I Became a Black Market Tycoon with an Inventory - Chapter 138

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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138 – Bituin
138.
I sat in the suite of the Emerald Resort, reviewing the statements.
Starting with Raymond, I had thoroughly interrogated every single one of those bastards who showed up that day.
I brought them to the private jet and opened the door.
Then I gave them paper and a pen.
They just wrote and wrote on their own.
Lots of words, but no substance.
Of course.
These were just foot soldiers.
They knew nothing.
They just did what they were told—that’s all.
I’d expected as much.
So what?
We climb the ladder.
Interrogate one person after another up the chain of command, and eventually we’ll catch them all.
We have both time and money.
We can take our time.
After squeezing a few of them, Manila came up immediately.
They said they’d received orders from people stationed in Manila.
So I made a business trip to Manila.
By private jet.
I brought it along in case we’d need it.
Once I arrived in Manila, I verified the list of names.
Since I was already heated, I didn’t hesitate—I just brought them all in.
Before this, I’d tried to avoid touching civilians when possible.
I’d wanted to solve problems among ourselves, but the atmosphere now is different.
Those La Camara bastards are using the state’s public authority and infrastructure for private purposes.
They punish and regulate people they don’t like using state power.
But we can’t follow proper procedures when dealing with those kinds of people.
We don’t have that authority anyway.
And our original profession is gangster and rebel forces.
In other words, doing bad things is our core business.
Bad people do bad things—so what’s strange about that?
That’s why I brought them.
Since there was no prior agreement, it could be mistaken for kidnapping, but I still brought them.
I did put a gun to their ribs, but I still brought them nonetheless.
The ones I brought from Manila were different.
These bastards are incredibly tense.
Do they have some rank or position?
So you think you have some experience?
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You’ll regret this.’
‘Let them go while I’m being nice.’
‘That’s enough. I’m tired too.’
The ones from Bohol trembled at the mere sight of us, their minds working overtime to write down everything they had, real or imagined. But the ones from Manila were different.
Was it because they didn’t know who we were?
Or was it because they’d never been threatened before?
I had no choice but to instill some fear in these bastards.
Before instilling fear, I hung them upside down briefly to loosen them up, and they were already screaming they’d die.
Not even an hour of hanging.
We hadn’t even started yet.
This is what athletes do to warm up before a game.
Just stretching.
If the body is stiff, the blade won’t go in smoothly.
I was loosening them up so it would go in well.
Already they were begging for their lives.
Pathetic Manila bastards.
I gave them paper and a pen right away.
They started writing the moment they received it.
I thought I was some kind of printer.
They just kept writing and writing.
They must be smart—their memories were excellent too.
They wrote down exactly when and where they met people, who was present at each location.
Go ahead and write.
I’ll find every single one of them.
We’re people with plenty of time and money.
And at the end of their statements? Bituin was there.
This bastard is the ringleader.
“Got him. This son of a bitch.”
.
.
.
Bituin was heading home from work.
I was exhausted.
My body was tired, but my mind was even more cluttered.
I felt like I kept heading down the wrong path, and it worried me.
It kept weighing on me.
I’d done too many things I shouldn’t have done recently.
I’d given too many orders I shouldn’t have given.
I understand.
But there was nothing I could do about it.
It was La Camara’s order.
It was Celeste’s directive.
I didn’t know Celeste was that kind of person.
I thought she was just a beautiful older sister.
I’d been close to Celeste since childhood.
Being with her felt good.
She was beautiful, but she also understood my heart well.
Like a ghost, she knew what I wanted.
Whenever I struggled, she was always there beside me, comforting and soothing me.
I trusted Celeste, relied on her, and depended on her.
The suggestion to major in business management came from Celeste.
My family had a long tradition in law, but Celeste recommended business management.
Because I had a good grasp of numbers.
So I entered the business school.
I joined La Camara following Celeste.
La Camara was a good place.
We did volunteer work and provided scholarships.
I attended meetings following Celeste.
Gradually, I came to know people from Philippine politics and business.
The world seemed to turn according to what people said at those meetings.
It was fascinating and fun.
My promotions accelerated accordingly.
At a somewhat early age—or rather, quite young—I had become the Director of Internal Revenue.
I was satisfied.
The world felt like it belonged entirely to me.
But recently, Celeste began making unreasonable demands.
She told me to find Melchor’s assets and to bring in innocent people.
In truth, unreasonable demands had existed before, but I couldn’t speak up.
Intoxicated by the sweetness of promotion and the sense that the world was mine, I deliberately turned a blind eye.
As a result, the unreasonable demands began to escalate.
It went against my principles, but I couldn’t refuse.
Because I knew what happened to those who walked away from this position.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to quit now.
But I couldn’t.
Now I had become a puppet.
I had to do whatever Celeste said, whatever La Camara demanded.
La Camara didn’t need Bituin—they needed the Director of Internal Revenue.
An internal revenue director who obeys orders and listens well.
Or perhaps Bituin became an internal revenue director precisely because he listened so well.
Unable to organize his tangled thoughts, I climbed into the car.
The moment I got in, I felt an air different from usual.
The sensation of a gun pressing against my back.
“Drive.”
A masked man in the back seat spoke while aiming a gun at me.
Bituin started the engine and began driving.
“Keep going.”
The masked man gave directions on where to drive, and Bituin simply followed his instructions.
Always the obedient child, Bituin never resisted.
After driving for quite some time, my car turned into a dark alley.
Enclosed on all sides.
“Stop.”
As the car stopped, a van pulled up right beside it.
“Get in.”
Bituin transferred to the van without any resistance.
The moment I got in, a hood was placed over my head.
My vision went dark.
Then I felt a sharp sting in my thigh.
That was all.
All that Bituin could remember.
.
.
.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a plush bed.
Where am I?
A plush bed?
A large television and a small storage cabinet.
From the interior design, it looked like a hotel.
When I opened the curtains, a breathtaking ocean vista spread before me.
Bituin stared at that view for a long time.
I couldn’t remember when I last saw the sea.
Looking at that ocean, something felt slightly more organized in my mind.
My throat was parched.
I quenched my thirst with the bottled water nearby.
On the muted television, news was playing, and Bituin’s face appeared.
‘What? Why am I on the news?’
I turned up the volume and focused on the broadcast.
The news reported that Bituin had succumbed to stress and made an extreme choice.
He drove the car straight into the sea, they said.
They’re searching for the body, they said.
Bituin couldn’t hide his shock.
I’m dead?
He couldn’t believe it.
There was even a suicide note.
A note he’d never written.
He couldn’t believe it.
He was alive, yet supposedly dead.
It was bewildering.
Though, perhaps he was dead.
Was he dead?
He wondered if this was heaven.
No, at least Bituin knew one thing.
He would never reach heaven.
Yet part of him felt relieved.
Life had been so difficult—dying seemed preferable.
He could never have found the courage alone, so he was almost grateful for this painless release.
He lay back on the bed.
His heart grew calm.
Believing himself dead, all his worries vanished.
Everything felt vivid and real, but since he’d never died before, he couldn’t know if this was right or wrong.
“Sleep well?”
The door opened, and a man in a Hawaiian shirt appeared.
“Huh?”
He hadn’t expected to be alone in hell, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated someone entering without knocking.
“Wait… am I not dead?”
Bituin asked carefully.
“You’re dead. Officially, anyway.”
The man in the Hawaiian shirt answered with a mischievous expression.
.
.
.
Bituin seemed to have given up on everything.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Not exactly, but I have a rough idea.”
“Who?”
“Someone connected to Emerald Resort?”
“Huh? How did you know?”
“After the day you ordered the crackdown, the people I contacted started going silent one by one. Either avoiding my calls or unreachable entirely. That’s when I realized—I’d touched something I shouldn’t have. I knew you’d come for me soon. And my suspicion was right.”
“But why didn’t you resist?”
“I thought it was inevitable. I was suffering anyway, and I figured it was for the best. I’d rather be dead, after all.”
Perhaps that’s why Bituin revealed everything about La Camara without hesitation.
“It’s a pyramid-structured organization.”
“There are no restrictions on who can be recruited. Most people join thinking it’s a scholarship foundation.”
“But as you progress through stages two, three, and four, the organization’s structure transforms.”
“At each level, they select people to promote upward.”
“The primary targets are children from the upper class. The Philippines must never change if they want to maintain their current positions.”
“To protect what they have, they draft legislation, adjust policies, and weaponize law and state authority.”
“They elevate whoever they need and ruthlessly eliminate those they don’t.”
“The ones they absolutely cannot allow are poor kids who excel academically. They’re the most dangerous.”
“That’s why they abolished the exams. They couldn’t have judges and prosecutors becoming successful through test scores.”
“They changed it to bachelor’s degree plus law school plus exams—ensuring only children from wealthy families can hold those positions.”
I’d suspected as much, but it seemed the Police Chief of Bohol had been right.
His account aligned almost perfectly with what Bituin was telling me.
But up to this point, it was information I could have pieced together or guessed. What I really wanted to know was something else.
“So who’s the head of La Camara?”
“To be more precise, the chairman of La Camara’s organization is someone who operates the scholarship foundation earnestly without involvement in this. The true mastermind behind it is someone else.”
“Who’s the mastermind?”
“Celeste Del Rosario, the Chairman of the Del Rosario Group.”
“Celeste Del Rosario?”
I was genuinely taken aback.
I knew her.
Though only through news coverage.
She always appeared in white at official events.
Her unwavering posture and disarming smile were her trademarks.
She was always composed, always elegant, always described as a successful female leader.
Some media outlets had even mythologized her life.
The myth of the Del Rosario Group, built from nothing.
But she was the head of La Camara?
She’d been orchestrating the Philippines from the shadows?
That was quite shocking.
“She decides everything in La Camara. Right now, she’s obsessed with recovering Melchor’s assets.”
Wait—I already took those.
“So Melchor was part of La Camara too?”
“Yes. Without La Camara, it would be nearly impossible to become president. They control the media entirely. If La Camara marks you, every broadcast and newspaper will report you as garbage.”
Wow.
This organization was far larger than I’d imagined.
A powerful cartel of the entrenched elite.
“So who are the members of La Camara?”
“As I mentioned, La Camara has far too many members. However, at the highest level, there exists the High Table—the supreme council. Around ten or so individuals. First, there’s Celeste, the leader. Then Esteban, a retired general who still wields tremendous influence over the military. Sergio, a media mogul. Isaya, a financial and real estate tycoon. IT and telecommunications magnates, church and civic organization heads…”
Listening to Bituin’s words, I could only think how truly formidable it all was.
Except for Celeste, the rest were people I’d glimpsed fleetingly in the news or didn’t know at all.
People I didn’t even know were pulling the strings of the Philippines from behind the scenes.
Not the people chosen by vote, but entirely different individuals were determining the nation’s future.
Beyond astonishment, I felt a hollow emptiness.
A handful of people held the institutions of legislation, judgment, and execution in their hands, kneading them like dough.
My curiosity about La Camara had evaporated.
I now knew such an entity existed in the Philippines.
But so what?
What was I supposed to do about it?
Did I have any reason to fight this organization?
I’d seized Sandro and crushed him in fury, but did I really need to touch La Camara?
If I touched La Camara, it was obvious we’d suffer catastrophic damage.
Right now, we coexist peacefully without crossing into each other’s territory.
Was there any need to cross that line?
I understood that La Camara was ruining the Philippines.
But did that give me reason to fight them?
I’m no champion of justice, and certainly not a social activist.
I’m not even Filipino.
Though I suppose using the name Alex makes me Filipino, doesn’t it?
Regardless, whether this nation thrives or struggles is none of my concern.
I only need my people to eat well and live well.
As long as those drawing paychecks from us don’t have their wages delayed and can go home to their families in peace, that’s enough.
I can’t make the entire Philippines prosper, nor do I want to.
I can’t take responsibility for the Philippines’ politics.
La Camara walks their path, and we live ours.
But something Bituin said kept nagging at me.
‘Without La Camara’s backing, it will be difficult for him to become president.’
Wasn’t that saying Patrick couldn’t become president?
I’d even accepted nuclear power to make Patrick president—if he can’t become president, isn’t that a total loss?
Sigh…
This changes things entirely.
For Patrick to become president, La Camara can’t exist.
My thoughts grew heavier.
.
.
.
“Bituin, Director of the Philippine Bureau of Internal Revenue, drove his vehicle off a coastal cliff early this morning. Police recovered what appears to be a suicide note left by Bituin at the scene, and currently believe he took his own life.
The accident occurred at approximately 3:40 AM today.
According to nearby CCTV footage, Bituin’s vehicle proceeded straight ahead without reducing speed.
The Coast Guard has deployed divers to search for the vehicle and remains, but the search operation is facing difficulties due to strong currents and poor visibility.
Police officials stated they are investigating the exact circumstances of the accident, and that the contents of the suicide note cannot be disclosed to protect the bereaved family.
Director Bituin was a key bureaucrat who oversaw multiple pending issues and performed critical duties. His sudden disappearance has sent shockwaves through both political and civil service circles.”
Celeste watched the news of Bituin’s death with cold eyes.
After collecting her thoughts, she let out a short laugh.
That’s a lie.
I’m certain of it.
Bituin wasn’t courageous enough to decide on death alone.
He was good at following orders, but he didn’t have the audacity to decide on death by himself.
I, who watched over Bituin the longest by his side, know this best.
In any case, Bituin won’t be in contact for a while.
He’s gone into hiding with his death fabricated—there’s no way he’ll surface easily.
It would be the same even if someone took him.
It was a bit unfortunate, though.
Bituin did his work well.
He served me very well until this incident broke.
Celeste fell into contemplation.
It wasn’t concern for Bituin.
“Sigh. So who should I appoint as the new Director of Internal Revenue?”
Bituin was already forgotten, and I pondered who to assign as Director of Internal Revenue.
Several people flashed through my mind.
The moment I considered the position of Director of Internal Revenue, I imagined those who would wag their tails like puppies, and laughter bubbled up.
It didn’t matter who took that seat.
I made the decisions, and those fools merely executed them.
They were nothing but parts, mere consumables.
Bituin’s replacement would simply arrive.
Yet thinking of those who would drool with desire to climb to that position, my laughter wouldn’t stop.
Through the Inventory, she had become a magnate of the black market.
138 – Bituin
E-book Publication
/ December 5, 2025
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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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