World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 145: The Country Club’s Weekly Tournament’s Begins

James pulled into the parking lot of the Bel-Air Country Club, the Range Rover’s engine sounding quietly as it came to a stop.

The moment he turned off the engine and stepped out, he noticed how packer the lot was, with more cars than he’d ever seen here, even more than during the Chef’s Table luncheon or the formal dinner.

From luxury sedans, rare coupes, vintage European classics, to even a few armored SUVs. They all lined the rows like a billionaire’s car auction.

James furrowed his brows slightly as he picked up his golf bag from the trunk.

"I didn’t think the tournament would pull this kind of crowd," he muttered to himself.

It was a weekend, so that could explain the turnout... but even then, the sheer volume of high-end attendees said otherwise. He couldn’t help but feel that something about today was different.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking through the lush stone-lined path that led to the practice range where the tournament was being staged.

Along the way, he passed members in sharply pressed golf polos, trainers giving last-minute advice, and staff in formal caddie uniforms moving around quietly.

The entire space had been subtly transformed — banners adorned with gold club logos fluttered in the wind, fresh cut flowers had been arranged around key areas, and judges in navy blazers stood near check-in booths.

When James reached the main gathering area, he spotted Elliot immediately.

The older man was standing with a small group of familiar faces — all part of the "new money" faction. They were all dressed in elegant yet functional golf wear.

Elliot caught sight of him and gave a subtle nod.

"There he is," he said.

The group turned as James approached.

"Zolomon," one of them grinned. "Didn’t think you’d show for your first tournament."

"Wouldn’t miss it," James replied calmly.

After a round of greetings and a bit of easy banter, James leaned in slightly and asked, "So what’s the deal with this tournament anyway? Is it just for sport, or is there more to it?"

"Oh, there’s more to it," Elliot said, eyes gleaming with subtle mischief. "Let me break it down."

"Alright, listen up. The format’s called Stableford-Modified. Sounds fancy, but it’s simple. You’re scored by performance per hole, not total strokes.

That means—" he held up a finger "—you’re rewarded for aggressive play. You birdie or eagle a hole? You score big. You mess up? Doesn’t hurt as bad as it would in a normal game. The system’s built to reward boldness — not perfection."

James nodded slowly, as he processed what Elliot had just said. The words he used are terms that a complete newbie like James isn’t familiar with. But that didn’t mean he didn’t understand what Elliot said.

"So it favors risk-takers?" He asked.

"Exactly. And every pair gets a judge and two assistants. One judge is from the board. The assistants are usually old-timers or trusted club insiders.

They’re not just watching your form, by the way. They’re watching you. How you carry yourself. How you recover. How you deal with bad shots."

James squinted, as he processed this.

"You mean they’re judging character?"

Elliot’s smirk widened when he saw that James was getting at the big picture.

"You do know what sort of place this is, right? According to what I’ve heard, this isn’t just golf. It’s a live résumé.

And if you win your pair? You get invited to the Inner Circle Invitational — that’s not even listed on the official schedule. Private, off-record match with board members."

James exhaled quietly. He was starting to understand everything as it really is.

"Sounds like a foot in the real door." He muttered.

"It is. But that’s not all," Elliot continued, lowering his voice slightly. "Winners get their name etched in the Club’s Hall of Winners — small gold plaque, huge social value.

You also get a reserved parking space near the clubhouse for a week. Believe me, it’s not about convenience. It’s about status. That parking space screams ’I won.’"

James nodded slowly, but Elliot wasn’t done.

"And then there’s the wildcard: Founders Circle Dinner. Once every quarter. Invite-only. Doesn’t go on the website. Doesn’t get posted on the app.

It’s the club’s inner sanctum. Open to high-level members only. If someone there so much as shakes your hand or remembers your name, it changes your trajectory."

James was silent for a moment, letting the information sink in. But one detail stood out.

Founders Circle Dinner.

James felt that this was the reason for the event’s high turn up.

Just the name itself carried weight — it practically screams privilege, secrecy, and lots of good things.

He didn’t know exactly what happened in that event, but instinct told him it was where the real deals were made.

"This might be it," James thought to himself. "This could be how I find him... the person I’m looking for."

But then reality hit James, as he realised that he doesn’t stand any chance of winning the tournament.

He hadn’t even started his official lessons with Mr. Donovan. The swing drills he’d done were still raw, and while his athleticism and ability to learn quickly were in his favor, he was far from experienced.

Winning today? It would take more than natural talent. It would take precision, endurance... and a whole lot of luck.

Still, he wasn’t the type to walk away just because the odds were against him.

He was still deep in thought when the venue’s sound system clicked on, and a crisp voice echoed through the open-air pavilion.

"Good morning, esteemed members. Pairings are now being announced. Please gather by the board to check your name and make your way to the range."

The group dispersed toward the digital leaderboard near the practice range. James followed closely.

When the screen loaded and his name appeared, he did a double take.

Pairing: James Zolomon – Connor Wells.

Connor Wells? That name... it was familiar.

He turned and scanned the crowd until he saw him — standing casually by a golf cart, sipping from a tall bottle of water, flanked by two female assistants in all-white.

It was him. Connor Wells. The pop-culture juggernaut.

Multi-platinum musician. Award-winning actor. Producer. Model. Occasional philanthropist. And according to Forbes, one of the top 5 most bankable faces in global entertainment.

James approached calmly, holding back any flicker of surprise.

"Connor Wells?" he said with an easy tone.

The celebrity turned, took a second to register him, then smiled.

"James Zolomon, right? I’ve heard the name. We’re paired."

"Looks like it," James replied.

Connor extended a hand, his grip firm and relaxed.

"Let’s put on a show."

A few light introductions followed, and James quickly realized — despite the fame, Connor was approachable, smooth, but not fake. Confident, but not arrogant.

A few minutes later, the opening bell of the tournament rang. Staff began directing each pair to their starting holes, and the judges and assistants took their positions.

James took a breath as he adjusted his grip on the club. The course stretched before him — green, wide, and deceptively beautiful.

He had no illusions about what today was.

No matter how he looks at it, today wasn’t just about golf. This was war in silk gloves.

And somehow, despite knowing he had no chance of winning, he felt his heartbeat slow and his mind narrowed. Not because of panic but because of how focused he is at the moment.

"Maybe I won’t win the tournament but I will definitely do my best."ƒreewebɳovel.com