It must be said—humans have an incredible ability to adapt.
When he was first reborn, he still hesitated to spend $90,000 on a Mercedes-Benz C230.
Yet, three weeks later, handling a $10 million gold transaction had become second nature—just like a true wealthy elite.
"By the way, Mr. Mavi, are you free next week? A few of my friends are planning a short trip to Europe, and I was wondering if you'd like to join us?" Arkadula asked enthusiastically.
When he said "a short trip to Europe," he wasn't referring to a typical sightseeing tour. Instead, it was a tradition among Dubai's wealthy elite—a new trend that had taken off just the year before. The idea? Airlift their luxury cars and supercars to various European cities and put on a flashy, high-profile street performance.
This quickly became a favorite pastime for Dubai's rich. After all, in Dubai, supercars were everywhere. They could only really be driven around the city center. Venture too far, and you'd find yourself in the middle of a desert—no people, no scenery, just endless sand.
Plus, with so many wealthy people around, owning a couple of supercars wasn't impressive. Nobody cared. But in Europe? That was a different story. There, they could bask in the envious stares of the locals, especially from European women.
Looking at the eager Arkadula in front of him, Mavi thought for a moment before replying, "Sure, why not?"
He didn't have anything particularly important going on, so tagging along with Dubai's elite for a wild European trip seemed like an interesting experience.
A week later, Mavi boarded his Gulfstream G200 private jet to France. Meanwhile, the Dubai "prince squad" traveled in different ways—some booked first-class seats on a Boeing 747, while others, like Mavi, took their own private jets.
As for the 1,000 gold bars he had purchased from Arkadula last week, Mavi had his butler arrange for a security company to transport them back to Russia. Moving over a ton of gold himself was far too risky—if anything happened along the way, he would have to bear the loss alone with no chance of compensation. Better to spend some money and let the professionals handle it.
When Mavi's G200 landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, the Dubai prince squad had already gathered outside the terminal, waiting for their cars to be delivered by the shipping company.
The busy airport terminal was their first stop for this European "street domination" tour. As Mavi stepped out with his bodyguards, he quickly realized something—amidst a sea of dark-skinned men in white turbans, his fair complexion and different outfit made him stick out like a sore thumb.
Every passing traveler would glance at the group of men in turbans before turning their eyes toward Mavi, making him feel as if he were their translator or tour guide.
In an instant, he found himself unintentionally roped into their spectacle.
At that moment, a bearded Dubai man approached with a friendly smile and greeted him, "My friend, you must be Arkadula's Russian acquaintance. Let me introduce myself—I'm Amur. Nice to meet you."
Since Arkadula had fallen ill over the past few days, he hadn't been able to join the trip. Instead, he had simply introduced Mavi to his friends, assuming they would get along given their shared interests.
"Nice to meet you, Amur," Mavi replied, shaking his hand.
Amur was the heir to a small oil field worth about $600 million. Like many second-generation oil tycoons, he had a passion for supercars and beautiful women. And being from Dubai, where men could have up to four wives, he indulged in both freely.
"My friend, when your car arrives, just follow behind us. We'll be cruising through the city, hitting the Eiffel Tower first, then the Champs-Élysées, and finally the Seine River," Amur said casually, making it clear that Mavi should just tag along without expecting any special treatment. After all, they had only just met through an introduction and weren't particularly close yet.
Mavi simply nodded. At that moment, one of his Russian bodyguards answered a call and turned to him.
"Sir, your cars have arrived. They're on their way now," the burly Russian guard reported respectfully.
As he spoke, a small commotion broke out among the airport travelers.
Mavi turned to see a large cargo truck slowly pulling up outside the terminal. Its side panels gradually opened, revealing four neatly stacked supercars in two rows.
The lineup was stunning—an orange McLaren F1, a jet-black Jaguar XJR-15, a sky-blue Jaguar XJ220, and a fiery red Ferrari F50.
The moment these supercars were unveiled, they instantly captured the attention of countless onlookers. People seemed almost hypnotized, stopping in their tracks to stare. Some tourists, armed with cameras, immediately began snapping photos.
Before they could even finish removing their camera lens caps, another enclosed transport truck rumbled onto the scene.
As its side panels slid open, the departing crowd froze, their eyes glued to yet another breathtaking sight—
A bright yellow Porsche 911 GT1, a pure white Ferrari 360, a deep green Aston Martin V8, and a sky-blue Bugatti EB 110.
The back-to-back arrival of these eight legendary supercars sent a wave of excitement through the crowd. A mix of male and female tourists gathered around, with some women—who weren't particularly familiar with cars—excitedly pestering their boyfriends or friends to tell them the names of these incredible machines.
"Wow! That blue one—is that a Bugatti? And the other one, is that a Jaguar XJR-15? These are amazing cars!" an enthusiastic car enthusiast exclaimed while frantically taking pictures.
"Mavi, is your car here yet? If it's going to take a while, we'll just meet up in the city center," Amur called out, letting him know they wouldn't wait too long. They weren't trying to be rude—they just weren't close enough to inconvenience themselves for him.
After saying that, Amur and his group headed toward their own cars, ready to parade through the streets of Paris in style.
To Amur and his friends, Mavi was just a Russian businessman who had dealings with Arkadula. They knew nothing else about him, nor did they care to. This was just a fun trip—there was no need to get personal.
There was no hostility or arrogance in their attitude, just an easygoing, casual approach. If Mavi wanted to join, great. If not, no big deal.
Mavi cracked his neck, stretched a little, and then walked out of the terminal without saying much.
The Dubai elites of the early 2000s loved collecting limited-edition supercars, but they hadn't yet embraced the art of custom modifications. In short—they hadn't "leveled up" their game yet.