Chapter 33: They Are Serious

"Eh?" Timothy blurted, his eyes wide. He leaned closer, as if maybe his ears had betrayed him. "You’re serious?"Jensen’s face filled the screen, calm, unshaken, his leather jacket collar catching the faint lab lights behind him. "Why? You weren’t?"

Timothy’s throat went dry. Twenty. Billion. Dollars.

For a moment he almost laughed in disbelief. He had thrown out a ridiculous number, expecting mockery or outrage. Instead, they had swallowed it whole without a single cough.

Timothy rubbed his temples. "This is insane..."

Zoe looked like she was about to collapse in her chair. Ravi, who had joined the call midway, kept muttering something inaudible. Ethan stared silently at Jensen, caught between awe and disapproval.

But Timothy’s mind raced faster than his pulse. If they could so casually agree to twenty billion, what did that mean? It meant he had undersold himself. It meant this technology—his technology, born from a second-hand GPU he reconstructed with a flick of his system—was beyond priceless.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. Instead, he smirked to himself. Just how overpowered are my abilities?

All this, and it was only one card. Only one blueprint. And in his head, he knew the truth: the Reconstruction System could push further. He could make chips a decade ahead of this one if he wanted. Fifteen, twenty years ahead. If NVIDIA thought this prototype was revolutionary, what would they do if he dropped something even further down the timeline? He could dominate the entire landscape.

But right now, twenty billion was sitting in front of him, wrapped in Jensen’s calm, unwavering voice.

"Alright," Timothy said at last. "If that’s the deal, then let’s lock it in. Twenty billion dollars. Full rights to the chip, the schematics, the prototype. Once the money clears, it’s yours."

Jensen’s smile faded into something sharper. The silence stretched, heavy, as though the entire company was holding its breath on the other end.

At last, Jensen gave a single nod. "Eight billion upfront. The rest upon progress milestones. Done."

Timothy’s chest loosened, though he forced himself not to show it. Inside, adrenaline thundered like a storm. Eight billion. That alone was already more than enough to reshape his life, his family’s life, a thousand times over. With that, he could buy security, houses, land, an empire.

"Then we have an agreement," Timothy said quietly, his voice calm but his palms damp with sweat.

Ethan scribbled something off-screen, probably notes for the contract. "We’ll send a new draft within twenty-four hours. Secure channels. Review it carefully, Timothy. Once you sign and we arrange the transfer, the funds will clear. Wire transfer, immediate."

Timothy nodded. "And I’ll keep the prototype and blueprints until I see the money."

Jensen didn’t argue. "Of course. We’ll coordinate the logistics. But know this—once the transfer is made, you won’t just be rich. You’ll be visible. People will wonder. Governments will watch. Are you ready for that?"

Timothy swallowed. "I’ll manage."

Jensen gave the faintest smile. "Then welcome to the future, Timothy Guerrero."

The call ended. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel•fire.net

Timothy sat there in the bathroom stall, staring at the black laptop screen that reflected his stunned face back at him. He leaned back, pressing his head against the cold tile wall, and finally let the laughter come. Quiet at first, then louder, bubbling out of him like he’d lost his mind.

"Twenty billion dollars," he gasped. "From a junk GPU I bought second-hand. Goddamn..."

He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, the sound echoing off the empty walls.

This was it. This was his win.

The following morning, Timothy didn’t bother going to class.

His professor could talk all day about maths, but what he had sitting in his inbox mattered more than any quiz or attendance sheet.

He sat cross-legged on his bed in the dim light of his cramped Tondo room, phone open, eyes fixed on the new email marked Confidential Contract Draft.

His heart thudded in his chest. This was it — the paperwork that would make him, officially, the youngest billionaire in the Philippines, maybe in Asia.

But he wasn’t stupid. He knew corporations didn’t just hand over twenty billion without protecting themselves. Contracts were weapons dressed up as paperwork.

Timothy reached into his drawer and pulled out the familiar small vial. He popped a pill, dry-swallowing it with a gulp of warm water. Within minutes, the fog in his head lifted, replaced by razor-sharp clarity. Every word, every clause on the screen sharpened into focus like he was reading it under a microscope.

"Alright... let’s see if you’re trying to screw me," he muttered.

The contract was long — nearly a hundred pages — full of legal jargon that would have made his head spin on a normal day. But now, under the pill’s effect, it unfolded neatly in his mind like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

Clause by clause, section by section:

– Payment structure: Eight billion upfront, wire transfer within seventy-two hours of contract execution. The remainder tied to milestones of technical validation and reverse engineering.

– Intellectual property transfer: Exclusive and permanent. The moment the funds cleared, all rights to the prototype, blueprints, and future derivative works passed to NVIDIA.

– Confidentiality: He was barred from disclosing details to third parties, including governments, competitors, or private investors. Breach meant automatic forfeiture and legal pursuit under U.S. and international law.

– Personal protection clause: NVIDIA agreed to extend private security support if deemed necessary, "to ensure the safety of Mr. Guerrero and his immediate family."

Timothy raised his eyebrows at that one. So they’re already worried someone might come knocking.

He scrolled further, waiting for the catch. Some hidden clause about only paying partial amounts, or clawing back funds if he sneezed the wrong way. But it wasn’t there.

He read it again. And again. And again. Each time the same conclusion rang in his head:

"They’re not screwing me."

It wasn’t perfect — it was still weighted in their favor, of course — but for the most part, it was clean.

Timothy leaned back, exhaling slowly. His hands trembled as he closed the laptop for a moment.

Eight billion dollars. Just typing his name on that signature line would trigger it.

A crooked laugh slipped out of him. "From Tondo to twenty billion."

But there was one problem. If they send him 8 billion dollars, then that means it’s going to get taxed?

"Fuck!"