World's Richest Man: I Leaped Across Time-Chapter 174: Talk

We hadn’t made it three steps inside the hall before the first professor descended.

He was a wiry man in a tweed blazer that looked borrowed from a taller colleague, his glasses perched low on his nose. His salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a style that hadn’t been fashionable since the ’90s.

He intercepted us near the edge of the crowd, his hand already extended. "Mr. Somnus," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d spent decades lecturing to rooms of distracted undergrads. "Professor Henry Walsh. Chair of the Economics Department here at MIT. We read the summary you sent ahead. MySpace and Facebook as a branding tool. Google’s AdWords. PlayTube? Fascinating, if a bit… unorthodox. But we’re intrigued by your approach." His smile was thin, more obligation than warmth.

"Caught your eye, huh?" I said, shaking his hand. "Good to know."

Charlotte hovered just behind me, her presence drawing sideways glances from a cluster of students. She’d swapped her usual leather jacket for a fitted blazer, but her combat boots betrayed her. "Unorthodox pays the bills," she said, stepping forward.

People buzzed around—students swapping notes, professors huddled up, tech reps jockeying for attention. Some Apple guys in black polos glanced between me and the banner.

Professor Walsh’s eyes flicked to Charlotte. "And you are…?"

"Charlotte," I said, sliding an arm around her waist. "Future Grammy winner. You’ll know her name in a few years."

Charlotte’s cheeks went pink. She elbowed me. "Jack, stop," she mumbled, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed.

A snort came from the crowd. A guy in a MIT Hackers shirt grinned. "Wait, you’re Charlotte Rodriguez? The girl who did that punk cover of Oops!… I Did It Again on PlayTube last month? That was viral in, like, three dorm halls."

Charlotte froze. "That was a joke."

"It had 100,000 views!"

She glared at me. "You said no one would see it."

I shrugged.

Professor Clay looked lost. "In any case," he said, steering back to safer ground, "your focus on ’infamous branding’ in the summary—encouraging companies to court controversy to capture youth attention—is provocative. The board has… questions."

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"Good," I said. "Provocation’s cheaper than ad buys."

Walsh’s eyebrows twitched, but before he could say anything, a commotion near the doors turned heads.

A girl in a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit with a rhinestone-studded flip phone came charging toward me, trailing a cloud of vanilla body spray.

"Jack!" she squealed, nearly knocking over a freshman. "Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you!"

Charlotte, standing beside me, glanced over with mild amusement, her eyes flicking between me and the approaching girl.

The girl—her name tag read AMBER—ignored her.

"I’ve followed every move you’ve made! Investing in NetEase right before China’s gaming boom? Genius! And that whole thing with Monster Beverage and the Johnsons? Legendary." She clasped her hands together like she was holding a prayer. "And when you bought into Google right before their IPO? I wondered why, but when I read about them it all made sense!"

I raised an eyebrow. "You follow IPOs?"

"I follow you," she said bluntly. "Well… you and your money." She gave a sheepish laugh. "But also you! I mean, look at you!" She waved a hand at my suit. "Armani, right? 2003 collection. I read that Forbes article. They said you bought out the whole collection."

Charlotte chuckled. "Nice eye. And cute phone, by the way. Retro’s in again."

Amber blinked in surprise before her smile returned, a little brighter now.

Professor Clay took the opportunity to quietly slip away, muttering something about "checking the mic levels."

"Anyway," Amber continued, undeterred, "I’m president of the Entrepreneurship Club. We’re hosting a bake sale to fund a startup. You should totally invest! We’re calling it ’Billionaire Bites’—get it? Like you."

"Catchy," I said. "Do the brownies come with stock options?"

She giggled. "You’re hilarious. And so. Hot."

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Charlotte’s hand slid up my back, possessive and light. "Careful, Amber," she said lightly. "He’s allergic to groupies before noon."

Amber’s eyes widened slightly, unsure if Charlotte was serious or just messing with her. But before she could reply, the dean’s voice boomed over the PA system:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jack Somnus!"

The crowd shifted, a current of murmurs and rustling programs. Amber blew me a kiss as I stepped onto the stage. Charlotte claimed a seat in the front row, legs crossed, still smirking as if the whole interaction had been her idea of fun.

I gripped the podium, waiting as the murmur of the crowd settled. The overhead lights reflected off the sleek wooden stage, but as I glanced out, I realized something—the hall was packed.

When I’d first stepped in, the rows had been half-full. Now, the crowd had doubled. People sat on the stair aisles, squeezed between seats, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the walls. Some leaned near the open double doors, craning their necks to see.

Even the windows had been cracked open, letting in a faint breeze—someone must have opened them because the room was getting low on oxygen from the sheer number of bodies packed inside.

A few latecomers whispered as they shuffled into the back, trying to find any space to stand. I spotted a guy sitting cross-legged near the edge of the stage, notebook balanced on his knee, scribbling furiously.

I took a slow breath. ’Good. This was how it should be.’

"Let’s get one thing straight," I started. "I’m not here to teach you how to make a logo. I’m here to teach you how to make a generation care. How to get inside people’s heads—and stay there."

I clicked to the first slide:

Branding = Brainwashing (But Fun!)

The crowd rippled with laughter—some nervously, others with genuine amusement.

I let the slide hang just long enough to watch three professors shift in their seats.

"Let’s start with MySpace," I clicked to a screenshot of some emo kid’s profile plastered with Fall Out Boy lyrics and Hot Topic links. "It is a community where teenagers built their own space. I guess some are moving to Facebook now..." I smirked. "but that’s not the topic."