The universe did not run on magic. It did not run on gunpowder. It ran on credit.
Han Jue realized this truth as the heavily modified Sovereign Venture dropped out of warp-space. They weren't looking at a planet, or a star, or even a space station. They were looking at the Citadel of Commerce—the physical headquarters of the Galactic Exchange.
It was a Dyson Swarm of pure avarice. Billions of interconnected golden habitats orbited a caged, artificial singularity. The black hole at the center wasn't used for science; it was used as a gravitational furnace to mint "Universal Mana" coins at a rate that defied physics. The sheer scale of the structure made Earth look like a rounding error in a cosmic ledger.
"Look at the traffic," Garrick grumbled from the pilot's seat. His mechanical eyes were scanning the thousands of ships queuing for entry docking bays. Some were sleek, diplomatic cruisers; others were bloated cargo haulers towing entire asteroids hollowed out for resources. "Every one of those ships is here to sell something. A species, a planet, a future."
"And they're all paying tolls," Elena Sol added, standing beside Han Jue at the viewport. She had traded her U.N. security uniform for a tailored suit of armored silk, looking every inch the interstellar diplomat. "The docking fees alone could bankrupt a Tier-2 civilization."
Han Jue adjusted the cuffs of his simple charcoal suit. He didn't have a credit account registered with the Citadel. He didn't have a diplomatic pass. He had something better.
He tapped the comms panel. "This is the Sovereign Venture, representing the independent entity known as Earth. We are requesting immediate docking clearance for a scheduled meeting with Senior Underwriter Vax."
A bored, synthesized voice crackled over the speakers. "Earth? That asset is pending IPO. Unregistered vessels must queue in Sector Delta-9 for valuation. Expected wait time: 4 cycles."
Han Jue didn't argue. He opened the black leather ledger he carried. He placed his hand on the cover, and the Master Ledger Fragment within pulsed. He wasn't connecting to their comms; he was connecting to their accounting software.
"Override code," Han Jue said calmly into the mic. "Authorization: Lunar Backdoor Gamma-Zero. Reference Number: The Selene Syndicate Liquidation Event."
There was a sharp burst of static. The massive, golden docking gates of the Citadel's executive ring—reserved for Tier-5 civilizations and above—suddenly flashed green. The automated defense turrets swiveled away from their ship.
"...Priority Clearance confirmed. Welcome to the Citadel, Auditors. Proceed to Executive Docking Bay 1."
Garrick let out a low whistle. "You hacked the Galactic Exchange with a notebook."
"I didn't hack them," Han Jue said, closing the ledger. "I just reminded them that I possess their backup files. In this galaxy, blackmail is just an expedited form of networking."
The Trading Floor of the Damned
Entering the Citadel was an assault on the senses. The air smelled of ozone, expensive alien pheromones, and the metallic tang of anxiety. The gravity was set to a comfortable standard, but the psychological pressure was immense.
They were escorted by silent, hovering drones through halls paved with polished nebula-glass. They passed beings of every conceivable shape—silicate lifeforms trying to mortgage their crystalline bodies, gaseous entities trading stock tips in interpretive color-bursts, and cybernetic collectives buying processing power with the memories of their ancestors.
Eventually, they reached the epicenter: The Grand Exchange Floor.
It was a cavernous sphere, kilometers wide, where the real business happened. In the center, a massive holographic globe displayed the galaxy in real-time. Planets were highlighted in different colors: Green for 'Stable,' Yellow for 'Distressed,' and Red for 'Liquidation Imminent.'
Earth was flashing a frantic, pulsating Red.
Around the globe, thousands of brokers stood on floating platforms, shouting offers into unseen microphones. The noise was a deafening roar of greed.
"Selling 40% equity in the Xanthos System! Trinary star configuration, pre-industrial population, high mineral density! Starting bid at 400 trillion UM!"
"Dumping all shares in the Krell Alliance! Their core is cooling! Get out now! Selling for pennies on the mana-dollar!"
Elena looked nauseous. "They're trading civilizations like cattle. It's a meat market."
"It's worse," Han Jue said, his eyes tracking the data streams only he could see. "They aren't just trading the physical planets. Look at the sub-market data."
He pointed to a smaller, faster-scrolling screen.
[DERIVATIVE MARKET: SOUL FUTURES] Earth 'Potential' Bonds: Up 4,000% in pre-market trading. Human 'Ingenuity' Options: Highly Volatile.
"They're betting on our future production," Han Jue explained coldly. "Before we've even been harvested, they've already packaged our potential suffering into financial instruments and sold it to investors in the Andromeda galaxy."
"Auditors!"
A familiar, slick voice cut through the din. Vax, the Underwriter made of starlight, descended on a personal gravity-platform. He looked even more radiant here, surrounded by his element. He was flanked by two hulking bodyguards made of polished obsidian—'Debt Enforcers,' creatures bred solely to collect from defaulters.
"I must say, I'm impressed," Vax said, his light pulsing with amused arrogance. "Escaping the gravity well, seizing the Lunar operation, and finding your way here? You humans are surprisingly resourceful. It will make your stock price soar right before the core-harvest."
"Vax," Han Jue said, his voice quiet but cutting through the noise of the trading floor. "We need to talk about your prospectus."
Vax laughed, a sound like clinking crystal. "Oh, the time for talk is over, little creature. The bell rings in ten standard minutes. The IPO is locked. Earth is about to become the hottest commodity in the sector."
He gestured to the giant holographic globe, where Earth's red light was growing brighter.
"Look at them," Vax whispered theatrically. "Investors from a thousand worlds, salivating over your little blue marble. You should be flattered. You're going to make the Exchange a lot of money today."
The Hostile Audit
Han Jue didn't look at the globe. He looked at Vax. He activated his Audit Vision, pushing it beyond its previous limits, fueled by the residual energy of the lunar core he had tapped into.
He didn't see starlight anymore. He saw the truth beneath the skin.
"You're tired, Vax," Han Jue said.
Vax's light flickered. "Excuse me?"
"You're exhausted," Han Jue continued, taking a step forward. The obsidian bodyguards tensed, but Han Jue ignored them. "Maintaining this form… it costs a fortune in Universal Mana every minute. And your personal accounts… they're looking thin."
Han Jue opened his ledger. The blank pages began to fill with glowing blue text, pulling data directly from the Citadel's local network via the lunar backdoor.
"Vax, Senior Underwriter. Personal Debt: 45 Quadrillion UM. You leveraged your own future commissions to buy into the 'Sirius Prime' Terraforming Project. That project failed three cycles ago. You're underwater."
The trading floor around them seemed to quiet down as nearby brokers noticed the confrontation. Vax's light dimmed significantly, revealing a frantic, swirling core of energy beneath.
"That data is sealed!" Vax hissed. "How dare you—"
"And the Exchange itself," Han Jue raised his voice, turning to face the massive holographic globe. "You're advertising Earth as a prime asset. A 'Seed' world. But why are you rushing the IPO? Why are you bypassing the standard fifty-cycle vetting process?"
Han Jue slammed the ledger shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot on the trading floor.
"Because the Galactic Exchange is insolvent."
A murmur ran through the crowd of brokers. The roar of trading dipped.
"LIES!" Vax roared, his bodyguards stepping forward. "The Exchange is the bedrock of the galactic economy!"
"The Exchange is a Ponzi scheme run on planetary scale," Han Jue declared. He held up his pen, pointing it at the singularity at the center of the Citadel. "You use that black hole to mint currency based on the 'Future Value' of the planets you harvest. But you've been harvesting too fast. You've glutted the market with dead worlds. The value of 'Universal Mana' is about to crash because there's no actual growth backing it up anymore."
Han Jue looked directly at Vax. "You need Earth's core. Not to make a profit, but to pay the interest on the loans you took from the Void Emperors in the deep dark. If Earth's IPO fails, the Exchange defaults."
The silence on the trading floor was absolute now. Trillions of eyes—organic, cybernetic, and spectral—were fixed on the small human in the charcoal suit.
Vax was trembling, his light sputtering. "Security... seize him! He's a terrorist trying to incite a market panic!"
The obsidian Debt Enforcers lunged.
The Short Squeeze
Garrick moved. He didn't have his Sovereign armor, but he had his ingenuity. He pulled a small, dense sphere from his pocket—a gravity-grenade prototype he'd built on the flight over. He tossed it between the Enforcers.
The sphere activated, creating a localized, hyper-intense gravity well for three seconds. The obsidian giants were crunched together with the sound of screaming metal, their dense bodies working against them, pinning them to the floor.
Elena Sol stepped in front of Han Jue, drawing a sleek, diplomatic disruptor pistol. "By the authority of a Sovereign Terra-System, any further hostile action will be considered a declaration of war."
Han Jue didn't flinch during the violence. He kept his eyes on the holographic globe.
"You wanted to trade Earth?" Han Jue said into the silence. "Fine. Let's trade."
He placed his hand on the master control console of Vax's platform. The lunar backdoor gave him administrative access.
[INITIATING TRADE PROTOCOL] [ASSET: EARTH (SOLAR SYSTEM)] [ACTION: SELLING SHORT]
"What are you doing?" Vax screamed, trying to regain control of his console.
"I'm shorting my own planet," Han Jue said.
On the massive holographic display, the listing for EARTH suddenly changed. Instead of a 'Buy' order for the IPO, the board showed a massive sell-off order originating from the planet's own "owner."
"I am dumping 100% of Earth's 'Future Potential' onto the market right now, at zero cost," Han Jue announced to the stunned galaxy. "If you buy Earth, you are buying an asset whose owner has publicly declared it worthless. You are buying a planet that will fight you for every inch of soil. You are buying a war that will drain your coffers for a thousand years."
He looked at the camera drone hovering nearby, broadcasting his face to the entire Citadel.
"The Galactic Exchange says Earth is a 'Seed.' They say we are valuable. I say we are a liability. I am flooding the market with our own debt. Who wants to buy a toxic asset?"
The effect was instantaneous.
The red light around Earth on the globe turned a sickly, flashing purple—the color of a 'Toxic Asset.' The pre-market orders for Earth's IPO didn't just stall; they evaporated.
"Cancel the buy orders on Earth! The native population is hostile!"
"They're shorting themselves? That's economic suicide! Dump the stock! Dump it all!"
The panic spread like a contagion. Brokers who had been salivating over Earth seconds ago were now screaming to unload their positions. The "Soul Futures" market for humanity crashed to zero in nanoseconds.
Vax watched the screens in horror. The IPO was collapsing before the bell even rang.
"You fool," Vax whispered, his light dimming to a faint ember. "You didn't just crash Earth's value. You crashed the Exchange's liquidity. If we can't harvest the core... we can't make our payments."
The Citadel began to shudder. The artificial singularity at its center groaned as the energy demands of the market suddenly shifted. The lights on the golden habitats flickered.
Han Jue closed his ledger, tucking the pen back into his pocket.
"I told you, Vax," Han Jue said, watching the chaos erupt around them as the greatest financial empire in the galaxy began to eat itself. "In this market, the Auditor always wins. Consider this your margin call."
The floor beneath them buckled as the Citadel's stabilization field began to fail. The greatest crash in galactic history had begun, and it started with a single, blank page.