The workers, however, clapped like their lives depended on it. Wu Yu stood up, voice booming, "Our boss is visionary! Who else could transform a plain T-shirt into a status symbol?"

The applause grew louder. Cameras clicked. Videos uploaded to social media under hashtags like #SteelCupStyle and #PoorPeopleCantSitWithUs.

Suho's stomach turned. He staggered to the back and found Cho Rin scrolling on her phone.

"Uh, sir," she said, not meeting his eyes. "We've gone viral."

Suho's pupils shrank. "Viral… in the disease sense, right? Like, fatal? Please say fatal."

"Nope. Influencers are calling us the new revolution in luxury fashion. Orders are rolling in from Shanghai, Seoul, and even New York. The system dashboard just updated—"

Her voice cracked. "Funds: +10,000,000."

Suho collapsed onto a chair, clutching his chest like he'd been shot.

Meanwhile, Horny Princess Online was spiraling further into chaos.

The [Haoshangtian] and [Lingyan Pavilion] guild wars had become prime-time entertainment. Streamers hosted live commentary with overlays, sponsorships, and donation goals.

"Look at this!" one streamer yelled as Du Ziteng recharged another half million mid-fight. "That's not an ultimate skill; that's a mortgage payment!"

Global chat was on fire.

Player101: This isn't an MMO anymore; it's Wall Street Simulator.

RichKid95: My dad's accountant just grounded me, but it was worth it.

SpectatorX: Can someone check if these guild leaders are actual oil barons?

Fen Su, seated in the company's glass conference room, was practically vibrating. "Mr. Kim has engineered not just a game but a financial ecosystem! Every recharge is poetry!"

Zhao Bowen looked exhausted. "Brother Fang, the servers are melting. We had five data centers go down yesterday."

"Melting," Fen Su repeated, his eyes glittering. "Like gold being forged."

Zhao rubbed his temples. He was beginning to suspect Fang Su would happily sacrifice his family if it meant pleasing Kim Suho.

Back at Steel Cup, the workers were drunk on success. The cafeteria now served wagyu steak by the kilo. There was a karaoke machine in the corner, and every night ended with off-key renditions of K-pop classics.

Wu Yu stood on a table one evening, raising his glass of champagne. "To Mr. Kim! The saint who makes us richer by accident!"

The chorus of voices roared back, "To Mr. Kim!"

Shen Rou leaned toward Suho, who was sitting at the back with his head in his hands. "You know, they're starting to call you the Miracle Boss. Some of them say you have divine powers."

"Divine powers?" Suho repeated, voice hollow. "The only power I have is turning bankruptcy into Wall Street."

The chant grew louder, echoing through the cafeteria.

"Miracle Boss! Miracle Boss! Miracle Boss!"

Suho stared at the ceiling, fighting the urge to scream. "I'm not a miracle. I'm a curse."

Later that night, Suho sat alone in his office, lights dim, staring at the system screen.

Funds: +15,000,000.

His hands shook. He whispered like a man bargaining with the devil. "Please. I just wanted to lose a little. Buy some bad equipment. Expand too quickly. That's all. Why are you doing this to me?"

The system answered with cold detachment:

[Reminder: All funds gained will be calculated. Attempts to manipulate outcomes may increase profitability.

He slammed his fist on the desk. "Increase profitability? I'm drowning in it! At this rate, I'll hit billionaire status before I manage a single failure!"

Cho Rin poked her head in. "Mr. Kim, you should rest. You've been in here all night."

"Rest?" He turned slowly, eyes wide. "Rest while the universe conspires to make me richer? Rest while my workers chant my name like I'm a god? Rest while guild leaders burn cash like confetti?"

His voice rose, breaking into a near-hysterical laugh. "Rest? Rest is for winners. And I'm cursed to win forever!"

Cho Rin just sighed, set a thermos of coffee on his desk, and left.

Suho leaned back in his chair, laughing and crying at once, his voice echoing through the empty halls of Steel Cup.

"Why does everyone insist on making me rich?!"

The system, smug as ever, blinked across the screen.

[Funds Updated: +20,000,000.]

Kim Suho sat slouched in his office chair, staring at the latest system update as though it were a horror movie on loop.

Funds: +25,000,000.

Every digit stabbed him in the eyes like neon daggers. He wanted to scream, to flip the desk, maybe even jump out the window—but then he remembered Steel Cup was only three stories high. At best, he'd sprain his ankle, and then his employees would insist on crowdfunding his medical bills and accidentally make him richer again.

"Why," he muttered, forehead pressed to the desk, "why does everything I touch turn to gold bars dipped in caviar?"

The door burst open. Cho Rin shuffled in with a stack of magazines under her arm. She looked both impressed and deeply confused.

"Mr. Kim… You might want to see this."

She slapped the glossy covers on his desk one by one.

Vogue Korea. A model posed in an oversized Steel Cup hoodie, the price tag proudly displayed at $4,999. The caption: "The New Symbol of Class Warfare."

GQ Japan. A pop idol leaned against a Ferrari wearing nothing but Steel Cup jeans and a smirk. The headline: "When Denim Means Destiny."

Vanity Fair US. A Kardashian cousin—whose name Suho couldn't remember—wore a Steel Cup crop top while sipping champagne. The article title? "The Miracle Brand You Can't Afford."

Suho's jaw unhinged like a broken piano lid.

"Who… who let this happen?" he whispered.

Cho Rin blinked. "Sir, you put the collection online last week. You literally pressed the 'publish' button yourself. Remember? You said, and I quote, 'Time to unleash bankruptcy upon the world.'"

"I didn't mean unleash it successfully!" he shrieked.

No sooner had he thrown the magazines into the trash (where, ironically, they'd probably appreciate in value) than Shen Rou peeked her head in.

"Mr. Kim? There are some gentlemen outside who want to meet you. They say they're from… Paris."

The word "Paris" hit him like a tax audit.

Moments later, three impeccably dressed men waltzed into the office. Suho didn't need introductions. The perfectly tailored suits, the cologne that smelled like crushed banknotes, the air of people who never had to check a receipt—these were international investors.

"Mr. Kim," one of them purred in accented English, "Steel Cup has caught the eye of European luxury markets. We would like to discuss franchising opportunities. Milan, Paris, New York… the world is ready."

Suho froze. Then slowly, mechanically, he forced a business smile, though every nerve in his body screamed in protest.

"Ah… franchising, yes. Very good, very good." He coughed, voice cracking. "Unfortunately, we are… uh… committed to anti-expansion values. Very niche philosophy. Growth is weakness, you see."

The men chuckled, assuming it was an eccentric genius thing. One whispered, "Brilliant, he plays the mad artist role."

Suho's stomach churned. "I'm not playing anything. I'm literally begging you not to give me money."

But it was too late. Papers were slid across the desk. Promises of millions, maybe billions, glittered before his eyes.

The system chimed mockingly in the corner of his mind:

[Projected Funds: +50,000,000.]

Meanwhile, at Horny Princess Interactive, the servers were shaking under a tidal wave of chaos.

What started as guild skirmishes between [Haoshangtian] and [Lingyan Pavilion] had exploded into an international phenomenon.

Esports organizations smelled blood—or rather, money. Sponsorship deals popped up overnight. Suddenly there were official tournaments broadcast across Asia, with commentators screaming like football announcers.

"Du Ziteng's dropping ANOTHER half million recharge mid-battle! That's a THIRD mortgage in five minutes!"

"Chen Cong responds—oh my god, ladies and gentlemen, he just recharged 800,000! This is not combat; this is financial terrorism!"

Viewership skyrocketed. Fans spammed Twitch with memes. Clips of recharges became reaction gifs on Twitter. Even casual players logged in just to spectate the digital bloodbath.

By morning, Horny Princess Online's daily revenue hit five million.

Fen Su practically floated through the office, his voice trembling with awe. "Mr. Kim is rewriting history. He has created the first MMO where financial destruction is the endgame. This isn't just a game—it's capitalism perfected."

Zhao Bowen massaged his temples. "Brother Fang, at this rate we're going to bankrupt the entire middle class of East Asia. Someone has to stop this."

Fen Su clasped his hands reverently. "Blasphemy. Why stop what is divine?"

Back at Steel Cup, the employees' worship had reached absurd heights.

The cafeteria walls now displayed framed portraits of Suho, each one painted by workers in their free time. In one, he was depicted as a general on horseback. In another, as a saint with golden light radiating behind his head.

Wu Yu led nightly chants: "Miracle Boss! Miracle Boss! Miracle Boss!"

One worker even suggested they build a shrine in the dormitory. Another whispered about writing hymns.

Suho stumbled into the cafeteria one evening and saw his face staring back at him from twenty different canvases. He dropped his tray of wagyu steak and almost fainted.

"You're… You're worshiping me now?" he croaked.

Wu Yu grinned, eyes shining. "Boss, you're more than a man. You're a myth. The living proof that everything you touch turns to success. You are… destiny."

Suho wanted to vomit. "I'm not destiny! I'm a walking, talking financial plague!"

But his words were drowned out by another round of chanting.

That night, Suho sat alone again in his office.

The numbers on the system screen mocked him:

Funds: +30,000,000. Projected: +50,000,000.

His hands shook as he buried his face in them.

"I don't want glory. I don't want worship. I just want failure." His voice cracked into a whisper. "Why is losing money… so impossible?"

The system's response blinked across the screen like a cruel joke:

[Reminder: Failure is statistically impossible while you remain host. All attempts at sabotage will be converted into profit.]

His laugh was broken, hollow, and bordering on madness. "Converted into profit. Converted into profit. Fine then. Let's see how far we can push this curse before it eats me alive."

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"Why does everyone insist on making me rich?"

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