Ghost Billionaire

Somewhere in Europe—

The basement was quiet.

The only sound was breathing. Shallow and controlled. Just as always.

Twelve figures sat in lotus position across the stone floor. Each one had a black anchor stone resting at the center of their palms. Glowing softly, these stones flickered with spiritual energy, pulsing in rhythm with their cores. The walls around them were lined with shelves, all made of blackened jade and reinforced glass.

It wasn't a vault.

It was a display center.

And every piece of jade held a name.

Some were carved elegantly, others burned in by spiritual pressure. Each jade represented a Nexian who once trained under the old man sitting in the center.

He had white hair tied in a low knot. Wrinkled skin. Deep scars. But the energy that wrapped around him… was terrifying. The floor beneath his body cracked from the sheer pressure of his presence, yet none of the others dared to shift.

They were stabilizing.

The Blood Moon reached every corner of the world tonight. Even here. Especially here. Those who awakened early had to ground their cores again or risk going mad.

Suddenly—

Crack.

A sharp snap echoed.

All heads turned.

One of the jade stones on the display wall… broke.

Clean split down the middle.

The glow inside died instantly.

The old man's eyes widened. Then narrowed.

"Who…" he growled.

His aura flared instantly. Dust flew across the room.

He stood up.

"Who dares touch my Frederik?"

No one answered.

The energy wrapped tighter around him, the shelves shaking slightly.

Then he turned, eyes glowing with unreadable fury.

"Find out who did it. Now."

A younger man stepped forward, clearly shaken. "Sir, last time we heard he is somewhere in California...using the name Viper."

The old man didn't speak.

His expression turned cold.

"Viper."

He raised his hand. The anchor stone in his palm shattered. A rush of energy erupted from his back, forming faint wings of pressure.

"Prepare the retrieval unit. We're going to California!"

….

The doors to the Lindberg School basement groaned under the pressure before they finally gave in with a loud crack. Dust puffed into the air as boots hit the floor one by one, the sound echoing through the broken hallway. A group of men clad in sleek blue uniforms fanned out immediately, moving with precision.

Their armor shimmered faintly under the moonlight seeping in from the ruined ceiling, a clear mark of Council enforcement. At the head of the unit walked a man in a long navy coat, his face half-covered by a stylized white mask etched with Nexian sigils.

Duke.

He didn't speak at first. His steps were slow as he looked around the place.

The Council had been on high alert for the last week. Blood Moon activity spiked across the globe—Nexians awakening at random, secret rituals being triggered, unregulated battles breaking out in the shadows of cities.

He had been stationed in Las Vegas to monitor any Nexian foolish enough to expose themselves to the human public. Destin City wasn't a priority. No major clans, no high-profile Nexians. Just a few rogue cursed Nexians on watch lists. Quiet.

So naturally… something happened here.

Duke's eyes swept across the wreckage. His mask filtered the dust, but even through it, he could smell the burnt salt, the scorched chalk, and something worse—decay.

The basement was torn apart. Pillars cracked. Floors dented. Furniture shattered like toys. But no bodies.

Just debris.

And energy. So much of it still clung to the air like static.

He stepped deeper into the space, boots crunching over shattered glass and ash. At the center of the room, a large ritual circle had been drawn. Most of the lines were faded now. Candles had long since melted into blackened wax. Whatever ritual had been performed here—it wasn't small.

"Duke."

A voice came from behind him. Another man entered the room, tall, dark-haired, his features sharp and precise like they'd been carved from jade. He didn't wear a mask. He didn't need to.

Nico Tian.

Duke nodded once. "You sense anything?"

Nico stood beside him, eyes scanning the room. He took a breath, then narrowed his gaze. His spiritual sense flared faintly.

"…No," Nico said after a long moment. "Nothing clean. Too much noise."

Duke frowned beneath the mask. "Noise?"

"Chaos," Nico clarified. "Something—or someone—let an entity loose here. One with no physical anchor. A spirit-based presence. That's all I can feel. No specific signature. Just residue. Fragmented pressure. And too much of it. Sadly, it overpowered everything else. I can't sense any other signature."

Duke clicked his tongue. He turned back toward the circle.

"Someone tried to awaken," he muttered. "Used a ritual to tap into the Blood Moon."

Nico nodded. "Seems that way. But it didn't go well. If I had to guess, the user got overwhelmed by the pressure. Even a Nexian at Initiate level wouldn't survive that much instability."

"Then how is there no body?"

Nico was quiet. His eyes fell to a charred mark just beside the chalk lines. A small spiral of ash where the stone had literally melted.

"Maybe there was one," he said. "Just not anymore."

Duke's jaw tightened. Nexian's can be very strong and fragile at the same time. He had seen cases like this in Africa a few years back. A carnage without any trace of body. That one was caused by a wraithborn and they were able to solve the case in just a week. But this one seemed different. "The hell did they summon?"

Nico didn't answer right away. His expression remained unreadable. But even he looked uncomfortable now.

"Whatever it was," he said finally."It wasn't something from this realm."

"You mean… it could be a remnant?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't aware that a remnant was in this place…" he looked around.

"Lindberg University is one of those places," Nico said.

Duke turned back toward his squad. A few of them were scanning the perimeter, marking down traces of energy, recording anchor readings, trying to remap what happened here.

"Seal this place," Duke said. "No one enters or leaves without my order."

"Yes, sir."

Nico looked toward the broken wall at the far end—the one leading outside.

"Think any of them escaped?"

"Doubtful," Duke said. "But if they did, they'll still be carrying traces of this pressure. We'll find them."

He stared at the ritual again, then turned sharply.

"We have to."

"Sir…." Someone called out Duke's attention. One of his people approached him. "We found someone."

"Where?"

"Outside."

Duke and Nico quickly walked out of the basement and into the body of a young man. "A student," someone said, "He– It looked like he just stumbled into this place and wasn't able to take the pressure. He probably died of Cardiac arrest."

Duke nodded. Usually, humans who couldn't take the pressure from entities just died of Cardiac arrest. No wounds or anything that would signify that they were killed by some entity. It would look like it was some freak incident and natural causes.

"You already know what to do," he said. "Clean this place up."

"Yes, sir."

…..

Dean's apartment was silent. Not the comforting kind—no. The silence here was thick. Suffocating. The kind that seeped into the walls, curled around your throat, and told you, you were alone in every possible way.

The blinds were drawn tight. Not a single sliver of sunlight touched the room. A single lamp flickered weakly in the corner, its bulb half-burnt out. Clothes were strewn across the floor, books left open on strange symbols, broken anchor stones rolled under the table like forgotten marbles. Salt trailed across the carpet in uneven, frenzied circles—half of them incomplete. A cracked mirror leaned against the far wall, the reflection warped and clawed.

Dean paced.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Skin damp with cold sweat.

He moved like a caged animal, back and forth, mumbling under his breath, again and again.

"No… no… no… that wasn't supposed to happen," he whispered. "I did everything right. The circle was perfect. I followed the instructions. The blood. The salt. The candle placements. The timing—hell, the moon! It was the perfect peak! The perfect storm!"

He ran his fingers through his hair, yanking at the strands until his scalp burned.

"I was supposed to awaken. I was supposed to merge. Where is it? Where's my core?"

His voice cracked on that last word. It sounded less like a question and more like a plea.

He had woken up hours ago. Not in his apartment but in the middle of a shattered basement, drenched in spiritual residue, surrounded by the silence of death. Whatever happened, whoever had been there was gone. No bodies. No screaming. No creature.

Just dust and ash and the fading pull of something… ancient.

Obviously, he didn't stay.

Instead, he dragged himself out of the building, bleeding, dizzy, lungs raw. He had crawled for what felt like hours, made it home before the sun broke through the clouds. He knew that much. Because when the light touched the city again, something in his chest… calmed. But only briefly.

Because that's when he realized.

"It's gone," Dean muttered. "Gone. It didn't choose me. It didn't bind. Someone else—someone else was there. Someone used it. Stole it."

He dug his nails into his arm—then clawed. Not scratched. Clawed.

Skin flaked. Blood beaded at the edge. But he didn't seem to feel it. His nails dug deeper, carving red lines across his skin. He blinked at them. Then laughed.

"I did everything right."

Then, the voices began.

Not loud. Not clear. Just—whispers. Curling through the walls. Breathing into the corners. Not words exactly. More like impressions. A tug behind the ears. A weight pressing down on his thoughts.

He clutched his head.

"Shut up," he muttered. "Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up—"

But they didn't stop.

And then, something new.

A pulse.

Low and deep in his chest. Like a second heartbeat. Only slower. Hungrier.

Dean froze.

His hands fell limp at his sides, blood dripping from his fingertips.

That was the worst part.

The whispers he could handle. The disappointment. The failure. All of it. But this?

This unbearable… hunger.

It gnawed at him.

Not from his stomach. From deeper. From his core.

It was like something hollow had been carved into him. A pit. A need.

"What's happening to me?"