Bitcoin Billionaire: I Regressed to Invest in the First Bitcoin!
Chapter 233 - 233: The Lotus Triad

Darren sat in the back of the Razor, the engine's low hum blending with the patter of rain on the windshield.

His fingers grazed the edge of the black card in his pocket, the silver lotus emblem catching the faint glow of the light.

Lotus Triad.

He'd spent an hour on his laptop last night, scouring darknet forums and encrypted archives for anything on them.

Only a precious little had turned up. Lotus Triad was a Romanian syndicate, secretive as hell, with roots in digital theft and activities.

They were thieves. Basically.

But they didn't just steal; they manipulated markets, laundered through shell nodes, and vanished whistleblowers who got too close. Rumors mentioned ties to ex-KGB tech brokers and a penchant for leaving no digital footprint.

Knowing all that, the card felt heavier than it should, like it carried more than just a name.

'How do you play a group like that?' Darren thought, his thumb tracing the lotus. 'They're basically ghosts. Could they be after Skinner's wallet as well?'

He glanced out the window, the rain-slicked roofs of Cluj-Napoca below them. The Triad's involvement complicated things. Scotland's team was a known quantity— hired guns, possibly led by Scotland's own greed and desire to be relevant.

But the Triad? They operated in shadows even he couldn't pierce. Confront them directly, and you'd be dead before you saw the knife. Play it subtle, barter with intel like he did with Klaus, and maybe you'd get a step ahead. Maybe.

Rachel's voice cut through his thoughts. "What's that?"

He looked up. Her eyes were locked on the card in his hand, her brow furrowed as she leaned over from the passenger seat, a fry halfway to her mouth.

"Nothing," Darren said, slipping the card back into his pocket. His tone was flat, final.

She snorted, wiping salt from her fingers. "Yeah, sure. You're staring at it like it's gonna bite you, but it's 'nothing.' Keep your secrets, James Bond." She popped the fry in her mouth and turned back to her laptop, the screen casting her face in blue. "Just don't cry to me when they blow up in your face."

Darren looked at her. "You're so chatty as of late."

She instantly turned red. "Hey! It's because we're spending a lot of time together. What? You don't like it when I'm this way?"

Darren smirked. "I didn't say that."

He leaned back, the leather seat creaking under him, and let his mind churn. 'Romania's done. Zurich's next. The Triad can wait.' But the card burned in his pocket, a reminder that the game was bigger than he'd thought.

---

Zurich greeted them with a crisp, surgical chill, the kind that sank into your bones and made you miss Romania's damp chaos.

The jet's stairs hissed as they touched the private airstrip, a single black SUV waiting at the tarmac's edge— matte finish, Swiss plates, no driver in sight. The Alps loomed in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow under a sky like polished steel.

Rachel tightened her scarf as they descended, her breath puffing in the frigid air. Neither spoke. Words weren't needed.

They had the full twelve-word seed phrase, pieced together from Berlin, Romania, and a dozen near-misses. The vault in Zurich was the endgame, NakamuraGhost's final lockbox. But every step closer felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers — Scotland's team, the Lotus Triad, and who knew what else.

They slid into the SUV, the interior smelling of leather and faint pine air freshener. The driver, a wiry man with a face like a closed book, didn't speak English — or played the part well. Darren preferred it that way. Less chatter, less risk.

Zurich rolled past in a blur of pristine streets, silent trams gliding like ghosts, and rooftops dusted with snow that looked too perfect to be real.

The city's order was unnerving, like it was built to hide secrets behind its clean lines. Darren's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his thigh, his eyes fixed on the glass but seeing nothing.

Too clean. Too quiet.

"The vault's in Kreis 5," Rachel said, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, her eyes on her laptop screen. "From the information here, it's buried under a shell company — ArtValt Finanz AG. No website, no public records. You need a name to get in. Lucky for us, I forged one."

Darren gave a single nod. "How many did Klaus sell out to?"

"At least one," she said, scrolling through decrypted logs. "Probably more. The timestamps are muddy. Someone is obviously covering their tracks. We're likely being watched."

"Then we act like we are," he said, his voice like gravel.

The SUV veered off the main road, dipping into an underground parking structure.

The vault's entrance was disguised as an art gallery; sterile white walls, a single minimalist sculpture of twisted metal at the center, no signs.

Two guards in tailored suits stood by a blank wall that slid open to reveal an elevator after Rachel flashed a forged ID and a biometric scan. The panel hummed, and the doors parted with a soft ding, like a secret being whispered.

They rode down five floors, the silence thick, broken only by the faint creak of their boots and the hum of the lift. No music, just the weight of their own breathing.

Room 2093.

Rachel stepped out first, her eyes sweeping the corridor. Surveillance nodes blinked in the corners, their red lights like unblinking eyes. Darren palmed the token from the Romanian USB — a small, glinting disk etched with NakamuraGhost's key glyph. He pressed it to the panel beside the vault door. It blinked red, then green with a soft click.

The door swung open.

The room was small, cold, and silent, the air heavy with the faint buzz of climate control. A reinforced pedestal stood at the center, holding a digital safe, its interface glowing faintly. No furniture, no hiding spots. Just the safe, like it was waiting for them.

Darren approached, slotting the token into the interface. The screen flickered, then unlocked with a low chime. Inside, nestled in a security pouch, was the prize: NakamuraGhost's cold wallet. A carbon-plated prototype from last year, 2010, its edges worn but its biometric lock intact.

Darren lifted it, the weight heavier than its size suggested, like it carried the ghost of its owner.

Rachel let out a slow breath. "There it is."

Darren's eyes narrowed. "No dust."

She blinked, her head tilting. "What?"

"This room," he said, his voice low, urgent. "It's too clean. Look at the panel wiring — fresh solder marks. Someone's been here. Hours ago, maybe less."

Before Rachel could respond, the lights cut out, plunging them into darkness. A sharp hiss echoed overhead — gas, or worse.

"Down!" Darren barked, yanking Rachel to the floor as the vault door exploded inward with a deafening crack.

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