I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 155: The Oil Market

"Obey."

The word struck Prince Mohammed like a whisper and a command at once. It wasn't shouted. It wasn't emphasized. But it clung to the air like smoke—unshakable.

He stared into those black, obsidian eyes—eyes that seemed to pull him into a void. Not empty, no. But powerful. Ancient. Unrelenting.

And just as the gravity in them nearly broke him… the weight on his shoulders vanished.

The firm grip was gone. Alexander had released him and was already turning away, walking back to his seat with the calm grace of a man who had never doubted the outcome.

The prince remained seated, shoulders stiff, chest rising and falling with quiet rage, confusion, and a sickening sense of inevitability.

His mind should have been preoccupied with the last word—the command to "obey," the implied submission, the insult to his sovereignty. But that wasn't what haunted him now.

No. It was what Alexander had said before that.

Seventy-three years.

A number whispered with certainty. A secret spoken aloud like a prophecy. A truth buried so deep within the corridors of the Kingdom that only a select few in the royal circle knew of it.

And Alexander Blackwell had just exposed it—word for word. Data point for data point. To his face.

The prince's hands tightened into fists on his lap. His breath caught in his throat.

He remembered the meeting like a scar—etched into memory. It was years ago, in one of the most secure underground facilities in Riyadh. Only a dozen men had been in that room. Himself. His father. The Minister of Energy. And a handful of senior advisors.

And the revelation?

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Devastating.

The oil fields were drying up.

Saudi Arabia's lifeblood. Its identity. Its power on the global stage. The black gold that had built cities out of sand, that had given them palaces, private jets, and unshakable influence in every geopolitical conversation… was vanishing.

Not in centuries. In a mere handful of decades.

Seventy. Maybe eighty years, with optimism. That was it.

They had immediately launched an all-out effort—importing state-of-the-art drilling equipment, hiring the world's top geologists, pouring billions into exploration. They drilled deeper, wider, desperate to discover new reserves. But all they found… was silence. Emptiness.

The new oil fields they dreamed of did not exist.

He remembered the chaos. His father had been the first to crack under the weight of it. Once a sharp and respected ruler, the old king descended into apathy, choosing to numb himself with pleasures—women, music, yachts—living lavishly while ignoring the slow bleeding of the empire beneath his feet.

But not Mohammed.No. He would not inherit ruin.

He moved swiftly. Quietly. Ruthlessly.

He seized power—silently sidelining his father, then suppressing the truth with an iron fist. Anyone who spoke too much, hinted too loudly, asked the wrong questions—vanished. Censorship became policy. The illusion had to be preserved.

Because if the truth broke out… if the world knew that the kingdom's oil reserves were depleting—markets would panic. Confidence would collapse. The Riyal would spiral. Investors would flee. And the kingdom's prestige?

Shattered.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

Millions would become jobless. From engineers and drivers on the rigs to every citizen whose salary was tied to government subsidies funded by oil. Social unrest would explode. The very fabric of the nation—built on the promise of limitless wealth—would tear apart.

And Saudi Arabia, once a titan of energy… would become a relic.

So he tried something else.

He knew he couldn't stop oil production. That would attract attention from powerful families and conglomerates—like the Rockefellers and Rothschilds—who studied oil output like blood pressure monitors. Even the smallest dip would spark suspicion.

So he pivoted.He would give Saudi Arabia a new identity.

If oil was dying, he would build something else—a kingdom of business. Innovation. Tourism.

With relentless ambition, he poured ungodly sums into diversifying the economy. He launched Vision 2030 with global fanfare. Skyscrapers rose overnight. Mega-projects like NEOM dazzled the media. The kingdom's desert began to shimmer with artificial lakes, robotic taxis, luxury resorts, and promises of a tech-powered future.

He rewrote the laws—cutting taxes to nearly zero, offering foreign investors incentives unheard of anywhere else. He opened Saudi's doors to Silicon Valley, to Wall Street, to the world.

Even the stock market was reborn.The Saudi Exchange surged to an eye-watering $2.5 trillion valuation—ranking among the top ten in the world.

But he knew the ugly truth behind the shine.

$2.2 trillion of that value? Came from a single entity: Saudi Aramco—the state-owned oil giant.

Strip Aramco away, and the rest of the market was worth only $300 billion.

That might be acceptable for a mid-sized country. Even admirable for some. But for Saudi Arabia? For the weight of its royal lifestyle, its royal palaces, its global ambitions?

It was a joke.

A catastrophic failure.

Without oil, the kingdom's entire economic framework was a hollow palace—built on sand, with gold walls and nothing inside.

Seeing that business ventures weren't yielding results, Prince Mohammed's mind began to churn. His gaze drifted away from the table, his thoughts reaching into the past—seeking inspiration from a power that had endured, against all odds.

The United Kingdom.

He knew the UK well. He knew how, for centuries, they had built their empire on the back of colonialism, exploiting resources from Africa and elsewhere, all while portraying themselves as the world's benevolent rulers. And even though colonialism had largely ended, the UK still managed to pull in resources from former colonies, quietly benefiting from this shadow of the past.

But the world had changed, and so had the rules of the game.

Africa, once a playground for European powers, was now divided and fiercely contested. The forces of competition were overwhelming, and he had neither the strength nor the means to compete with them. So, he turned to something else—something that had, in modern times, allowed the UK to continue maintaining its global influence.

He had seen it for years, the UK's ability to maintain its position in the global hierarchy. One thing remained constant—sports. Specifically, football.

It was more than just a game. Football had allowed the UK to elevate its global image, drive economic growth, and inspire the world through its culture and values. The economic ripple effects were immense. In 2018 alone, the UK's football industry contributed £8.3 billion to the economy, creating jobs and boosting tourism. But beyond numbers, football provided a platform for global partnerships. It allowed the UK to shape its narrative on the global stage, to inspire millions of people, and to project strength where it mattered.

He watched the UK's football clubs—Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea—compete not only for titles but for influence, attracting the world's top talent, hosting billions of dollars in sponsorships, and generating media coverage that kept the UK in the conversation of power.

That was what he needed. To make Saudi Arabia not just a player in the sports world, but a central figure. A magnet for investment and attention.

So he acted. Relentlessly.

He began funneling state money into football, building world-class stadiums, and even purchasing international clubs. The jewel in the crown was Newcastle United, a symbol of Saudi's growing football empire. But his primary focus remained the home front—his own country's football infrastructure.

He threw ungodly sums at luring top talent, offering astronomical contracts that shocked the footballing world. He even offered a $1 billion payout to one of the world's best French football stars—a sum so outrageous it was hard to believe. The idea was simple: bring in the biggest names, elevate the sport, and watch the world's eyes turn to Saudi Arabia.

But the results were underwhelming.

What he attracted were aging, washed-up players—men whose careers were winding down, who couldn't cope with the pressures of Europe anymore, or those who simply came for the money. It brought attention, yes. Eyes from around the world, but not the right kind of eyes. Saudi Arabia was quickly becoming known as a retirement home for former stars, not as a hub of ambition and fresh talent.

He had tried everything—pouring money into the league, trying to conform to Western ideas of modernity, fighting against his own traditions and religion in the hopes of fitting into a mold that the West admired. He wanted multinational companies to come—companies that would buy television rights, place advertisements, and help the country emerge as a sporting powerhouse. But it all fell apart. Saudi Arabia's league had become a joke—a laughingstock.

And then, something unexpected happened.

When he heard that Alexander Blackwell had arrived in Saudi Arabia, his initial reaction was to send him back. Blackwell, an enigmatic force, seemed to be a direct threat to everything Prince Mohammed had worked for. But then the reports started flooding in. Investors—serious investors—began arriving in droves, flying into Saudi Arabia like doves descending from the heavens.

It was unbelievable. He had spent years trying to make his country a hotspot for global investment, and yet here was one man, Alexander Blackwell, who had achieved in days what Mohammed had failed to do in years.

Prince Mohammed leaned forward, his thoughts clouded with doubt and astonishment. He could feel his pulse quicken as he listened to Blackwell, every word coming from his lips dripping with certainty, with power.

And then it hit him—the plan. Blackwell's audacity, the calculated risk, the overwhelming confidence—it all led to one possibility. Was it possible? Could it truly be done? Could the kingdom's reliance on oil be shattered to create something entirely new?

Prince Mohammed felt a tremor run through his body. He could barely comprehend the magnitude of what Blackwell was suggesting. To destroy the oil market? It sounded… insane. Unthinkable.

But there it was—Blackwell's cold, emotionless eyes locked onto his. And for a moment, Mohammed found himself questioning everything he thought he knew about power. Is this what we need? he asked himself. Do we really need to destroy before we can rebuild?

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. And finally, the prince found his voice, shaky but resolute. He looked Blackwell dead in the eye, struggling to maintain his composure.

"Why?" The word escaped his lips with a breathless tremor. "And how?" His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "Even if—if—we did all that you say... at most, that would only shake the oil market. It would cause a dent. But to crash it... to destroy it? We'd need more. Much more."

He leaned in, his confusion growing, his mind racing. "I know about your battle with the Rockefeller heir. But even so, if you wanted to go after them, you wouldn't need to do all this. You could target their companies. You could have me increase the price of oil, stage attacks on their companies. But instead, you're going after the entire market. Why?"

Prince Mohammed narrowed his eyes, his heart still pounding. The trembling in his hands had subsided slightly, but his mind was still in turmoil. What does he want? What was Blackwell truly after?

Alexander Blackwell's lips curled into a small, knowing grin. He leaned back slightly, his gaze shifting away from the prince for a brief moment. Prince Mohammed's eyes followed the movement, and he saw a woman standing off to the side, the secretary. She had been silent up until now.

The secretary stepped forward and spoke softly, almost as if she were delivering a secret too powerful to be spoken aloud. "Prince Mohammed," she said, her voice smooth, steady. "The goal is simple, really."

Prince Mohammed's breath caught in his throat, and for a brief second, he thought he might have misheard. The secretary's next words felt like a thunderclap.

"The goal is to short the oil market."