World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 146: James & Conner

James adjusted his grip on the club again, feeling the leather bite into his palm.

The opening bell had long since faded into the breeze, replaced by the distant thwacks of golf balls being struck and the occasional ripple of polite applause from various parts of the course.

His name had been called and the tournament had officially begun.

He stood beside Connor Wells, who looked every bit the star even dressed in muted athletic wear — charcoal-gray slacks, a soft navy polo that hugged his form, and a visor that shaded a gaze sharp enough to slice through tension.

Their judge, a stone-faced older man named Mr. Reinfeld, stood a few feet back, flanked by two assistants holding tablets.

"Hole One. Par Four," Connor said, surveying the distance with an ease that came from confidence, experience and comfort.

James, meanwhile, stared at the pristine green stretching out before them like a trap lined with subtle humiliation.

Connor turned to him, tossing a light grin his way.

"Ever play a full eighteen?"

"Nope," James admitted, adjusting the club again.

"Just a few swing drills with my coach. Haven’t even started official lessons," he added.

Connor raised an eyebrow, then let out a soft whistle.

"Alright. Then this is going to be interesting."

"Worried?" James asked with a grin, masking his nerves.

"About losing? Nah, I just want to unwind today. I’m not in for the reward or anything. But about you accidentally killing someone with a bad swing? Hmmm... Slightly."

James chuckled, but it was brief — because Connor stepped up to the tee with fluid grace and unleashed a drive that arced through the air like a bullet. It landed clean, rolled forward, and stopped just shy of the green.

Even the judge made a small noise of approval.

"Show-off," James muttered.

"Your turn, Tiger."

James stepped up, planted his feet as Mr Donovan had once told him, and swung.

The sound wasn’t as crisp. The ball sliced right. It wasn’t a total disaster, but it was clear even to James that it was a rookie shot.

Still, Connor clapped once.

"Not bad. For a guy with zero training, you’ve got decent mechanics"

Their assistants marked the shots. The two walked together down the fairway, caddies trailing just behind.

As they moved, James noted how Connor carried himself and how his pace never rushed. He felt that this was due to his line of work.

"You’re not just good. You’ve played here before," James said.

"A few times," Connor nodded.

James nodded to himself, as he looked at the greens in front of him.

Each hole added layers to the pressure. Connor coached James through approach shots, helped him correct posture mid-swing, and even cracked jokes to loosen the tension.

Hole Two? James bogeyed.

Hole Three? Par, barely, thanks to Connor’s advice.

Hole Four was worse — James’ chip shot overshot the green, and they had to fight to salvage points.

By the time they reached Hole Six, James had begun to sweat — not just from the sun, but the constant realization of how much he didn’t know.

"You alright?" Connor asked casually, checking their position on the green.

"Yeah. Just realizing I’m in over my head."

James couldn’t help but feel the top spot spilling further and further from him.

Connor leaned on his club and turned to look at James. He could feel his nerves shaking and he felt that he has to say something.

"Everyone starts somewhere. You’ve got something most don’t."

"What’s that?"

"You listen."

James glanced over, surprised.

"Most guys in your position — rich, newly connected — they assume they’re smarter and already know everything. You? You’re paying attention. That’s rare."

James looked down at the ball, smiled and scoffed at himself internally.

"Thanks. Still doesn’t mean I can win."

"No," Connor agreed. "But it means you won’t embarrass yourself. That’s a win in my book."

By the halfway mark — Hole Nine — the score wasn’t perfect, but it was decent. All thanks mostly to Connor.

His near-flawless swings had carried them into the upper middle bracket, and while James had stumbled, he was learning quickly.

Their pairing had started to catch attention.

By Hole Ten, James noticed more eyes drifting their way. Other pairs paused to glance.

"Wells got the newbie with him?"

"Yeah and they’re holding steady."

"I heard that kid was recommended by Mr Donovan and that he’s a total greehorn at the game. But honestly, he’s not bad for a first-timer."

The course was shifting — not the terrain, but the atmosphere. The tension had gone from subtle to tight-laced.

Assistants typed faster and judges watched more closely. Members seated on shaded benches adjusted their sunglasses and leaned forward just a bit more.

That’s when the first turning point came — Hole Eleven.

A long par five, sharp dogleg to the right, with a sand trap near the green and an awkward lie just before it.

Connor nailed the drive. The ball spun beautifully into position.

Next,James stepped up. He took a deep breath and swung.

The shot wasn’t bad. No, it was worse than bad.

He sliced the ball again — this time landing it deep in the rough, close to a patch of mulch and decorative stones.

And there was silence.

Connor said nothing at first, then exhaled.

"Alright. We’ll work with it."

James looked at him. "That bad?"

"Let’s just say I’ve seen worse. But not much." Connor shrugged.

They approached the rough, and as James stared down at the mess, Connor crouched beside him.

"Here’s what we’ll do. Forget trying to play it out traditionally. You punch low and aim for the fringe. I’ll clean it up from there."

James followed his instructions. The result? It was manageable. It wasn’t good, but not game-ending.

Connor then chipped in from a ridiculous angle. Birdie.

Cheers rang faintly in the background. The cheers wasn’t too loud as this was still a country club.

Even the judge seemed impressed by Conner’s shot.

James stared at Connor.

"You just saved that hole."

Connor offered a quick grin.

"Told you. Let’s put on a show."

Hole Twelve and Thirteen passed with mixed results — steady play and no disasters. James was stabilizing and Connor remained the anchor.

Then came Hole Fourteen.

Another par four. This one tight, with trees lining the left and a water hazard near the green.

James teed off. It wasn’t perfect, but it stayed on the fairway.

Connor followed next with a perfect drive.

But on their approach, disaster struck.

James, trying to show he was improving, chose to go for a direct line to the green — and clipped the water.

Splash.

Even Connor winced.

"Should’ve aimed safe."

"Yeah," James muttered.

Now they needed to recover — not just to stay in the game, but to advance to the next round.

Connor made the decision.

"Let me handle the next shot. If I can birdie it, we still make it through."

James nodded, stepping back, letting the pressure settle on his partner.

Connor approached the ball.

The crowd was still and extremely quiet as they watched him. Even distant players paused to see what was going on.

Connor adjusted his stance, looked once at the green and then swung.

The ball soared, taking off in a beautiful flight and landed... just short of the hole.

Gasps echoed. It rolled. Slowed and stopped an inch from the cup.

James could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Then the judge raised a hand.

"One more stroke to advance."

Connor turned to James.

"It’s your putt."

"What?" James blinked.

"You made the mistake. You make the redemption. That’s how this works." Connor nodded.

James stepped forward.

Silence returned and the entire green seemed to breathe with him.

The ball waited — a single inch from glory.

James bent low, with his hands steady. He took a deep breath, looked up at the flag and down at the tee.

He knew that if they don’t score here, they’d fall just short of the point threshold to qualify for the next round.