I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 179: Aftermath II

The whole of the financial world was in disarray.

Wall Street didn't just blink—it roared. Markets convulsed as if hit by a tectonic shift. Stock tickers bled red, commodity prices swung like wild pendulums, and portfolios worth billions were wiped clean within hours. Foreign investors watched from skyscraper boardrooms with furrowed brows and trembling hands, unsure whether to hold or pull out. Mega-corporations scrambled crisis teams. PR departments drafted statements by the second. Banks whispered in back channels. Insiders wept. Traders raged.

It wasn't just a court ruling. No, what had unfolded in that Manhattan courtroom had detonated like a financial atom bomb.

The political parties were caught in the blast too. Democrats and Republicans alike fumbled for a coherent response. Some were thrilled by the humiliation of Blackwell Investments; others were disturbed by what it meant for corporate independence. Behind closed doors, governors and senators clashed over policy fallout. Billionaire donors—those invisible puppet masters—were already threatening to redirect their money.

And then there was the general public.

Ordinary citizens—teachers, mechanics, college students, store clerks, office workers—everyday people from Harlem to Houston, from San Francisco to Tallahassee. They were the loudest. The most reactive. And, perhaps most tragically, the most naïve.

They didn't grasp the gravity of what had happened. Most couldn't.

They saw only the surface. The spectacle. The pageantry. They laughed at the memes of the Saudi ambassador, his dramatic walkout replayed endlessly with music edits and autotune. They clapped for Governor Hayes—her impassioned speech after the ruling reinstating her as the lead contender for next year's election went viral within minutes. There was something about her—a practiced sincerity, a grit wrapped in charm—that people adored.

Some found joy in watching Alexander Blackwell's empire momentarily stagger. They celebrated the tax windfall for the state like it was personal victory, not realizing that they themselves would barely see a dime of it. Others found sick pleasure in the schadenfreude of it all. Billionaires fighting billionaires? Who cared what it meant. Let them burn.

And then came the side chatter. The internet couldn't help itself.

"The ambassador's outfit? ICONIC."

"Governor Hayes is giving 'presidential', y'all."

"Bro, Alexander's mom?! 60 and still THAT?! She's not a mother. She's a myth."

The memes were relentless.

One of the most popular had the ambassador photoshopped into Marvel movies—The Ambassador: Multiverse of Meltdowns.

America had turned a historic case into a circus.

And lost in the noise… was the truth.

But not everyone was distracted.

One man saw through it. One man, not even American, understood what had truly been set in motion—and what would follow.

His name was Gary Stevenson. But to the internet, he was GarysEconomics.

A former prodigy trader at Citibank during the 2008 financial crisis, Gary had once lived at the apex of the system. At the age of twenty-two, while the world burned and families lost their homes, he made millions betting on economic inequality. He watched with icy detachment as governments dropped interest rates, knowing each drop meant another rise in his bottom line. The poorer the people got, the richer he became.

He had been Citibank's most profitable trader.

And then… something inside him broke.

It wasn't sudden. It was the slow corrosion of a soul. Gary watched the markets not as numbers, but as people. Families. Lives. His fellow man.

He saw retail investors—bartenders, waitresses, students with loans—pour their thousand-dollar paychecks into the system, lured by the lie of prosperity. A system he knew was built to suck them dry. He called it what it was: "The biggest gambling market in the world."

Sure, there were lucky ones. The underdogs who turned a $500 trade into $5,000. The ones the media held up as proof that "anyone can make it." But Gary knew the truth. For every one of those, there were ten thousand whose accounts were slowly bled out, one red candle at a time. The house always won.

And he had been the house.

So, at the peak of his career, Gary quit. Walked away from the millions. Donated most of it. He returned to school—not to escape, but to understand. To unlearn. He studied economics at Oxford, where he dove into inequality, systemic failure, and class warfare disguised as financial policy.

There, his second life began.

He became an activist, a teacher, a prophet with spreadsheets. But people didn't listen. They called him bitter, out of touch, preachy. More and more of the public fell prey to crypto scams, housing bubbles, political manipulation, and Gary knew he had to evolve. fгeewebnovёl.com

So, he went digital.

He started appearing on talk shows—Piers Morgan, BBC Newsnight, even Fox—sparring with politicians, CEOs, influencers. Then came the YouTube channel. His voice: sharp, direct, uncompromising. His mission: to educate the masses, to shield them from the wolves, to inform the next generation before it was too late.

He called his channel GarysEconomics.

And now, as he watched the USA—arguably the most powerful nation on Earth—reduce the Blackwell vs. Usher trial into TikToks and thirst tweets, into "Trial of the Century" memes and celebrity commentary…

He knew he had to speak.

The screen lit up white. A plain white room. No luxury, no theatrics. Just a mic. A mug of tea. A laptop. And Gary.

He leaned forward, eyes steely, tone sharpened by frustration.

"Trial of the Century," he said, the words rolling in his sharp British accent. "That's what they're calling it, yeah?"

His face was calm, but behind the stillness, a fire brewed.

His hand gestured toward the camera, his voice calm but rising.

"The Americans… they've called the trial of Blackwell vs. Usher the trial of the bloody century. And for most, it's just that—a bit of a laugh. A meme. A punchline about a grumpy ambassador, or a hot mum, or a rogue governor."

He paused, took a sip of his tea. Then, with the tone of a man no longer interested in mincing words, he leaned forward.

"Now, does the trial deserve to be called the trial of the century?"

"Given America's—while short, but robust—history? With cases that reshaped society… Brown v. Board, Roe v. Wade, Obergefell v. Hodges…"

He nodded solemnly.

Then his face hardened. His voice lowered into a growl.

His words fell like stone.

"You bloody right it deserves it."

"I've seen plenty of Americans—and people outside the States as well—laughing about this whole thing. Joking. Memeing. Posting gifs and taking the piss," Gary began, his voice cutting through the quiet white room like a blade. "Looking at all the wrong places. Do you people not know what this means?"

His eyebrows raised, his tone escalating with every word. He wasn't hiding his disbelief. His passion radiated through the screen.

"Are people generally this oblivious?" he asked, leaning forward now, voice rising. "You're laughing at the ambassador—some bloke who wore the wrong colour tie, or swore in the courtroom. Or fondling over a governor who's well above your tax bracket and way beyond your level of comprehension, and you think you understand what's happening?"

A pause.

A deep breath.

He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, then leaned back into his chair—an old wooden one with chipped white paint. Behind him, a plain white wall. A single bookshelf. It looked almost like a classroom. Clean, stripped, focused—just like him.

"Alright. Now that I've calmed down… let's start with why that was the trial of the century."

He raised a hand as if settling the matter himself.

"Let's start with what the whole trial was about. The whole trial—the entire bloody case—was about Blackwell Investment."

He shook his head slowly, like he was still trying to believe people didn't see the significance.

"The devil corporation," he scoffed. "And I don't use that term lightly."

His tone grew darker, firmer, almost bitter.

"This is the most unholy corporation on earth. A ghost company. It shouldn't even exist, let alone flourish like it has. Do you know what Blackwell Investment really is? You think you know? You don't. You don't."

He leaned forward, eyes intense, jabbing his finger at the lens.

"It is the living, breathing heart of global extraction and economic colonialism. Go all the way back to its founder—Cassius Blackwell—a man who literally built an empire off war finance, blood contracts, and private monopolies. The man funded coups and famine policies. And now we're acting surprised the legacy continues?"

He paused again, rubbing his forehead, clearly overwhelmed by the ignorance.

"I don't even want to get into that right now—because if I do, I won't even get to the point," he said, sitting more comfortably now in the chair. "But if you're interested—if you want to understand why Blackwell Investment is the most dangerous and unethical corporation in modern history—go back and watch my previous video. I did a full deep dive."

He pointed to the corner of the screen, likely to where his editor had placed a link.

"Now. Back to the bloody topic."

"Blackwell vs Usher," he said, spacing out each syllable as if to drive it into the audience's mind. "Desmond Blackwell. The prodigal son. Back from—well, we all know where from, don't we?"

He gave the camera a grim, knowing look. A reference without needing to explain. The internet knew about Desmond's past—the rehab, the overdoses, the exile.

"He comes back with fury," Gary said. "He comes back swinging. Wielding his father's legacy, holding a massive chunk of shares—and he says, 'Right, I want a full audit of this company. I want to change everything. Open it up. Clean it out.' And what happens?"

He smirked bitterly, because he already knew the answer.

"Out of nowhere—Elisabeth bloody Usher—a woman who hasn't shown her face in the public eye in twenty-two years—comes out of the woodwork, screaming that she's here to protect her ex-husband's legacy."

He raised both eyebrows.

"This is the same woman who—let me remind you—went on record, in the middle of her divorce proceedings, saying her husband's empire was built on evil foundations," he said, voice dripping with irony. "She said it was a machine for suffering and corruption. I have the footage. Again—if you want to see it—previous video."

Another gesture to the screen.

"So she reappears. With a little scrap of her divorce settlement, and suddenly—she's the heroine now? Defender of the legacy she spent years destroying? Nonsense. Absolute bloody nonsense."

His hands clasped together now.

"And let's not get it twisted—the only reason any of this is even possible is because Alexander Blackwell—yes, that Alexander Blackwell—the man who controls 96% of the company's shares—had his shares suspended. Ninety-six percent. Do you understand how obscene that is? That amount of control shouldn't even be legal."

He leaned in again.

"And I feel like I don't even need to go into why he was suspended. Do I? You've read the papers. You've seen the footage. You know what he's done. You know."

A pause.

"So now, with his shares frozen—suddenly, Elisabeth Usher and Desmond Blackwell become the joint largest shareholders. Two wolves in the same den. And what are they arguing over?"

He raised a finger.

"Elisabeth wants to keep the company as it is. Just maintain the same beast. Protect it. Hold it in place."

Then another finger.

"Desmond, on the other hand, wants reform. Wants to change it. Open it. Take it public. Keep it American. Stop it from relocating."

Gary sat back for a moment, lips pursed.

"And as for my opinion on all of this?"

He scoffed and raised both hands as if to wipe it away.

"I don't bloody care."

His tone went cold.

"Keep it how it is? It continues being an evil entity, chewing through the poor and spitting out profits. Open it up? Take it public? It becomes the same beast, just with a prettier face and more people feeding the machine. A different boardroom with the same appetite."

He was quiet now. More serious than before. His voice low but firm.

"You lot really need to understand this. Whether it's Elisabeth or Desmond—whether it's public or private—it's all still one machine. The same greed, the same suffering, the same shadow economics, just with a new press release."

He gave one last long look at the screen. His eyes were sharp. Focused.

"And that's why…"

He leaned forward, hands on the desk, fire back in his voice—

"You bloody right it deserves it."

He shook his head slowly—disbelief curling into every wrinkle on his face. Then, almost like a dam cracked wide open, Gary's voice erupted—hurried, loud, but laced with meaning.

"Then came the trial," he snapped, eyes burning into the camera. "Where we received plenty of information. From the white escapes of Desmond to all the sealed memos and late-night boardroom betrayals. But let me be clear with you—I don't care who heads it. Desmond, Elisabeth, Alexander—it's all the same bloody system."

He slammed his palm against the table. "But why is this important, yeah? Because we just watched two human beings fight each other like wolves in silk suits, and what they were tossing around wasn't just titles or shares or power—it was a worldview. A machine. A $3 trillion machine. The size of the GDP of India, mate! This isn't a chessboard. This is the engine of the modern world, and they're tweaking its levers right in front of your eyes while you're scrolling TikTok."

His passion was on full display now. The energy—the righteous frustration—glowed off him like heat. He leaned forward, eyes wild.

"And now," he said, his tone flattening to something colder, "for the main thing—the ruling."

He sighed through his teeth. "I see the confusion. I see the bloody comment sections: 'Desmond won!' 'Elisabeth won!' 'The market's gonna explode!' 'Alexander came out victorious!'"

Then he smiled. Slowly. Like someone about to drop a funeral punchline.

"For all of you confused? Let me break it down."

He held up a finger.

"The person that won… was nobody."

Second finger.

"It was everybody."

Third finger, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"It was the Machine."

He paused—let the words echo. His face looked like it had just glimpsed a secret it never wanted to see.

"Let me explain," he said now, softly, slowly—like it hurt him to say it. "The judge played it both ways. Clever man, yeah? He sided with everyone and no one. Desmond's sanctuary—approved. Elisabeth's claims—upheld. Assets—redistributed. The chessboard changed, but all the pieces still belong to the same game."

He exhaled sharply and looked up again, face harder.

"And now you're asking—what about Alexander?"

He chuckled. Bitterly.

"I'll tell you simple. Nothing happens."

Gary reached for a document and held it up. "Because as of last week, Alexander Blackwell is now a Saudi citizen."

He scoffed. "And if you know anything—anything at all—you'd know this: Saudi Arabia does not extradite. They don't follow U.S. rulings. They don't give a toss what the DOJ says. Extradition only happens when the crime is recognized by both countries. And what does that mean?"

He flipped the page, reading directly from a government-stamped press release. "'Alexander Blackwell is a cherished guest in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. We intend to honor him with a unique royal-status designation. He will receive state protection, diplomatic security, and long-term privileges befitting his contributions to global enterprise.'"

Gary threw the paper on the table.

"So. What does that mean? It means the frozen shares? Unfrozen. It means he gets his company back—well, what's left of it, anyway."

He looked straight into the lens now. Eyes sharp. Voice rising again.

"And I know plenty of you watching right now, sitting there in your dorms or offices or your mum's basements—you can smell it, can't you? You think, 'Oh, maybe this is my time to get rich! Buy low, sell high! This is the moment!'"

He pointed hard at the camera.

"NO. Don't you dare. Don't take your university fund, your college money, your savings from your retail job and throw it into that meat grinder they call the market. Don't think this is water you can swim in—it's not water, it's acid. It burns the unprepared. These are sharks, and you're a minnow. Stay the hell out."

His voice cracked from the sheer intensity.

"This—this—is why I made the video. Not for clout. Not for clicks. But because someone needs to say it before it's too late. Before the headlines fade."

He paused. Gulped.

"Trial of the Century," he said with a dark grin. "Perfect name."

Then, his voice dropped into something almost haunted.

"Because it wasn't about justice. It wasn't about truth. It was about showing you how the world really works. And it worked. Because you forgot. You always forget."

He leaned in for the last time, voice just above a whisper.

"Because that's the point of the Machine. To make you forget."

The YouTube video, titled "THE MACHINE ALWAYS WINS — Gary Stevenson Breakdown", started trending within the hour. View counts doubled every thirty minutes. The confusion around the court case, the ruling, and the global implications made the video seem like a lighthouse in a storm.

Some viewers were furious.

"Why's he talking like we're stupid?"

"He's just bitter he's not rich."

"Who the hell gave him the right to speak on my portfolio?"

Others were more reflective.

"He's not wrong. This whole thing's a game. We just don't know the rules."

"I already put money in… now I'm scared."

Still, others were defiant.

"They earned their billions. Let the rich be rich."

But just as the conversation was hitting critical mass—

It happened.

A tweet. Just one. From DJ Akademiks.

@AkademiksBREAKING: KENDRICK LAMAR drops "Not Like Us" responding to DRAKE 🔥🔥🔥Hip Hop will never be the same.

Like an avalanche triggered by a snowflake, all attention shifted. The trial? Forgotten. Gary's warnings? Ghosted. Every trending hashtag evaporated, replaced with #NotLikeUs, #KendrickVsDrake, #DissSeason.

Every news cycle now pointed its lens at two millionaires in a rap feud. Interviewers, TikTokers, analysts—no longer asking about Desmond or Elisabeth. They were breaking down lyrics instead.

Gary's advice fell into the void.

And in that moment, something became crystal clear.

The Machine wasn't just a company.

It was the world.

And the world?It didn't want the truth.

It wanted entertainment.