roccoschili Chapter 305 : The 100-Billion Race (1)
Chapter 305 : The 100-Billion Race (1)
Year-end, for most people, is a season of reflection and gratitude.A time to look back on the year, thank those by your side, and plan for the one ahead.
But on Wall Street, things are different.
Here, the end of the year can be summed up in a single word.
Bonus.
People say all humans are equal.
But on Wall Street, performance is value.
That value is measured in bonuses, and those numbers decide one’s rank and class.
The biggest bonus means you’re “core talent.”
If you’re average, you’re “replaceable.”
Below that are the “at-risk.”
And those who don’t get a bonus at all—
“Dead man walking.”
They’re as good as gone.
Within weeks, they’ll get the termination notice, pack quietly, and disappear.
That’s the law of Wall Street.
But this ranking system isn’t a one-way street.
Just as companies rank employees, employees rank companies too.
“Deutsche numbers out yet? Roughly how much?”
“Second-years got between 100 and 120. How about you guys?”
“About the same.”
“Really? Heard Goldman hit 150…”
When the year ends, old colleagues and classmates who barely text all year suddenly start comparing bonuses.
A natural hierarchy takes shape.
And at the very top of that ranking—the firm that pays out the biggest bonuses—resumes pour in.
Of course, this year, there was no debate about who held the crown.
“Pareto Innovation, obviously.”
“They jumped on the AI bubble before anyone else.”
This year’s AI frenzy in America made the old dot-com boom look like child’s play.
And the firm that rode that massive wave first—was Pareto.
No outsider knows exactly how much they invested or where.
But even the public filings painted a clear enough picture.
“They’re the biggest shareholder in Envid, right? Just that stake alone—how much do you think it’s worth now?”
“Judging from the 13D filings, up more than 300% easy.”
And the bonuses reflected that scale.
Rumors confirmed it.
“Even the analysts hit seven figures. Remember Lanton? He’s been bragging he got six times base pay.”
“That loudmouth always exaggerates.”
“No, this time it’s real. He bought a Patek and a McLaren.”
A Patek Philippe costs at least $200,000.
A McLaren sports car, even at base spec, is $300,000.
To splurge on both? Even if it was showboating, that’s high-class showboating.
Their voices carried a mix of envy and awe.
“They hiring more people?”
“Heard the waitlist is years long.”
Pareto was the fund everyone on Wall Street wanted in on.
No matter how good you were, there just wasn’t an opening.
Everyone was gunning for that seat.
And not just for the money.
“Apparently, just working there is a dopamine rush.”
“Not surprising. Everything they touch turns into legend.”
On Wall Street, war stories are weapons.
Saying, “I was there when Soros broke the pound,” is enough to make your résumé golden for life.
But Pareto—
In just two years since its founding, had already created countless “Soros moments.”
The Ebola prediction.
The Ant Revolution.
The Yuan Wars.
And now, the AI bubble.
That wasn’t all.
“They say even the work environment there is insane—in a good way.”
“Really? I’d think it’d be brutal.”
“Nope. They’ve got a full-time entertainment director who’s an absolute lunatic, makes work feel like play.”
“A lunatic?”
Naturally, that “lunatic” could only be Gonzalez.
Pareto’s official party planner.
As his name buzzed all across Wall Street, Gonzalez himself was busier than ever at Pareto HQ.
This year was far more hectic than the last.
The usual year-end chaos of overlapping events was bad enough, but this time, he was also designing special commemorative gifts by hand.
The gift?
Pareto: The Legend — a board game.
At first glance, it looked like a fancy version of The Game of Life, each space filled with Pareto’s greatest hits.
But the real shock lay in the details.
“You made the dice… out of real gold?”
The gold dice were only the start.
The player pieces were hand-carved from rare ivory, and every “achievement” space featured a miniature diorama cast in pure silver.
Each detail—shark-tooth texture, the sharp blade of the Yuan guillotine, even the microscopic letters on the WSB manifesto—
—was recreated with obsessive precision.
It was a fusion of craftsmanship and money—almost a work of art.
“How many of these did you make?”
“Five hundred.”
“That many? You’ll have plenty left after handing them out to employees and investors.”
A colleague voiced concern but quickly realized— there’s nothing more pointless than worrying about a billionaire’s kid’s wallet.
And then—
Ding-ding-ding-ding!
A sharp bell cut through the air.
Every conversation stopped, all eyes turning toward the sound.
Another of Gonzalez’s infamous “events” was about to begin.
This one called—
Operation Ha Si-heon: 2017.
A betting game to predict what kind of trouble Si-heon would cause next year.
The winner got the entire “cash aquarium.”
The current prize pool had reached $80,000—
a stack of bills piled inside a man-sized glass tank in the middle of the floor.
This time’s challenger was Gray, one of the traders.
Spreading his arms wide, he declared in the voice of a prophet:
“In Sean’s name, unprecedented capital shall converge! From his hand, a hundred-billion-dollar fund shall rise, and the balance of this nation shall be forever changed!”
It was a grand proclamation—
but the reaction was lukewarm.
“So basically… he’s gonna manage a hundred-billion-dollar fund?”
“That’s it?”
Compared to other outlandish prophecies—buying Iceland, starting World War IV, launching his own currency as the new global standard, or being appointed Fed Chair and pegging interest rates to Bitcoin—
—it was almost boring.
As the room filled with disappointed silence, Gonzalez’s expression shifted.
“Did he hear something?”
The number—one hundred billion dollars—felt too specific to be a joke.
It didn’t sound like imagination.
It sounded like inside info.
After some persistent questioning, Gray shrugged and confessed.
“Actually… I’m kinda friends with Sean’s private jet attendant.”
Apparently, the attendant had overheard a phone call and leaked a hint.
Gonzalez frowned.
Such leaks were unacceptable.
But that was a problem for later.
For now, the game went on.
Clack.
Gonzalez opened a drawer and pulled out a thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills.
Then he dropped the bundle with a thud into the giant aquarium set in the middle of the trading floor.
The room stirred.
“That’s… way more than ten grand, isn’t it?”
Gonzalez varied his wagers every time a “prophecy” came out, based on how fun—or how credible—it sounded.
This one wasn’t entertaining, which meant he was scoring it high on the “credibility” scale.
In other words, he judged Gray’s tip to be pretty reliable.
“A hundred-billion-dollar fund?”
“Is that even possible?”
“How many funds in the world are even that big…”
As of 2016, most hedge funds were only in the low billions.
Cross five billion and you were already treated as a “big player,” so a hundred billion…
That would be a monster fund.
Of course, if it was Ha Si-heon, even that might not be impossible…
“Hmm, but still…”
For something Si-heon would do, it felt short on impact.
A little bland, even.
Compared to the dopamine parties they’d seen so far, it was hard not to feel underwhelmed.
Then it happened.
“I’ve got it!”
The one who leapt to his feet and shouted was Dobby.
He hurried up to the aquarium, spread his arms wide, and proclaimed a new oracle.
“Sean will once again sacrifice a titan and build his empire upon the offering!”
“The heir to Ackman… no—one who will surpass Ackman will bleed, and with that sacrifice, Pareto shall prosper even more!”
People cocked their heads.
Ackman was the Wall Street giant Si-heon had toppled back when he founded Pareto, through the Valient affair.
So this prophecy predicted he’d bring down another titan the same way…
“But who?”
“You really don’t know? Just two months ago, someone else made the same hundred-billion claim!”
“—!”
“—!”
At that, faces around the room changed.
The calm office buzzed in an instant, excitement spreading in waves.
“Holy crap.”
“This year… they’re gonna update the legend again, aren’t they?”
***
After a long run of meetings in Philadelphia, I finally returned to Pareto Innovation.
But the office vibe was off.
What now…?
With employees circled up to watch, three staffers stood with dollar bills stuck to their foreheads. It looked like a game.
It was Liars’ Poker, the game that had become legend on Wall Street.
Instead of cards, the serial numbers on dollar bills serve as your hand.
If classic poker is math and strategy, Liars’ Poker is bravado and reading the room.
Nicole, my assistant, filled me in from the side.
“They’re playing for priority in assignments on the new project.”
Somehow, this company keeps drifting further off the rails.
When we first launched Pareto, people jumped out of their skin whenever I said a word.
Back then, Dobby jumped the highest; now he’d made the semifinals of the Liars’ Poker tournament.
Times really do change.
Just then, our COO, Crane, walked up.
“Mr. Pierce is here in the office.”
“He’s already here?”
“Yes. He came over less than fifteen minutes after we called.”
I headed straight for the CEO’s office.
When I opened the door, Pierce snapped his head around from the sofa.
He wore an easy smile, but his shoulders were rigid.
“You’re pursuing a hundred-billion-dollar capital raise?”
Pierce got right to the point.
“Good to see you.”
“Do you understand the market backdrop right now?”
I needed to raise a full $100 billion immediately, and at this scale an investment bank’s help was indispensable.
But Pierce shook his head heavily.
“Rates are rising, and the whales are pulling out. This is the worst timing.”
“I’m aware.”
The hedge fund industry was facing the worst redemptions in a decade.
The spark that set it off was none other than Buffett.
Back in 2007, Buffett made a million-dollar bet with a hedge fund manager.
The topic was simple.
“Over the next ten years, S&P 500 index versus hedge funds—who delivers the higher return?”
Buffett bet on the index fund, and he won in a landslide.
While the S&P 500 delivered a 125% cumulative return, the hedge fund portfolio lagged far behind at just 36%.
They took a 20% performance fee and still failed to beat the market average.
Institutional investors read the writing on the wall and rushed to pull money from hedge funds.
And in this climate, start a brand-new mega-fund?
“Besides, the sheer size—one hundred billion—is a problem. You know raising capital gets harder the bigger you get, right?”
“Of course.”
“As assets under management grow, returns fall.”
That was industry gospel.
The reason was straightforward.
“Strategy scalability.”
In investing, plenty of plays work with $100 million but break down at $100 billion. When a fund gets too big, each of your trades becomes a market-moving variable.
If what you want is high returns, small and nimble wins.
So insisting on running $100 billion… is accepting a low-return structure from the outset.
How many investors would willingly sign up for that?
“If you must reach a hundred billion, don’t try to raise it all at once. Start with three billion and scale gradually. That’s the practical route.”
He wasn’t wrong.
But—
“I intend to raise the full hundred billion in a single round.”
The reason was clear.
That money needed to go straight into developing therapies.
Drug development takes time.
Even if we start now, it’ll be two to three years before anything is ready for clinical use.
We didn’t have time to dawdle.
“Haah…”
Pierce exhaled long and continued.
“A step-up raise might actually get you to the goal faster. When a fund is too big, investors assume, ‘There’ll be room later anyway,’ and they don’t move. In cases like this, leveraging the scarcity principle works better.”
Again—not wrong.
I just smiled it off.
“You don’t only need scarcity to move people. For example… there’s betting.”
“Betting?”
When I said the word “betting,” Pierce’s expression wavered hard.
As his Adam’s apple bobbed, I went on.
“Yes. With bets, people put money down voluntarily—even without scarcity. So when do people bet?”
“…”
“One of the biggest examples is sports. A competitive arena where there’s a winner and a loser. In moments like that, the crowd doesn’t need instruction—they bet on their own.”
Silence stretched a beat.
Then Pierce finally spoke.
“So you’re saying… you’ll go head-to-head with someone in public, and turn the whole world into a betting table?”
I shrugged.
As if to say, what choice do we have?
Honestly, who would invest in a low-return fund if I just sat still?
So I planned to turn the raise itself into an event.
Like a sports match.
Two fighters stepping into the ring for a decisive bout—to trigger the betting instinct.
“This time… who’s the opponent?”
I studied Pierce’s face.
His expression told me he knew whom I had in mind.
He was just pretending not to—willfully looking away.
I don’t see the point.
It’s not like staying quiet would stop me from saying it.
“In sports, great matches happen between fighters of similar weight. And right now, when it comes to a hundred-billion-class fund… there’s only one.”
Pierce squeezed his eyes shut, then answered as if resigned.
“…Don’t tell me—the Visionary Fund?”
The Visionary Fund.
A colossal, tech-focused vehicle raised by the Japan-based SoftFinance.
It reshaped Silicon Valley’s landscape and rewrote the rules of the venture game.
That was the rival I’d chosen.
“You can’t mean… him. Not even you—”
Pierce asked in disbelief.
That’s how legendary my chosen opponent was.
He had a peculiar résumé.
He once held the title of “richest person in the world,” then lost 99% of his fortune.
Normally, that’s when you disappear into the footnotes of history. But he stood back up and climbed to the top again.
A gambler’s instinct and a genius investor— a man invariably listed among the world’s top five most famous investors.
“Yes. Masayoshi Son.”