"Do you understand? Mr. Kim has created the perfect balance. For every rich fool who buys noble gear, there are thousands of grinders who keep hope alive. The cycle sustains itself. This is brilliance beyond measure."

Zhao Bowen raised a hand. "Sir… I think Mr. Kim might not actually—"

"Silence!" Fen Su snapped, his eyes wild. "Do not blaspheme. Mr. Kim operates on a plane beyond your comprehension."

Zhao lowered his hand. He wasn't sure if Fen Su was praising their boss or auditioning for a cult leader role.

Meanwhile, in the Steel Cup office, Suho lay sprawled across the sofa, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.

Cho Rin set another report on his chest. He didn't move.

"Daily revenue hit two million," she said flatly.

Suho groaned, rolling over and clutching the report like it was a death certificate. "Why… why won't they stop? Do rich people not have hobbies? Stamp collecting? Golf? Anything cheaper?"

Shen Rou entered with another folder. "Also, Wu Yu closed a deal for half a million this week. Cai Jing followed with three hundred thousand. We're running out of storage space for raw materials."

Suho sat up, hair sticking out in every direction. "Storage space? Fine. Build another warehouse. Gold-plated, if possible. I want the floors so polished workers slip and sue us."

Cho Rin pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sir, suing us won't work if we're liable. That just means we'll pay compensation."

"Exactly!" Suho barked, grinning like a man who had lost his last shred of sanity. "Compensation is an expense. Expense is salvation."

Shen Rou exchanged a glance with Cho Rin. Both women sighed. They had long since stopped trying to reason with him.

That night, Suho sat alone in his office. The factory outside hummed with life—machines buzzing, workers laughing over free wine, and the violinist playing a sad tune in the cafeteria.

On his desk sat the report. Funds: +2,000,000.

His hand trembled as he reached for the paper.

"Why won't you let me fail?" He whispered to the system that only he could hear. "Why does every disaster turn into profit?"

The screen flickered, the system's smug text appearing like a grin in the dark:

Congratulations, host. Your funds have reached a new milestone.

Suho slammed his forehead onto the desk.

"Mom sells batches," he muttered into the wood. "If I don't lose money soon, I'll be remembered as the first man in history to accidentally become a tycoon while trying to go broke."

Kim Suho woke up with the kind of hangover that didn't come from alcohol but from sheer, relentless profit. His phone lay on the nightstand, buzzing like a hive of bees. Cho Rin had sent twenty-seven messages, all in caps:

REPORT. URGENT. READ. NOW.

He sat up, rubbed his temples, and tapped open the file. The number at the top hit him like a truck.

Funds: +3,000,000.

He dropped the phone onto the floor and stared at the ceiling. "Three million. THREE. Do they think I'm running a treasury? I wanted to be broke, not Jeff Bezos!"

From outside the bedroom door, Shen Rou's voice chimed in, far too cheerful for Suho's liking. "Mr. Kim, the workers are requesting we hire a sushi chef for the cafeteria. They say lobster every night is starting to feel repetitive."

Suho buried his head in his pillow. "Repetitive? That's the POINT! Misery breeds losses. Sushi chefs breed profits!"

Meanwhile, inside Horny Princess Online, the battlefield looked like a Las Vegas fountain show designed by maniacs with unlimited credit.

Chen Cong of [Haoshangtian] and Du Ziteng of [Lingyan Pavilion] were now less guild leaders and more hedge fund managers setting fire to their portfolios.

"Another meteor strike!" a commentator screamed over the live broadcast. "That's at least fifty grand—oh my god, he's chaining three of them!"

The chat exploded.

Viewer123:Bro just dropped my college tuition on pixels.

DragonSlayer69: This isn't a game anymore; it's financial warfare.

GamerMom: Someone tell my husband to stop watching; he just tried to mortgage our house.

Du Ziteng typed into world chat with the smugness of a man whose bank called to confirm he really did authorize a half-million recharge.

"Chen Cong, kneel now, and I'll let you keep your dignity."

Chen Cong replied with an emoji of a golden dragon sitting on stacks of cash. Then he unleashed another round of equipment upgrades, so blinding the server lagged.

The war ended in a draw, both sides bleeding money like fountains, but the game's daily revenue counter hit a grotesque new milestone: five million dollars.

The developers at Horny Princess Interactive were in shock. Fen Su gathered them into the conference room like a preacher calling disciples.

"This," he declared, pointing at the revenue charts on the screen, "isn't just gameplay—it's the evolution of capitalism itself. Two kings, locked in eternal battle, each swipe of their card fueling our empire. Mr. Kim is a prophet."

Zhao Bowen raised a cautious hand. "But… isn't this unsustainable? What if they both stop recharging?"

Fen Su's eyes bulged. "Blasphemy! Do you question destiny? Do you question Mr. Kim?"

Zhao sank lower into his chair. He wasn't sure anymore if this was a game company or the beginnings of a cult.

While Fen Su preached, Kim Suho sat at his desk, staring at a mocked-up logo Cho Rin had timidly designed:

Steel Cup – Fashion Without Limits.

Suho squinted. "Fashion without limits? More like profits without limits. This is a suicide mission. Perfect."

Cho Rin hesitated. "Sir, are you sure about this strategy? We're setting the price point higher than Gucci. No one's going to buy a T-shirt for two thousand dollars."

Suho slammed the desk with satisfaction. "Exactly. No one will buy it. And what happens when no one buys?"

"…We lose money?"

"Bingo! Finally, salvation! Losses! Sweet, delicious losses!"

Shen Rou, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow. "And if people do buy?"

Suho froze, his confident grin faltering. "They… they won't."

Cho Rin whispered, "That's what you said about the noble gear…"

The room fell into heavy silence. Suho could hear the mocking laughter of the system in his head.

[Reminder: All funds gained will be counted. Attempts to self-sabotage may result in unforeseen profits.

He clenched his fists. "Not this time. I'll drown us in luxury fabric. I'll bury us in unsold designer jeans. I swear on my last dollar, this factory will fail."

The next day, the cafeteria unveiled its latest atrocity: champagne fountains. Workers clinked glasses over trays of sushi, lobster, and foie gras, their laughter echoing through the hall like a party that never ended.

Wu Yu raised a toast. "To Mr. Kim! The only boss who makes our canteen look better than a five-star hotel!"

The room erupted in cheers.

Suho walked in, saw the workers popping bottles, and nearly collapsed. "This isn't a factory; it's Versailles!"

Shen Rou handed him a glass. "You said to spare no expense."

"I meant lose money, not host the Olympics of fine dining!"

That night, Suho sat in the empty office, surrounded by piles of reports. The numbers mocked him: three million, five million, rising higher with every guild war, every lobster tail, every "brilliant" idea that somehow spawned profit.

He whispered to himself, voice trembling, "Why can't I lose? Why am I cursed with prosperity?"

Cho Rin poked her head in, holding a blanket. "Mr. Kim, maybe you should sleep."

He turned slowly, eyes wild. "Sleep? While my funds grow in the dark? While guild leaders swipe cards like lunatics? I can't sleep, Cho Rin. Not until I figure out how to bankrupt myself."

She sighed, draped the blanket over his shoulders anyway, and walked out.

Suho slumped back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling as if the system lived there.

"Mark my words," he growled. "I'll find a way. I'll crash this empire into the dirt. Even if it's the last thing I do."

The system's silent reply glowed across his phone screen:

[Funds Updated: +5,000,000.]

Suho let out a strangled scream that echoed through the empty halls of Steel Cup.

Kim Suho stood in the center of the Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory's new showroom, trying not to laugh at his own insanity.

On a chrome rack in front of him hung a single plain white T-shirt. No logos, no graphics, no special stitching—just cotton, slightly wrinkled because Shen Rou had forgotten to iron it.

Price tag: $2,499.

Suho clapped his hands together. "Yes. Perfect. Beautiful. A monument to fiscal irresponsibility."

Cho Rin stared at the tag like it was a death warrant. "Sir… this is literally a Fruit of the Loom shirt. Except you multiplied the price by 400. Who's going to buy this?"

"Exactly!" Suho spun on his heel, dramatic as a Bond villain. "No one will buy it. And with that, we enter a glorious era of negative revenue."

He spread his arms wide, as though presenting the keys to paradise.

Shen Rou raised a cautious hand. "Mr. Kim, what if someone actually does buy it? Out of curiosity. Or to brag. Or because they're… insane."

The smile froze on his face. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "…Insane?"

Cho Rin nodded. "The world is full of rich people who think stupidity is fashion. What if some celebrity posts this online? What if it goes viral?"

Suho's knees buckled. He grabbed the rack for support. "Don't you dare curse me like that. Don't you dare."

Three days later, the "Steel Cup Brand Showcase" opened its doors.

Employees were herded into the new hall, where models strutted down a makeshift runway wearing overpriced basics: jeans, button-downs, and hoodies. All identical to the cafeteria uniforms, except Suho had stapled absurd price tags on them.

One model paused, turned, and whispered, "Boss, the zipper's stuck."

"Good," Suho hissed back. "Let it stick. Suffering is part of the brand."

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