Ashes to Empress

Wednesday morning came with the sharp, cold promise of change. I stood in front of a sleek apartment building nestled deep in a quiet side street near the Westend district. It didn't scream wealth from the outside—more like it whispered it with tasteful restraint. Polished stone. Silent security. Tinted glass doors that opened before you touched them.

This was the second place my bank had arranged for me to see. The first had been nice. Too nice. Like, "diplomatic envoy housing" nice. This one? This one was luxury I could almost wrap my brain around.

230 square meters.

11th floor.

Private elevator key.

Central climate control. Noise-canceling windows. An entire wall made of real wood and nothing else.

When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the kind of woman I usually imagined starred in detergent commercials. Perfect uniform. Perfect posture. Perfect smile. She introduced herself as Ines, one of the two live-in household assistants included in the service.

Wait. Included.

She and her partner, Maribel, would handle cleaning, laundry, basic grocery stocking, errand running, and meal prep on request. She said it so calmly, like it was just part of the brochure. They didn't live in my unit—they had a staff apartment on the same floor. Always available, always discreet.

The apartment had an open-plan kitchen and living area so seamlessly blended it felt like walking through a dream. Marble countertops. A four-meter island. Built-in appliances from a brand I'd never even heard of. The living room opened onto a spacious balcony that overlooked the skyline. Not a patio. A terrace.

A dedicated office with fiber uplink.

A bedroom with blackout glass and programmable lighting.

An undefined bonus room I could turn into a lab, studio, or—hell—home cinema.

The walls were soundproof.

The floor heated.

The building had biometric elevators and round-the-clock security staff who looked ex-military.

I stood there, in my hoodie and scuffed sneakers, staring at my reflection in the fridge door.

This was wealth. Real, raw, unquestioned security and comfort. It didn't look like me. But it was now… within reach. Not just reachable—mine for the taking.

By the time I finished the tour, I already knew.

"I'll take it," I said, trying not to sound too stunned.

Back in the building's concierge office, I met briefly with the property manager, who walked me through the purchase details. With guidance from my bank, I'd opted to finance the unit through a structured long-term investment model—basically, spreading payment over five years through my company's cash flow.

Final price: €3,680,000.

I didn't even flinch. That used to be the number that lived in my nightmares.

Now it was a strategic asset. A home, yes, but also an investment, a symbol, a turning point.

The property team offered to handle the entire move from my old apartment. Packing, transport, setup. White-glove service, they called it. I said yes. They told me to return around 6pm. Everything would be waiting.

I handed over my old keys like they were rusted chains. When the new ones—sleek, digital, fingerprint-linked—slid into my hand, I felt a pang of something. Nostalgia? Guilt? Fear?

Growth.

I had an afternoon meeting scheduled with Nicklas and his father, Herr Boden, at their law firm. Their office was neat, compact, and carried a faint smell of old books and printer toner. It had clearly seen some wear. Functional furniture. A modest coffee machine. No receptionist—just a buzzer and a handwritten note on the door. The firm wasn't flashy, and the decor didn't scream power—it whispered, "We do honest work and we're trying to grow.". It felt like the kind of office where everything was bought secondhand—but thoughtfully chosen. Maybe they weren't rich, but they had the kind of steadiness I hadn't known growing up.

Nicklas greeted me with a soft, almost nervous smile. "H-hi Max," he said, adjusting his glasses and half-standing before deciding against it. His handshake was firm, but his palm was slightly damp. He looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't quite settle on the words. His father, the senior partner, was more direct. Sharp. Courteous. The kind of man who could gut you in court without raising his voice. I caught him glancing at Nicklas more than once, as if silently willing him to compose himself.

I told them I wanted to form a company. Legally. Cleanly. Permanently. Something that could own my intellectual property, manage my income, and offer protection.

Herr Boden nodded. "Given your earnings, structure is not a luxury. It's a necessity. We can draft incorporation papers, secure a holding structure, and anchor your IPs to the new entity."

We went through everything: GmbH versus UG, founder capital, tax-class optimization, how to shield personal liability and formalize profit-sharing—if I ever chose to bring in others.

We discussed where the servers would live, how the IP licensing should be worded, and how to legally detach my old work from myself to limit exposure.

By the end of it, I felt like I'd crammed a semester of law into two hours.

The company would be called Edantech GmbH.

A fully private, Max-owned entity with flexible board options and built-in reinvestment mechanisms. And my name would be on every document.

I also asked what it would cost to retain their firm as my full-time legal representation.

He quoted me a monthly retainer. High, but reasonable. They'd be on call. Contracts, litigation defense, patent filings, and even lobbying contacts if needed.

"Done," I said, and meant it.

They had me sign six documents—firm setup, product assignment, intellectual property transfer, and a few NDAs just to be safe. A notary came in. The signatures were witnessed. And then I got the first envelope with my new company's seal on it.

As I walked out, I wasn't just a girl with a hoodie and a powerful tool anymore.

I was a CEO.

At 6:14 PM, I stepped into my new apartment.

It was perfect.

My computers were rebuilt exactly as I'd left them—two systems and my laptop on a polished desk, cables managed like they'd been done by a machine. My clothes were sorted into the walk-in wardrobe. My bedding was clean and laid out. Even the coffee I'd left unfinished on Monday was now in a matching mug on a tray beside a thank-you note from the staff.

Even the laundry had been washed and folded.

There were fresh flowers on the counter. My fridge was stocked. The lights were set to a soft evening tone.

I walked room to room in disbelief. Everything smelled like new linen and eucalyptus.

I sank into the massive L-shaped couch like it was made of clouds.

In front of me: a one-meter-wide OLED TV, currently off. Behind me: a silence so soft it felt like velvet.

For the first time in forever, I let myself go completely still.

Then I opened the System.

[KP: 148]

The number glowed like it was taunting me.

One more day. Just one.

Tomorrow I'd finally reach 150.

And then I'd be able to unlock AI Knowledge Tier 3.

I couldn't stop smiling.

Almost there.