The audience was watching the program with full concentration. The host was asking the exact question that many Harmony bond investors wanted to ask.

If everything Harmony Capital claimed was false, then how were they able to pay out monthly returns on time, without delay, and directly into investors’ accounts?

If the experts couldn’t answer that, investors wouldn’t believe a word they said—nor would they believe anything from Pleasure Daily, a paper they saw as profiting off sensational stories about half-naked women.

Even if people didn’t want to accept the truth and hoped the host would out-argue the two experts, unease still crept in.

As the show mentioned at the start, even the most prestigious foundations couldn’t sustain such terrifying returns—so how could Harmony Gold Bonds do it?

Had they invented a new financial model?

Or was gold mining somehow far more profitable than expected?

Or maybe…

They stared at the experts, hoping they’d choke on the question—if Harmony Capital was faking everything, how were they still delivering real cash to every investor on schedule?

Both experts smiled, but the smiles were off-putting—especially to Harmony investors, who sensed deep malice in those expressions.

“We have a theory,” said Expert 1. “The current payouts are actually funded by the money people use to purchase the bonds.”

Expert 1 glanced at Expert 2, who continued immediately, “Here’s a simple example. Say I invest 100 Sol in Harmony Gold Bonds. They promise me an 8% monthly return…”

The two began a demonstration, using paper slips and pens to simulate cash flow. “I give them 100 Sol. Even with no revenue at all, my money alone is enough to pay me returns for a whole year!” 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Expert 1 passed slips labeled 8 to Expert 2, illustrating the process.

He turned to the camera and shook his head. “As long as new bonds keep being issued, they can keep paying returns. But that’s not a good thing.”

“To cover the growing return obligations, they have to keep issuing more bonds.”

“The more bonds they issue, the better their performance looks—after all, beyond printing and tax costs, it’s all profit.”

The host, picking up on something, interjected, “So the money wouldn’t actually last a full year, because they also have to pay taxes?”

Both experts nodded silently. The studio fell into a brief silence as everyone processed what had just been said.

In the palace, His Majesty the Emperor’s face had darkened. “Bring me the Minister of Finance. And someone from the securities oversight.”

As the empire’s supreme ruler, his orders were quickly executed. The Minister of Finance had to drop his meal and rush to the palace with his staff.

They already had a good idea of what had happened. Like the Emperor, the Finance Minister had sharp political instincts and sensed something serious, though he didn’t yet have the full picture.

Before the greetings even concluded, the Emperor impatiently asked, “What was Harmony Capital’s scale before it went public?”

The issues raised on TV weren’t technical—they were simple and easy to understand, and the Emperor understood them clearly.

In short, Harmony Capital had fabricated everything. And it wasn’t a small case. It could implicate many people, and the fallout could spread even further.

Whenever bad news like this came, the Emperor would get migraines. Holding his head with one hand and glaring with the other, he said coldly, “I suggest you think carefully before you speak.”

Staff quickly called other departments—mostly the tax authority. The federal tax bureau was a royal institution. While it didn’t have armored vehicles like the Federation’s tax department, it had its own armed enforcement teams, mostly symbolic, but still powerful.

Fifteen minutes later, the head of financial regulation, wiping sweat from his brow, said quietly, “Your Majesty… a bit over 200 million.”

“Two hundred million… more?” the Emperor repeated softly, eyes losing focus.

He’d expected a big number—but not that big.

According to the program, if Harmony Capital had to pay nearly 20 million in monthly returns, plus taxes, they were constantly on the brink of collapse.

If they fell, or someone absconded with the funds, it would leave a hole of nearly 200 million.

The Emperor’s gaze sharpened again. He stared at the officials before him. “If the problems at Harmony Capital are this severe, how did it even get approved to go public?”

“The show made it clear—they don’t even have a real product. How did you let them pass under your noses?”

The Finance Minister sensed something was off. The head of securities oversight was visibly trembling.

How did they pass?

Of course someone had intervened, and they had patched the paperwork—setting up a chain of gold shops to justify the listing.

It was a workaround. As long as nothing went wrong, no one would care.

But now that something had gone wrong, their actions would be classified as serious misconduct—or even criminal negligence.

Gold bonds and money had both played a big part in this.

No one answered. A minute passed in silence. The Emperor sighed, annoyed. He knew why.

Someone had taken money. Someone had traded favors. Someone had cut political deals. Always the same.

He sighed again. “I knew that bastard Lynch lingering around was trouble. This morning you told me everything was under control.”

His tone wasn’t harsh—but that only made the Minister’s face go pale.

If the Emperor were yelling, it would mean the issue hadn’t yet crossed a line.

But now that he wasn’t yelling, and was speaking in this disappointed tone, it meant the matter had reached—or exceeded—his limit.

“Handle it. I don’t want to hear of any major fallout.”

The Finance Minister clenched his teeth and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty…”

As he and his entourage exited the palace, they crossed paths with the Prime Minister, who was just entering.

Their eyes met.

The Prime Minister wore a genuine smile and even greeted him. But the Finance Minister only sneered and left quickly.

The Prime Minister stood at the palace gates, watching the minister’s back with an amused smile.

At this moment, the impact of the newspaper and television coverage was starting to show. Major programs had suddenly changed their content to focus on Harmony Capital, and as if coordinated, a flood of accusations and slander came pouring down.

Harmony Capital’s stock was suspended at one Sol due to abnormal fluctuations. Financial regulators announced that trading would only resume after a thorough review.

The moment he received the news, Richard left the exchange—he realized if he didn’t leave now, it would be too late.

He didn’t go to the well-known villa everyone associated with him. Instead, he headed to an apartment he had purchased under a local alias. It held some important items—his backup plan.

Inside, he opened the safe and packed everything into a briefcase: identification documents, a valid passport, bundles of cash, and several anonymous bank account details.

There were three million Gael—enough for him to disappear for a while.

Once the situation calmed down, he planned to resurface and try again.

In the apartment, he quickly changed into a shabby outfit. The briefcase he picked was one he had salvaged from a trash pile—perfectly matching his new look.

No one would ever suspect that a man dressed in worn-out clothes, carrying a battered briefcase, was the architect of a massive financial black hole.

As he double-checked his belongings and prepared to leave, he suddenly heard a soft click.

The sound of a door lock opening.

His pupils shrank to pinpoints—a primal response to extreme fear.

He shoved the briefcase under the sofa and quickly hid inside the wardrobe, gently closing the door behind him.

Concealed behind hanging clothes, he slowed his breathing. In the cramped space, every breath sounded like a silent storm.

Hoo…

Hoo…

A shadow moved in front of the wardrobe. Richard couldn’t see the person, but the light dimmed as the figure blocked the crack in the doors.

He held his breath, terrified they might hear him.

The light brightened again. No sound. Not even footsteps. For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it all.

But the next second, the doors suddenly swung open.

A cold voice, tinged with mischief, said, “Found you!”

Later that day, officials from the Gephra Ministry arrived at the apartment, along with a swarm of reporters—more than even a film festival would attract.

The police had arrived first, but the Ministry quickly took over, assigning the police to maintain order at the entrance. The case was immediately transferred to their jurisdiction.

A group of grim-faced interior prosecutors entered the room. In the center of the apartment’s living room, Richard’s body hung from the chandelier, swaying gently in the breeze from the balcony. He might have looked more dignified—if not for the tongue sticking out of his mouth.

In the breast pocket of his shirt was a piece of stationery, densely covered in writing…