods. They desire alliances."
Li Trum accepted the documents, his eyes scanning the elaborate script and grand promises. His expression remained impassive, as if the courting of financial giants was but a trivial matter, expected and perhaps even tedious.
"Tell them we have no interest in such arrangements at present," he said, returning the parchments to the table like a lord dismissing an unworthy supplicant.
Chen's eyes widened in disbelief. "But these are... these are the most powerful..."
"I know who they are," Li Trum turned toward the window, his gaze settling on an empty plot of land in the distance. "But House Trum shall rise by its own strength, not as a sworn banner to another. Do you see that vacant land?"
Chen followed his lord's gaze and nodded.
"Within three years, a tower shall rise there, reaching toward the heavens. Not gaudy with gold like the false keeps of new money, but elegant and powerful, a testament to our vision." Li Trum's eyes gleamed with purpose. "Every man and woman who passes will look upon it with wonder, and every master of coin on Wall Street will know our name."
Chen said nothing. In recent moons, he had grown accustomed to his lord's grand pronouncements. What marked Li Trum apart was his uncanny ability to transform such visions into stone and steel reality.
"Tonight I attend a gathering," Li Trum said suddenly, his mind already shifting to new conquests. "At the establishment called 'Blue Note' in the Greenwich Village. Have my finest raiment prepared."
"Who hosts such an event?"
"House Sanders," Li Trum's lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "An ancient line among the money-changers, with a treasury exceeding two hundred billion dragons. They seldom extend invitations to outsiders. This is a rare honor."
"Why would they summon you to their hall?"
Li Trum's smile deepened, revealing a predator's satisfaction. "Because of Central Energy. It was no mere fortune's favor, Chen. It was the result of knowledge, of seeing patterns where others see only chaos. And in the game of markets, that is the only coin that truly matters."
As night descended, Li Trum stood alone in his solar, watching as thousands of lights bloomed across the kingdom of Manhattan. In this realm of stone spires and ambition, countless dreams flared and died like candle flames, yet his own star continued its ascent.
Sometimes, he remembered his childhood in that distant township, that strange boy obsessed with numbers and stock prices, studying the financial scrolls in the back of his father's modest electronics shop, calculating gains and losses on scraps of parchment.
From those early days, the market had been more than a path to riches—it was a faith, a calling. Each movement of prices formed part of a vast tapestry woven from countless human decisions and emotions. And Li Trum, blessed or cursed with his singular vision, could read this tapestry as others read books.
He drew a deep breath, adjusted the fall of his cloak, and turned from the window. Tonight's feast might prove pivotal in House Trum's rise to prominence.