Manhattan, Argyle Building.
Hamilton sat in the conference room, reporting to Felix.
"Boss, the fish has taken the bait. Old Dupont has already set off for New York. The factories in Delaware have been sealed. The notes provided by Lamotte are extremely detailed, even including the dates for every piece of experimental data. After reviewing them, the judge believes the Dupont Family is profiting by 'enslaving' geniuses."
"Well done."
Felix held a glass of whiskey, swirled it gently, and the ice clinked pleasantly against the glass.
"This is the patent troll's strategy. We don't actually need to possess the truth; we only need to have a process that the other party cannot refute. As long as we stall him for three months, Lamotte's new explosive will capture the market."
"How is Lamotte doing in New Jersey?" Felix asked.
"He's very excited," Flynn replied from the side.
"He's been working like a madman since he got the money, and the equipment is already on-site. He says that in just two weeks, the first batch of 'dana explosive' will be off the line. The solid, safe kind of explosive."
"Mm," Felix nodded.
"Now, let's see how many obstacles Old Dupont runs into on Wall Street."
Felix turned to look at Hayes.
"Tom, have you sent word to the banks?"
"Rest assured, Boss."
Hayes adjusted his glasses, revealing his signature unscrupulous businessman's smile.
"I've spoken with the credit departments of all the major banks. I told them the Dupont Family is mired in patent litigation and their assets could be liquidated at any moment. Furthermore, I hinted that anyone lending money to Dupont would be making an enemy of Argyle Empire Bank."
"At this critical juncture, no one is going to offend a giant with massive cash flow for the sake of a little interest."
"Good." Felix took a sip of his drink.
"Let him run. Let him cover every paving stone on Wall Street. Let him know that in this city, he won't be able to borrow so much as a coin without Argyle' permission."
___________________
June 10th, New York, Wall Street.
The summer sun scorched the narrow street, and the towering bank buildings on either side cast long shadows, dividing the pedestrians between light and darkness.
The air was thick with the anxious scent of money.
A black carriage stopped in front of an unremarkable red-brick building.
That was once the office of Drexel, Morgan & Co.
Henry Dupont stepped out of the carriage. He wore an old-fashioned military-style coat and leaned on a cane. His back was still straight, but his wrinkled face could not hide his exhaustion.
This was his third day in New York.
In these three days, he had visited five banks.
Kuhn, Loeb & Co., J. & W. Seligman & Co.... everyone was polite, offering the finest coffee and cigars while listening to him recount the Dupont Family's century of credit.
But whenever the topic turned to loans, those bankers' faces would take on a look of regret.
"I'm very sorry, General. Due to the current legal disputes, our risk management department cannot approve this loan."
That was the answer he heard most often.
Old Henry looked at the tightly closed door before him, feeling a chill in his heart.
He had originally counted on the Morgan Family.
After all, Junius Morgan was powerful in London and had always been a potential rival to Argyle.
"Go knock on the door," Old Henry told his attendant.
The attendant ran over and knocked hard on the door.
After a long time, the door opened a crack, and a gatekeeper poked his head out.
"Who are you looking for?"
"I am Henry Dupont, and I wish to see the person in charge. Or Mr. Morgan's agent."
"No one's here," the gatekeeper shook his head.
"Since that incident... there are only a few accountants left here liquidating the books. There's no one in charge. If you want to find Mr. Morgan, go to London."
With that, the door slammed shut with a bang.
Old Henry stood there stunned.
He had heard the rumor that J.P. Morgan had met with an "accident" on the ship back to London. But he hadn't expected the Morgan Family's influence in New York to be purged so thoroughly.
That Argyle was even more ruthless than he had imagined.
"General, where to? Should we go to the next one?" the attendant asked cautiously.
"Go to... the New York Bank," Old Henry gritted his teeth. "I don't believe Argyle can block out the entire sky."
However, reality gave him an even louder slap in the face.
In the reception room of the New York Bank, although a vice president received him, his words were full of excuses.
"General, I want to help you. But President Templeton, the one from Argyle Empire Bank, just spoke at the Bankers Association yesterday. He said that any loan provided to a company suspected of'stealing patents' would be viewed as an unfriendly act."
The vice president lowered his voice: "Perhaps you don't know, but for the past two years, Argyle Bank has been the biggest financier on all of Wall Street. No one dares to court trouble at a time like this."
Old Henry's hand gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles turning white.
"So, you refuse as well?"
"Yes, I refuse," the vice president said, spreading his hands helplessly.
Old Henry stood up abruptly and turned to leave.
Stepping out of the building, the sunlight was blinding. Old Henry felt a wave of dizziness and nearly fell. He had never suffered such humiliation in his life.
He stood on the street, watching the crowds coming and going. Everyone was talking about stocks, talking about money.
There was gold everywhere here, but not an ounce of it belonged to him.
"General, back to the hotel?"
"No." Old Henry took a deep breath.
"I'm not going back. I don't believe I can't borrow money!"
Just then, a luxurious four-wheeled carriage stopped in front of them. The prominent "A" crest was printed on the carriage door.
The window curtain was pulled back, revealing Tom Hayes' shrewd face.
"Good afternoon, General Dupont." Hayes smiled and tipped his hat. "It seems you are looking for money?"
"Who are you?" Old Henry asked warily.
"I am Tom Hayes, President of Patriot Investment Company. Also a partner of Mr. Argyle."
Hearing that name, the fire of rage in Old Henry's eyes almost erupted.
"It's you... you're the ones behind this. You've blocked my loans!"
"No, Your Excellency. We are maintaining market order."
Hayes didn't get angry; instead, he handed over a business card.
"Our Boss says he doesn't want to see a respected veteran humiliated on the streets. If you are truly in urgent need of funds, perhaps we can talk."
"Talk about what? Talk about surrender?" Old Henry sneered.
"No, talk about cooperation," Hayes said meaningfully.
"Mr. Argyle has no interest in your powder factories. That Black Powder equipment is too obsolete. But he is very interested in the Pennsylvania civilian explosive distribution channels you control."
"If you are willing to transfer those channels to us... or rather, to the Laughlin Company, we can pay in cash. This sum will be enough for you to unfreeze your accounts and fight that lawsuit."
Old Henry was stunned.
This was cutting into his flesh.
Argyle didn't want his factories because the technology was outdated. What Argyle wanted was the market, the channels.
If he sold the distribution channels, to whom would Dupont sell the powder they produced in the future?
"In your dreams!"
Old Henry tore the business card to shreds and threw it in Hayes' face.
"Tell that Argyle. The Dupont Family will not sell its ancestral property, not an inch! Even if I dismantle the factories and sell them for scrap metal, I won't sell to him!"
Hayes wasn't annoyed; he simply shrugged and closed the carriage window.
"Then I wish you luck, General. I hope the speed at which you sell scrap metal can keep up with the speed at which Mr. Lamotte's new explosives hit the market."
The carriage drove away.
Old Henry stood there, his chest heaving violently.
"Back to Delaware!" he roared at his attendant.
"We're going back. We'll sell the family antiques, the land, even the horses in the manor. I will raise the money to fight them to the end."
He did not surrender.
A general's dignity made him choose the hardest path.
But what he didn't know was that this war did not depend on his will, but on the generational gap in technology.
The era of Black Powder was over.
Scranton, Pennsylvania.
This was the kingdom of anthracite. Black coal mountains rolled on, and massive derricks stood between the valleys like steel monsters.
The air was thick with coal dust; even the leaves on the trees were black.
At a large open-pit mine called "Black Diamond," hundreds of miners were gathered around a newly excavated rock face.
They were all waiting.
At the very front of the crowd stood several men.
Lamotte Dupont, wearing dust-covered overalls, held something he had just produced at his temporary factory in New Jersey.
It was a cylindrical object about a foot long, wrapped in waxed kraft paper, looking like a giant candle or a low-quality sausage.
This was "dana explosive."
In this era, miners were still using black powder. That stuff had little power and was extremely inefficient when mining hard rock. Moreover, black powder was sensitive to moisture and had a high rate of duds.
"Does this thing really work?"
Old Mike, the mine owner, looked at the "sausage" skeptically. He was a rough Irishman, his facial wrinkles filled with coal dust.
"This thing doesn't even look as thick as my arm. It can blast through this granite? If it doesn't and delays the schedule, you'll have to compensate me!"
Miller, standing nearby, smiled. He had traveled from New York today specifically to witness this moment.
"Mike, don't look at explosives the same way you look at women." Miller patted the large object.
"One of these has the power of two of your barrels of black powder. Plus, it's not afraid of water or being dropped. Even if you throw it into a fire, it will only burn and won't explode. It can only be detonated with a detonator."
"Are you bragging?" Old Mike still didn't believe it.
"How can there be such an obedient explosive in this world?"
"Try it and you'll see."
Lamotte didn't waste words.
He walked to the rock wall and stuffed the explosive into a pre-drilled borehole. Then he took out a copper detonator, carefully inserted it, and connected the fuse.
"Everyone, back off three hundred yards!" Lamotte shouted.
The workers retreated one after another, hiding behind safety shelters.
Lamotte struck a match, lit the fuse, and then turned to run toward the shelter.
"Sizzle..."
The fuse burned, emitting blue smoke as it bored deep into the rock.
One second, two seconds, three seconds.
"Boom...!!!"
A world-shaking roar.
This sound was completely different from the dull "poof" of black powder. It was sharper, more violent, like a clap of thunder exploding in one's ear.
The earth trembled violently, as if a giant dragon underground had turned over.
Immediately after, that hard granite wall collapsed.
Not cracked—collapsed.
Huge rocks were blasted into fragments, splashing like raindrops. Dust rose dozens of meters high, obscuring the sunlight.
When the dust cleared, everyone was stunned.
A massive gap had appeared in the once-impregnable rock wall. The rubble on the ground was piled like a small mountain, and the fragments were very uniform in size, just right for loading onto carts.
"My God..."
Old Mike's mouth hung open, and the pipe in his hand fell to the ground.
"This one blast... is worth two days of our work!"
The other miners also let out exclamations of awe. They had never seen such efficient destructive power.
Miller walked over and kicked the rubble on the ground.
"How about it, Mike? This stuff is called'safety explosive.' From now on, to mine, you just drill a hole, stuff one in—bang—and it's done."
"How much?"
Old Mike asked immediately, his eyes full of greed.
"Three times more expensive than black powder." Miller held up three fingers.
"What? Three times? Are you robbing me?" Old Mike cried out.
"It's different..." Miller pointed to the gap.
"It can save you half the time and half the labor. Plus, it won't become waste because of moisture. Do the math—is it expensive or cheap?"
Old Mike was a businessman; he quickly did the math in his head.
Labor was the biggest expense. Time was production. If the mining speed could be doubled, it would be worth it even if the explosive was ten times more expensive.
"I'll buy it!" Old Mike slapped his thigh.
"Give me a hundred boxes first! No, two hundred boxes!"
"I want some too!"
"Me too!"
Several other mine owners who had come to observe also shouted out.
They all made their living in this valley; whoever had this stuff could crush the others.
Lamotte stood to the side, watching the mine owners scrambling for orders, a long-absent smile appearing on his face.
He had been neglected by the Dupont Family for ten years, mocked for being a dreamer.
Today, amidst these black mountains, that thunderclap had proven his value.
"How does it feel?"
Miller walked to his side and handed him a cigar.
"It feels... great."
Lamotte took the cigar, his hands still trembling slightly—a tremble of excitement.
"This is just the beginning." Miller helped him light it.
"The Boss said this stuff isn't just to be sold to mines, but also to the Railway Company. They need this for digging tunnels."
"And..." Miller lowered his voice.
"The Boss wants you to develop a military version as soon as possible. The kind of smokeless, more powerful propellant. The Prussians are already pressing for it."
"Don't worry."
Lamotte took a deep drag of the cigar, looking at the distant coal mountains.
"As long as there's money and equipment, I can create Death."
_______________
Three days later, New York, Argyle Building.
Felix looked at the sales report on his desk and Hayes's report about Old Dupont's refusal to sell the distribution channels.
"The old man is very stubborn." Felix wasn't angry; instead, he smiled.
"He'd rather sell the family's horses than sell the distribution channels. He's a respectable opponent."
"Boss, what do we do then?" Hayes asked. "Continue the squeeze?"
"No. Squeezing him only makes him uncomfortable; it doesn't make him despair."
Felix stood up and walked to the map.
"Since he won't sell the channels, we'll turn his channels into junk."
"Notify Lamotte to go into full production. Then have Bill's Metropolitan Trading Company step into the sales."
Felix's gaze turned cold.
"No matter which distributor it is, if they dare to sell Dupont's black powder, they can forget about getting a single stick of 'dana explosive' from us. Let Dupont's powder rot in their warehouses."
"He needs to know that times have changed. In this new era, you either evolve or you die."
Outside the window, the lights of New York began to glow.
The Dupont Family's final resistance was, in Felix's eyes, nothing more than a doomed struggle of a cornered beast.
Wilmington, Delaware.
The summer heat enveloped the Brandywine River Valley, the cicadas' chirping sounding exceptionally piercing in the afternoon swelter.
At this time in previous years, the Dupont Family's private pier should have been filled with flat-bottomed barges waiting to be loaded. Workers would be bare-chested, chanting as they rolled barrels of high-quality black powder stamped with "Dupont" into the holds, destined for mines and armories across the country.
But this year, the pier was eerily quiet.
Only a few flies buzzed on the empty wooden planks. The warehouse doors were tightly shut, still bearing the traces of seals from the federal court that had yet to be torn off.
And in those old warehouses that hadn't been seized yet, mountains of oak barrels were emitting an unsettling smell of sulfur in the high heat.
Henry Dupont sat in his study; the window was open, but he couldn't feel even the slightest cool breeze.
Before him lay a pile of return orders.
"Scranton Coal Mining Association: Canceling order for two thousand barrels of black powder. Reason: Switching to the Laughlin Company's new safety explosives."
"Lehigh Valley Railway Company: Suspending purchase of black powder. Reason: Construction efficiency is too low, blasting power is insufficient."
"Philadelphia Distributors Federation: Requesting return of last month's inventory. Reason: Simply cannot be sold."
Old Henry's fingers were trembling. He picked up the stack of documents, wanting to crush them.
"Father."
His eldest son, Henry Algernon Dupont, pushed the door open and entered, his face ashen, holding an account book.
"The situation is even worse than we imagined. It's not just Pennsylvania; even our traditional Kentucky and Ohio markets are being eaten away by that 'dana explosive'."
"Especially that guy named Bill," Young Henry said, gritting his teeth.
"His Metropolitan Trading Company is too ruthless. He told all the distributors that if anyone dares to sell a single barrel of Dupont black powder this month, they can forget about getting a pound of beef, flour, or those damned yellow dynamite sticks from him ever again."
"This is a monopoly! This is extortion!" Old Henry slammed the table. "We can sue him; this is unfair competition."
"It's no use, Father," Young Henry reminded him helplessly. "And there's even worse news."
Young Henry paused, seemingly hesitating whether to say it.
"Speak!"
"The United Munitions Factory... sent a letter. They said because the War Department wants to test new types of ammunition, they've suspended the purchase plan for our black powder for the next quarter."
"United Munitions Factory?" Old Henry felt as if his heart had been struck by a heavy blow.
"That's the largest military order; we've cooperated with the government for decades. Doesn't the War Department also have shares in that factory?"
"They do have shares, but the actual operator of that factory is one of Felix Argyle' people," Young Henry said bitterly.
"Moreover, our powder supply contract is a subcontracting agreement signed with the Laughlin Company. Now the Laughlin Company says they have a better alternative—something called Smokeless Powder that's waiting for testing."
"Smokeless Powder..." Old Henry muttered to himself. "Lamotte... that traitor really did it?"
He had always thought black powder was eternal.
Just like bread and water.
But he forgot that even the way bread is baked changes.
"How much longer can our cash flow last?" Old Henry asked.
"It won't last until the end of the month." Young Henry lowered his head.
"Although President Parker unfroze the accounts, the bank has no money because of the previous run. He's now hounding us every day to repay that bridge loan. If we can't pay it back by Friday, he'll be forced to auction off the land we mortgaged."
Old Henry fell silent.
He looked out the window.
On the distant lawn, several grooms were leading horses away. Those were the purebred racehorses the Dupont Family took pride in; each one was worth a fortune and was a symbol of family honor.
"What are they doing?" Old Henry asked, his voice a bit dry.
"They're... going to the auction house." Young Henry didn't dare look his father in the eye. "To save the ancestral property, to pay the workers' wages, I could only..."
"Sell the horses?"
Old Henry stood up and walked to the window.
He watched as his favorite black stallion, "Thunder," was led out the gate. The horse turned its head and let out a neigh, as if saying goodbye.
The sound was like a whip lashing the old man's heart.
The Dupont Family had operated in Delaware for nearly a century, always buying land, horses, and factories. When did they fall so low as to sell family property to pay off debts?
"What about the distributors?"
Old Henry turned around, his eyes becoming clouded.
"The network of relationships we've built in Pennsylvania for twenty years—are they just going to watch us fall?"
"They are businessmen, Father," Young Henry said.
"The mine owners say that using Lamotte's new explosive to blast rocks is three times more efficient than black powder, and it goes off no matter how hard it rains. Whenever they do the math, no one will buy our stuff."
"Technology," Old Henry muttered to himself.
"It's not just a matter of money; it's technology. We lost because of that suitcase."
He regretted it.
If only he had given Lamotte more funding back then, if only he could have set aside a bit of his patriarchal ego... but there are no 'ifs' in this world.
"Any news from New York?" Old Henry asked.
"Yes."
Young Henry pulled a business card from his pocket, printed with the logo of the Patriot Investment Company.
"Tom Hayes sent someone to deliver it. He said the acquisition proposal is still valid. But..."
"But what?"
"The price has dropped. From two hundred thousand dollars to one hundred and fifty thousand. And they require an answer within three days. Otherwise, the price drops by another ten thousand for every day that passes."
"Bastard!"
Old Henry swept the ink bottle off the desk. The black ink splashed onto the Persian rug like a pool of dried blood.
"This is highway robbery."
"But Father, if we don't sell..." Young Henry pointed outside.
"By next week, we might even have to sell the carriages. And if the United Munitions Factory really cuts off the orders, we won't even be able to pay the workers' salaries."
Old Henry slumped into his chair and closed his eyes.
He heard the sound of a train whistle in the distance. It was a freight train. But that train was no longer carrying Dupont black powder; it was carrying Laughlin's dana explosive.
The train of the era roared past, not waiting for him.
"Contact Hayes."
After a long while, Old Henry opened his eyes, the light in them extinguished.
"Tell him I want to talk to his Boss."
"You mean, find Felix Argyle?"
"Yes. That young man." Old Henry's voice held a sense of desolation.
"I want to see what kind of person could force me to the point of selling my horses. And while I'm at it, ask him what he intends to do with my family."
"Prepare the carriage; we're going to Philadelphia. That's our last neutral ground."
______________________
Meanwhile, in New York, at the ArgyleBuilding.
Felix was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the busy Broadway.
"Boss, the Dupont side has softened," Hayes said, walking in with a telegram. "Old Henry is going to Philadelphia to meet you; he wants to talk."
"Finally."
Felix turned around, a hunter's smile appearing on his face as he pulled in the net.
"This is a week later than I expected. It seems those horses were quite valuable, letting him hold out for a few more days."
"Should we accept?" Hayes asked. "Or continue to squeeze him until he goes bankrupt?"
"No, Tom. Making him go bankrupt doesn't benefit us," Felix shook his head.
"The Dupont Family is deeply rooted in Delaware. If we really drive him to death, the local political backlash will be very troublesome. Moreover, he still has many old friends in the military."
Felix walked to the desk and picked up a report on the United Munitions Factory.
"What we want is his market, his channels, and... to use his name."
"Although Lamotte has the technology, in the eyes of those old-school officers, the name 'Dupont' still represents credibility. If the new company can carry this name, it will be much smoother for our Smokeless Powder to enter the military."
"Get ready, Hayes. And Flynn."
Felix straightened his collar.
"We're going to Philadelphia. To leave that old general a final bit of dignity. And while we're at it, pull out his teeth."