Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet

William quickly did the math in his head. "So, I still have $5.36 billion and £750 million in cash?"

"Yes, sir. You're likely the individual with the most cash reserves in the world. And as bulletproof vest sales continue to surge, your wealth will skyrocket even further. Congratulations, sir," Sunday flattered him.

"Haha," William laughed heartily, then narrowed his eyes. "So, should I delay exchanging shares of the bulletproof gear company and the England Power Company with King Philip and Duke Grosvenor? I wouldn't want them making a fortune as soon as they step into the company."

"That's your decision, sir. But I think if King Philip and Duke Grosvenor knew about it, they'd beg you for the share exchange."

"Well, it's not up to them," William said dismissively. "It's not that easy to take advantage of me. When we signed the contract, I didn't include the bulletproof vest manufacturing technology in the new company."

Just then, the internal communication system of the manor rang. Sunday immediately reported, "Sir, it's Miss Abigail."

"Tell her I'll be right up," William said, feeling cheerful now that everything was handled. He took the elevator from the basement up to the ground floor of the manor.

As soon as he stepped out, he saw Abigail in her pajamas. "Boss, it's already half past midnight. Why aren't you resting?"

William had been busy every night lately, sneaking into the Valentine Group's server center in New York through teleportation. Aside from breakfast, he had hardly spent any time with Abigail.

"Miss me?" William teased, pulling her hand and planting a kiss on her cheek. Abigail smiled warmly, and without another word, she led him upstairs for some intimate activities that would benefit both body and mind.

The next day, William, feeling refreshed, decided not to go to work at Chelsea. He didn't feel like seeing Gunnar's daughter, Sophia.

If it were any other girl, he wouldn't mind, but getting involved with the daughter of someone under his command without taking responsibility could ruin his authority over Gunnar and the Expendables in the future. Plus, once emotions were involved, how could he expect Gunnar to risk his life for him? There were plenty of beautiful women out there, so he saw no need to complicate things for himself. Besides, William no longer felt any real passion for working at Chelsea. His interest in the team paled in comparison to his enthusiasm for horse racing.

After sending off his slightly displeased mother and a secretly amused Abigail, William returned to the main house. As he rounded a corner in the first-floor hallway, he smiled at the sight of the White Ghost pinned against the wall, unable to move, by two robots disguised as armored knights.

"If you sneak into my house again, I'll make sure these robots tear you to pieces."

As soon as the White Ghost moved slightly, the robots' four eyes shifted from blue to red, and energy beams began to gather in their palms, aiming at him.

Sensing the intense danger, the White Ghost froze immediately. He could clearly feel that if he were hit by the robots' energy blasts, the outcome wouldn't be pleasant. However, he still tried to act tough. "If it weren't for the sneak attack, and if I wasn't worried about damaging your property, there's no way these two tin cans could have trapped me."

"Haha, bravado won't help you now," William chuckled, snapping his fingers. The two knight robots immediately lowered their arms, turned around, and walked back to their posts. They pulled out the swords from their backs, deactivated the lights in their eyes, bowed their heads, and once again resembled mere decorative statues.

William noticed several faint scratches on the knights' armor and mockingly looked at the White Ghost. "At first, you probably thought you could cut them down easily, but then you realized that the longer you fought, the more skilled these robots became, didn't you?"

"F," the White Ghost muttered, realizing the truth after thinking for a moment. "These robots are controlled by a super AI? They can learn their opponents' moves?"

"Of course," William said with a grin. He gestured for the White Ghost to follow him upstairs to the small sitting room. Walking to the liquor cabinet, William asked, "What'll it be?"

The sharp-eyed White Ghost glanced at the selection and said, "That bottle of 1982 Château Latour will do."

Hearing the White Ghost go straight for the 1982 Latour, William couldn't help but roll his eyes. The 1982, 1990, and this year's 2000 vintages were considered some of the best in the past twenty years for Latour. The 2000 bottles hadn't even been released yet, but William had pre-ordered 10% of this year's production—17,500 bottles—at a 15% markup through several major wine merchants in London. Once the wine left the château, it would be delivered directly to his estate.

Furthermore, William had already pre-ordered 20% of the 2001 vintage at the same 15% markup, a total of 35,000 bottles, costing him over £10 million. His VIP treatment at the Latour estate was guaranteed.

Shaking his head, William opened the 1982 Latour, poured half the bottle into a decanter, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He walked back to the couch and handed the decanter and a glass to the White Ghost. "A killer like you actually knows wine."

The White Ghost shot William a glare. "Sure, I'm an assassin, but who says assassins can't have hobbies? When you make enough money, it's natural to enjoy the finer things in life. Otherwise, what's the point of earning all that money? To save it for my descendants? Or for some future wife I don't even know exists yet?"

Watching the White Ghost carefully swirl the wine in his glass, William teased, "Even nobles aren't as particular as you."

"Idiot," the White Ghost retorted, casting a disdainful glance at William, who was downing a quarter of his whiskey in one gulp. "You may have the title of nobility, but you're no real noble. The way you drink, you're worse than a Russian. People like you should stick to whiskey."

"Haha," William laughed heartily. "I never claimed to be a noble. I'm more comfortable living like an ordinary person—drinking and eating however I please."

With that, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it to the White Ghost. "There's £200,000 inside. Consider it a reward for taking out those 20 scumbags last night."

The White Ghost accepted the envelope without even looking inside and stuffed it into his jacket. "Sorry I didn't catch the mastermind. But I'm sure the boss was someone connected to those desert sheiks."

"I know," William nodded. He was relieved that he had hired the White Ghost, an expert in assassination, to secretly keep an eye on things. The assassin's instincts had allowed him to identify the people watching both William and his mother.

Yesterday, someone had been keeping an eye on William's mother's office from a demolition site outside Chelsea Stadium.

After trailing the spies to their hideout, the White Ghost had taken them out at 2 AM, killing all 20 of them.

Unfortunately, these men were fanatics. The White Ghost had deliberately spared two who seemed to be leaders, but they pulled the pins on grenades strapped to their bodies, attempting to take him with them.

Although everyone died, the men's dietary habits strongly suggested they were from the desert region. With this clue, the list of suspects had narrowed significantly.

William pondered for a moment. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Name it," the White Ghost nodded.

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