New York.
Felix sat at a long table spread with a map of South Carolina.
Across from him was Amory Lawrence.
Lawrence held a sample of cotton in his hand—an early harvest rescued from the neglected fields of Oak Manor.
"The fiber's passable," Lawrence judged professionally. "Neglected during the war, but the foundation's still there. After your fertilizer forced maturity, this crop is barely usable."
"This is only the beginning, Lawrence," Felix leaned back.
"My security team's secured the area; new steel plows and fertilizer are being distributed. Next year… I want South Carolina's cotton output doubled."
"I believe you," Lawrence set the cotton down.
"Your oil tricks in Pennsylvania reached even Boston. You're a man who can squeeze blood from stone."
Lawrence leaned forward. "So, shares in Pioneer United Development… I'd like in. What do you say? I can swap stock in Lawrence Textile."
Felix smiled, didn't answer directly, and instead pulled a blueprint from a drawer, sliding it across.
"Forget shares for now; take a look at this."
Lawrence picked up the sheet; after one glance his pupils contracted sharply.
It was a mechanical drawing—complex gears, linkages, and shuttles forming a precise whole.
"This is…" Lawrence's voice trembled, "an Automatic Shuttle-Changing Loom?"
"Exactly—the latest lab prototype."
"Tests show it weaves one-and-a-half times faster than Britain's best, with minimal breakdowns."
"Fit your mills with these and add my cheap cotton," Felix said, "and your cloth costs drop thirty percent below the Brits'."
Lawrence clutched the drawing, breathing hard.
This wasn't just money—it was lifeblood. With it he could crush British rivals and even export back to them.
"Name your price, Felix." Lawrence looked up, eyes blazing. "Cash or shares?"
"I don't want money," Felix shook his head.
He stood, walked to a liquor cabinet, and poured two glasses.
"Lawrence, remember the victory banquet in Washington six months ago?"
Lawrence hesitated, then recalled something; his expression turned odd.
"You mean… that fool Augustus Lowell?"
"Yes."
Felix turned, handed Lawrence a glass, a cold glint in his eye.
"That Boston brat told every dignitary in the Union I reeked of coin and knew nothing of art."
"And that people like us don't deserve to be called gentlemen."
Felix sipped, voice soft and chilling.
"I have a good memory—and I dislike others judging my taste."
"The Lowell Family is old Boston money and your biggest rival in textiles, right?"
Lawrence nodded; he already guessed Felix's aim and felt a shiver—yet also thrill.
"The Lowells have always kept us under their thumb," Lawrence growled.
"They control raw-cotton imports, and Augustus is an insufferable snob."
"Perfect." Felix set his glass down with a crisp clink.
"That's my condition."
"The loom's patent license is yours. I've reserved ten percent of Pioneer United's shares for swap."
Felix stared into Lawrence's eyes.
"In return, use this cost edge to launch a price war."
"Push cloth prices below the Lowells' cost line. Steal every order, snap their cash chain."
"And call on your Boston banking friends—when they beg for loans, not a single dollar slips through."
Felix raised two fingers.
"In two years I want the Lowell Family bankrupt. I want Augustus begging on Boston's streets."
"Can you do it?"
Lawrence looked at the young man—now truly sensing the terror behind the name Argyle.
This wasn't business; it was an execution.
For one insult he'd handed over patents and ignited an industry war.
"Yes."
Lawrence inhaled, a savage grin spreading.
He'd longed to crush the Lowells but lacked the strength—until Felix handed him the sharpest blade.
"Deal." Lawrence raised his glass. "To… the new order."
"To the new order." Felix clinked his glass.
"By the way…" Felix added casually, "once Augustus is ruined he'll sell assets. I hear their family collects European paintings and antique pianos?"
"Indeed."
"Keep an eye out." Felix smiled. "I'd like to buy a few pieces—sharpen my 'artistic taste'."
After Lawrence left, Frost entered, expression conflicted.
"Boss, isn't this too harsh? The Lowells have deep roots in Boston."
Felix sneered. "In this era no connection is unbreakable."
"Besides, Edward, understand this." Felix gazed at the sky outside.
"I'm making an example."
"As our business grows, more old money will resent me. They'll swarm like flies, trying to gag me with their decrepit etiquette and bloodlines."
"I'll use the Lowell carcass to teach everyone a lesson."
Felix turned, eyes blade-sharp.
"Be my friend and you'll feast. Be my enemy… not even bones remain."
"Right—send Rockefeller in."
For John D. Rockefeller, who had come to New York, this week was very long.
He was temporarily staying in a clean hotel. Every morning, he would walk to the Imperial Bank Tower.
Then he would sit down on a hard wooden chair in the reception room, waiting for the summons that might come.
Every day, Frost would politely tell him, "I apologize, Mr. Rockefeller, but the Boss's schedule is full today."
Rockefeller showed no complaint or anger. He simply nodded, stood up, and left, only to return the next day.
This was a psychological battle.
Argyle was wearing him down. Like training a falcon, he was trying to drain away his patience and pride.
But patience was the one thing Rockefeller did not lack. In the mud of Oil Creek, he could haggle with a carpenter all day just to save a few cents on the cost of a barrel.
It wasn't until the afternoon of the eighth day.
Frost did not ask him to leave as usual.
"Mr. Rockefeller, the Boss asks you to come in."
Rockefeller took a deep breath. He adjusted his collar and stepped inside.
Felix was sitting behind his desk, reading the Global Times.
Hearing footsteps, he put down the newspaper.
"Mr. Rockefeller, I apologize. You know how it is—the old fossils in Boston always waste a lot of time."
"It's alright, Mr. Argyle."
Rockefeller walked up to the desk, maintaining his upright posture. "Waiting is also part of business; it gave me time to think."
"Oh? Thinking about what?" Felix pointed to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Rockefeller sat down, meeting Felix's gaze directly.
"Thinking about why you wanted to see me. If you truly wanted to destroy me, you would only need to raise the railway freight rates by another ten percent, or have Standard Transportation Company cut off my crude oil supply. Therefore, I deduce... I have something you need."
"Smart." Felix smiled.
He liked talking to smart people; it was much less effort than dealing with a greedy fat man like Tweed.
"You're right, John. I could kill you, but I don't want to."
Felix stood up and walked over to the massive map of American industry on the wall. His finger skimmed over Pennsylvania and stopped at Cleveland, Ohio.
"The independent refineries in Pennsylvania have collapsed, and my Standard Oil is absorbing their assets. But in Cleveland... you are an anomaly."
"According to Hayes' report, even with doubled freight costs, you not only avoided bankruptcy but maintained a thin profit margin through waste recycling, self-manufacturing barrels, and extreme cost control. Your refining efficiency extracts 65% kerosene per barrel of crude oil, while the industry average is only 55%."
Felix turned around, a hint of admiration in his eyes.
"You are a born manager, John. You have turned saving money into an art."
"It is God's will," Rockefeller replied seriously. "Waste is sin."
"Perhaps." Felix was noncommittal. "But I didn't call you here today to discuss theology."
Felix walked up to Rockefeller, braced his hands on the desk, and leaned forward, creating a tremendous sense of pressure.
"Your current efforts are admirable, but meaningless."
"Why?" Rockefeller countered. "Is it because you control the railways?"
"More than just the railways." Felix shook his head. "It's because the times have changed."
"John, you are still thinking about how to be a successful refiner. I, however, am thinking about how to establish order."
Felix took a thick document from his drawer and tossed it in front of Rockefeller.
"Look at this."
Rockefeller picked up the document and turned to the first page. His pupils suddenly contracted.
It was a grand organizational chart.
The American Standard Oil Trust.
Although the legal concept of "Trust" was not yet fully formed at this time, Felix was already using this logic to build his black gold empire.
"This..."
Rockefeller looked at the complex shareholding relationships on the chart and the complete closed loop covering everything from crude oil to the final sales terminals, his fingers trembling slightly.
This was exactly what he had dreamed of, the "perfect monster" he had vaguely conceived in his mind. But now, this monster was nearly realized by someone else, and it was even larger than he had imagined.
"I intend to reorganize Standard Oil," Felix's voice sounded from above.
"Due to legal restrictions in Pennsylvania, out-of-state companies cannot hold local land. So I need to establish a series of subsidiary companies."
"Standard Oil, responsible for the East and exports."
"Pennsylvania Standard Oil, responsible for crude oil extraction and pipelines."
"And here..." Felix's finger tapped Cleveland.
"I will establish the 'Ohio Standard Oil Company'."
Rockefeller looked up, his heart rate accelerating.
"Are you suggesting..."
"Exactly. Merge your current company, along with the small refineries you just acquired, into it," Felix said.
Felix held up two fingers.
"I will give you a 20% stake in the Ohio Standard Oil Company."
"20%?" Rockefeller frowned slightly.
"Don't think it's too little." Felix scoffed. "That 20%, backed by my railway network, pipelines, brand, and sales channels, will be enough to make you immensely rich."
"Furthermore, you will serve as the General Manager of Ohio Standard Oil. You will be responsible for the entire Midwest: Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago... all the refineries in the Great Lakes Region."
"Go and devour all those struggling refineries for me."
"Acquisitions, price wars, or cutting off transportation lines... the means are yours to choose."
Felix looked directly into Rockefeller's eyes.
"Within one year, I want the word 'competition' to cease existing in Cleveland."
"Are you willing, John?"
Rockefeller fell silent.
He looked at the organizational chart in his hands.
If he signed this, he might never be able to surpass the man before him in this lifetime.
But if he didn't sign... he wouldn't even have the chance to be a partner; he would become dust in history.
More importantly, the Trust oil empire Felix described held a fatal attraction for him.
It was his dream, only now, the person realizing that dream was someone else.
After a long time, Rockefeller closed the document.
He stood up, and for the first time in front of Felix, he displayed a truly heartfelt smile, one belonging to a kindred spirit.
"Mr. Argyle." Rockefeller extended his hand. "Regarding the waste recycling process, if it were implemented across all company refineries, it could save millions of dollars annually."
Felix looked at the outstretched hand and smiled.
"We can let Ohio Standard Oil implement it first."
"Welcome aboard, Manager Rockefeller."
Ohio, Cleveland.
For Cleveland's refiners, this summer felt exceptionally cold.
Just two days earlier, John D. Rockefeller—hailed as the "last bastion of independent refiners"—had stunned the industry with an announcement.
He was merging his company into the Ohio Standard Oil Company.
It was like dropping a cannonball into an already fragile pond.
Inside the Cleveland Commercial Club, smoke hung thick in the air. A dozen local refinery owners had gathered, every face etched with fury and panic.
"Traitor! Judas!"
A flushed Scottish owner slammed the table. "Rockefeller has sold his soul to that New York vampire."
"What's the use of cursing now?"
Another owner spread his hands in despair.
"Did you see it? Since hanging the Standard Oil sign, Rockefeller's freight rates have been cut in half—and tank cars roll straight into his plant. Our oil is still waiting for barges at the docks."
"We can't sit here and die." the Scot shouted. "We unite, sue them for monopoly in court, march on the state legislature."
"Don't be naïve—federal law doesn't outlaw monopolies."
At that moment the conference-room door swung open.
Rockefeller walked in.
He carried a black briefcase. Faced with a roomful of hostile stares, he showed no emotion.
"If you've come to gloat, Rockefeller, then get out!" the Scot snarled, grabbing an ashtray to hurl.
"I'm here to save you," Rockefeller said quietly.
He walked to the head of the table, set down his briefcase, and drew out a thick sheaf of papers.
"Gentlemen, face reality."
"The chaotic era of every man for himself is over."
"What do you want?"
"Acquisition." Rockefeller let the word drop.
"We will buy every one of your plants—all of them."
"Dream on!" the Scot roared. "My plant is worth a hundred thousand dollars—can you pay that?"
"What your plant is worth isn't up to you; it's up to the ledger." Rockefeller produced a list. "Here is a fair appraisal of each facility, and my offer is just."
One glance at the figures and the room exploded.
"That's only half the value—it's robbery!"
"No, it's mercy," Rockefeller replied coldly.
"Sign today and you walk away with cash, keep your dignity, even land positions in the new company."
"But if you refuse..."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across every face.
"Next month, the Erie Railway will raise freight rates for non-contract customers again, and the Metropolitan Trading Company will dump cheap kerosene on the market. You'll lose two dollars on every barrel."
"Your cash flow won't last. When the bankruptcy auction comes, I'll still buy your plants—for one-tenth of today's price."
A deathly silence fell over the room.
Thus began the famous "Cleveland Massacre." In original history it took place in 1872; sped up by Felix, it now unfolded seven years early.
Rockefeller gave them no time to think. Like a preacher he proclaimed the gospel called "monopoly."
"Such competition is evil," he declared. "It wastes resources and breeds chaos. Join Standard Oil; we'll build a perfect, efficient system and send American oil to the world."
An hour later,
the first owner picked up a trembling pen and signed the purchase agreement.
A second followed, then a third... When Rockefeller stepped out of the club, his briefcase bulged with deeds to more than half of Cleveland's refining capacity... New York, Fifth Avenue.
Felix and Anna strolled with Catherine in the garden; her due date was next month and she moved with difficulty now.
Frost stood beneath the corridor arcade, a freshly arrived telegram in hand.
After settling Catherine, Felix walked over.
"How is it?"
"Rockefeller has made his move," Frost reported in a low voice.
"Within three days he's bought Cleveland's six largest refineries; the remaining twenty small plants are all in talks. He says by year-end he'll fold all of Ohio's refining capacity into Standard Oil."
"Good." Felix nodded, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "That blade is indeed sharp."
"Still," Frost said worriedly, "a move this big could spark backlash. I hear Vanderbilt is unhappy about our 'special agreements' on the rails—feels we're using the Railway Company."
"Vanderbilt..." Felix narrowed his eyes.
"Of course he's displeased. Once he controlled the shippers; now the shippers control him."
"No worries. As long as our cargo volume is big enough—so big he can't refuse—he'll sit down and talk."
For now Felix had no wish to fall out with Vanderbilt; after all, they had been allies.
Glancing at Catherine, who was laughing and chatting with Anna Clark in the garden, Felix's gaze softened.
"Put business aside for now," he told Frost. "For the next week, unless the sky falls—or Vanderbilt invites me personally—don't bother me with trifles."
"Boss, you're going to..."
"I need to stay with Catherine." Felix turned toward her. "To welcome my first child."
"What is all this work for?"
Felix murmured, as if asking Frost, as if asking himself.
"Isn't it so that those who come after can stand on the shoulders of giants?"
He adjusted his cuffs and walked toward the garden.
At this moment the sun shone just right.
Felix supported Catherine, fingertips gently brushing her swollen belly, feeling the rhythm of life within.
That felt more real to him than oil, steel, or gold—a future he could touch.
And the continuation of his bloodline.
Early September 1865, Wall Street, New York.
Top-floor boardroom of the Argyle Bank Building.
Inside stood an oval table large enough for thirty-odd people.
This was the nerve center of Felix's entire commercial empire—the seat of the Williams Executive Committee.
The air was thick with Cuban cigars and strong coffee. Though late-summer heat pressed against the windows, the room itself felt anything but stifling.
Felix occupied the head of the table.
Quietly he skimmed an urgent telegram in his hand.
Along both sides sat the "dukes" who controlled the system's economic lifelines.
Each one, plucked out alone, could make New York—or an entire state—quake; yet here they were merely members of this committee.
"Tell us about Cleveland."
Felix set the telegram down and looked to the first man on his left.
Tom Hayes, president of Patriot Investment Company—and the empire's great expander—sat there.
Hayes adjusted the gold-rim spectacles on his nose, a tremor of excitement in his voice.
"Mr. Chairman, that little crocodile from Ohio… is fiercer than we expected."
"As of yesterday, 30 August." Hayes produced a list.
"Rockefeller has wrapped up acquisition talks for twenty-two Cleveland refineries. Eighteen have signed asset-transfer agreements; the other four—owing to 'unexpected' equipment failures and feedstock shortages—were forced into bankruptcy liquidation."
Hayes exclaimed, "In barely half a month he's turned Cleveland into a clean sheet of paper. Ohio Standard Oil now controls ninety per cent of local refining capacity."
"That's the efficiency we wanted."
Felix nodded, shifting his gaze across the table.
"Coleman, how is Lex Steel cooperating?"
William Coleman—now president of Lex Steel—looked bulkier than a few months earlier.
A stubby pencil in hand, he had been scribbling; at Felix's words he stopped at once.
"No problem, Chairman. To support Rockefeller's consolidation we not only gave tank cars priority, we also dispatched an engineering team to Cleveland."
"We're helping him tear down those rickety plants he bought. Mr. Haas says the old stills are junk; we'll melt them into new pipe."
"That's the strength of the system," Felix judged.
He turned to Charles Reeves, president of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company.
"Charles, how are the transport lines?"
"Opened."
Reeves answered, his finger tracing across the map.
"Through our through-tariff deal with the Erie, plus our own spurs, every barrel of kerosene Rockefeller produces now reaches the East Coast at minimum cost—or heads west via Chicago."
"Speaking of the west," cut in Bill Carter, president of Metropolitan Trading Company, the onetime butcher now squeezed into an expensive suit.
"Chairman, my Chicago warehouses are empty. The moment Rockefeller's oil arrives my sales network will stock it in every farmer's general store."
Felix surveyed the long table.
This was the Executive Committee he had built.
These firms—Umbrella, Pioneer, Lex, Standard Commercial, Metropolitan Trading, Argyle Bank…—were legally separate, each with its own financials.
Yet in this room they were limbs of one body, filling one another's gaps.
Steel built tanks for oil, railways moved the oil, trading firms sold the oil, investment firms plugged the chain's weak links—and the bank fed the whole enterprise ceaseless ammunition.
It was a closed ecosystem outsiders could neither understand nor fight.
"Looks like everyone's performing." Felix's fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop.
"Since Rockefeller has proved his worth, we keep our word. Tom—approve Patriot Investment's capital injection into Ohio Standard Oil."
"Understood."
"Also," Felix looked toward the silent man in the corner—George Templeton, head of Argyle Empire Bank.
"George, how's the cash flow?"
"Very healthy, Chairman." Templeton smiled.
"Rents from the Southern Land Assets Administration are coming in. And… Mr. Sholes's Standard Commercial—typewriters—this quarter's profit is a miracle. European orders brought us mountains of gold."
At the far end Christopher Sholes rubbed his head, embarrassed.
"It's the product. And… Mr. MacGregor's Atlantic Steam Power helped; their ships arrived right on schedule."
Felix looked at them all.
It was a perfect moment.
Every gear meshed; every piston fired.
"Gentlemen." Felix rose. "Cleveland is only the start. Rockefeller is a fine blade, but the hand that wields it is in this room."
"Next we take New York, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia."
"Before Christmas I want the words Standard Oil to be America's sole energy emblem."
"Jones." Felix singled him out.
Jones—president of Argyle & Co. Foods and one of Felix's earliest followers—straightened instantly.
"Boss—ah, Chairman."
"Food Company's southern operations must keep pace," Felix ordered.
"Black laborers buying supplies with Pioneer Union vouchers need salt pork and flour in bulk. Don't scrimp—quality just good enough. A full stomach means more cotton picked."
"Got it." Jones nodded. "Chicago's slaughterhouses are working overtime."
The meeting ran another two hours.
When business ended and the men prepared to leave, Felix glanced at Umbrella Pharmaceutical's empty seat, his gaze softening.
Catherine was absent; she was about to give birth.
"Adjourned."