Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 002
Chapter Title: My Name is Sahour.
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Sahour Reza Pahlavi III.
That's my name.
It's 1978 now, so it's been over ten years since I left Tehran for the United States.
I was just ten years old when I departed Tehran.
Looking back, I was awfully precocious for my age.
Officially, the reason was to escape the subtle disdain of being known as a bastard child and to learn and gain experiences early in a new world.
The real reason was to keep that crazy old religious fanatic from stealing my future position as the youngest prince of an oil-rich nation once I grew up.
Ayatollah Khomeini succeeds in his revolution in 1979, right?
If I didn't want to end up like my father, the king who couldn't even protect what was his, I had no choice but to prepare myself quickly.
The moment I shed my snot-nosed kid phase, I went straight to my father, Shah Reza Pahlavi II, and declared I was heading to America.
"I'm leaving."
"Huh? Why?"
"Why do you think? You never paid any attention to me because I'm the son of some foreign housemaid."
"Hmph. Fine. Where are you planning to go?"
"To America."
"America? Not South Korea?"
"It's the land of opportunity. I want to go there and seize some new chances."
"Hmph. Well, gaining experience early isn't a bad idea."
Since it was America—something my father was totally weak for—he ended up approving my trip.
On the way out, I tried to take my birth mother, Lady Park, with me.
But...
"I still need to stay here and hold down the fort in our country. That way, your father might secure a little more for your share. Go ahead and travel with peace of mind—I'll guard things here."
Ah, classic words and mindset from a Korean mother who's endured the turbulent fifties.
In the end, knowing I couldn't sway her stubbornness, I decided to leave alone.
And so, ten years ago in 1969, I held my Korean mother's hand one last time at Tehran Airport before boarding the plane.
Finally, I arrived in New York.
When I landed in America, my only companion was my loyal servant Hassan.
Our story begins with just the two of us, starting from scratch on the unfamiliar streets of New York.
Of course, then as now—or even in the future—your origins never really leave you.
On the day I left, my father, Pahlavi II, handed me a parting gift as if tossing me some pocket change.
"Take this at least and use it to get settled. For the sake of the royal family's face, don't make it look too shabby. I'll send you a monthly allowance to cover living expenses."
Even as the youngest, the Shahanshah showed little affection for a prince born of lowly blood, and as expected, his farewell was cold and indifferent.
Of course.
The one you truly loved was someone else.
That "modest" parting gift he tossed my way like charity?
Ten million dollars in U.S. currency.
And the "basic living expenses" I was to receive monthly? One million dollars.
America's per capita income in 1969 was around five thousand dollars.
Sony, the Japanese company that stunned the world that year, had annual net profits of about twenty million dollars.
I was reminded once again of the swagger only an oil king's son could have.
Using that parting gift as seed money, I began preparations over the next ten years to take on the religious peddlers who would overthrow my country.
A massive window stretching to the ceiling.
I sat by the terrace where sunlight filtered in, sipping the tea Hassan had brought me.
Hassan placed the monthly report in front of me.
Then he began a brief briefing.
"Here's this month's investment performance. Overall, results are solid, and especially the Japanese companies you've recently invested in have seen big gains."
"Well, yeah. The whole Japanese economy is booming."
"You're right, Your Highness. But no one could predict the growth of Japanese companies as accurately as you have."
Genuine admiration and respect shone through in Hassan's voice.
"Eh, just got lucky."
"You've always said that. Like when Egypt sparked the third Middle East war, or right before the oil shock when you scooped up crude oil futures flooding the market."
"Did I say that?"
"You did."
Maybe it's time to switch up my lines.
Repeating the same thing might make people suspicious.
Lost in such thoughts, I glanced down at the report.
Asset management firm, Dark Angel performance report.
The first thing I did after arriving in America was establish an asset management firm.
Its name: Dark Angel.
The report detailed that firm's investment results.
Cumulative total return: 23,671%.
Account balance: 179.87 million dollars.
Total assets under management: 1.559 billion dollars.
Fund assets: 4.18 billion dollars.
I used the parting gift as initial capital.
It was a time when the U.S. and Japan, two economic powerhouses, were exploding in growth, so multiplying money was child's play.
I cycled funds through stocks, futures, real estate—spin, spin, spin again.
As the money ballooned several times over in the blink of an eye, I siphoned off portions into paper companies in Panama and the Virgin Islands for safekeeping.
Then reinvested the laundered funds.
The plan was to grow the assets while keeping my identity airtight.
No point in anyone knowing until I was firmly established.
That said, I didn't mind the whispers spreading quietly around Wall Street.
"Beneath the glittering lights of Wall Street, a dark prince with the golden touch lurks in the shadows, watching the markets."
Instead of my real identity, nicknames like Gold Finger and Dark Prince floated among ultra-high-net-worth circles.
As if to prove the rumors true, Dark Angel posted stellar returns.
Ultra-wealthy investors kept knocking, eager to join our funds.
And so, I discreetly approached those big shots, forging secret alliances.
With nonstop investment wins, assets snowballed.
Adding in funds from Wall Street heavyweights, Dark Angel spread its wings wide.
Starting from ten million dollars, my personal assets surpassed 1.5 billion at some point.
Invested capital swelled to four billion.
Even seeing those figures on the report, though...
"Modest, huh."
"Well, you've been pulling out investment capital to deploy elsewhere."
"True enough."
"If you'd kept reinvesting without withdrawals, projected returns would exceed 40,000%."
"Is that so? Eh, I'm not grinding through this for just a few billion dollars."
What I want?
The entire Iranian kingdom, sitting atop trillions in oil reserves.
Something a lowly youngest prince could never dream of in the original timeline.
But in one year, the throne will officially go vacant.
Khomeini is both my enemy and, in a way, my running mate.
Hassan smiled as he spoke.
"It will surely come to pass as you intend, Your Highness."
"Yeah. It has to. I've invested the last ten years in this. Is tonight the last supper?"
"Yes. Exactly. Once a month for eight years and four months—tonight makes the 100th."
The evening banquet.
A sort of networking gathering I've held consistently since settling in New York.
Like an Iranian alumni association, I suppose?
Invitees: promising new officers from Iran's army, navy, and air force; engineering geniuses studying abroad; journalists; and students in economics, business, and law.
They were my investments—the human capital I'd nurtured by forgoing billions in returns over ten years.
"How many recruits so far?"
"A total of 1,071."
Most had already returned home, securing high positions in Iranian society.
The rest still here? Future leaders to steer the kingdom.
I'd invested heavily especially in officers and journalists.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword, after all.
But as the bastard son of an oil nation, I didn't have to choose.
I could prepare both—for my sake.
"Anyway, about the banquet. What about the earlier schedule?"
"This morning, meetings with broadcast network presidents and investors."
Part of my portfolio was invested in U.S. broadcast networks.
To me, just one of many companies.
To them? A sit-down with their shadowy major shareholder.
Hassan continued the briefing.
"This afternoon, the Lockheed Martin president and executives are visiting to discuss the Iran F-16 purchase."
My key investment sectors: three big ones.
Energy, media, and defense.
Especially Lockheed Martin—I bought shares before the F-15 was even selected as America's next-gen fighter.
Other investors voiced concerns back then, of course.
But they all shut up after seeing the upward-trending profit graphs I generated.
Plus, the F-16 is about to become a massive hit.
For me, defense investments weren't just about money.
They gave me leverage over Iran-U.S. diplomatic channels too—a two-for-one deal.
"What materials for the broadcast exec meetings?"
"The secretariat's preparing them now. I'll do the final review and have them to you two hours before."
"Handle the networks yourself. They're the ones desperate anyway. On Lockheed Martin—how's the Iran export progressing?"
"Smooth sailing with the kingdom. Ink should be on paper soon."
"Quantity?"
"First batch in talks: 160 Block 15 F-16s. Total around 3.5 billion dollars. Plus discussions for 140 more within three years."
F-16 Fighting Falcon.
The export version of the F-15, the world's top fighter.
Like the F-35 as a downgraded F-22.
Honestly, the F-16 is cheat-level on its own.
Built in the '70s, and Russia was pissed about U.S. F-16 aid in the 2024 Ukraine war.
In the '70s? A game-changer for warfare.
Knowing the Iranian government was interested, I snapped up Lockheed shares and slipped in as a secret broker between both sides.
"Our commission?"
"Two percent of the total—about seventy million dollars."
No reason to turn down free money.
"Prep the meeting, then. And get the daily closing candles ready for tonight. Can't send our folks back home without a little parting gift, right?"
Summer 1978.
As popular protests in Tehran Iran grew fiercer by the day,
I steadily advanced the pieces needed to claim the kingdom plunging into—or rather, deeper into—chaos.