From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 383 How much can you earn in a single day with 10x leverage? Enough to buy people's hearts!

The closing bell at 3 p.m. echoed like a death knell in the lobby of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange.

The sound was dull and the tone was drawn out, as if each strike was hitting people's hearts.

The clamor inside and outside the stadium had long since faded, replaced by a deathly silence, as if the victims had survived a catastrophe. And even deeper, pervasive despair hung in the air.

On the price chart, the final closing price for the September wheat contract was set at 62.5 cents—a shameful figure worthy of being recorded in the exchange's history. It not only shattered the so-called "ironclad bottom" of the past five years, but also completely crushed the last shred of hope for countless people.

The trading hall was a mess. Torn trading slips, like dirty snow, mixed with cigarette butts and hats that had been trampled off, lay on the cold marble floor.

Some traders remained rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the price chart, seemingly unable to comprehend the meaning behind those numbers. Many more leaned dejectedly against the pillars or slumped on benches, their faces ashen, as if death had ripped their souls away.

Unlike the New York Stock Exchange, more than half of the floor traders at the Chicago Board of Trade are either traders with backgrounds in spot trading or independent members who trade for themselves.

In stock exchanges, even during a bear market, it's mostly the clients who lose money. Futures are different. From Europe to the United States, most futures traders trade for themselves, and in the event of a sudden crash, many traders can truly go bankrupt.

Normally, whether the futures market experiences a surge or a crash, at least half of the participants survive. But what's strange about today is that prices surged first and then plummeted, essentially fooling both the bulls and bears—so the number of people who truly "died" at the exchange today is countless.

Old Stone, the most direct executor of today's market storm, is now walking heavily through the mess. He's not standing tall as usual, but rather slightly hunched over, as if he's aged ten years in an instant.

He could feel the hostile gazes coming from all directions, like cold needles pricking his back. Those gazes contained anger...

There is fear, there is hatred, but more than anything, there is the emptiness and madness of having nothing in the eyes of the bankrupt.

"Stone!" a hoarse growl came from the side.

Old Stone paused, but didn't turn around. He recognized the voice; it was George Morrison, a seasoned trader with over 20 years of experience, specializing in wheat and oats, a fairly honest man with a large family of 13 to support.

George staggered to him, his eyes bloodshot, his once neat hair now disheveled and plastered to his sweaty forehead, his tie askew.

"Look what you've done! You bastard! God will punish you!" He grabbed old Stone's arm, his fingers digging into his flesh, his voice trembling and choked with sobs, "I'm finished—all finished! My position—I fucking thought 7 cents was the bottom, I took all my money—I thought it would bounce back!"

You! You and your damn client! You shorted at 77 cents and kept driving the price down! My stop-loss order was like paper! I've been liquidated! My whole family is going to have to move out and sleep on the streets!

George's spittle nearly landed on old Stone's face as he shook him. "What am I supposed to do? Tell me, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to go home? How am I supposed to face my wife and my kids!"

Old Stone's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he found that he couldn't make a sound.

But what could he say?

Should I say, "I'm just following the client's instructions"? Or should I say, "The market is inherently ruthless, and you have to accept the consequences"?

These words seemed pale and laughable in the face of George's bloodshot eyes and desperate expression. Old Stone saw his own reflection in George's eyes—a cold-blooded, accomplice executioner!

More people gathered around; they weren't as emotionally distraught as George, but their eyes were colder.

"What a brilliant move, Mr. Stone!" A chilling voice rang out; it was his old rival, Green. "First, you opened high to lure in more buyers, creating a false impression of a rebound and luring everyone in. Then you turned around and shorted the market, driving it all the way down to hell—you and the big shot behind you, you made a killing this time, didn't you? How many people's fortunes did you use as stepping stones?"

"I told you long ago, Stone Corporation has been acting strangely lately—" another person chimed in, their voice filled with venom. "It's always at every turning point. What a coincidence! I bet they used some shady methods to get advance notice!"

"Perhaps he and his clients are colluding to deliberately manipulate the market!"

"Executioner!"

"vampire!"

The whispered curses and accusations slithered into old Stone's ears like venomous snakes. He wanted to defend himself, to roar, to say that he was merely an agent and had no control over the market's ups and downs.

But he couldn't speak up, because in a way they were right—Larry Livingston's instructions, through his hands, had indeed become the final straw that broke many people's backs.

Those trades that bought at 73 cents, added to their positions at 77 cents, and then were wiped out in the crash—many of them ended up in his and his son's hands. Futures trading is a zero-sum game; those desperate screams and broken eyes were all related to him!

A nagging sense of guilt, mixed with a clear understanding of the cruel nature of the industry's rules, overwhelmed his heart like cold, wet mud.

Old Stone recalled his motto when he first entered the industry 30 years ago: integrity, transparency, and getting the best price for clients.

But today, he has become an accomplice in the manipulation and slaughter in the eyes of the public. His brokerage firm, the reputation he has built up over many years, and his many friends in the industry—all seem to have vanished in the bloodshed of this day.

"Get out of here, all of you get out of here!"

Old Stone's eldest son rushed in, pushing through the crowd to protect his father. The young man's face showed anger, a hint of fear, but even more so, worry for his father.

"In the market, there are winners and losers. You only have yourself to blame for misjudging the direction, why are you blaming us?!"

This remark immediately added fuel to the fire. The onlookers gritted their teeth and started shoving the two of them, with Green even slapping old Stone hard across the face!

Exchange security intervened promptly, separating the agitated crowd. Old Stone's face burned, but with his hands hanging limply at his sides, he practically fled the main trading floor, supported by his son, and headed towards his relatively secluded counter.

Behind them, they could still faintly hear George's desperate, wounded beast-like howls, along with the angry curses and swears of others.

Back at his counter, old Stone slumped into his worn-out oak chair as if his spine had been ripped out. His trembling hands reached for his pipe, but he couldn't strike a match.

His eldest son silently lit it for him. He took a deep drag of the pungent, cheap tobacco, the smoke filling his lungs, but it couldn't dispel the chill in his heart. The sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows high above the stock exchange was still bright, but in his eyes, the whole world seemed shrouded in gloom.

It's over! Stone's reputation is ruined!

Who would dare to entrust orders to the company in the future? What would his bankrupt colleagues, their families, and friends think of him?

Old Stone seemed to already see the headline in tomorrow's Chicago Tribune financial section: "Stone Corporation Becomes a Market Butcher: Precise Judgment or Insider Manipulation?"

He even began to doubt whether his brokerage principle of "faithfully executing client instructions" was meaningful in this cutthroat market.

Just as old Stone was being consumed by self-doubt and industry-wide despair, his youngest son rushed over with a very complicated expression on his face.

"Father! Father!" The youngest son's voice trembled with excitement.

Old Stone wearily lifted his eyelids, his voice hoarse, "What is it now? Is the settlement complete, Mr. Livingston? —"

How much did he earn in total today?

When he asked that question, he felt numb. No matter how astonishing the number was, it only made him feel more disgusted and pained.

The younger son didn't answer directly, but instead gently placed a thin bill with the bank's letterhead on the table in front of old Stone. Then he took out an exquisite cedarwood box that exuded a rich aroma.

Upon opening, one finds neatly arranged, high-quality Cuban Havana cigars.

"This is a gift from Mr. Livingston!" the younger son said.

Old Stone's gaze was first drawn to the box of obviously expensive cigars, then fell on the receipt. When he saw the number on it, his pupils suddenly contracted!

That wasn't a settlement statement, but an agent commission check! The amount clearly stated: $5437.5.

Old Stone sat bolt upright, grabbed the check, and brought it to his eyes, his fingers trembling slightly.

That's right, $5,437.50! That's almost the total commission Stone Company would normally earn in a whole quarter, or even longer! And today, in just one day, simply because he carried out Larry Livingston's heart-stopping order that caused the market to crash, he received this huge sum of money!

"This—this is—" Old Stone looked at his son blankly.

"This is what Mr. Livingston left behind," the younger son said, his eyes shining. "He said it's today's commission, settled according to the agreed-upon percentage. He also included an additional $3,500 as a reward." Mr. Livingston said, "Thank you, Mr. Stone, for your precise execution. The market was very active today."

The youngest son's voice lowered as he repeated the sentence, finding it somewhat absurd—today's market is a bloodbath, with countless people going bankrupt. But in Livingston's words, it's simply "market activity."

Old Stone stared at the check for a long time, feeling the crisp texture of the anti-counterfeiting document on his fingertips, the subtle raised areas of the bank ink on it so realistic.

More than $5000!

This money is enough for him to immediately pay off some long-overdue debts, enough for his company to weather the upcoming wheat futures slump, and enough for him to buy his family many things he couldn't bear to buy before!

The desperate faces of his colleagues when they went bankrupt, George's trembling hand as he grabbed his arm, and those vicious curses—at this moment, in front of this check that exudes the fresh scent of ink, suddenly became somewhat—blurred and distant.

The guilt still exists, but it's been diluted by a stronger, more primal emotion! It's the joy of survival, the satisfaction of receiving a rich reward, and the solid feeling of "winning" in this cruel market.

He glanced again at the box of cigars—they were absolutely top-quality, each one incredibly valuable. This wasn't just a gift; it was a gesture, a victor's arrogant yet undeniably genuine "appreciation."

The inner torment did not completely disappear, but it was quickly overwhelmed by another, more turbulent emotion.

Feeling disheartened?

No! That's too extravagant. In this place, conscience is fragile, while money and the favor of the victors are the only hard currency.

The ashen and pained look on Old Driver's face faded visibly. He carefully folded the check, put it in his inner pocket, and placed it close to his heart.

Then he picked up a cigar, skillfully cut it open, brought it to the flame his son handed him, and took a deep drag—the rich, thick smoke entered his mouth, and this time it brought not spiciness, but a comforting warmth that went straight to his limbs, even with a hint of sweetness.

Old Stone leaned back in his chair, slowly exhaling a perfect smoke ring, squinting as he watched the smoke rise and dissipate in the afternoon light.

Those who might still be cursing him in the distance, those bankrupts wailing, seemed to be isolated in another world by the thick cigar smoke.

"That Mr. Livingston—" Old Stone began, his voice now steady, even carrying a new...

With an almost pious tone, he asked, "Has he calculated his final total profit today?"

Mr. Livingston opened higher today and placed a long order of 300 lots at 73 cents, which was then closed at 77 cents.

Then, he shorted 100 lots every cent between 77 and 71 cents, for a total of 700 lots.

In addition, Mr. Livingston dumped another 700 lots at 68.5 cents in one go—this one move shattered all the bulls' confidence.

Today's lowest price for wheat was 62 cents, closing at 62.5 cents. Mr. Livingston instructed himself to close all 700 short positions with 10x leverage at the end of the day, while keeping a second 700 contracts. The final transaction price was 62.5 cents.

Old Stone didn't do the exact calculations, but one can imagine that Livingston must have made a fortune today.

Sure enough, the younger son quickly lowered his voice and said, "The preliminary calculations are in. After deducting all commissions and transaction fees, his net profit at our company today alone exceeds $46!!"

Cough!

Old Stone choked on his cigar and quickly asked, "How much? Are you sure you've got the answer right?"

"That's right. The previous 300 long positions made $6, and the 700 short positions established from 77 to 71 cents were finally closed at 62.5 cents, for a total profit of $40! This is today's intraday settlement trade with 2500x leverage."

The youngest son gritted his teeth and said, "That's it! I haven't even calculated the unrealized profit from his previous 148 short positions and today's new 700 short positions at 68.5 cents each—"

Old Stone stared blankly for a moment, then swallowed hard, only to find his throat was already dry.

$46! In one day! $46!

This doesn't even include unrealized profits!

This figure even exceeded his imagination of "exorbitant profits"! And he himself, simply for faithfully carrying out orders, received more than $5000!

All moral struggles and peer pressures were utterly crushed at this moment by this enormous, glittering success.

What reputation, what professional camaraderie? They are all fragile and vulnerable in the face of real money that can change one's destiny!

Larry Livingston is not a devil; he is Merlin, the magician who turns everything to gold, a supreme king! And how fortunate old Stone is to be able to wield the scythe for such a ruler!

Old Stone slowly stood up and walked to the window. Looking at the bustling crowds on the street outside, who knew nothing of the financial hell, a strange emotion, a mixture of awe, fear, and a strong sense of attachment, rose in his heart.

"Go!" he instructed his son without turning around, his voice low and firm. "Send Mr. Livingston's hotel a bouquet of the finest flowers and a bottle of my prized Highland whisky in the name of Stone Company. Write on the card—"

He paused, searching for the right words. Finally, those sycophantic phrases he had once scorned, used to flatter important clients, flowed out so naturally and fluently—

"Dedicated to the sole prophet and master of today's markets. Stone Corporation and Bill Stone are ready to serve you, until death do us part."

When he uttered the words "until death do us part," old Stone didn't hesitate at all. At that moment, he had only one incredibly clear thought in his mind: to cling tightly to this unprecedented, powerful, and terrifying golden thigh, even if it meant bearing the infamy, even if it meant becoming the target of public criticism, he didn't care at all.

Because that's the naked, true rule of this business: winner takes all! Loyalty belongs to the winners; it's the only salvation for the losers. And it's the highest position an agent like him can climb.

Old Stone exhaled his last puff of smoke, placed the cigar on the edge of the ashtray, and let it extinguish itself because he couldn't bear to finish it all at once; he wanted to savor the rich flavor of the remaining half cigar later.

His gaze sharpened again, even more profound than before. The afternoon's gloom vanished, and the cries of the bankrupt became distant background noise.

He began to seriously consider how he could better serve that young Mr. Livingston, and how he could become more valuable in those eyes that seemed to see through all the fog of the market.

The irony of the financial world is perhaps the greatest.

A butcher's knife that was just trembling with the blood of its comrades has been wiped clean and is filled with gratitude and longing for the next, more vigorous strike, simply because the wielder has rewarded it with a piece of gold.

Bill Stone has completed his transformation.

When his youngest son timidly asked what should be done about George Morrison, old Stone thought for a few seconds and calmly said, "Listen, son. Trading is like the Amazon rainforest. Where there's sunshine and rain nourishing towering trees, there must be plants decaying at the bottom. That's ecology!"

He paused, gazing into the distance, as if speaking to Larry, or perhaps to a deity in the clouds, and whispered, "You are right—on this continent, pity is the greatest disrespect to free competition!"

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