From Bullets To Billions Chapter 3 3: Old Traits Don't Disappear

Aron methodically plunged into the intricacies of the situation, carefully parsing the details for Maximus. He explained that our protagonist, now known as Max Stern, was a seventeen-year-old in the final stage of his high school career.

However, Max was a far cry from your typical high school senior. Aron stressed that Max held the title of youngest heir to the formidable Stern family, elaborating on their vast fortune, sprawling corporate interests, and expansive authority. Strangely, Aron went as far as cataloging Max’s relatives, as if this intel were of critical importance to internalize immediately.

"You have two uncles, each with children of their own," Aron articulated with calm, methodical precision. "Furthermore, you have two aunts who are both wedded. Since they each possess a sibling older than yourself, your status as the youngest heir is solidified."

Max absorbed every word with intense focus. Aron’s tone grew softer as he transitioned to a more delicate topic: the fate of Max’s parents.

"Tragically, your parents passed away during a vehicle accident while you were at school," Aron delivered the news gently. "Since that time, I have functioned as your legal guardian, entrusted with your physical safety and general welfare."

Maximus flickered in surprise. Aron appeared merely a few years his senior, yet he held the mantle of guardianship? Max’s bewilderment was obvious.

"I understand this is quite a shock," Aron pressed on, unfazed by Max’s visible confusion. "There is a vast amount of information to synthesize, so I shall stay close to provide you with the most thorough updates possible."

With a fluid motion, Aron retrieved a high-end, state-of-the-art smartphone from his jacket and placed it in Max’s hand. Max recognized the model instantly—it was the exact one he had possessed in his past life. This recognition triggered a jarring sense of familiarity.

This confirms my survival into the same chronological era, Max deduced silently. Upon swiping the screen, the biometric facial scan instantly unlocked the device, affirming that only three days had elapsed since the betrayal that nearly claimed his life.

"Do you habitually carry smartphones pre-configured with my face ID?" Max inquired with a hint of skepticism.

In response, Aron coolly produced two additional identical smartphones from his pockets, both in pristine condition.

"Young Master," Aron explained with a steady voice, "this is hardly the first occasion on which you have misplaced or broken a handset. I keep spares on my person at all times. Every device has my contact information saved, ensuring you can reach me instantaneously. Whatever you require or desire, I shall endeavor to provide."

A playful smile tugged at Max’s lips as a scheme took root. "Anything? So, if I demanded a red carpet for my exit and a new Lamborghini waiting at the hospital gates, you would pull it off?"

Without a moment of hesitation, Aron produced yet another phone—this one a distinct shade of crimson—and initiated a call.

"I have a directive from the Young Master—"

"Wait!" Max blurted out in sudden panic. "What on earth are you doing?"

"He requires a red carpet unfurled and the latest Lamborghini stationed outside," Aron continued into the receiver with icy composure. "Correct, it is an unorthodox request. He has awakened with a curious case of 'Young Master syndrome'... Yes, quite concerning, but we are obligated to comply."

"Abort the mission!" Max shouted frantically.

Aron cast a sideways glance at Max, his brow arching slightly. "Cease the operation," he issued to the person on the other end before tucking the phone away.

"As I stated," Aron maintained, "I will fulfill any demand within reason. But be aware that I will feel free to voice my opinion on your choices."

"Duly noted," Maximus replied with a dry tone, shaking his head. This bizarre, unshakable loyalty from Aron was unlike any bond he had witnessed, even within the ranks of his former organization.

Their dialogue was severed by a sharp rap at the chamber door.

"Enter," Aron commanded.

A doctor strode in, clutching a chart. "Sir Aron, please sign the final documents so Master Stern may be discharged. If you would follow me for a moment?"

As Aron followed the medical professional into the hallway, Max was left to contend with the internal storm of his thoughts.

This is genuine. I have truly inherited a new vessel, and not just anyone's—I have become an heir to the Stern family. Perhaps a lifetime of hardship has finally yielded a reward.

Still grappling with the surreal nature of his situation, he scurried to the washroom mirror to inspect his reflection again. Seeing the unfamiliar visage was unsettling, yet it sparked a thrill within him.

With this level of power and influence at my fingertips, unmasking the traitor among the White Tigers will be a simple task. I will uncover every secret and force them to pay in blood.

A cruel, satisfied smirk twisted his features. Realizing how menacing he appeared in the glass, Max quickly smoothed his expression into one of neutrality.

"With a fresh start, I must fully embody this new incarnation," he proclaimed. "From this moment forward, I am Max Stern—not Maximus."

While scrutinizing his reflection, Max suddenly caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye. His reflexes flared; he lunged sideways as a hand darted toward him, missing by only a hair's breadth. With his heart hammering, he dashed out of the bathroom into the hospital room, spinning to confront his assailant.

A man clad entirely in black, his features obscured by a surgical mask, stood in an aggressive stance where Max had just been standing.

Who sent this brute? Which faction is targeting me? Max thought in confusion, before catching himself: Wait, I am in a new body, why would any gangs be hunting me?

"Come on, brat!" the masked intruder sneered with arrogance, lunging forward with desperate, unrefined punches. Max effortlessly evaded the wild swings, his annoyance mounting.

"Who coached you in combat?" Max taunted, before closing the gap and planting a heavy strike squarely against the man's jaw. The attacker stumbled backward, rattled but still upright.

Max grimaced and massaged his stinging knuckles. Damn, that smarts! In my old shell, that strike would have been nothing.

"You wretched brat!" the intruder hissed, drawing a folding knife from his belt. "I wanted to keep this clean, but you have left me no choice. Begin your prayers!"

Instead of fear, a wave of cold fury washed over Max. He tilted his head slightly, locking eyes with the mercenary, whose bravado began to fray.

"You claimed this would be a simple task," Max noted, his voice calm yet lethal. "You have no conception of who you have just threatened with that blade."

As Max strolled forward, the man stepped back, suddenly overcome by an inexplicable dread as cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Drawing a weapon is no minor affair," Max continued, his tone chilling. "Remember clearly: you are the one who escalated this to a lethal level."