World's Richest Man: I Leaped Across Time

"High places?"

"He's in Shenzhen," she continued, voice steady. "Hiding in a gated compound owned by a shell corporation—one that just so happens to be linked to someone with PLA connections."

I leaned forward. PLA—People's Liberation Army. That meant military backing.

"How do you know this?" I asked.
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Ava exhaled. "It took some digging. Rothschild didn't leave a clean trail, but we picked up a few loose threads. First, one of our guys intercepted a conversation at a private club in Hong Kong—two businessmen discussing 'a Westerner' who had found protection in Shenzhen. They mentioned his deal with a security firm that operates exclusively for high-ranking military officials."

I nodded, letting her continue.

"Then, we traced financial movements. A private jet flew from Moscow to Shanghai three months ago. The listed passengers were all Russian executives—except for one seat booked under the name of an import-export consultant. That same consultant disappeared after landing. But days later, a security detail was quietly hired to guard a compound in Shenzhen."

"That's... thin, how did you connect that to Rothschild?"

"Here's where it gets better," Ava said. "A few weeks after the security contract was signed, a Hong Kong bank received a large cash deposit—$4.2 million. The sender? A company that, on paper, sells construction equipment. But if you go three layers deep, you'll find a military supplier with direct contracts with the PLA. That money then went to an unnamed account in Shenzhen, one that started buying up supplies and hiring private chefs."

I ran a hand through my hair. "So you're telling me that a shell company tied to a military supplier just happened to wire millions of dollars, right when Rothschild went missing?"

"Exactly," she confirmed. "And that compound in Shenzhen? The one suddenly needing chefs, guards, and security systems? There's a high probability that Rothschild is there, under military protection."

I let that sink in.

Hunter Rothschild might be getting protected by the Chinese military.

That fact alone was enough to make this complicated, but there was something worse. The time travelers.

One of them was either Hu Jingtao, the current leader of China or someone very close to him.

Which meant they might already know about the Freewinds Club. They might even know about me.

If China was backing Rothschild, then this could be an attempt by the Chinese government to get inside the club, to learn its inner workings.

That would explain why Rothschild didn't just disappear into Europe or South America. He ran straight into the arms of power.

I picked up the phone again.

"Ava, can you compile everything you have? I need it sent to me."

There was a pause. "Jack, you do realize how much effort this took, right? We burned so many resources on this. This better be worth it."

"It will be," I said calmly.

Ava sighed. "I'll send it. But not digitally."

"Paper, then?"

"Paper."

"Good," I said. Then, after a brief pause, "By the way, I've already started working on the Bitcoin thing. You'll see the results of that very soon."

"Well, at least one of your insane ideas better pay off. Don't forget, Jack—I'm in this for a reason. We want change."

I smirked. "Don't worry. You'll get your revolution."

I disconnected the call.

"...And I'll end that revolution when you least expect it." I muttered to myself.

...

By mid-morning, a courier from Liberation arrived at my door. He handed me a thick envelope, nodded once, and left without a word.

I tore it open and scanned the documents. It was all there—bank transfers, security contracts, private jet logs. Everything pointed to Hunter Rothschild hiding in Shenzhen, under the protection of a shell company connected to the Chinese military.

I wasn't going to waste time.

I grabbed my keys and headed straight to the church.

At a red light, I pulled out my phone and checked the price of Bitcoin.

$1.80 per coin.

The total market cap had crossed $4 million, with over 2 million coins in circulation.

People were starting to get interested.

...

Once at the church I walked up to the entrance, flashed my level VIII card, and stepped inside. The receptionist gave me a polite nod and waved me through.

Straight to the third floor.

The same guard was at the door. He recognized me, glanced at my card, then let me in.

Liliana was seated behind her polished redwood desk, just like the last time. She looked effortlessly put together—a flowing black silk blouse, slightly unbuttoned at the top, paired with a fitted dark gray pencil skirt. The smooth fabric hugged her figure just enough to be noticeable, but still professional.

Her green eyes had an almost unnatural sharpness to them. There was something about the way she carried herself—like she always knew more than she let on.

"Do you ever get a break, or do you always work for the club?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She always seemed to be here.

She let out an awkward laugh and gave a small shrug, holding out her hands in a who knows? gesture.

"Now, what brings you here? What's the goal of your visit?" She asked with a smile.

"Work never really stops, Mr. Somnus," she said with a small smile. "Now, what brings you here? What's the goal of your visit?"

I pulled out the envelope and placed it on her desk.

"I know where Hunter Rothschild is."

Her expression changed instantly. For the first time, I saw real surprise cross her face.

She leaned forward, resting her perfectly manicured fingers on the desk. Her nails were painted a deep wine red, the same color as the lipstick she wore.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but far more serious.

"You heard me," I said. "I know where Rothschild is hiding."

Liliana blinked, then shook her head slightly, as if trying to process it.

"No one—not a single person—was able to find anything," she said slowly. "And yet, a little Jack Somnus managed to track him down?" She gave a small, amused smile. "That's interesting."

I didn't react. I wasn't about to explain who found it for me.

I just nodded. "I'm ready to provide everything I know."

Liliana tapped her nails on the desk, studying me. Then she nodded. "Well, if your clues are confirmed, you will be provided with 50 points."

She picked up her desk phone and dialed a number.

I raised an eyebrow. "Who are you calling?"

She glanced at me. "Someone who can confirm the information you want to provide."

The line connected, and she straightened in her seat. "Go ahead, Mr. Somnus."

...

Leaving Freewinds with the information I focused on bringing some other parts of my live to conclusion.

...

I pulled into the MIT parking lot, The Ferrari's engine rumbled, turning every head within earshot. I killed the ignition, and the sudden silence made the sea of Toyotas and dented Volvos seem even duller.

In the passenger seat, Charlotte sat with one leg crossed over the other, wearing a black mini skirt and a cream-colored blouse.

The original plan was simple: instead of writing a thesis to finish my Economics Major, I was supposed to give a talk at the University of Florida on how branding can increase interest and revenue.

But then, something unexpected happened.

The interest in my talk exploded.

Students, professors, even outsiders wanted in. The demand was so high that the University of Florida had to move the talk to a bigger venue. And where did they find a place big enough?

MIT.

One of the most prestigious universities in the world.

Now, instead of speaking to a couple hundred students in Florida, I'd be standing in front of thousands—future economists, business leaders, investors—all waiting to hear what I had to say.

As we approached the main entrance, the MIT gates opened automatically, and Charlotte let out a soft whistle.

"Not bad, Professor Somnus." She mused, stretching slightly.

"I'm not a professor."

She reached out and ran a finger along the edge of the Ferrari's dashboard, the leather soft under her touch. "Says the guy giving a TED Talk before he's even graduated."

The reserved parking spot was stupidly close to the building—probably some dean's attempt to kiss up. I grabbed my notes from the glovebox, but Charlotte swatted my hand.

"You don't need those," she said, motioning vaguely at my suit. "Just go be… whatever this version of you is. Smug, but somehow relatable."

I pocketed the notes. "Relatable? Babe, I'm in a Ferrari..."

Charlotte raised her oversized sunglasses that hid her eyes, gave me an 'Okay man...' glance and then unbuckled her seatbelt, smoothing her black skirt. She'd swapped her usual messy bun for a ponytail, but a few strands of honey-brown hair still escaped, framing her face.

As we walked toward the entrance, a group of students by the bike racks stopped mid-conversation. One guy in a graphic tee elbowed his friend, nodding at the Ferrari. Another pulled out a flip phone, snapping a blurry photo. A girl in glasses squinted at me, then whispered something to her friend.

Charlotte hip-checked me, her rhinestone-studded sunglasses sliding down her nose as she smirked.

I grabbed Charlotte's wrist lightly, stopping her for a second before we reached the entrance.

Her smirk faded as she looked up at me.

"Be careful," I said, voice low. "And focus up. Don't forget—we can always be someone's target."

Her expression shifted, just for a moment. A flicker of understanding, then something else—annoyance.

"You really know how to ruin a good mood, Jack," she muttered, adjusting her sunglasses. But her voice had lost some of its playfulness.

Inside, the hall filled with voices. It was stll 30 minutes before the talk, but there were already at least two hundered people inside.

A banner hung over the stage: JACK SOMNUS — BRANDING IN THE DIGITAL AGE.