NOVPUB
Chapter 138: Chapter 138 We Are Rich
The door to Liam’s house creaked open slowly.
Dickson hobbled inside like a war veteran returning from the frontlines, both hands clutching his ass as though he were holding in the last bit of his dignity. His once-pristine suit was a mess—grass stains all over, the flower crumpled in his chest pocket, his hair sticking out in odd directions.
Liam, standing by the door, had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from bursting into laughter. He held the door open with exaggerated politeness.
Dickson shuffled in with a grunt, glaring daggers at Liam. "I swear," he growled, "if you laugh, I’ll bury you six feet under, you fucking asshole."
Liam raised both hands in surrender. "Hey, hey—I’m not laughing," he said, his lips twitching like they were fighting a war of their own. "Scout’s honor."
Dickson gave him a side-eye full of distrust as he limped past and slowly dragged himself upstairs, each step a struggle. Liam quietly followed him, silently enjoying every wince and grunt his friend made.
Dickson finally reached the hallway and pushed open the door to what he assumed was Liam’s room.
He stepped in...
And froze.
His eyes widened like he’d just witnessed a murder.
"...What the fuck..." he whispered.
Then, louder—much, much louder—his voice echoed through the entire house.
"WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE A PINK CURTAIN?!"
Liam flinched outside the room.
"PINK BED SHEETS TOO?! OH MY GOD! IS THAT FUCKING LIP GLOSS?!! EYE PENCILS?!" He stormed into the room like a madman, snatching objects off the dresser. "IS THAT A RING LIGHT?!"
Dickson dropped the lip gloss like it had burned him. He backed up until he was pressed against the wardrobe.
"I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING SHADY ABOUT YOU, YOU BLOODY BASTARD!" he screamed. "SO YOU’RE GAY?! YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU FUCK MEN?! OH GOD—I’VE BEEN WITH YOU FOR FIFTEEN YEARS! I’VE SLEPT IN YOUR HOUSE! OH MY GOD—YOU’VE NUTTED IN ME, HAVEN’T YOU?! YOU BUSTED MY ASS!!! YOU’VE RUINED MY LIFE!!!"
The door creaked open and Liam walked in, face blank.
Dickson yelped and leapt back, hands flying to protect his rear. "STAY BACK, YOU SICK FUCK!"
Liam raised an eyebrow and silently pulled something from his pocket.
Baby oil.
Dickson’s eyes widened in horror. "What the fuck are you planning on doing with that?!"
Liam didn’t respond.
He calmly locked the door behind him.
Then, with slow, terrifying intent, he popped the cap open with a click and licked his lips while staring straight at Dickson.
Dickson shrieked like a dying cat.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD, HE’S GONNA OIL ME UP!!!"
In a frantic panic, Dickson darted toward the window and tried to push it open—locked. He slammed his fists against the glass.
"SOMEBODY HELP ME! THIS BASTARD IS GONNA RIP MY ASS APART!"
But then—Liam dropped to the floor and exploded in laughter.
He clutched his stomach as he rolled on the carpet, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "Holy shit—your face! You looked like you were about to shit your soul!"
Dickson, chest heaving and face dripping with sweat, stared at him in disbelief.
"Why the fuck are you laughing, you bastard? GET AWAY FROM ME!"
Liam wiped a tear from his eye, still giggling. "Dude... that’s not my room."
Dickson blinked.
"What?"
Liam stood up and motioned around. "This is Ann’s room."
Dickson’s mouth opened and closed like a confused fish. He glanced around again—suddenly, the pink bedsheets made sense. The makeup on the dresser. The floral scent. The wardrobe.
He opened the closet and sure enough—dresses, heels.
"...Oh," Dickson muttered. He slowly sank to the floor, butt-first with a grunt. "So... I entered the wrong room..."
Sweat still poured down his face. His shirt clung to his chest.
"I’m safe..." he whispered. "My ass is safe! Oh God... Liam, I swear, if you ever pull this sick joke on me again, I’ll rip your head off."
Liam snorted. "I didn’t pull any joke on you, bitch. You entered Ann’s room on your own and started screaming about nut and ass and lip gloss. You should be grateful she’s not here. She would’ve castrated you. I should sue your crazy ass,"
"Sue your father, you crazy bastard."
Liam narrowed his eyes. "My father’s dead, asshole."
Dickson didn’t even blink. "Sue his ghost then."
There was a pause.
Then Liam burst into laughter again. "You’re actually insane."
Dickson groaned, still sitting on the floor. "I need ice for my ass and therapy for my mind."
"You need a brain transplant."
"Fuck you."
"Not in this lifetime."
They both went silent for a beat—until Dickson slowly looked back toward the bed and muttered, "Wait... if Ann finds out I came into her room and called her gay, would she—?"
"She’ll kill you."
Dickson’s face went pale. "Help me pack."
---
Dickson now sat cross-legged on Liam’s bed, the pain in his butt almost forgotten as his eyes remained glued to the massive screen in front of them. Liam was seated calmly at his desk, fingers moving swiftly over his mechanical keyboard, the soft clicking of keys echoing like magic spells being cast.
Then Dickson saw it.
A large, bright number glowed at the top right corner of the trading software. His jaw dropped.
$280,000.00
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
Still there.
"Liam..." Dickson’s voice was trembling. "Dude, what—what is this? Is this a demo account?"
Liam didn’t answer, not yet. He just kept staring at the charts. The graphs danced in waves of green and red, flickering candlesticks shifting with the market’s heartbeat.
Dickson slowly leaned forward, squinting at the tiny details. Then he noticed the label next to the account name. It said "LIVE" in bold green letters. LIVE ACCOUNT.
His soul shook.
"No... no fucking way." He scrambled up from the bed, practically tripping over himself. "You—you have two hundred and eighty grand in your account?!"
He staggered forward and grabbed Liam by the collar of his shirt, nearly lifting him from the chair.
"WE ARE RICH!!!" he screamed.
Liam raised a brow, then slapped his hands away with zero hesitation. "Who the fuck is ’we’?"
Dickson coughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck, then turned back to the screen. "Right, right... you, you are rich. But spiritually, I am also rich with you, you know, like emotional investments and shit."
Liam ignored him, cracked his knuckles, then stared at the screen with focused eyes. The pair of monitors showed the market moving rapidly. A perfect setup was forming.
With a casual air like someone buying groceries, Liam clicked a few buttons and input the trade details. Then he clicked "Buy" and entered a position with a whopping $30,000.
Dickson’s scream nearly cracked the glass. "THIRTY FUCKING GRAND?!" He leapt back. "You’ve lost it. You’re not human. You’re crazy, bro—this is insane!"
But before he could go on another panic rant, the screen flickered. The chart spiked in Liam’s favor.
Ten seconds.
Just ten damn seconds later...
$304,000.00
"WHAT?!" Dickson fell to his knees like he had just witnessed a miracle. "You—you just made 24k in ten seconds?! TEN SECONDS?! Are you doing voodoo? Is this Illuminati? Did you sell your soul?!"
Liam smirked calmly and leaned back in his chair. "I don’t need to sell my soul. I just studied. Learned the art."
Dickson blinked. "Learned the art?"
Liam ignored that too and stood up, stretching his arms lazily. "Sit."
Dickson obeyed instantly, hopping onto the seat as Liam pulled over a second chair beside him.
"Pay attention. I’ll teach you everything I know."
For the next few hours, Liam went full mentor mode. He explained every single concept in detail: market structures, support and resistance, trend analysis, liquidity pools, order blocks, and fakeouts. But more than that, he explained why those things mattered. How to identify the traps. When to get in, and more importantly, when to get the hell out.
Dickson’s mind was being blown open. It was like being handed a secret weapon. Everything Liam was teaching him was a completely new dimension of trading. Not the fake, overly complicated nonsense online gurus used to sell courses. This was raw, precise, and tactical.
The sun slowly began to set. The soft orange glow from the window touched Liam’s face while Dickson scribbled notes in a notepad like his life depended on it. The room smelled of focus, ink, and quiet victory.
For the rest of the evening, Dickson practiced with a demo account, applying the strategies Liam had just taught. Liam would correct him here and there, explaining mistakes with calm precision.
And even though it was just demo money, every time Dickson made a successful trade, he felt a rush—an addicting taste of what was possible.
By nightfall, he wasn’t just amazed.
He was obsessed.
