I Inherited Trillions, Now What?-Chapter 159: Father and Son II

The old king let out an exaggerated sigh, the kind that only comes from years of ruling an entire nation and being forced to answer to no one except your own whims. His voice rang out, dripping with annoyance, "This better be good. You know I don't like to be disturbed, especially when I'm at my downtime." He didn't even look over his shoulder, still enjoying the blissful solitude of his royal pool, the cool water gently lapping at the edge where he reclined.

The Crown Prince, always quick to take advantage of any moment, couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. "When aren't you at your downtime, Father?" The words were barely a whisper, but anyone who knew the Crown Prince's dry humor would've caught it. He even rolled his eyes for added flair.

The King's eyes shot open, even though his back was still turned to the prince. "What did you say?" The words were sharp—no mistaking the warning in his tone. Despite his age, the King's hearing was sharp enough to catch every little sarcastic jab his son dared to toss his way.

The Crown Prince froze. His eyes widened, but only for a split second. There was no way he could pretend that the King hadn't heard him, so instead of trying to get out of it, he gave a nonchalant shrug and said the only thing he could: "Nothing, Father." The way he said it, smooth as honey, made it sound like the least convincing thing anyone could say in this situation.

The King, however, didn't buy it. A slow, deliberate groan escaped him, followed by a muttered, "You're a piece of work, you know that?" The old man finally, with the grace of a weary lion, rose from the pool, the water dripping off his tanned, muscular frame. The glistening droplets only emphasized the royal aura that still hung around him despite his mood.

The Crown Prince, ever the careful observer, turned his head immediately, almost too quickly. He was getting a bit too used to this.

"Don't hurry on my account," the King said, glancing back over his shoulder with a wry smile. "You can admire the view longer."

The Crown Prince tried to stifle a snicker, but it slipped out anyway. "If you say so, Father."

As the King stepped out of the pool, he was somehow already dressed—magically so, it seemed—without missing a beat. Even though he had just been swimming moments ago, he stood there now in full regalia, as if he'd been crowned seconds ago, ready to face the world. A royal bathrobe, made from the finest silk and embroidered with gold thread, hung loosely on his broad shoulders. The robe shimmered as though it had been touched by a thousand threads of sunlight, and in his hand, he held a delicate crystal glass filled with water, looking somehow more regal than most people did holding a scepter.

The Crown Prince couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Nice speed dressing, Father. Is there a secret to it?" He wasn't trying to be rude, just genuinely curious.

The King, already bored, gave him a flat look. "You've been keeping tabs on my wardrobe, son?"

"I have a very healthy interest in royal fashion," the Crown Prince quipped, his tone light but with a touch of mischief.

Ignoring the teasing, the King took a long sip of his water, still glaring at his son over the rim of his glass. He then exhaled deeply. "Alright. Enough of the pleasantries. Why are you just standing there like a statue, hmm? Are you mute now? What's all this about?"

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The Prince, not one to take offense easily, merely cleared his throat, his voice a tad more serious. "Well, Father, the reason I came to see you is important—"

He paused for dramatic effect, knowing his father was already about to interrupt.

The King's eyes narrowed. "Important, huh? Is it about that hotel problem you accepted? Tell me it's not that." His tone was one part irritation, one part resignation

MBS was quiet for a moment.

Despite his father's well-known disinterest in state affairs these days, he knew better. The King might not actively sit in meetings or sign every document, but nothing significant happened in the Kingdom without reaching his ears. A man like Alexander Blackwell arriving in Riyadh was not the sort of thing his father would overlook — and certainly not a private meeting with the Crown Prince himself.

So no, he wasn't shocked that his father knew. Not even a little.

MBS took a breath. After a pause filled with subtle tension, he said, "It is about him, and—"

But before he could finish, a deep laugh rang out — sudden, loud, and surprisingly hearty.

He turned his head, watching as the King leaned back and let the laughter roll out of him like a man who had just heard the most absurd joke of the century. The old lion of Arabia even did a half-spin and flopped onto a nearby lounge chair, still laughing as he clutched his side.

It took a few minutes before the laughter faded, and when it did, the King leaned forward slightly, amusement still dancing in his eyes.

"My son…" the King began, his tone now laced with gravity. "Let me remind you of something simple."

His voice dropped. The room seemed to grow heavier with each word.

"We are an oil nation," he said.

The Crown Prince's gaze sharpened immediately. His father's mood had changed. And when the King spoke again, the joy was gone, replaced with the calm steel of authority.

"And as an oil nation, our allegiances were written long before your time. Long before mine. We are bound, not by treaties, but by economics — by blood, almost — to the oil elite families. And that includes the Rockefellers."

There it was.

As the King of Saudi Arabia — a key player on the global stage — he knew all too well of the growing rivalry between Alexander Blackwell and Nathaniel Rockefeller. One was the ruthless New Head of His family's industry, and the other, the legacy of old power. And while Nathaniel was not yet the official head of his family, the storm between them had already begun to thunder across the world's elite.

The King wanted no part in it. He had learned, after decades of leadership and loss, that peace — even an illusion of it — was sometimes better than being caught in the crossfire of titans.

So his message to his son now wasn't just a warning. It was a line drawn in the sand. A boundary not to be crossed.

And although his relationship with the Rockefellers was merely transactional — business, nothing more — he intended to remain neutral in the coming war. That neutrality was his strategy. His silence, his wisdom. And he needed the Crown Prince to understand: even a thought of meddling in that battle was already too much.

MBS stood still.

"Yes, Father," he said at last. "We are an oil nation."

The King gave a small nod, his stern face softening slightly.

"And as an oil nation," the Prince continued, "we stand with the oil families."

The King smiled broadly, relief washing over his features. "Yes. Good, good child." He even laughed again, lightly smacking his lap with pride.

But the Prince wasn't finished.

He leaned forward ever so slightly, and then calmly, deliberately, said:"So... if we are no longer an oil nation, we're free to side with whomever we choose."

The King's smile vanished.

His hands froze mid-motion, and the room became still.

In a voice that was low and deadly serious, he asked, "What do you mean by that?"

MBS held his gaze. "I meant what I said. As of now, I am shedding the oil identity associated with Saudi Arabia."

The King's jaw tightened. Rage simmered just beneath his calm exterior.

Still, the Prince pressed on. "Saudi Arabia will become known for what it truly can be. What its real potential is. Not as a kingdom built on a dying resource, but as a force of innovation. Power. Sustainability. Influence that stretches beyond the barrel of oil."

"ENOUGH!" the King roared, rising from his chair with the speed and strength of a man half his age.

"Saudi is oil. Oil is Saudi!" he thundered.

"It has been this way since the founding of the Kingdom! And it will remain so until time immemorial!"

He began pacing, his back turned, the royal cloak trailing behind him like a storm cloud. "I have told you before — I will not entertain foolish talk like this again."

"But it's the truth," came the quiet, unwavering voice of the Crown Prince.

The King froze in his tracks.

He turned, face twisted in disbelief, only for his son to cut him off for the first time that day.

"The oil is finishing, Father."

The King shook his head, but MBS didn't let up.

"I know it's a hard truth to swallow," he said, his voice firmer, rising with conviction. "But that's what's happening. It is finishing. And the Rockefellers, or any other so-called oil elite family, they don't care. They won't lift a finger when the wells dry up."

"They'll drain us, use us — until there's nothing left. And the moment we're no longer useful?" He paused, his words laced with venomous certainty. "They'll throw us away."

He stepped forward. Slowly.

The King's eyes were burning. But his son wasn't afraid. Not this time.

"You left me something to protect, Father. A legacy. And all I'm trying to do is ensure that my children — your grandchildren — can inherit a future just as meaningful."

His tone softened now, turning reverent.

"You were the one who fought to make me Crown Prince," he said gently. "You, who went against the traditions of brother-to-brother succession. You chose me — your seventh son. You paid for that choice with blood. You buried brothers, sons, friends..."

The King's eyes fluttered shut.

"All I'm asking now is to let me be that son," the Prince continued. "The one you broke the rules for. Let me prove to you why you were right. Let me preserve the name. The family. The Kingdom."

Silence.

The King said nothing. His eyes still closed. But MBS knew — he was listening.

And he knew the weight those memories carried.

He had seen what his father endured — the wars within palaces, the whispers, the knives behind smiles. The cost of a crown passed to a son, not a brother. The price of defiance.

"I need you now, Dad," the Crown Prince said softly, stepping forward. "More than ever. This could be huge for us."

The King exhaled.

Finally, he opened his eyes, and before him stood his son — not a boy anymore, but a man. The one he had chosen over all others. The one he had always believed would outshine every royal who came before.

He reached out, placing a hand on the richly woven bisht of the Crown Prince. The golden trim gleamed beneath the fading light.

"It's not that, son," the King said at last, voice weary but sincere. "It's not that I don't believe you. Or trust in your vision. But…"

He looked away for a moment.

"…the stakes are high. And there are forces — ancient, powerful — that were designed to keep us chained to oil. And if we defy them—"

He paused.

A shiver ran down his spine.

The Crown Prince saw his father sigh and drop his hand from his shoulder. Not willing to lose momentum, he stepped forward."Father, about that… with the Blackwells onboard—"

But for the third time since stepping into this conversation, he was cut off again.

"Ha!"It wasn't just a laugh—it was a guttural sound of mockery, laced with scorn and memory. His father turned from him, waving off his words with a gesture that stung sharper than any reprimand.

"The Blackwell's…" the King muttered, his voice low, almost poetic, almost like he was reciting something ancient and stained. Then louder, slower, deeper:"Gold for blood, silence for truth, betrayal for profit—those are the currencies the Blackwell's deal in. They do not believe in nations. They do not believe in faith or religion or even in humanity. They only believe in empire—an empire of greed, built not on morals, but on the ashes of those foolish enough to trust them."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

The King turned slowly, his gaze heavier now, drawn from memory. "Those weren't my words," he said gravely. "Those were your grand-uncle's—the former King's words—after doing business with Alexander's father, Cassius Blackwell. That man walked through this palace in a suit of gold and a soul of smoke. Left here richer than God… and we never saw him again."

He paused.

"The Blackwell's are only ever after what would profit them. They don't help—they calculate. They don't support—they invest. And if they smile at you, it's only because your downfall isn't ready yet." His eyes locked on his son's. "Alexander is not your friend."

But the Crown Prince, unshaken, replied evenly, "I don't think it's right to call someone else's pockets unholy when you consider ours."

That line landed sharply. The King blinked—then a rare smile tugged at his mouth. But the prince wasn't finished.

"And as for their obsession with profit… at least with Alexander Blackwell, we know exactly where the lines are drawn. He doesn't pretend. He doesn't wear the mask. That's better than all the false alliances we've wrapped ourselves in for decades—alliances built on empty handshakes and veiled threats. With him, we'll always know what he wants. That makes him predictable."

His voice was calm, certain, grounded in something stronger than just youth—it was conviction.

The King chuckled, dry and tired. "Well, what am I even doing? I'm already old," he said, waving a dismissive hand, his voice softer now, conceding. "This isn't my fight anymore. Do whatever you want, son."

He turned his back, walking slowly toward the exit. "Not like I'll be here when it all blows up," he muttered.

Mohammed bin Salman stood there silently, watching the man who had ruled for decades—who had broken tradition for him, carved his path through fire to place the crown at his feet—walk away. He wasn't angry. He understood. The King had fought his war. This one… was his.

The Blackwells' never-ending hunger for profit, for control, for dominance—that was no secret. Anyone who mattered already knew. And yet… MBS had still chosen them. Not because they were moral. Not because they were loyal. But because he didn't need them to be.

All he needed… was to make Saudi matter to them.

All he needed… was a way to bind their future to his nation's future. Their fate to his throne. Their greed—to his vision.

And he knew exactly how to do that.

Alexander Blackwell.

The prince turned, the gears already turning, the fire in his eyes burning brighter than ever. This wasn't a gamble. This was a game.

And MBS intended to win it.