Django was used to drinking like it was the end of the world. The kind of nights where the whiskey tasted like regret and the mornings felt like punishment. His wallet, always an unwilling partner in his self-destruction, usually echoed its emptiness louder than his hangovers.
"Where the fuck am I? And did something happen to my voice?"
He froze, startled by the unfamiliar smoothness in his tone. Gone was the usual scratchy edge, replaced by something... refined? Elegant? It didn't even sound like him.
The last he remembered, he was in his crappy studio apartment—a single-room prison of peeling wallpaper, mismatched furniture, and a faint smell of mold that never quite left. Now, he stood in the middle of a room that looked like it had been ripped straight out of some billionaire's fantasy.
Django blinked, his eyes struggling to take it all in. The floor beneath him gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting the soft glow of golden chandeliers that seemed to hover weightlessly above. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, each crammed with leather-bound tomes he was sure he couldn't afford even if he sold a kidney. A massive desk, carved from what looked like pure mahogany, stood at the center, piled high with glittering gold coins and neatly stacked bundles of cash.
"What the fuck is this place?" Django muttered, his voice trembling slightly.
It wasn't just the room. He looked down at himself and immediately noticed the sharp contrast to what he remembered wearing. Gone were the faded jeans and threadbare hoodie that had become his uniform. In their place was a tailored suit, jet black with a shimmer so fine it looked like it was stitched with starlight. Even his shoes, sleek and impossibly clean, looked expensive enough to pay someone's mortgage.
He stumbled toward the desk, his heart pounding. The room was surreal—too polished, too perfect—like stepping into a fever dream or a simulation.
And then he saw it.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Welcome to the Monetary Manifestation System—Your path to wealth and power begins now.
Personal Details
Name: Django Whitmore
Age: 18
Sex: Male
Birthday: August 20, 1994
Zodiac Sign: Leo
Reputation: "The Underdog" (Viewed as an unproven liability to the Whitmore name.)
Family Lineage: Whitmore Family
(A dynasty of influential tycoons known for their sprawling corporate empire, encompassing technology, real estate, and luxury goods.)
Wealth Tier: Copper (Lowest within Whitmore hierarchy)
(Copper Tier: Limited access to family assets and connections.)Family Standing: 10th in line for inheritance (Dead Last)
Core Attributes
Strength (STR): 25
(Increases physical attack power; enhances combat capabilities when using summoned weapons or constructs.)
Intelligence (INT): 18
(Boosts skill efficiency, financial strategy, and system-based magical attacks.)
Vitality (VIT): 22
(Improves health, endurance, and resistance to damage or financial penalties.)
Spirit (SPR): 30
(Enhances passive income generation and resistance to corruption effects.)
Derived Attributes
(Calculated based on Core Attributes and Wealth Tier bonuses.)
Physical Attack (PATK): 55 (Damage dealt through physical combat abilities.)
Magical Attack (MATK): 45 (Damage dealt through system-based financial magic.)
Health Points (HP): 300 (Total durability; higher VIT increases max HP.)
Mana Points (MP): 180 (Used to activate wealth-based abilities; tied to INT and SPR.)
Attack Speed (ASPD): 8% (Improves skill casting and physical action speed.)
Movement Speed (MSPD): 5% (Increases overall mobility; impacts dodging and positioning.)
Aurum Balance
Available Aurum: 25M
Passive Income (per day): 0 Aurum
Financial Assets
Bank Accounts
Main Account: Whitmore Bank
Balance: 525,000,000 Aurum (restricted use; controlled by family administrators.)
Personal Account:
Balance: 25,000,000 Aurum
Access: Unrestricted
Treasures Owned
None
Real Estate Holdings
Whitmore Family Estate: Resident status only; no ownership.
Personal Properties: None.
Corporations: None
Economic Standing
Family Rank: Last (10th out of 10 heirs)
Rivals:
Alexander Whitmore (Oldest sibling; Silver Tier; highly influential in the tech division.)Elizabeth Whitmore (Second sibling; Gold Tier; manages the luxury goods branch.)
Alliances: None yet.
The glowing text hovered in front of his face, bright and golden, like some holographic display from a sci-fi movie. Django stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Just how drunk was I last night?" Django wondered, his mind spinning. He pressed his palms against his temples, as though squeezing his head might force the answers out.
Then, suddenly, a flood of memories crashed over him like a tidal wave.
Holy shit. He died last night.
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Images flickered in his mind—blurred and chaotic, like a broken reel of film. The brawl in the bar, the glint of a broken bottle, and the flash of someone's panicked face as Django lunged at them. He couldn't even remember what started it. A stupid argument? A spilled drink? None of it mattered now.
Because the last thing he remembered was pain. Cold, sharp, and unforgiving, radiating from his chest. Then darkness.
Django staggered, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself as nausea rolled through him. His breaths came short and shallow. "I died," he muttered, the words tasting foreign and impossible on his tongue. "I actually... fucking died."
And yet, here he was. Breathing. Standing. Feeling... alive.
His hands shot up to his chest, fingers searching for the wound he was sure should be there. But there was nothing. Just the fine, smooth fabric of the absurdly expensive suit he somehow woke up in. No blood, no scars, no sign of the violence he remembered.
Then a new thought struck him—a ridiculous, absurd thought that made him laugh out loud, sharp and manic. "Holy shit," he muttered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "I got so drunk that even my soul was drunk."
Well, he met Buddha while drunk and got reincarnated into another world.
More memories flooded into his mind like a broken dam spilling into a quiet valley. Disjointed flashes of a life that wasn't his—at least, not the life he remembered—hit him all at once. His heart pounded, his head spinning as pieces began to fall into place.
He was the youngest son of the Whitmore family.
The Whitmores. The name carried weight, like a solid gold brick dropped into the pit of his stomach. One of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the world. Real estate tycoons, technology moguls, luxury goods manufacturers—the Whitmores were everywhere. A dynasty of riches and privilege, commanding respect and fear in equal measure.
And now he was one of them.
"Wait... what?" Django's voice cracked as the implications started to sink in. His palms pressed hard against his temples as more flashes of this new life surged into focus.
An immaculate childhood in sprawling mansions, with tutors barking lessons on etiquette and business strategies. Siblings towering over him—brilliant, ambitious, ruthless. They dominated every room they entered while he was ignored, a shadow of potential no one bothered to nurture. The youngest, the least accomplished, the one no one thought could carry the family name.
"Fuckin' A!" The boy laughed, the sound echoing off the impossibly grand walls of the room. He was Django—hell, yes, his other self kept the name. And judging by the rush of memories flooding his mind, his new life wasn't all boring tutors and family disappointment.
This Django—Whitmore Django—was a fun guy. Larger than life, the kind of guy who turned every mundane moment into something straight out of a wild Great Gatsby fever dream.
Gambling, drunken adventures, luxury yachts brimming with champagne towers, and wild parties that could have bankrupted small nations. Memories of high-stakes poker games with oil barons, dodging scandalized socialites on gilded staircases, and watching fireworks explode over private islands filled his head.
He'd lived loud, reckless, and unapologetically indulgent.
"Holy shit," Django muttered, a grin spreading across his face. He could feel the ghost of the other Django's antics lingering in his blood, wild and untamed. "This guy wasn't just rich—he was chaotic rich."
The grin faltered slightly as a darker thread wove its way into the memories. A string of debts piled higher than the chandeliers at those parties. Family whispers behind closed doors about how Django was a disgrace to the Whitmore name, a stain on their pristine legacy. His siblings sneering as they picked apart his failures, reminding him he'd only ever been good for one thing: wasting the family fortune.
"Ah, there it is," Django said, running a hand through his hair. "The catch. Of course, there's a catch."
The other Django might've had the time of his life, but it was clear that this life—this Whitmore name—came with expectations. Expectations he'd trampled under drunken escapades and bad bets.
He paced the room, the weight of it all settling on him. "Alright, so I'm the party boy of the Whitmore family. Youngest son. Lowest on the food chain. A walking punchline in a tailored suit." He stopped, turning back to the glowing system interface. "But you know what? I've been broke and forgotten before. If this guy could party through it, I can do it better!"
A sharp and deliberate knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, echoing through the expansive room like a gavel. Django froze, his heart skipping a beat. For a moment, he wondered if the system had conjured some sort of punishment for his bravado.
The door creaked open before he could respond, revealing a tall, impeccably dressed man with graying hair slicked neatly back. His tailored suit looked as if it cost more than Django's old apartment rent for an entire year. The man stepped in with the air of someone accustomed to commanding attention.
"Master Django," the man said, his voice smooth and professional, though tinged with something that might have been disdain—or perhaps disbelief. "I see you've...awoken."
Django blinked at him. "Uh, yeah. And you are?"
The man's brow twitched ever so slightly, as if he couldn't decide whether to be insulted or amused. "Charles, sir. Your family's head butler. I've served the Whitmores for three decades, including cleaning up many of your... incidents."
"Incidents?" Django asked, raising an eyebrow. He folded his arms, trying to project confidence while his mind raced to process this new development.
Charles cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. The kind of incidents that involve private yachts set ablaze, priceless sculptures sold to cover gambling debts, and parties that required diplomatic apologies." He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze sharp. "Is there anything you would like to do today, Master Django?"
"Yes," Django said simply, leaning back against the desk with a sly grin. "I would like morning papers, I'm moving out, and for you to go on vacation."
Charles froze mid-bow, his well-practiced demeanor faltering for just a moment. "Of course—" he began, but then paused, straightening to look directly at Django. His sharp, gray eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "I beg your pardon, sir? You're... moving out?"
"That's right," Django replied, his tone breezy but firm. "Out of this oversized museum of a house, out from under the judgmental stares of my oh-so-perfect siblings, and into my own place. A fresh start." He gestured vaguely toward the room. "This estate's a little too crowded for someone like me."
Charles adjusted his tie, his skepticism barely hidden. "And might I ask where you plan to go, sir?"
Django grinned, shrugging. "Somewhere fun. A penthouse with a view of the city, maybe. Or a little villa in the hills. Something that feels mine. I'll figure it out."
The butler's eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of concern and disbelief creeping into his usually impassive gaze. "And sending me on vacation, sir? If I may be so bold, this sounds like one of your... impulsive whims."
"It's not impulsive," Django said, holding up a hand as if swearing an oath. "Look, Charles, you've babysat me and this family for decades. You've earned a break. Besides, I need to stand on my own two feet for once, right? Isn't that what everyone keeps saying?"
Charles tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "If I may, Master Django, standing on your own feet generally involves less... abandoning of structure and guidance."
Django chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "Structure's overrated. Besides, you'll only be gone a few months. Go somewhere warm, sip cocktails, relax. I insist."
Charles hesitated, clearly weighing his options, before sighing. "Very well, sir. I shall arrange your relocation and... prepare for a brief leave of absence."
"That's the spirit!" Django said, clapping his hands together. "Trust me, Charles, this is going to be the best decision I've ever made. For both of us."
"I sincerely hope so, sir," Charles replied, though the doubt in his tone was hard to miss. "I will inform the staff and begin preparing the necessary documents. If I may advise, sir, it would be prudent to finalize your new living arrangements before making any further... declarations."
"Noted," Django said with a grin. "Now go enjoy your day, Charles. Consider this your first taste of freedom."
The butler gave a curt nod and exited the room, leaving Django alone.
"That's the spirit!" Django said, clapping his hands together. "Trust me, Charles, this is going to be the best decision I've ever made. For both of us."
"I sincerely hope so, sir," Charles replied, though the doubt in his tone was hard to miss. "I will inform the staff and begin preparing the necessary documents. If I may advise, sir, it would be prudent to finalize your new living arrangements before making any further... declarations."
"Noted," Django said with a grin. "Now go enjoy your day, Charles. Consider this your first taste of freedom."
The butler gave a curt nod and exited the room, leaving Django alone. The old butler swore he heard Django say:
"I'm rich bitch!"
[xXx]
As Charles stepped out of Master Django's room, the heavy oak door closing with a soft click behind him, he allowed himself a moment to sigh—a long, measured breath that he would never dare show in the presence of any Whitmore. His polished shoes echoed faintly against the marble floors of the estate's west wing as he walked, his posture as upright and disciplined as ever, but his thoughts were anything but calm.
"Moving out? Sending me on vacation?" Charles muttered under his breath, his tone tinged with both disbelief and a faint hint of amusement. "Master Django, you continue to surprise."
Surprise wasn't the right word, not entirely. He had seen the boy—no, the young man—make impulsive declarations before. Wild promises of reform or grandiose plans to "prove himself." Those usually ended with fire-damaged yachts, absurd debts, or hastily canceled parties. But there was something different in his voice today.
Charles's fingers tightened slightly around the notebook he always carried, its leather cover worn smooth from years of use. He had served the Whitmores long enough to recognize when someone was bluffing. And yet, there had been something in Django's tone that sounded... resolute.
Still, Charles wasn't one to let his guard down so easily. Whitmore or not, Django had always been the family's unpredictable element—a loose cannon prone to both brilliance and disaster, often within the span of an afternoon. His "fresh start" might very well turn into a fresh mess.
As Charles turned a corner, one of the junior maids appeared, hurrying toward him with a nervous expression. "Mr. Charles," she began, clutching a tablet of notes, "the kitchen staff needs approval for tonight's dinner arrangements, and the groundskeepers have concerns about—"
"Inform the kitchen that I'll review their menus before the hour is out," Charles interrupted smoothly. "As for the groundskeepers, I'll address their concerns during my afternoon inspection."
"Yes, sir." She hesitated. "And, uh, Master Django's request...?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Request?"
"He... mentioned something about moving out?" the maid said, her voice faltering as though she didn't quite believe the words herself.
Charles's lips thinned into a barely perceptible line. "Indeed, he did."
She waited for further elaboration, but when none came, she nodded hastily and scurried off.
Charles continued down the hall toward his private office, his thoughts swirling. He'd known Django since the boy was practically a toddler, tearing through the halls with boundless energy and an uncanny knack for mischief. Over the years, he had watched the youngest Whitmore grow into a man with charm and charisma to spare, but also a staggering ability to squander every opportunity handed to him.
Yet today, something felt... different. Django's declaration of independence—while sudden and impulsive—had been delivered with an air of confidence that Charles couldn't quite dismiss.
"Perhaps this time will be different," Charles mused as he reached his office, pushing the door open and stepping inside. His desk was immaculately organized, with each item precisely where it belonged—a stark contrast to the chaos that so often surrounded the Whitmores.
As he settled into his chair, Charles opened his notebook and flipped to a fresh page, jotting down a new entry at the top:
Master Django's Relocation Plans
Timeline: Immediate. Current Assets: Limited.Probable Outcomes: Catastrophic.
Charles allowed himself a small smirk as he finished the note. Catastrophe or not, it was his job to ensure that the Whitmore legacy remained intact, even if that meant mitigating the fallout from yet another of Django's escapades.
Still, there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind—a sense that perhaps, just perhaps, Django's bold decision wasn't entirely doomed.
"Let's see how far you go, Master Django," Charles murmured to himself, tapping his pen against the notebook. "And let's hope you don't burn it all down along the way."