Don't Mess with the Fisherman

Paul, the top-tier crab fisherman who endured a full year of humiliation and unspoken hardship, ventured into the "Devil's Tooth" reef zone of the Bering Sea — a stretch of waters with a near-lethal fatality rate — to scrape together medical bills for his ailing parents. Against all odds, he survived countless near-death encounters and brought back a haul of premium king crabs worth 2 million USD for his own blood uncle David. However, the greedy David tore up their pre-agreed 50/50 profit split deal on the spot, tossed 30,000 USD at Paul's feet like he was chasing off a beggar, and even forced Paul's elderly parents to kneel on the freezing icy deck and work as the lowest-tier manual laborers. Faced with this unthinkable humiliation, Paul did not utter a single complaint. He turned away, crushed the last shred of dignity represented by that 30,000 dollars, bought a run-down broken wooden boat whose radar did not even work, and sailed back into the death sea amid the jeers and mockery of every other local fisherman. He had no idea this was only the prelude to the coronation of the new undisputed king of the Bering Sea. Relying on his god-tier instinct for ocean current patterns and unrivaled reckless grit, Paul reaped one record-breaking top-grade seafood haul after another. David, by contrast, sank deeper into ruin dragged down by his own greed: he was stripped of every last penny of his assets, and ended up rummaging through trash bins on Paul's pier for half-rotted dead fish to eat. When David knelt in the mud wailing and begging for mercy, Paul — draped in a custom high-end trench coat — stepped on his face and tossed him a ragged entry-level fish-gutting work uniform. "This uniform exists only so my father can sleep through the night without nightmares. If you dare cause any trouble on this dock ever again, I will personally throw you into the ocean to fill the seabed." Paul's fishing fleet expanded at an exponential rate. He founded the *Poseidon Syndicate*, a