Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the financial statements spread across the conference table; the figures Rockefeller had presented were indeed impeccable.
Kerosene was the craziest cash cow of this era, while the power grid was a terrifying money pit.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, quietly regarding Peter and Rockefeller standing before him.
Truth be told, he did not feel his authority had been challenged.
On the contrary, there was even a flicker of appreciation in his eyes.
That was precisely why he had placed these two men at the helm of Standard Oil.
They were greedy and fiercely territorial, daring to march up to the tenth floor to take him to task just to protect their department's profits.
A manager without that territorial instinct could never defend a monopoly empire.
"Junior, Peter."
Felix finally spoke.
His voice was not loud, yet it echoed with crystal clarity across the spacious tenth floor.
"Your calculations are spot-on. If an Alternating Current power grid is rolled out across the East Coast, kerosene sales will take a devastating hit. In the long run, Standard Oil's balance sheets will definitely look ugly."
Felix picked up the financial report from the desk, casually flipped through a couple of pages, and tossed it aside.
"However, you made a mistake. You are thinking like merchants hawking kerosene, not like rulers governing an empire."
Leaning forward, Felix radiated a chilling, formidable pressure from his deep, dark eyes.
"Do you really believe that if General Electric doesn't pursue Alternating Current and doesn't build a power grid, kerosene's monopoly can last forever?"
Felix sneered, his tone biting.
"You're far too naive. No one can halt the torrential tide of technological progress. Even if I locked Nikola Tesla in a laboratory and made him burn the blueprints for Alternating Current, believe me, within five years, another madman in some basement in Europe or another city in America would invent the exact same technology."
Felix pointed out the window.
"When that day comes, syndicates in Boston will take blueprints to build substations, and European syndicates will arrive with pounds sterling to string copper wire! And what about us? We'd be left clutching those wretched wooden oil barrels, watching electric lamps light up grocery stores while Standard Oil is swept into the ash heap of history!"
Peter and Rockefeller froze.
They truly had not looked at the issue from such an angle.
They were accustomed to crushing competitors with capital and force, overlooking the devastating dimension-strike delivered by technological generational gaps.
"Since this blade will fall sooner or later to slit kerosene's throat," Felix's voice turned piercingly cold.
"I would rather hold the blade myself! I will use my left hand to sever my right. If I do not cannibalize myself, others will come to destroy me. That is the logic that has kept the Argyle Family alive all along."
As Rockefeller listened, his Adam's apple bobbed.
He felt a sweeping strategic vision that completely surpassed the immediate millions of dollars in profit.
"But Boss..."
Rockefeller still refused to give up.
"If the market for kerosene shrinks, what happens to our refineries in Cleveland and Pennsylvania? Those are tens of millions of dollars in fixed assets. And what about all those pipelines and tank cars? Are we just supposed to let them rust?"
"Who told you the refineries would rust?"
Felix took a silver cigar cutter from his pocket and toyed with it.
"Junior, let me ask you a question. As I recall, during kerosene refining, crude oil produces lubricating oil and paraffin alongside kerosene during distillation—as well as an extremely volatile, dangerous byproduct. How do you handle that stuff in Cleveland?"
As an expert in refining, Rockefeller answered immediately:
"Do you mean that fractional liquid lighter than kerosene? That stuff is far too volatile, with an extremely low flash point; at room temperature, it emits massive amounts of flammable gas. If we mixed it into kerosene for sale, lighting a kerosene lamp would cause a catastrophic explosion. We call it light waste fluid."
Frowning, he seemed to recall a lingering headache.
"That waste fluid is completely useless on the current market. Because of its extreme volatility, it's unsafe even for lighting a cooking fire. Our refineries generate huge quantities of it every day, and our storage tanks can't hold it all. To save money, we usually send workers in the middle of the night to secretly dump it into the Cuyahoga River near Cleveland, or dig a pit in the wasteland to burn it off."
Because the internal combustion engine had not yet been invented, the primary objective of petroleum refining was to obtain kerosene for lighting.
The gasoline fraction produced during distillation was indeed viewed as dangerous industrial waste back then, dumped into rivers and barren wilderness in vast quantities.
"Dumped into the river?"
Felix could not help laughing and shook his head.
"Junior, what you dump into the Cuyahoga River every day isn't industrial waste—it's something immensely useful."
"Alternating Current may be formidable, but it has a fatal flaw: it cannot leave power lines behind. It can only illuminate cities and power machines anchored to factory floors. It cannot detach from the grid."
Looking at Peter and Rockefeller, Felix recalled the internal combustion engine concepts he had once seen on Douyin.
"Just imagine a precision machine. It doesn't need horses to pull it, nor does it require railway tracks. It doesn't need to burn coal to generate cumbersome steam."
"All it takes is injecting that light waste fluid you dump into the river into a sealed steel cylinder, then igniting it with a tiny electrical spark. Using the explosive force of that fluid, it drives pistons into motion."
Felix made a pushing and pulling motion in the air with his hands.
"Perhaps this machine could be mounted on a four-wheeled carriage. With just a few gallons of that waste fluid, it could haul fully loaded cargo along any flat dirt road at twice the speed of a galloping horse."
"Good God..."
Peter Jenkins' eyes went wide. Although merely a businessman, he could envision the scene Felix had painted.
A steel carriage that needed no horses, ate no grass, and never grew tired.
Rockefeller's reaction was even more immediate.
His mind instantly connected this concept to the waste fluid piling up in his refineries.
"Boss... are you saying that dangerous light waste fluid could serve as fuel for such a machine?!" Rockefeller's voice trembled.
"Perhaps," Felix said, walking over to his desk.
"This is merely a path I am charting for Standard Oil. The lighting market will inevitably yield to General Electric. In the future, kerosene will only be sold to backward nations and remote hinterlands without electricity. But Standard Oil will never die."
Felix braced both hands on the desk, fixing his gaze on the two thoroughly stunned managers.
"Standard Oil will gradually transition from a provider of lighting fuel into a provider of motive power. As soon as that internal combustion machine is built, horse-drawn carriages across the United States—and indeed, the entire world—will eventually become obsolete."
"Every steel vehicle racing down the streets will have to run on fuel refined by Standard Oil. By then, the very garbage you dump into the river every day will be ten times more expensive than kerosene is today!"
"So, Junior, Peter. Take your eyes off those kerosene lamps, and keep them fixed on the true future."
The silence in the tenth-floor office persisted for a full three minutes.
Rockefeller stood frozen in place, calculating frantically in his mind.
He mentally replaced all the millions of horse carriages across America with those steel machines, then computed the sheer volume of fuel they would consume every single day.
The resulting figure was so staggering that it left him breathless.
If such a day truly arrived, Standard Oil would swell to a terrifying scale that even he could hardly fathom.
"Boss... this machine... are there blueprints for it yet?" Rockefeller swallowed hard, his voice slightly dry as he asked.
"There is no finished prototype yet. However, in the Central Laboratory in New Jersey, engineers are already researching the explosion limits and control valves for that light waste liquid in an enclosed chamber."
Felix answered with complete candor.
Although Otto's four-stroke internal combustion engine would take a few more years to fully mature in Europe, with his own capital and directional guidance, the Argyle Family's laboratory could easily accelerate its birth ahead of time.
"Therefore, before internal combustion machines can be mass-produced, kerosene remains the most important cash cow of our empire. You don't need to worry about Standard Oil's standing declining. After all, laying down an electrical grid takes time. Even a decade from now, rural areas and overseas markets will still require massive quantities of kerosene. Your refineries' machines will not stop; in fact, you must scale up production."
"Furthermore, you can recruit chemical researchers to explore other uses for petroleum."
Felix rose to his feet and walked over to them.
"I'm telling you all this not just to outline our future fuel direction, but because I need Standard Oil's massive cash flow right now to help me complete a crucial transitional deal."
"What kind of deal, Boss?" Peter immediately asked.
By now, he had largely abandoned any thought of obstructing Alternating Current; the grand vision of fuel-powered machinery Felix had laid out revealed an even vaster domain of dominion.
Felix turned toward the map of East Coast cities, picked up a red pencil from the desk, and drew several circles around major cities like New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
"What does the nighttime street lighting in these major cities currently rely on?" Felix asked.
"Gas lamps," Rockefeller replied.
"Those City Halls contracted out the street-lighting franchises to local gas lighting companies. They laid underground gas lines and sent lamplighters out every evening to light the streets. That market has always been dominated by a handful of regional gas tycoons."
"Exactly. That is the assignment I am giving you."
Felix tapped the red pencil firmly against those circled cities.
"The first step for Alternating Current is not entering ordinary homes; that belongs to phase two. The first step for Alternating Current is to illuminate every single street in these major cities. I want to use electric lights to completely eliminate those dim, foul-smelling, fire-hazardous gas lamps."
Felix turned his head to look at his two lieutenants.
"However, if General Electric were to directly approach the City Halls of these cities right now to apply to lay down a power grid using Direct Current, it would inevitably face desperate resistance from those gas lighting companies."
"They would mobilize their local political resources, buy off council members, and obstruct our cable construction permits at City Hall. Just like how the Northern Pacific Railway obstructed our railroad construction in Montana, such local entanglements are an immense waste of time."
"So, we need to breach them from within." Rockefeller instantly grasped Felix's intent.
"Precisely, Junior." Felix nodded with approval.
"I want Standard Oil to take a portion of your monthly kerosene profits to establish several inconspicuous shell investment companies and quietly acquire equity in the gas companies that control major city lighting. If they refuse to sell, use our methods on Wall Street to short them in the stock market, cut off their bank loans, force them into bankruptcy, and buy them out at fire-sale prices."
"As long as Standard Oil secures absolute controlling stakes in these gas lighting companies, the political barriers once raised to block General Electric will instantly become our moat. When the time comes, acting as the owners of the gas companies, you will submit applications for technical upgrades to City Hall, taking the initiative to abandon the gas pipelines and switch over to General Electric's power grid."
"We use the money in our left hand to buy up the old industry, and pave the way for the technology in our right hand. That is what I call a seamless blood transfusion of capital," Felix concluded, arching an eyebrow.
After listening, cold sweat broke out across both Peter's and Rockefeller's backs.
A terrifying cross-industry consolidation.
Using oil profits to buy gas companies, only to dismantle those gas companies with electric power by their own hands.
In this process, Standard Oil would effectively become the Vanguard clearing the path for the power grid.
"Understood, Boss. President Hayes of the Patriot Investment Company is exceptionally adept at hostile takeovers and severing funding lines. I'll coordinate with him. Within three months, the equity of the Philadelphia and Boston gas companies will be resting obediently inside our vault." Rockefeller accepted the task without the slightest hesitation.
He was no longer troubled by the notion of kerosene being supplanted by electric lights.
Under Felix's guidance, his vision had already expanded far beyond lighting. He was marching forward to embrace an even vaster and far more lucrative future propelled by internal combustion engines and light fuel.
"Go see to it. Additionally, inform the refinery engineers to transfer a portion of Dr. Vogel's chemistry team over. Starting today, place that light waste liquid in sealed storage. Begin researching how to remove its impurities and sulfides. I want to see that liquid explosive refined into pure fuel."
"By the way, you can also have those chemists explore whether other byproducts can be turned into useful materials."
"Yes, Boss."
Peter and Rockefeller bowed slightly to Felix, then withdrew from the tenth-floor office.
As they stood inside the elevator, descending slowly with the cab, their mindsets were completely different from when they had arrived.
"Junior, how on earth is the Boss's brain wired?" Peter murmured to himself, watching the floor indicator ticking down on the elevator wall.
"Not only can he see the gold coins right in front of us, but he can also see what will be running through the streets fifty years from now. That steel carriage that doesn't need horses to pull it... if it really gets built, all those horse ranchers and carriage manufacturers will be driven to bankruptcy."
Rockefeller remained silent, merely turning up the collar of his overcoat. An indescribable ambition burned within his grayish-blue eyes.
"Going bankrupt is their problem. We only need to ensure that throughout this technological revolution, we are the ones supplying the fuel."
Rockefeller stepped out through the building's main entrance.
Dusk had already settled over New York.
The roadside electric lights had just been turned on, radiating a soft yellow glow and holding steady in the chill wind.
When Rockefeller and Peter Jenkins stepped out of the Argyle's Building, the sky over Manhattan had darkened completely.
A cold wind swept down the streets of Wall Street.
On both sides of the street, the black cast-iron lampposts that should have flickered with dim yellow gas flames bore no scent of gas at all.
In their place, a piercing, pale light hissed softly from within the glass globes at the top.
Those were Direct Current arc lamps that General Electric Company had long since installed across parts of Manhattan.
Rockefeller paused and tilted his head up, gazing at the harsh white glow.
A few insects blindly battered themselves against the luminous globe, even in the freezing winter wind.
"Junior, what are you looking at?"
Peter pulled his coat collar tighter, following his gaze.
"I'm looking at the boss's past, and our future."
Rockefeller looked away, his voice clear and sharp in the chilly breeze.
"Peter, we made an elementary mistake back on the tenth floor. When the boss told us to acquire the gas companies, he didn't mean starting from scratch. Have you forgotten the streets beneath our feet right here in New York?"
Rockefeller pointed to the iron post of the streetlamp.
"New York's gas lighting company was quietly bought up by Patriot Investment Company two years ago. It was precisely because the boss gained total control of New York's gas pipeline network that he could lay General Electric's Direct Current cables beneath Manhattan without facing a single hurdle. The councilmen at City Hall didn't dare utter a single objection, because the ones applying to tear up the streets and lay the power lines were their existing gas supplier."
The realization dawned on Peter.
He slapped his forehead.
"Good God, I actually forgot about that. The boss already ran this experiment in New York!"
"Yes. He used New York to prove that shifting assets from the left hand to the right to completely transform them works like a charm."
Rockefeller strode toward the carriage waiting by the curb.
"Now, he wants us to take the profits from Standard Oil and replicate that experiment in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Chicago. To buy out the gas companies in every major city across America."
The two climbed into the carriage.
"To Boston."
Rockefeller instructed the driver, then turned to Peter.
"Peter, you head to Cleveland first. Carry out the boss's light-fraction waste collection plan. Find an utterly desolate patch of land and build over a dozen of the largest custom storage tanks possible. Put all those chemists in there. I'll take Boston."
Two days later.
Boston, Massachusetts.
Though the financial run triggered by Patriot Investment Company had passed, Boston's financial district had suffered a devastating blow. Several small and medium-sized banks remained shuttered, with court liquidation notices taped across their doors.
Inside the headquarters building of the Boston Gas Light Company.
Samuel, the chairman of the board, sat behind his desk, staring at the abysmal financial statements in his hands.
Due to the bankruptcy of several partner banks, a large sum of the gas company's working capital earmarked for purchasing coal had been completely frozen.
To make matters worse, the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company had cut off coal shipments to Boston.
Now they were forced to buy inferior coal from Canada via sea routes at exorbitant prices. This doubled the cost of gas production, yet the damn City Hall held a tight grip on lighting utility rates, refusing to let them raise prices.
A knock came at the office door.
His secretary entered, ushering in a young man in a plain black suit.
"Mr. Chairman, this is Mr. Rockefeller from Ohio. He says he represents an investment consortium," the secretary introduced.
Samuel frowned, scrutinizing the young man who appeared under forty years old.
"Rockefeller? I've never heard that name in Boston. What brings you here? If you're pitching coal, I'm afraid I'm in no mood for it."
Rockefeller paid no mind to Samuel's cold reception.
He walked over, sat down in the chair opposite the desk without an invitation, and rested his briefcase on his lap.
"Mr. Samuel, I'm not here to sell coal. I know you can't buy coal right now," Rockefeller said calmly.
"I represent Standard Oil Company. I am here to purchase a sixty percent stake in the Boston Gas Light Company."
Samuel froze for a moment, then let out an indignant laugh.
"Hahaha... Buy my company? Have you lost your mind? Boston Gas Light is one of the most profitable public utilities in New England. We control the nights of this entire city. Even if we're facing a bit of a cash flow problem right now, an Ohio country refiner doesn't get to acquire us!"
Samuel stood up and pointed toward the door.
"Get out—before I call security to throw you into the street."
Rockefeller didn't budge.
Remaining steadily seated, he opened his briefcase.
"Mr. Samuel. Before you call security, I suggest you take a look at these."
Rockefeller pulled out a thick stack of documents and slid them before Samuel.
"These are your company's two million dollars in outstanding corporate bonds. Over the past three days, Mr. Tom Hayes of Patriot Investment Company has bought up all these bonds on the secondary market. Now, I am the creditor for this entire batch of debt."
Samuel's expression changed instantly.
Rockefeller went on to pull out a second document.
"This is a copy of an internal proposal from City Hall. Because your gas supply has been extremely unstable over the past week, plunging streetlamps across several wealthy Boston neighborhoods into darkness at night, several councilmen—who have, of course, just accepted generous campaign contributions—are prepared to propose revoking your city lighting franchise at tomorrow's meeting."
"You... You're setting me up!"
Samuel planted both hands on the desk, glaring fiercely at Rockefeller.
"No, no, no. This is called a business acquisition."
Rockefeller corrected his phrasing.
"If you agree to sell sixty percent of the equity, Standard Oil will immediately inject one million dollars in cash. The repayment on those bonds will be deferred indefinitely. And most importantly..."
Rockefeller met Samuel's gaze.
"Early tomorrow morning, trains laden with premium anthracite coal will arrive at Boston's freight depot. City Hall's proposal to revoke your franchise will vanish immediately. You will remain chairman of this company, except there will be a few additional seats on the board representing New York."
"And if I don't sell?" Samuel asked through gritted teeth.
"If you don't sell..."
The calm on Rockefeller's face faded, replaced by chilling coldness.
"Tomorrow afternoon, I will take these bonds to court and file for enforcement. City Hall will revoke your franchise. Your gas company will be reduced to nothing more than scrap iron pipes buried underground. You will lose everything you own, forced to stand in breadlines on the street."
Absolute capital dominance, combined with an encirclement by municipal power and a physical stranglehold on the supply chain.
Rockefeller executed Felix's monopolistic tactics to perfection. There was no need for negotiation—only a choice between life and death.
Samuel sank back into his chair, staring at the stack of documents on his desk.
The era of Boston's Old Money had collapsed before these ruthless, emerging oligarchs.
"I... I'll sell."
Samuel forced out those words with great difficulty.
For the company to survive, there was no other choice.
Rockefeller produced a pre-drafted equity transfer agreement and a fountain pen, offering them across the desk.
"Boston's nights now belong to Argyle."
Montana Territory, Clark Fork Valley.
More than a month had passed since that bloody massacre, and heavy snow had completely buried the severed limbs and blood. In their place stood a vast industrial zone roaring amidst the wind and snow.
Silas stood on a makeshift wooden platform.
Holding a steaming cup of black coffee, he gazed down at the behemoth that was already taking shape.
Driven by whips and repeating rifles, three thousand laborers had unleashed a terrifying pace of construction.
Ground frozen as hard as stone was blasted apart with dynamite.
More than a dozen massive steam pile drivers hammered away day and night, pounding hundreds of thick steel load-bearing pillars deep into the bedrock at the valley floor.
Above the load-bearing pillars, a copper smelter covering an area larger than five football fields was rising rapidly from the ground.
High-strength refractory bricks delivered from Lex Steelworks were laid to build three towering reverberatory furnaces.
Beside them stood massive cooling towers, drawing frigid water directly from the Clark Fork River.
"General Manager!"
Chief Engineer Davis, wearing a heavy fur hat, climbed up the wooden ladder to the platform, his eyebrows and beard coated in white frost.
"The steel beams for the main plant have all been erected. The final spike on the twenty-mile spur connecting to the Butte mining district was also driven in last night. The first freight train loaded with chalcocite ore will be able to pull directly into the plant's unloading station in just two hours!"
Davis's voice trembled slightly.
In the bitter cold of twenty degrees below zero, constructing a modern smelter and finishing a railway line in the wilderness in merely a month was nothing short of an engineering miracle.
"Well done, Davis." Silas took a sip of coffee. "When can the blast furnace be fired up?"
"The refractory brick lining still needs its final thermal curing. If the coal supply holds up, the first batch of copper ore can be loaded in by tomorrow night at the latest!" Davis pointed toward the mountainous piles of coal in the distance.
Silas nodded with satisfaction.
The task assigned by the boss was not only completed, but ahead of schedule. That meant his previous mistakes would soon be redeemed.
"Have the overseers tell those coolies that as long as the first batch of blister copper ingots is successfully produced, every man gets half a bottle of whiskey plus a piece of roast beef brought in by the Metropolitan Trading Company." Silas announced the inexpensive reward.
Just as the smelter was preparing to receive its first batch of ore,
two thousand miles away in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,
stood the headquarters of the Northern Pacific Railway Company.
Company President Jay Cooke sat in his luxurious office, surrounded by numerous priceless oil paintings.
He was a financial titan from the Civil War era and the foremost driving force behind this railroad attempting to cross the northern half of the continent.
On his desk lay an urgent telegram sent back from Montana by the surviving mercenary leader, alongside a copy of an emergency interstate trade protection injunction from a New York court.
Cooke's expression was exceedingly grim.
His well-groomed white beard quivered slightly.
Several senior directors of the Northern Pacific Railway Company sat on the sofas, the atmosphere in the room suffocatingly tense.
"Three hundred men. Three hundred rifle-carrying guards."
Cooke tapped his finger against the telegram paper, his voice low.
"In less than two minutes, ground into mincemeat by two gatling guns. Even that Commissioner Reed from the Department of the Interior wet his pants in terror, signed the papers, and fled back to Washington."
Cooke looked up at the directors.
"Gentlemen, Alan Argyle didn't just build high-rises in New York. Out in the West, he doesn't bother with territorial demarcations or political negotiations. He literally shoved an army right into our faces."
A director swallowed hard and said stubbornly, "Mr. President, the Clark Fork Valley is an indispensable corridor for our planned trunk line. If we allow them to build a smelter there, that entire region becomes the Argyle Family's private fortress. We must strike back! We can hire more gunmen, or even buy artillery and ship it out there!"
"What? Use artillery to wage war against the owner of Vanguard Arms?" Cooke glared at the director as if he were an idiot.
"Have you lost your mind? Vanguard Arms is the largest arsenal in the United States. Do you think we could ship a few obsolete cannons over without Alan Argyle turning right around and placing the latest breech-loading heavy artillery right at our headquarters' front doors?"
Cooke stood up, walked over to the map, and studied the Montana region.
"He is laying track and building a smelter there, which means he has uncovered an astounding ore vein in Butte. That is his core interest. When it comes to core interests, that monster in New York will never yield. Whoever stands in his way will be shredded into pieces by machine guns."
Cooke was a realist.
He knew all too well that Northern Pacific's capital chain was already stretched to its limit.
To fund the transcontinental railway, he had already issued massive tranches of bonds in Europe.
If they became bogged down in an unwinnable armed conflict in Montana right now, investors in London and Paris would dump his bonds immediately. Barings Bank's disastrous failure in Argentina stood as a clear warning.
"We cannot fight," Cooke declared.
"Mr. President, are we just going to sit by and watch them seize the valley?" The directors voiced their dissatisfaction in succession.
"Not fighting doesn't mean we walk away empty-handed." A spark of shrewdness flashed in Cooke's eyes.
"Send someone to the Argyle's Building in New York to meet with Charles Reeves of the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company."
Cooke walked back to his desk and took up his pen.
"Tell them that the Northern Pacific Railway Company recognizes their legitimate rights and interests in the Clark Fork Valley. Furthermore, we can offer parts of our existing rail network in the Northwest to assist in transporting the smelted blister copper ingots."
"In exchange, we require the Argyle Family's Imperial Bank to underwrite five million dollars of railway construction bonds that we will issue next month. Simultaneously, Lex Steelworks must supply the steel rails we need for railway construction at internal preferential prices."
Cooke looked down at the pen in his hand.
"Since we cannot stop him from taking the lion's share of the meat, we must find a way to scavenge some bones beneath the table. Opposing a monster like that leads only to ruin; linking ourselves into his chain of interests is our only way to survive."
A crisis that could have erupted into a large-scale armed conflict in the West was dissolved through the pragmatic compromise of the Northern Pacific Railway Company's leadership under the terrifying deterrence of gatling guns.
A few days later,
in Montana's Clark Fork Valley,
as the first dazzling stream of dark-red molten copper poured from the reverberatory furnaces amid thunderous cheers, cast into heavy bars of blister copper,
the Trackage Rights and Peace Agreement signed by the Northern Pacific Railway Company was delivered directly onto the desk on the tenth floor of the Argyle's Building.
Through industrial power, Felix had secured the vital lifeline to the electrical age.
Montana's copper would flow continuously back to the East Coast like lifeblood.
Meanwhile, the United States of America's quadrennial political reckoning had finally arrived at its ultimate verdict.
November 5, 1872.
Presidential Election Day.
The streets of New York were cloaked in a cold, dreary autumn rain.
Campaign flyers soaked by the rain littered the streets, crushed into the mud beneath the wheels of passing carriages.
Outside a major polling station in Lower Manhattan.
A long line stretched into the distance.
Laborers, dock hands, and petty shopkeepers in worn-out raincoats shivered in the bitter wind, waiting to cast their ballots.
In 1872, the voting system in America was still exceptionally crude and riddled with loopholes.
There were no secret voting booths, nor were there even standardized ballots printed by the government.
Ballots were merely slips of colored paper printed by the political parties themselves. Voters simply took these pre-printed slips from party bosses and, in full view of everyone, dropped them into a completely transparent glass ballot box.
This transparent method of voting made intimidation, bribery, and strong-arm interference blatantly straightforward.
At the entrance to the polling station.
A dozen burly Italian-American thugs wearing bowler hats stood in a line. They were members of Tammany Hall under William Tweed.
Although the Democratic Party had conceded the presidential race this election cycle, backed by Felix's influx of funds, these enforcers dutifully served as poll watchers for Thomas Clark.
A dockworker in a ragged cotton coat walked up to the entrance with his head down.
An enforcer immediately stepped in front of him.
Pulling a red ballot printed with the name Thomas Clark from his pocket, he shoved it into the laborer's hand.
"Hey—listen, Mike. Your wife is still at St. Vincent's Hospital being treated for lung disease. The church covered her medical bills."
The enforcer lowered his voice, patting the worker's shoulder with a menacing edge.
"Take this red ticket and go inside. Hold it high so I can see you drop it into that glass box. If you dare touch a ticket of any other color, the hospital will toss your wife out onto the street tomorrow morning."
Trembling all over, the worker took the ballot, nodded repeatedly, and walked into the polling station like a marionette.
It was not just gangland intimidation.
In Boston.
Amory Lawrence's textile mills had outright declared a half-day off. Foremen stood at the factory gates holding boxes filled with red ballots.
"Everyone take a ticket and head to the polling station! Vote for President Clark!" a foreman shouted from an elevated platform.
"Anyone who doesn't drop their ticket into the box, or goes and takes that scrap paper from the Liberals, doesn't need to show up for work tomorrow! If the dye supply is cut off, every single one of us will starve. For the sake of your livelihood, you know what to do!"
Under the threat of their very livelihoods, the workers meekly took their ballots and headed toward the voting stations.
Meanwhile, across the vast agricultural states of the Midwest.
The farmers who had barely survived the 'autumn overhaul' and been coerced into signing contracts boarded free trains provided by the Mississippi and Eastern Railway Company, riding in silence toward polling places in county seats.
There was no chatter; their eyes were filled with numbness and submission.
Dropping the ballot that represented Thomas's reelection into the glass box felt like paying a humiliating protection fee for their farms.
As for the Liberals.
Following Whitlock's "confession" admitting to plotting the presidential assassination, they were morally bankrupt.
Many swing voters did not even dare touch a Liberal ballot, terrified of being seen by bystanders as accomplices to anarchists.
Greeley's campaign offices everywhere were practically deserted, and even the newspapers that had once backed him fell into collective silence to save their own skins.
It was an electoral steamroller fueled by money, force, and livelihoods held hostage.
As night fell, the polling stations closed.
Tally results from across the nation began converging frantically toward the East Coast via telegraph lines.
New York, the third floor of the Argyle's Building.
The trading floor of the Patriot Investment Company.
Tonight, it was not receiving stock or futures prices.
All the stock tickers were receiving vote counts from states across America.
Felix, Edward Frost, Tom Hayes, and others stood in the hall, watching the ticker tapes continuously spill out.
"Counting in Pennsylvania is complete! Thomas Clark takes 68 percent of the vote and secures the electoral votes," Hayes reported loudly, reading off a strip of tape.
"Ohio, 71 percent! Secured!"
"Massachusetts, an overwhelming victory in the Boston district! Secured!"
As one staggering victory after another came in, suppressed cheers erupted across the hall.
Eleven o'clock at night.
When the results from Illinois and Indiana were finally confirmed.
The outcome was sealed.
With an overwhelming landslide, Thomas Clark captured more than sixty percent of the popular vote and an absolute majority of the electoral votes.
This election not only utterly shattered the challenge of the Liberals, but also produced a sweep rarely seen in American history.
Looking at the ticker tapes blanketing the tables, Felix showed no wild jubilation. He picked up his silver cane.
"Send a telegram to Washington to congratulate the nation's new master."
The corners of Felix's mouth curved upward.
"Congratulate him on dropping the 'acting' title. Starting tomorrow, he is the rightful President of the United States."
Meanwhile.
Washington, the White House.
Thomas Clark sat in the Oval Office, listening as his chief of staff reported news of triumphs pouring in from across the states.
His hands gripped the armrests of the sofa tightly, so thrilled that even the small patch of gauze on his face trembled slightly.
He had won!
Under his own name, he had finally and indisputably secured the seat representing the nation's highest power.
"Mr. President! Congratulations! This is an unprecedented victory!" the chief of staff said excitedly, raising a glass.
Thomas took the glass and drained it in one gulp.
Turning his head, he looked out the window at Washington's pitch-black night sky.
The wild ecstasy in his heart gradually receded.
He had won.
But he also knew very well.
This victory was not won by his political ideals.
It had been forged by that young man far away in New York, inside a three-hundred-foot tower, using millions of dollars in gold, grounded trains, and gatling guns to brutally batter his way through.
Although he had stripped away the word "acting" to become the true president,
he understood better than anyone that for the next four years, and perhaps even longer,
he would not only wear the tailcoat of the presidency, but also carry the invisible chains stretching from Manhattan bound tightly around him.
The post-election revelry in the cities along the East Coast lasted for two full days.
Tons of fireworks blossomed in the night sky, celebrating the continued governance of an administration that had "defended order and industry."
Yet, inside a modest apartment on the outskirts of New York, the atmosphere was as dead as ashes.
Horace Greeley lay on a dilapidated wooden bed.
This newspaper titan, who had once held immense sway over the North and founded the New York Tribune, now looked like a shriveled corpse.
The crushing defeat in the election, coupled with the political smear labeling him a "conspirator in the president's assassination," had completely shattered the sixty-one-year-old man's spirit and body.
Just days earlier, the board of directors of the newspaper he took so much pride in had forcibly removed him from his post as editor-in-chief.
His so-called political allies—men like Charles Adams and William Vanderbilt—had severed all contact with him immediately following the defeat, avoiding him like the plague.
His wife had succumbed to illness just a month ago, and now he had lost his career, his reputation, and all his friends.
"It's all over..."
Greeley stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering to himself. His labored, heavy breathing echoed through the empty room.
The abolitionism and labor rights he had championed his entire life had become an utter joke beneath the crushing weight of absolute capital.
In the original course of history, Greeley died less than a month after his electoral defeat, passing away on November 29, 1872, from despair and a mental breakdown.
In this parallel world, where Felix's violence and financial maneuvers had accelerated his destruction, the flame of his life burned out even faster.
A few days later, in an inconspicuous corner of an inside page, The Daily Truth reported Greeley's death in a brief few lines.
An old-world saint who had once dared to defy monopoly was thus quietly erased in this era of steel and money.
For Felix, however, the domestic political landscape was now firmly secured. His gaze finally crossed the Atlantic Ocean, unobstructed.
Argyle's Building, tenth floor.
Across the supreme commander's conference table, a detailed map of Europe lay unfurled.
At the center of the map, Spain on the Iberian Peninsula was heavily circled in red pencil.
Felix stood beside the table.
Standing opposite him were Timmy, head of the Intelligence Department, and Frank Cole, president of Vanguard Arms, who had rushed over from Connecticut.
"How are that old fellow Antoine's preparations coming along?" Felix asked, looking down at the map.
Timmy produced a top-secret dossier and handed it to Felix.
"Boss, this is the list of Spanish military contacts submitted last week by the Duke of Montpensier (Antoine). Intelligence Department operatives in Europe have conducted rigorous background checks on everyone on the list through channels in London and Paris."
Timmy pointed to several names on the roster.
"His Grace wasn't lying. The four regular Spanish army generals on the list are currently stationed in the suburbs of Madrid, Valencia, and the southern Port of Cádiz. They are indeed die-hard loyalists of the former Bourbon Dynasty and are deeply dissatisfied with the reigning Italian king, Amadeo I."
"The most crucial figure is a general named Francisco. He commands the coastal fortifications and two infantry regiments at the Port of Cádiz. Once our ships arrive, he can ensure the port batteries won't open fire on us and will provide a landing site."
Felix looked at the name and nodded.
"What about the Carlists in the north?"
"The duke's wife, Louisa, has already established secret contact with the rebel leadership," Timmy continued.
"The rebels are desperately short of money and weapons. They've agreed that as long as we can smuggle twenty thousand surplus muzzle-loading rifles and five hundred thousand rounds of ammunition across the French border or through northern ports, they will launch a fierce, full-scale offensive next month, driving straight toward Madrid. That will pull the bulk of Amadeo's government forces northward, leaving the southern defenses completely hollowed out."
Felix tossed the document onto the table.
They had their insiders, and they had their bait.
He turned his attention to Frank Cole, who had remained quiet throughout.
"Frank. I don't intend to let this turn into a war of attrition lasting years. What I want on Spanish soil is a terrifying surgical strike. With an absolute generational disparity in firepower, I want those Spanish forces still stuck in the era of line formations and firing volleys to realize that resistance is nothing short of suicide."
Felix braced both hands on the table and fixed his gaze on Frank.
"Can Vanguard Arms' stockpile support an intercontinental blitzkrieg?"
Frank stepped forward.
A weapons merchant's fanaticism for warfare blazed in his eyes.
"Boss, that is precisely what I came to report."
Frank retrieved several equipment manifests from his briefcase.
"Over the past two months, aside from fulfilling our contracts with Argentina, our arsenal has used the profits from the raw South American cattle hides shipped back by Metropolitan Trading Company to set up three new production lines."
Frank pointed to the first entry on the list.
"Ten state-of-the-art breech-loading rifled artillery pieces, boasting a fearsome seventy-five-millimeter caliber—resembling an early prototype of the French 1897-pattern 75mm field gun. Not only do they possess exceptional range, but we have also fitted them with high-purity copper driving bands smelted in Montana. The breech seals with absolute tightness, allowing a firing rate in excess of ten rounds per minute. On the battlefields of Spain, these guns can reduce their cavalry formations to cinders from three miles away."
"Besides the artillery, we have thirty of the latest modified Gatling rotary machine guns. Water-cooled barrels allow them to sustain continuous fire for five thousand rounds without overheating to a dull red."
Frank paused for breath before unveiling their core infantry weapon.
"Five thousand fully perfected Vanguard Lever-Action Rifles, along with one million brass-cased cartridges. We are going to outfit a five-thousand-man mercenary force. These five thousand men won't need to stand in lines or maintain rigid formations. As long as they disperse and advance with repeating rifles, any Spanish muzzle-loader square that dares to stand before them will be utterly slaughtered in the very first exchange of fire."
Listening to these cold numbers, Felix could already envision the raging inferno of war engulfing the Iberian Peninsula.
"Well done."
Felix's gaze turned profound as he looked out the window at the sky.
It was the direction of the Atlantic Ocean.
"Frank, seal all the weapons in waterproof tarpaulins and crate them in wooden boxes marked 'Heavy Agricultural Machinery.' Timmy, notify our shell corporation in London. Have the Earl of Ashburn ready five ocean-going freighters sailing under the British flag, prepared to take on cargo at clandestine ports along the East Coast at a moment's notice."
Felix's command resounded through the tenth-floor conference room, laden with irresistible resolve.
"Thomas's reelection guarantees we won't face interference from the government at home. It is time to get ready."
The wind carried a bone-chilling cold from the Atlantic Ocean, and the snow in the oak grove had frozen solid.
Bearing no family crest, the black bulletproof carriage rolled over the gravel driveway and halted beneath the portico of the secluded manor.
Felix pushed open the carriage door and stepped out.
He had not brought many attendants today, accompanied only by Secretary-General Edward Frost and a few security guards following behind.
The guards pulled open the villa's main doors, and a rush of indoor warmth mingled with the scent of cigars washed over him.
Antoine d'Orléans, the Duke of Montpensier, was sitting on an armchair by the living room fireplace.
In his hand was a glass of French cognac, while the nearby coffee table was piled high with European newspapers from recent days.
Ever since Felix had agreed to consider his restoration plan in Spain, the old duke had been in a state of high excitement.
"Felix."
The moment Antoine saw Felix walk in, he stood up, the wrinkles on his face bunching together.
"I thought you were tied down by those damned politicians in Washington. I just read the London papers—Amadeo I's days in Madrid are getting harder by the minute. The Carlists are pressing hard with an intense offensive in the north. When do we make our move?"
Handing his overcoat to a servant, Felix walked to the fireplace, held out his hands to warm them, and said,
"Close the doors. Don't let anyone in except to serve coffee."
The living room doors were shut tightly.
After warming his hands for a moment, Felix walked over and sat down on the sofa across from Antoine, crossing his legs as he looked at the duke whose eyes were filled with lust for power.
"My Lord Duke. Over the past few days at the manor, haven't you rehearsed in your mind countless times the scene of walking into the Royal Palace of Madrid wearing a crown?"
The remark visibly caught Antoine off guard, and he let out a slightly awkward chuckle.
His innermost thoughts had clearly been laid bare.
"Felix, this is the honor of the House of Bourbon. If Philip is to inherit that throne in the future, I must pave the way for him first."
"Are you sure it's paving the way?"
Felix picked up the cigar box on the coffee table, drew one out, and clipped the end.
"Frost, show the duke what we've compiled over the past few days."
Standing nearby, Frost stepped forward, opened his briefcase, and retrieved a thick stack of documents along with a detailed European royal lineage and power-relation chart, placing them on the spacious coffee table.
"Please take a look, Your Grace," Frost said, pointing to the chart.
"Over the past half month, the Intelligence Department conducted a thorough assessment of the list of insiders within the Spanish military that you provided, as well as the political movements of the entire House of Bourbon across Europe."
Looking at the dense web of lines, Antoine's brow furrowed.
"And so? What is the conclusion? Are my former subordinates not trustworthy?"
As a servant lit his cigar, Felix blew out a stream of blue smoke. He leaned forward, pointing the cigar toward the chart on the coffee table.
"It's hard to say whether they're trustworthy or not right now. Until gold coins and guns are delivered into their hands, all promises are nothing more than scrap paper."
"I didn't come here today to discuss your former subordinates; I want to talk about your surname."
Antoine looked puzzled.
"What do you mean? What is there to say about my surname? I am the son of the Duke of Orléans, a man of the House of Bourbon. My bloodline is beyond reproach."
"Your bloodline is unquestionable, of course, but your branch is another matter," Felix interrupted.
"My Lord Duke, I am a businessman. Before making an acquisition, I must understand the shareholding structure of the target company. European royal houses, to put it plainly, are merely monopoly corporations sustained by bloodlines. And the House of Bourbon currently has the most convoluted shareholding structure in Europe."
Felix drew two circles on the chart with his finger.
"The House of Bourbon currently has five branches. The Spanish throne has always been the domain of the Anjou Branch. You, on the other hand, belong to the Orléans branch."
Felix watched the shift in Antoine's expression.
"Your Orléans branch lost its throne in France. Now you run off to Madrid, intending to snatch the Anjou Branch's crown and place it on your own head—or rather, on my son's head."
"Haven't you made seizing the throne out to be far too simple, My Lord Duke? Do you truly believe that just having my artillery and machine guns to arm your old subordinates and crush the Carlists will allow you to sit securely upon that seat?"
"Have you forgotten what happened with the Legitimists?"
Antoine's expression shifted.
"So what! I have an army, and I have your funds. What can those who oppose me possibly do?"
"They will stab you in the back," Felix pointed out unsparingly.
"If you force your way onto the throne in Spain, it will be seen within the House of Bourbon as nothing less than another blatant usurpation."
"How will the other European royal houses that support the Anjou Branch view it? How will the Legitimists in France view it?"
"You wouldn't just be waging war against Amadeo I; you would be declaring war against every other branch of the House of Bourbon."
"I can provide you with absolute firepower superiority on the battlefield, but I cannot use bullets to muzzle every entrenched aristocrat in Europe."
"If they regard you as an illegitimate usurper, they will pour an endless stream of funds and weapons into the hands of your opposition. Madrid will become a wound that bleeds forever, and my investment will turn into a bottomless pit."
Antoine fell silent.
He knew what Felix said was the truth.
He had deliberately avoided this problem all along, hoping that America's sheer force could simply steamroll right through it.
But he had forgotten that the American capitalist before him was far better at calculating risk than any European aristocrat.
"Then what do you want me to do?"
Antoine raised his glass, trying to mask his inner turmoil.
"It's simple," Felix said, looking at him.
"You need a shield. A shield of legitimacy that can silence the Anjou Branch and leave the entire House of Bourbon without grounds to object."
The cigar smoke rose lazily above the coffee table, dispersing in the halo of the gas lamps.
Antoine d'Orléans looked at Felix, a complex mix of emotions flashing across his weathered face.
He seemed to have already guessed who the "shield" Felix spoke of was, yet his instinct was to resist.
"Felix."
He set down his glass, his voice slightly hoarse.
"The shield you're talking about... could it be..."
"Precisely. Queen Isabella II."
Hearing that name, Antoine's face turned ashen in an instant. He shot up from the sofa and paced anxiously across the living room.
"No! That is absolutely impossible!"
Antoine waved his arms wildly, losing his composure.
"Felix, you don't understand the history of Spain, nor do you understand the feud between that woman and me."
"Four years ago, she was driven out of Madrid by the revolution. Right now, she's merely an exile hiding in Paris, and her reputation in Spain was ruined long ago. If those officers find out I'm cooperating with her, they will betray me!"
In the original course of history, Antoine indeed harbored a deep-seated enmity toward Queen Isabella II.
Antoine's wife was Isabella's younger sister.
During Queen Isabella II's reign, Antoine had always been seen as a potential usurper to the throne; their political struggles and intrigues had practically run through the entire Spanish court.
"Duke, please sit down. Don't act like a drunk brawling in a tavern." Felix's tone was cold, tinged with a hint of displeasure.
Meeting Felix's gaze, Antoine forced down his surging fury and sat back down on the sofa.
"I have no interest in your moldy court vendettas," Felix said, looking at him.
"I only know one simple commercial reality: Queen Isabella II was the last legitimate Queen of Spain. She is the undisputed core of the Anjou branch. As long as she has not signed a formal legal instrument renouncing her claim to the throne, de jure, she remains the first in line of succession to the Spanish throne."
Felix tapped his finger on the coffee table.
"Duke, you have former loyalists in Spain—that's splendid. But Queen Isabella II ruled Spain for over thirty years. Dare you say she doesn't command legions of diehard loyalists in the military and among regional aristocrats? Those conservative old-money families might despise her private life, but they are undeniably loyal to the legitimacy she represents."
Felix rose to his feet and walked over to the fireplace.
"If we rush into Spain with guns and artillery just like this, Queen Isabella II would only need to issue a statement from Paris declaring you a usurper. Your loyalists in Spain would instantly fracture, and our landings in the south would face furious resistance from royalists loyal to the former dynasty."
"Therefore..." Felix turned around.
"We must bring her onto our chariot."
"How?" Antoine retorted defensively.
"She hates me. She even suspects that I secretly financed the revolution that ousted her back then. How could she possibly support me becoming king?"
"Because right now, she has nothing. Besides, I never said you would be king."
Felix's words left Antoine stunned.
"I won't be king? Then who will?"
"Your grandson, of course. My son, Philip." Felix's tone was completely steady.
"Duke, your era has passed. If you were to place that crown upon your own head, Queen Isabella II would likely rather watch Madrid burn to ashes than give her consent. But Philip is different."
Felix began unraveling this intricate political chessboard.
"Philip's mother, Isabella, is your daughter, and also Queen Isabella II's biological niece. The blood of both the Anjou and Orléans branches of the House of Bourbon flows through his veins."
"This will easily win internal support from your House of Orléans, while also dispelling much of the resistance from the Anjou side."
"Furthermore, you may need to make a trip to Paris to see that queen."
"You must tell her that you are not after the throne. You are merely acting as an advance guard to reclaim Madrid for the House of Bourbon. Once Amadeo I and the Carlists are wiped out, you will hand the throne over to Philip."
"In exchange, she must publicly renounce her own claim to the throne. Moreover, she must mobilize all her remaining political capital and royalist networks in Spain to fully cooperate with our military campaign."
Antoine listened in dumbfounded shock.
He finally grasped Felix's logic.
This was using blood ties as an adhesive to forcibly stitch together the interests of two mortal enemies within the House of Bourbon.
"She won't agree," Antoine shook his head.
"Bear in mind that she has a son of her own, Alfonso. Even if a restoration were achieved, she would want her own son to be king. Why would she ever cede the throne to my grandson?"
"She will."
Felix's eyes brimmed with confidence.
He leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Antoine.
"Because her son Alfonso currently has neither money nor guns. Meanwhile, my vaults hold enough US dollars to buy up every newspaper in Paris, and my armories have enough gatling guns to grind the Carlists into mincemeat."
"Go and tell her: she can either accept this deal—in which case the bloodline of the House of Bourbon will continue to sit upon the throne of Madrid. For the rest of her days, I will guarantee her the most luxurious life in the world, with Argyle Imperial Bank wiring her a staggering living allowance every month. As for her son Alfonso, I can guarantee him wealth that several lifetimes couldn't exhaust."
"If she refuses..."
Felix's voice turned menacing.
"Then I will spend money across every newspaper in Europe to drag out every single sordid scandal of hers from the past. I will help Amadeo I sit even more securely in Madrid, or perhaps even finance Spain's transformation into an outright republic. I will ensure the Anjou branch loses any chance of returning to the throne forever, leaving her and her son to beg on the streets of Paris."
The carrot and the stick.
In the face of survival and hard profit, royal dignity wasn't worth a single cent.
Antoine sat there, his expression shifting between dark and pale.
He knew he had been outmaneuvered by Felix.
Felix not only intended to leverage his old loyalists in Spain, but also planned to use him as an emissary to Paris, bearing the brunt of all the family's condemnation.
Yet the ultimate fruit of victory—the crown—would belong solely to little Philip, who carried Argyle blood.
"Felix, you are too ruthless."
Antoine ground his teeth, squeezing the words out from between them.
"You're using me as a stepping stone."
"This is business cooperation, Duke. You provide your social connections; I provide my capital and firepower."
Felix sat back down and picked up his now-lukewarm coffee.
"Besides, you're hardly getting the short end of the stick. You'll be the king's grandfather. That is infinitely more dignified than hiding away in a Long Island villa living off my allowances. At the very least, you will still be a prominent figure capable of commanding influence in European high society, rather than a destitute exile."
Felix looked at him.
"I will give you three days to think it over. If you feel this deal isn't worth it, you can walk away at any time. But tomorrow, I will order Vanguard Arms to divert all the weapons prepared for Europe and sell them to the government of Argentina instead. We will let the matter rest here, and you may continue enjoying your retirement in peace."
Having finished speaking, Felix stood up and signaled Frost.
"Let's go."
Watching Felix's retreating figure heading toward the front door, Antoine fought a fierce inner battle.
Stay in Long Island as a wealthy retiree?
That was not the life he craved.
His innate hunger for Europe's center of power gnawed at his nerves like an addiction. He dreamed day and night of returning to Madrid; even if he could not be king himself, he yearned to see those politicians who had once expelled him groveling on the ground before him.
"Wait!"
Just a second before Felix could push open the door, Antoine finally couldn't help shouting out.
Felix halted, though he did not turn around.
"I agree."
"I will go to Paris to meet Isabelle, and I will find a way to make her sign that declaration renouncing the throne."
Felix turned around, wearing a satisfied smile.
"Now that is the sensible choice, Duke."
He walked back into the living room.
"Frost, arrange it immediately. I recall Metropolitan Trading Company has an ocean liner docked in New York Harbor that just finished unloading. Prepare the finest first-class cabin for the Duke. He departs for France first thing tomorrow morning."
"Understood, Boss."
Frost promptly wrote down the instructions in his notepad.
Felix looked at Antoine.
"Remember, Duke: at the negotiating table in Paris, do not adopt a begging posture. You must make her understand that you represent the mightiest capital power in America. If she tries to bargain on conditions, you can directly write a sight draft for a hundred thousand dollars in the name of Metropolitan Trading Company."
Felix adjusted the lapel of his overcoat.
"That hundred thousand dollars will be the Argyle Family's introductory gift to the former queen. In the eyes of an impoverished noble in exile, hard cash speaks far louder than any pedigree of royal blood. Safe travels."
The next morning, a biting wind swept through New York Harbor.
Dockworkers were busy loading supplies onto a large mixed passenger-cargo vessel flying the British flag.
Wrapped in a thick mink coat, Antoine walked up the gangway to the deck, escorted by several members of the Gold Shield Security team.
He looked out at the hazy, gray Manhattan skyline in the distance.
The towering outline of the Argyle's Building loomed faintly in the mist.
Two months ago, he had fled here from Europe in disgrace.
Now, carrying mixed emotions and holding the checkbook of the Argyle Family, he was returning to Europe like a broker.
This reversal of roles filled him with humiliation.
Yet, there was no way back.
The ocean liner sounded a deafening blast of its whistle and slowly pulled away from its berth,
cleaving through the waves toward the vast Atlantic Ocean.
Half a month later.
Paris, France.
The cold wind along the Seine River swirled with fallen leaves.
Having endured the turmoil of the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune, the city was still licking its wounds.
In a slightly dated yet still aristocratically grand townhouse in western Paris,
Queen Isabella II, the queen who had once ruled Spain for more than thirty years, was sitting by the fireplace with a letter in her hand.
Severely stout now and dressed in a black silk gown, she wore an expression of exhaustion and resentment born from years of exile.
Seated opposite her were several aged Spanish courtiers who still followed her.
"Your Majesty, the banks in London have rejected our loan application once again," an elderly courtier reported with a heavy voice.
"They claim that the current Amadeo government has signed a new trade agreement with Britain. The British are unwilling to back an exiled royal house at this time. Our expenses for next month... have completely run dry."
Queen Isabella II angrily hurled the letter onto the coffee table.
"Those opportunistic British scoundrels! Think of how many favors I granted them in Gibraltar back then, and now they dismiss me like a vagrant!"
She rubbed her temples in irritation.
Though she lived in Paris, maintaining the grandeur of an entire court-in-exile and secretly contacting royalists back in Spain consumed vast sums of money every day.
The jewels brought from Madrid had nearly all been sold off long ago.
Just then, an attendant entered the living room with a rather strange expression.
"Your Majesty, a visitor seeks an audience."
"Didn't I say I wouldn't see anyone today?" Isabelle waved her hand impatiently.
"But... he says he comes from New York. And..."
"He is the Duke of Montpensier."
Hearing that name, everyone in the living room froze.
Queen Isabella II's face instantly turned livid, and she stood up so abruptly that she knocked over the small side table next to her.
"Antoine?! That shameless traitor! How dares he show his face at my door?!" Isabelle roared in fury.
"Tell him to get lost! Have the police drive him off this street immediately! I will never see that conniving bastard!"
The old courtiers also stood up one after another, ready to echo her indignation.
"Your Majesty, please wait."
The attendant did not withdraw, but instead produced an exquisite white envelope from his pocket and offered it with both hands.
"The Duke said he knew you would not wish to see him, but instructed me to deliver this to you first. He said that if you still refuse to let him enter after seeing it, he will buy a ticket and return to America immediately."
Her face cold, Isabelle snatched the envelope.
She tore it open roughly.
Inside, there was no letter.
Only a thin slip of paper printed with intricate patterns and a watermark.
It was a sight draft payable to the bearer from Argyle Imperial Bank.
Isabelle's gaze fell upon the string of numbers on the draft.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Converted into francs, it was a massive sum of cash—enough for her to buy an entire street in Paris this winter.
Silence fell over the living room.
Isabelle clutched the draft tightly, the paper creasing faintly beneath her fingers.
Her face, flushed with anger moments ago, now turned somewhat pale under the overwhelming impact of that fortune.
"Your Majesty?"
An elderly courtier beside her called out tentatively.
Isabelle closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath.
Faced with survival versus dignity, this former queen driven into a corner made the same choice as every ruined aristocrat throughout history.
"Go."
Isabelle opened her eyes.
"Go open the door and let that old fox crawl inside. I would like to see what he intends to buy with the Americans' dirty money."
Not long after,
Antoine d'Orléans entered the living room, dressed in a heavy overcoat and holding a top hat, accompanied by two guards from Gold Shield Security.
The two guards stood professionally by the doorway with their hands crossed before them, their cold gazes sweeping across the Spanish courtiers in the room.
Such bodyguard demeanor made Queen Isabella II feel uncomfortable and offended.
"Antoine. It seems that not only are you a traitor now, but you have also become a lapdog for that American parvenu?"
Isabelle remained seated on the sofa without standing, her voice dripping with undisguised venom and scorn.
Antoine paid no heed to the insult.
Having endured the failed restoration in France, he found it almost laughable to face an exiled royal who could now only defend her dignity with words.
"My Queen, let us skip the pleasantries."
Antoine walked across the room, sat on the sofa opposite her, and rested his top hat on his lap.
"I did not endure two weeks tossed on the Atlantic Ocean to come to Paris and hear your scoldings. That hundred-thousand-dollar greeting gift should be enough to purchase a few hours of your time."
Isabelle snorted coldly and tossed the draft casually onto the coffee table.
"One hundred thousand dollars—it is indeed a handsome sum. Tell me, what backer did you find in New York? What do you hope to get from me with this money? If you want me to support your claim to the throne in Madrid, you might as well tell me to drop dead."
Isabelle was guarded against Antoine's ambitions to the utmost degree.
"As I said, I am not here to contest the throne."
Antoine leaned slightly forward, his expression grave.
"As you know, I come this time representing the Argyle Family, currently the most powerful industrial and financial oligarchy in America."
"I couldn't care less what his name is. What do Americans know about European politics?" Isabelle curled her lip in disdain.
"Not long ago, he swindled our House of Bourbon out of its canal shares. Hmph."
"He may not understand European politics, but he knows how to kill, and he knows how to invest," Antoine retorted bluntly.
"Your Majesty, haven't you read in the Paris newspapers what he did in Argentina, South America? He turned an army of thousands into mincemeat with machine guns and artillery. Right now, his Vanguard Arms factory is producing the latest breech-loading cannons and Winchester repeating rifles day and night—firepower enough to arm an entire elite division."
Hearing "breech-loading cannons" and "repeating rifles," the several veteran Spanish ministers present exchanged glances, unable to hide the shock flashing in their eyes.
"So what if he has weapons?"
Isabelle's tone softened slightly.
"Not only does he have weapons, but he can also provide millions of dollars in cash as military funds." Antoine played his real trump card.
"Your Majesty, Amadeo I won't last long in Madrid. The Carlists are making an increasingly fierce racket in the north. If we don't take this opportunity to strike back, all of Spain will be completely ruined by those extreme conservatives or Republicans. Our old subordinates and generals in Spain need money for military pay, and they need weapons to suppress the rebels!"
Antoine pointed at Isabelle.
"You hide in Paris, begging London banks every month for just a few francs in living expenses. How are you going to support the generals who are still loyal to you? Do you expect them to risk their lives for you on an empty stomach?"
These words stung Isabelle deeply.
This was precisely her most desperate weak spot at present.
"Then what do you actually want, Antoine?!"
Isabelle slapped the armrest of the sofa hard.
"There's no such thing as a free lunch. That American named Argyle is offering money and guns—what does he want? Don't tell me it's for justice!"
"He wants a crown."
Antoine took a deep breath, finally laying his cards on the table.
"But he doesn't want it placed on my head, nor on the head of your son Alfonso. He wants it placed on the head of his son—my grandson, Philip!"
Queen Isabella II widened her eyes as if she had just heard the most ridiculous joke in the world.
"What? Your grandson? A bastard with an American businessman's surname?!"
Isabelle screamed in fury, completely losing her queenly composure.
"Antoine! Are you crazy?! You actually want an American with nouveau riche blood to sit on the throne of Castile! This is the greatest profanation of the House of Bourbon and all of European royalty! I would rather hand Spain over to the Carlists than ever agree to such a ridiculous absurdity!"
Several veteran ministers stood up angrily one after another, accusing Antoine of betrayal.
Antoine did not refute them; he merely looked at these enraged people with indifference.
When they had finished most of their cursing,
Antoine finally spoke slowly.
"Profanation? Your Majesty, such a thing as bloodline is utterly worthless in the face of absolute violence and money."
Antoine stood up and walked over to the coffee table.
"I didn't come here to ask for your consent. I am conveying Argyle's terms to you."
Antoine's voice turned as cold as ice.
"Philip carries the blood of your sister Louisa in his veins. Half of his bloodline belongs to the House of Bourbon. Legally, as long as we bribe the parliament in Madrid with money and have the barrels of the army to back us up, he is legitimate!"
Antoine stared intently at Isabelle.
"Mr. Argyle told me to inform you that this is a non-negotiable transaction."
"You either make a public statement in the newspapers renouncing your and your son Alfonso's claim to the Spanish throne, and immediately write to your loyal generals in Spain to fully cooperate with the military landing we are about to launch in the south,"
"or, as a reward, this hundred thousand dollars is just the down payment. Once it succeeds, the Argyle Imperial Bank will establish an exclusive two-million-dollar trust fund for you in Switzerland. You and your son Alfonso can live an extremely respectable and luxurious life in Paris forever. You will still be addressed as Her Majesty the Queen, albeit in title alone."
Antoine paused.
"But if you refuse..."
Antoine turned his head and glanced at the two cold-eyed security guards at the door.
"Mr. Argyle will not only revoke all financial support, but he will also use the News Media Company to expose all your sordid palace scandals in Madrid and the evidence of how you embezzled state assets in newspapers across Europe."
"He will make the commoners of all Europe despise you. The French republican government will use this as an excuse to immediately expel you from Paris. At that time, not only will you have no throne and no money, but you won't even find a roof over your head to sleep under."
The ultimate humiliation and threat.
This was the resounding slap across the face that Felix delivered to this exiled queen from across the Atlantic Ocean.
Queen Isabella II slumped onto the sofa.
Looking at the hundred-thousand-dollar draft on the coffee table, her whole body trembled.
She was a proud woman, but after four years of living in exile, she understood the taste of hunger and poverty better than anyone.
The old-money families of Europe had already abandoned her.
Now, the only one willing to give money was a barbaric American oligarch.
She turned her head and looked at her several ash-faced veteran ministers.
Not a single one dared to step forward and say they would fight the Americans to the death.
Because they didn't have any money either.
"Devil..."
Queen Isabella II closed her eyes, her eye corners twitching.
"Truly a devil."
Antoine ignored her.
Because the moment she closed her eyes, the deal was perhaps already struck.
"Only devils can bring order, Your Majesty." Antoine picked up his top hat.
"I will give you two days to draft that declaration of abdication. Then, give me the list of generals."
Antoine put on his top hat and turned to walk toward the door.
"Get ready. Along the coastline of the Iberian Peninsula, the death knell of the old era will soon sound."