ULTIMATE CHOICE SYSTEM: I BECAME THE RICHEST!

The middle-aged man stared at Noah, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp with a grimace.

Pain pulsed in his shoulder, the bone still aching from Noah’s grip. He could feel the dull creak of strained ligaments and the warning signs of a fracture.

But Noah had let go before it broke.

A message.

A clear warning.

Noah had control—not just over the situation, but over every ounce of damage he inflicted.

The man wasn’t sure if that made things better or far worse.

Noah could have crushed his shoulder completely, yet he chose not to.

Not out of mercy.

But because he didn’t need to.

And that was more terrifying than any injury he could’ve suffered.

“Alright.” Noah’s voice cut through the silence, calm and unwavering.

“You’re going to enter this warehouse with me.”

The middle-aged man swallowed. Hard.

There was no hesitation in Noah’s voice, no room for negotiation.

“I’ll follow you,” Noah continued, stepping forward.

“And if you make even the slightest movement to alert them—if you give even a hint that I’m not your ally—”

Noah’s voice didn’t change, didn’t deepen, didn’t turn cruel.

But somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

Inside, four men sat around a table.

One of them—Riner—was lying on a makeshift cot, his leg bandaged poorly, a pained scowl etched onto his face.

The others were waiting—casual, at ease, unaware of what had happened outside.

One of them glanced up as the door opened.

“Back already?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Took your damn time—where’s the others?”

The middle-aged man didn’t respond.

His throat felt like sandpaper.

The assassins noticed his hesitation.

One of them stood, his brow furrowing in suspicion—

But it was already too late.

Noah moved.

A flick of his wrist, a subtle shift of his weight—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three bodies hit the floor before anyone even processed what had happened.

Three headshots.

Executed with terrifying precision.

Blood splattered across the table. The sound of bodies slumping against the concrete was the only thing that followed the gunfire.

The scent of gunpowder and death filled the air.

Riner—who had just turned his head at the sound—froze.

His breath caught in his throat, his muscles locking in place as his wide, disbelieving eyes scanned the fresh corpses of his teammates.

He knew that kind of shot placement.

There was only one person capable of something like that.

His head snapped toward Noah.

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And in that moment—

He understood.

“I-It was you…”

The tremble in his voice betrayed the last shred of fearless assassin persona he had left.

Noah simply smiled.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Just knowing.

Like he had expected this outcome from the beginning.

Like it was never even a question.

The middle-aged man, still standing beside Riner, exhaled sharply, his hands clenching into fists.

He had walked straight into a slaughterhouse.

The man nodded slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

There was no choice.

He turned toward the warehouse entrance, his steps measured, careful not to appear hesitant—but not too confident either.

The metal door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior.

Noah gestured lazily.

“Sit.”

The middle-aged man hesitated—but only for a fraction of a second.

He lowered himself into the floor next to Riner, his pulse pounding against his skull.

He had no weapon now.

No cards to play.

Just his mind—and the sheer, suffocating weight of his own failure.

He had never lost like this before.

Not just outmaneuvered—but completely dominated.

And the worst part?

Noah hadn’t even been trying.

As Noah stood in front of them, casually holstering his weapon, he gave a mental command.

“Text Adam.”

His AI assistant responded immediately, intercepting his thoughts via neural link technology.

[Message Sent.]

Reinforcements would arrive soon.

Not that Noah needed them.

Noah leaned against a nearby crate, completely at ease.

Because at this point—

There was nothing left to rush.

The middle-aged traitor sat stiffly beside Riner, his mind running through a thousand different escape scenarios.

His eyes flicked to the corpses before quickly shifting back to Noah.

This was all wrong.

A special forces unit should have been predictable. They had protocols, tactics—things an experienced mole could counter and manipulate.

But this…

This wasn’t normal.

The man before him wasn’t following any standard procedure. He wasn’t working within the boundaries of military discipline.

He wasn’t even looking at them anymore, and yet—

The middle-aged man’s instincts screamed at him not to move.

But his body didn’t listen.

Slowly, ever so carefully, his fingers inched toward the Glock on his hip.

Just one move.

One quick motion—

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that.”

Noah’s voice cut through the air, calm but merciless.

The middle-aged man froze.

Noah still wasn’t looking at him.

But somehow, he knew.

“So far, I wanted you to stay functional.” Noah’s tone was casual, like they were discussing the weather rather than matters of life and death.

“Otherwise, I would have dealt with you differently.”

The weight of his words pressed down like a boulder.

“Try that again… and your hand will be missing.”

Riner stared at the scene unfolding beside him.

The traitor—a man who had years of experience in deception, tactics, and survival—had just been broken in seconds.

Not by violence.

Not by brute force.

But by something worse.

By the sheer weight of Noah’s presence.

This wasn’t a soldier.

This wasn’t even a man.

“What… are you?”

Riner didn’t even realize he had spoken out loud.

Noah finally turned to him, and for the first time, Riner saw something worse than rage or malice in his eyes.

Indifference.

“Does it matter?” Noah asked simply.

Riner’s stomach twisted.

The roar of engines cut through the night. Headlights sliced through the darkness, beams illuminating the warehouse’s rusted exterior.

Then—silence.

Doors slammed open, boots hit the ground in unison, the rhythm of trained soldiers moving with lethal efficiency. Shadows spilled into the warehouse, rifles raised, scanning every inch.

Noah remained still, watching from his position, completely unbothered.

Because at this moment—he wasn’t the hunted.

He was the executioner.

Then, through the sea of armored men, one figure stepped forward.

Lieutenant Adam.

His presence alone was enough to shift the energy in the room—sharp, commanding, unwavering.

But the moment his eyes landed on the man sitting beside Riner, something in him froze.

His breath hitched.

His entire stance shifted, no longer that of a leader overseeing an operation—

But a man staring at a ghost.

“…Donald?”

The single name left his lips like a curse.

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