by Anomuru
He had everything. A penthouse above Geneva. A school where the children of world-changers study. Money that solved any problem before it had the chance to become one. Friends — bought. Attention — bought. Even respect, if you looked closely enough, had a price tag. He knew this. Didn't complain. Simply drew a conclusion: everything has a price, you just need to find the right currency. A convenient philosophy for someone who never ran short of it. In his spare time — he read. Thousands of chapters about worlds where power is earned, not purchased. Where people stand beside you because they want to, not because they're paid to. So when he opened his eyes in a stranger's body, in a world that smelled of sects and power hierarchies — he didn't panic. He smirked. Finally. There was just one small discrepancy. The world, it seemed, hadn't read the same books.
No streak history
