Long Island, the second floor of the main building of the Argyle Estate.
Sunlight streamed through the massive glass windows, spilling across the activity room covered in thick wool carpeting.
The corners here were wrapped in soft leather; there were no sharp or hard objects.
Four-year-old Finn Argyle sat in the center of the carpet.
Piled before him were hundreds of mahogany building blocks, polished to a mirror shine without a single splinter.
The Prussian tutor, Otto Schneider, stood to the side, a pocket watch in hand.
"Young Master Finn, ten minutes."
Schneider spoke with a heavy German accent.
"Use these wooden blocks to build a bridge spanning over two feet. There can be no support pillars in the middle, and the bridge deck must be able to withstand the weight of three books."
Finn furrowed his brow, his small hands grabbing blocks to begin stacking the foundations at both ends.
Felix pushed open the ajar door and stepped lightly into the activity room.
Today, he had changed into a casual tweed sweater, shedding the cold aura he carried on Wall Street.
Catherine followed by his side, carrying a cup of warm milk.
"He won't be able to build it."
Catherine lowered her voice, watching her son repeatedly extend the blocks toward the center, only for them to lose their center of gravity and collapse, clattering across the floor.
"Finn simply hasn't found the laws of gravity yet."
Felix did not interfere, walking over to an armchair to sit down.
With a "clatter," Finn's half-finished bridge collapsed once again.
The little boy's eyes reddened slightly. He threw the remaining block in his hand forcefully onto the carpet and muttered a curse word he had learned from the stable hands.
Felix's brow furrowed immediately.
He stood up, strode over to his son, and crouched down so his eyes were level with Finn's.
"Finn."
Felix's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the distinct authority of a father.
"Pick up that piece of wood."
Finn looked into his father's eyes, sniffled, and obediently picked up the discarded block.
"Who taught you to throw things and curse when you face a difficulty?"
Felix reached out and ruffled his son's hair, his tone softening slightly.
"Losing your temper won't build a bridge; it only makes the wood scatter further."
Finn lowered his head.
"Daddy, without a pillar in the middle, the wood falls down. It's impossible to finish."
Felix smiled.
The educational genes of a 21st-century Chinese person deep in his bones began to take effect.
He didn't use corporal punishment or dry preaching like a traditional 19th-century aristocrat; instead, he sat cross-legged directly on the carpet.
"Mr. Schneider."
Felix turned to look at the Prussian instructor.
"You have set him a difficult problem, but Finn hasn't learned the physical structures of trapezoids and wedges yet."
Felix rolled up his sweater sleeves and picked out several blocks of specific shapes from the pile.
"Watch my hands, Finn."
Felix joined two blocks at an angle to form an inverted 'V' shape, then used straight blocks at the base to brace the edges.
"Force doesn't just fall straight down; it can also be transmitted to the sides. This is called an arch. Offset the middle blocks at a slight angle so they press against each other."
Felix guided his son, rebuilding it block by block.
A few minutes later, a wooden arch bridge with a perfect curve appeared on the carpet.
Felix took the three heavy dictionaries from Catherine's hands and placed them on the bridge deck.
The wooden bridge didn't budge.
Finn's eyes widened, and he clapped his hands excitedly.
"Wow~ It didn't collapse! Daddy!"
"Because you found the rules. Everything in the world has its laws. As long as you can find the law, you can make good use of it. Of course, the premise is that you need the ability to utilize it."
Felix ruffled his son's hair and clapped his hands as he stood up.
"One more thing, Finn: don't lose your temper when you encounter something you can't build. Stop and use your brain. If your method doesn't work, change it. Wood is dead, but people are alive."
Schneider nodded repeatedly from the side, fully agreeing with this viewpoint.
"Mr. Argyle, your philosophical thinking is very insightful, and your physical intuition is even more astonishing. This heuristic teaching is much more effective than me drawing force analysis diagrams on a blackboard."
"After all, Finn is only four. Schneider, make sure not to instill too many dry formulas in him; what Finn needs most right now is foundational learning," Felix instructed.
"For the rest of the time, let him work with his hands and think more. Use blocks, use water, use gears. Let him discover the operational logic of the world for himself."
Then, Felix walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room and took out a square wooden frame.
The wooden frame was strung with over a dozen iron wires, each with seven smooth, polished beads.
This was clearly an Abacus made in the ancient Chinese style.
Felix had specially commissioned it from a carpenter in Chinatown.
In this era in America, people were still mostly using tedious pen and paper for vertical calculations, but Felix knew the immense advantage of the Abacus for developing a child's numerical sensitivity and mental calculation skills.
He placed the Abacus on the table.
"Finn, come here." Felix beckoned to his son.
Finn ran over, curiously fiddling with the beads that made a crisp clicking sound.
"Daddy, what is this?"
"This is your new toy."
Felix took his son's small hand and taught him to flick the beads with his thumb and index finger.
"Look, one on top represents five, and one on the bottom represents one. You must first learn to make these beads dance in your mind. Once you learn this, even if you face a room full of ledgers in the future, you'll be able to see at a glance who is stealing your money."
Catherine walked over, looking at this object that was similar to the counting rods used in the past.
"This looks like an Eastern tool? I heard the manager of the Metropolitan Trading Company say that Chinese merchants in San Francisco use this to calculate accounts faster than our accountants with pens and rods."
"Exactly. Those merchants are excellent at arithmetic, and as far as I know, their childhood learning includes aspects of using this tool. It's a great invention."
Felix put his arm around his wife's waist, feeling somewhat sentimental.
After all, an Abacus doesn't look like much.
But there was a group of people who relied on this thing to calculate world-shaking data.
"I not only want Finn to have a strong body, but I also want him to have a brain that is faster than everyone else's."
The afternoon sun was warm and soft.
Felix stayed in the activity room, patiently accompanying his son as he fiddled with the Abacus beads.
3:00 PM.
The indoor heated swimming pool behind the manor's main building.
This was a water circulation system specially designed for the manor by Heinrich White and his team.
Utilizing waste heat from the boiler, it heated pure water drawn from outside to a temperature suitable for the human body.
Felix stood at the edge of the pool wearing a cotton bathrobe. A faint white mist rose from the surface of the water.
The shallow end of the pool.
Five-year-old Finn wore a one-piece swimsuit, with several cork blocks tied around his waist to provide buoyancy.
The mute instructor with a scar over his left eye, Jack Martin, was standing in waist-deep water.
He steadily supported Finn's abdomen with his broad palms, gesturing for the boy to kick his legs alternately.
Finn splashed around in the water, sending up sprays of droplets.
"Hey... straighten your legs, Finn. Don't bend your knees like a frog; use your thighs to generate power."
Felix shouted instructions from the shore.
"Come on~ maintain your breathing rhythm, keep your head up!"
Martin followed Felix's instructions, adjusting the boy's posture underwater.
Whenever Finn choked on water, he would immediately lift the boy out and pat his back.
In this era, the physical exercise of many children from wealthy families was limited to fencing and horse riding.
But Felix, possessing a modern soul, knew well that swimming was the most comprehensive aerobic exercise for a child's skeletal development and cardiorespiratory enhancement, and it carried no risk of injury from hard joint impact.
He would never immediately let a nearly five-year-old child practice cruel close-quarters combat; that would only leave irreversible internal injuries.
"Keep going, swim to Mr. Martin, only five yards left!"
Felix clapped his hands, cheering on his son.
Finn's face turned red as he held his breath, his small arms paddling hard until he finally touched Martin's arm. Panting heavily, he lay on the water's surface and giggled.
"Heehee... I did it, Papa!"
"Well done, young man."
Felix took off his bathrobe and walked to the edge of the pool.
"Come on up. Martin, today's aerobic training is over. Take Finn for a hot shower, then to the massage room to relax his muscles."
Martin nodded, lifting Finn out of the water with one hand and wrapping him in a huge dry towel.
Watching Martin leave with his son, Felix turned around.
Catherine was sitting on a lounge chair by the pool, holding Elizabeth, who had just woken up.
"This Western escort you found is quite a qualified nanny. He doesn't seem as fierce as he looks."
Catherine gently rocked her daughter and looked at Felix.
"I was worried at first that he might hurt Finn."
Felix walked over and sat on the edge of the lounge chair, reaching out to tease his daughter's soft pink cheek.
"Of course, after all, I didn't hire him to be a thug." Felix's gaze softened.
"Martin has experienced countless life-and-death situations in the West and possesses beast-like intuition. I want him to stay close to Finn so that Finn can subtly learn to observe his environment, distinguish where danger lies, and learn how to hide himself. The true skill for survival isn't throwing punches, but not letting oneself fall into a dangerous situation."
Felix lowered his head and kissed his wife's forehead.
"As for physical fitness, during his growth period, he'll only do stretching, swimming, and running. Once he's fourteen and his bones are fully developed, I'll naturally have someone teach him how to shoot."
At dusk, the family sat around the long oak table once again.
The atmosphere at dinner was more relaxed than ever before.
There was no Wall Street intrigue, nor any calculations against European capital.
Elena directed the maids to bring out golden roasted turkey and butter-slathered corn and mashed potatoes.
Finn's appetite was surprisingly good.
The afternoon swimming had consumed a lot of energy.
He was no longer a picky eater like in previous days; instead, he skillfully picked up his knife and fork and gulped down the food on his plate.
"Eat slowly."
Felix cut a piece of boneless turkey breast and placed it on his son's plate.
"No one is going to take it from you."
"Papa, Mr. Martin said he would take me horse riding tomorrow."
Finn swallowed his food and looked at his father expectantly.
"He said 'Peanut' (the pony) is too slow and I could try riding that white Arabian horse."
"Oh no, that won't do."
Felix refused decisively, leaving no room for argument.
"That Arabian horse has too fierce a temperament. You're still small, and your leg strength isn't enough to grip the saddle tightly. If you fall off the horse's back, your spine could be damaged."
Seeing the disappointment in his son's eyes, Felix's tone shifted to gentle guidance.
"Finn, bravery and recklessness are two different things. Trying to master a wild horse you can't control at all is called recklessness. You must first turn your sense of balance into muscle memory on Peanut's back. It's just like doing business; if you don't have enough cash flow in hand, don't take on those contracts that look big but could collapse at any moment."
Catherine chuckled on the side, covering her mouth.
"Look at you... here you go again, Felix. Even at dinner, you have to slip in your business theories."
"It's called learning through osmosis." Felix raised his wine glass.
"I am training a helmsman for the Argyle Family who can protect the family business. One day, I will grow old, and all of that will have to be handed over to him."
Felix looked at Catherine across the long table, then at his son, who, though young, already had a gaze that was gradually becoming resolute.
This was his root in this world.
He used every means to fight and kill outside, building high walls of gold and steel, all to protect the warmth at this dining table.
"By the way, Catherine."
Felix set down his glass and wiped the corners of his mouth.
"Tomorrow I will take a special train to Connecticut. News has come from the munitions factory in Whitneyville that the new type of Smokeless Powder developed by Laughlin-DuPont Chemical Company has completed its final stability testing."
Catherine's movements paused for a moment.
"Are you going to talk about those arms deals again? I heard that the situation between Prussia and France has reached a breaking point. The newspapers say war could break out at any moment."
"It's precisely because it's about to break out that I need to go and see."
The coldness of a capital tycoon reconsolidated in Felix's eyes.
"The bones of Europe are the nutrients for the rise of North American industry. I want to personally confirm whether the machines being sent to the European battlefields are sharp enough. I haven't forgotten what happened before."
"How many days until you're back?"
Catherine didn't stop him; this was her awareness as the lady of the house.
"Three days at most. I'll return to New York after handling the shipping manifests."
Whitneyville, Connecticut.
The core arsenal of Vanguard Armaments.
Felix's private train slowly pulled up to the dedicated platform inside the factory.
The car door opened, and Felix stepped down the stairs in his polished leather boots. His secretary, Frost, followed close behind carrying a briefcase.
Frank Cole, General Manager of Vanguard Armaments, had been waiting for a long time and quickly stepped forward to greet him.
"Boss, it's been a long journey. President Miller is still in West Virginia handling the coal mine merger, so I will be the one giving you a full report this time."
Frank handed over a thick production list.
Felix didn't take the list, heading straight toward the open-air test range in the distance.
"That's enough, Frank. Let's not look at the numbers on paper first."
Felix's boots crunched on the hard ground covered in cinders.
"Take me directly to see the real thing. Does that new batch of powder from the Laughlin-DuPont Chemical Company actually work?"
"It will absolutely exceed your expectations, Boss."
Frank quickened his pace to keep up, his voice tinged with irrepressible excitement.
The three of them passed through multiple layers of security in the factory area and arrived at a firing range in the back hills, surrounded on three sides by mountains.
At one end of the range, heavy sandbags and log bunkers were piled up. Several testers in thick canvas coveralls stood before a long wooden table. On the table lay several rifles emitting a dark, blued sheen, along with a piece of heavy equipment covered by a dustproof tarp.
Felix walked to the table and picked up a lever-action repeating rifle.
The walnut stock of this gun was polished extremely smooth.
Felix pulled the guard below the trigger. With a crisp metallic "click," the bolt retracted, revealing a brass-colored chamber.
"The Vanguard-70. Compared to the Model 65, the bolt structure hasn't changed much; we mainly reinforced the steel hardness of the locking lugs."
Frank pointed to a wooden ammo crate nearby.
"The real revolution is in those bullets."
Frank picked up a fixed brass cartridge.
"Boss, the era of black powder is over. Laughlin-DuPont Chemical Company has successfully stabilized Nitrocellulose. It's what you call 'Smokeless Powder'."
On the European battlefields of this era, Prussian and French soldiers were still using traditional black powder rifles.
Once that kind of powder is fired, it produces a massive cloud of white smoke. After a soldier fires two or three shots, the position is enveloped in smoke, which not only obstructs vision but also exposes their location, inviting enemy artillery fire.
More lethally, black powder leaves behind a significant amount of residue after burning, which easily clogs the barrel.
Felix took the bullet and pressed it into the magazine.
"Give me a demonstration." Felix retreated behind the bunker.
A tester took the rifle, raised it, and aimed at a wooden silhouette target a hundred yards away.
"Bang!"
The gunshot was extremely short and sharp, without the dull boom of black powder.
Felix stared intently at the muzzle.
Only a faint wisp of translucent blue smoke flashed at the muzzle before being instantly dispersed by the mountain wind. A bullet hole appeared precisely on the wooden target a hundred yards away.
The tester's fingers didn't stop, continuously working the lever.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Fifteen rounds were poured out in just a few seconds; the shooter's vision was never obstructed by smoke from start to finish.
"According to our multiple tests, the muzzle velocity has increased by forty percent, and the trajectory is flatter. Penetration has doubled."
Frank reported from the side.
"Furthermore, there's almost no carbon buildup in the bore. A soldier can fire two hundred rounds consecutively without needing to stop and clean the barrel."
Felix stepped forward and touched the slightly warm barrel, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes.
One should know that while the previous Model 65 repeating rifle also claimed it could fire hundreds of rounds consecutively, it still required cleaning time in between.
"Tsk... this thing will turn Europe's line of battle tactics into a one-sided massacre."
Felix put down the rifle and clicked his tongue.
He turned his head to look at the behemoth covered by a tarp in the center of the range.
"Uncover it."
Two workers stepped forward and pulled off the heavy dustproof tarp with force.
A Gatling gun mounted on a two-wheeled carriage was exposed to the cold air.
Six thick steel barrels were arranged in a cylinder, connected at the rear to a massive brass gravity-feed hopper. The sunlight glinted off the metal, reflecting a cold murderous intent.
"Boss, the biggest beneficiary of Smokeless Powder isn't the rifle; it's this."
Frank patted the gun's shield, his voice filled with awe.
"When our old Gatlings used black powder, the complex rotating locking mechanism was very prone to jamming from residue. They often became a pile of scrap metal on the battlefield. But now..."
Frank signaled the testers to take their positions.
One tester grabbed the crank at the rear of the machine gun, while another inserted a vertical magazine filled with Smokeless Powder cartridges into the hopper.
"Three hundred yards. Rapid-fire test," Frank ordered.
The tester began to turn the crank at a steady pace.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—"
The deafening roar tore through the silence of the valley.
The six barrels spun rapidly, becoming a blur. Long orange tongues of fire spat from the muzzles. Gleaming brass shells rained from the ejection port, piling up into a small hill on the ground.
Three hundred yards away, a row of shield walls made of two-inch-thick oak planks was instantly shredded by the dense rain of bullets, with wood splinters and dirt flying into the air.
The machine gun roared for a full three minutes. It emptied six magazines, nearly two thousand rounds.
Not a single jam; the mechanical operation was as smooth as if it were coated in butter.
The shooting stopped, and the barrels glowed a dull red from the sustained high-temperature friction.
The air was terrifyingly quiet, with only the echoes of the gunshots lingering in the valley.
Felix watched the machine, which exuded an aura of death, in silence.
As someone with a modern soul, he knew all too well what kind of hellish scene would be unleashed if such a weapon were introduced prematurely to the Franco-Prussian battlefields of 1870.
But he felt no pity.
When those European capitalists tried to strangle him on Wall Street, they hadn't shown any mercy either.
"What does the telegram from Major Alvensleben (the Prussian military attaché to the U.S.) say?"
Felix turned to look at Frank.
"Chancellor Bismarck has already issued the mobilization order, and the excuse for war has been found. The Prussians are in desperate need of any weapon that can provide fire suppression, and they are urging us to ship as soon as possible."
"Raise the prices appropriately."
Felix's tone was natural; although he very much wanted to bleed France dry, it didn't mean he was going to rush into selling at a loss.
"For this batch of rifles and Gatling guns using Smokeless Powder, triple the original price. Sell the ammunition separately at five times the price."
Frank was stunned.
"Boss, will the Prussians accept that?"
"Of course, because Prussia has no choice but to win. Besides, our products are worth the price. And when the French light cavalry charges their positions, they'll find this machine is cheaper than gold."
Felix walked over to the machine gun and ran his fingers over the scalding barrel.
"Don't just sell to Prussia. Frank, use our black market channels in Europe to leak the performance data of this weapon to the French. If the French want to buy it then, raise the price again—as long as they can provide Francs and gold."
Frank gasped; the Boss wanted to play both sides.
"Selling to both sides? If this gets found out..."
"So what? Vanguard Armaments is in the business of selling weapons. We only provide the swords; we don't decide who is on the side of justice."
Felix adjusted the collar of his overcoat.
"Since the Europeans want to use capital to suck my blood on Wall Street, I'll use these iron tubes to drain all the gold from their treasuries."
Felix turned and strode back toward his private train.
"Remember to run production at full capacity, Frank. For the next six months, the chimneys of Whitneyville are not allowed to stop for a single day. I want to build ten more power plants on the ruins of Europe."
76 Wilhelmstrasse, the Prussian Chancellor's residence.
The interior furnishings were rigid to the point of being dull.
There were no elaborate Rococo decorations like those of the French court; only an oil painting of Frederick the Great and several military maps hung on the walls.
On the long oak desk, documents were neatly stacked in different trays according to priority.
Otto von Bismarck sat in a high-backed leather chair.
He wore a deep blue Prussian military uniform with a tightly buttoned collar, holding an unlit cigar in his hand.
Standing across from the desk was the Chief of the General Staff of the Prussian Army, Helmuth von Moltke.
The old general was thin and silent, like a statue cast from pig iron.
"The issue of the Spanish succession has pushed the nerves of those people in Paris to the limit."
Bismarck tapped the cigar on the desk.
"Napoleon III needs a foreign war to divert attention from domestic political crises. Our intelligence network has confirmed that French troops on the border are being moved frequently."
Moltke held his hands behind his back.
"The General Staff's war games are complete, and the railway scheduling plan is precise to the minute. As soon as the mobilization order is issued, we can deploy 400,000 troops to the Rhine front within two weeks. Speed is the key to victory. The French mobilization system is too chaotic; that is their fatal flaw."
The crisp sound of military boots clicking on the wooden floor came from outside the door.
The Chancellor's adjutant pushed open the door, standing ramrod straight.
"Your Excellency, Major Alvensleben, the military attaché to the United States, has arrived. He has just disembarked at the Port of Hamburg and rushed back to Berlin on a special train."
"Let him in." Bismarck put down the cigar.
Alvensleben strode into the office, took off his military cap, tucked it under his arm, and gave a standard Prussian military salute.
There was fatigue from long-distance travel in his eyes, but his spirit was in a state of extreme excitement.
"Your Excellency, General."
Alvensleben walked to the desk and placed a heavy black leather suitcase on the carpet.
"Hmm... your encrypted telegram said that Argyle' Militech has come up with something new."
Bismarck looked at the suitcase.
"Something enough to change the situation on the battlefield?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
Alvensleben crouched down and flicked open the suitcase's metal latches.
He took out a long wooden box from inside and placed it on the desk. Opening it, three brass fixed-cartridge rounds lay side by side inside.
Moltke stepped forward and picked up one of the bullets. His eyes, which were always squinted, opened slightly.
"Brass casing, primer-fired. This isn't unusual; they've used things like this before. The Dreyse needle guns we used in the Battle of Sadowa are a bit outdated, but the principle is similar."
Moltke rubbed the bullet head with his thumb.
"Where is the focus?"
"The focus is on the propellant inside, General."
Alvensleben took out a small knife, pried open a bullet head, and poured the powder inside into a white porcelain ashtray on the desk.
It wasn't black granules, but rather pale yellow, translucent flakes.
Argyle' chemical plant calls it 'Smokeless Powder'.
Alvensleben struck a match and threw it into the ashtray.
"Sizzle..."
The powder deflagrated instantly.
There was no deafening explosion or billowing smoke.
Only a bright flash of yellow light vanished in an instant. The bottom of the ashtray was clean, leaving almost no residue.
Moltke's pupils contracted sharply.
The veteran general, who had spent his life studying war, instantly understood the strategic value of this powder.
"Extremely fast burning speed, no smoke."
Moltke's voice was low.
"If loaded in rifles, our soldiers won't reveal their positions when they fire. Front-line commanders won't have their vision obscured by gunpowder smoke. Most importantly, no residue means the barrels don't need frequent cleaning. The rate of fire can be maintained at the highest level."
"Not just rifles, General."
Alvensleben stood up and explained.
"At the Whitneyville Armory in Connecticut, I saw their new Gatling gun with my own eyes. Using these bullets, it fired two thousand rounds continuously without a single jam."
The office fell into contemplation.
It was important to note that although the Militech's rotary machine guns had strong firepower before, they would still jam after two or three hundred rounds.
Bismarck picked up the cigar on the desk and lit it with a nearby burning candle.
He took a deep drag and exhaled thick smoke.
"I imagine the large-scale application of this weapon will turn the French infantry charges into a line of men marching to their deaths."
Bismarck looked at Alvensleben.
"What is Argyle' asking price?"
Alvensleben swallowed and straightened his back.
"The price of firearms has tripled, and the price of bullets has quintupled. Furthermore, he demands full settlement in gold and will not accept any form of government bonds or bills of exchange."
"Gouging Americans!"
Moltke snorted coldly, his palm slamming heavily onto the desk.
"Does he think Prussia's treasury is his private ATM? Our Krupp factory can also build the best cannons in the world. We don't need to rely on the charity of an upstart!"
"But Krupp cannot produce this kind of powder, General," Alvensleben said bluntly. It was well known that although Krupp had been trying to reverse-engineer Militech's guns and cannons over the past few years...
Smokeless Powder was something that Krupp simply couldn't handle right now.
"Furthermore, Argyle doesn't just control the arms; he has emerged unscathed in the United States despite the combined strangulation efforts of London and Paris capital. According to the information I've gathered, he even holds over ten million dollars in gold reserves. The key is that we desperately need his technology."
Bismarck smoked his cigar, his gaze drifting over the map.
"He is a greedy wolf; he knows we are in no position to haggle at this critical juncture."
Bismarck's voice was calm, without a hint of emotion.
"The French Chassepot rifles are superior to our Dreyse rifles in range and accuracy. If we cannot create absolute suppression in terms of firepower density, the casualties of war will be immeasurable."
Bismarck walked toward Moltke.
"Helmuth, if I don't buy this batch of arms, are you certain you can crush the French main force within six weeks?"
Moltke stared at the white porcelain ashtray.
"Of course we can win, but... the cost will be heavy. After all, the walls of Paris are very sturdy."
Bismarck turned around and looked at Alvensleben.
"I understand... Then tell Argyle that Prussia accepts his quote. The first order will be for 100,000 vanguard rifles and 200 Gatling guns, along with 20 million rounds of Smokeless Powder ammunition. The funds will be allocated from the Royal Special War Reserve and shipped out."
"One more thing, Your Excellency."
Alvensleben reminded him.
"The French navy is stronger than ours. If this shipment of arms is intercepted by French cruisers in the Atlantic Ocean..."
"Let Argyle handle it."
Bismarck interrupted him.
"Since that fox dares to ask such an exorbitant price, then let him deliver the goods to Hamburg. I don't think the French navy can scare him."
"Execute the order, Major."
"Yes! Your Excellency!"
Alvensleben turned and walked out of the office.
Moltke looked at Bismarck.
"Otto. If this gold flows out, the domestic railway expansion plan will come to a standstill. That company called General Electric is said to be building power plants all over the United States. I think those things are very useful. If we use all our funds to buy American consumables, we will be left behind by them industrially after the war."
Bismarck walked to the window, looking at the Prussian Guards patrolling Wilhelmstrasse.
"War itself is the greatest consumption, Helmuth. As long as we sign the armistice agreement at the Palace of Versailles in Paris, the five billion francs in reparations from the French will be enough for us to build a hundred power plants."
"Give the money to that American and let him count his gold coins. We will take the land."
At the same time Bismarck decided on the Militech orders, different voices appeared in the Second French Empire.
The luxury of the Tuileries Palace in Paris formed a sharp contrast with the austerity of the Prime Minister's residence in Berlin.
Crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant light, illuminating the Gobelin tapestries covering the entire wall. The air was also filled with the scent of perfume, powder, and high-end wine.
Napoleon III sat on a velvet sofa.
However, his face was pale, and his eyes were somewhat cloudy.
Chronic kidney stones tormented the ruler of the empire, forcing him to frequently adjust his sitting position to relieve the pain.
Sitting to his left was Marshal Edmond Leboeuf, the Minister of War, wearing a magnificent marshal's uniform with a chest full of medals.
Opposite the sofa sat two men not in military uniform.
One was Baron Léonce de Valois, a top French financier who had previously participated in the Wall Street short-selling operation.
The other was the British Ambassador to France, lord Richard Lyons.
"Your Majesty."
Marshal Leboeuf held a glass of champagne, his tone full of confidence.
"The border troops are ready, down to the last gaiter button. As long as the Prussians dare to cross the Rhine, our Chassepot rifles will turn them into sieves."
Napoleon III nodded slightly, rubbing his brow with a white-gloved finger.
"Bismarck played tricks on the issue of the Spanish throne; he deliberately provoked us in the telegram. The domestic newspapers are all clamoring for a march on Berlin."
The Emperor's voice was somewhat weak.
"Leboeuf, are you certain our weapons are superior?"
"Without a doubt, Your Majesty."
Marshal Leboeuf puffed out his chest.
"The effective range of the Chassepot rifle is 1,200 meters, while the Prussian Dreyse rifle is only 600 meters. Before they fire, the Empire's soldiers can perform two volleys. Moreover, we have a secret weapon."
The Marshal glanced at the two guests sitting opposite him.
"Our Mitrailleuse volley gun. Twenty-five barrels that can pour out 125 rounds in a minute. With this density of fire, no infantry square can withstand it."
Baron Valois put down his teacup and cleared his throat.
"Ahem... Your Majesty, Your Excellency Marshal. I have come today specifically regarding the matter of weapons."
The Baron took a document without any letterhead from his briefcase and pushed it to the center of the coffee table.
"My informant in New York spent a great deal of money to obtain this parameter report from the black market. That Felix Argyle, who caused us a small loss on Wall Street, his chemical and military company has just developed a new type of gunpowder and an improved version of the Gatling gun."
The Baron looked at Leboeuf.
"Argyle' people have spread word on the European black market. Their new gunpowder is smokeless and has a longer range. The improved Gatling gun won't jam, and its rate of fire is more than triple that of the Mitrailleuse. And according to reliable intelligence, the Prussian military attaché has already left New York; I believe he's heading back to Prussia with the items."
After hearing this, Marshal Leboeuf let out a contemptuous laugh.
"Baron. I sympathize that you didn't make much money on Wall Street. But you shouldn't bring a merchant's intimidation to the Tuileries Palace."
The Marshal picked up the document and, without even opening it, threw it back onto the table.
"Smokeless gunpowder? I heard that Argyle previously caused the DuPont Family to split because of this thing, but I think it's just an alchemist's trick to cheat people out of money."
"How can gunpowder burn without smoke?"
"As for that so-called Gatling gun."
"The Americans used it during the Civil War; it was bulky and extremely prone to damage. That's for fighting untrained peasants. In the face of firepower from European regular armies, that kind of hand-cranked toy exposed in the open won't last five minutes."
Baron Valois frowned.
"Your Excellency Marshal, Felix Argyle is no ordinary merchant. He controls one-third of America's railroads, the vast majority of arms, medicine, food, and so on. Even when he smashed tens of millions of dollars in gold in New York to take over the market, he didn't hesitate for a second. Such a person would not bring a few fake blueprints to the European black market to scam money."
"He's just a lucky Irishman."
Leboeuf crudely interrupted the Baron, his tone displeased.
"He leaked the blueprints to us just to play a game of raising prices on both ends. If we fall for it and spend a high price to buy his scrap metal, that would be France's shame. Our Saint-Étienne arsenal can fully meet the needs of the front line."
"I admit the Militech weapons purchased a few years ago were indeed better than our own, but our current weapons have caught up and are no worse than Vanguard weapons."
Napoleon III waved his hand, stopping the argument.
"Enough. Since the Marshal has confidence in our weapons, there's no need to pay attention to the American's sales pitch. The Empire's military budget should be used for expanding the army."
The Emperor looked at the British Ambassador, who had remained silent.
"lord Lyons, if France is forced to declare war on Prussia, what position will London take?"
The British Ambassador, lord Lyons, picked up his teacup and gently blew on the steam, his movements elegant and composed.
"Your Majesty, the British Empire has always been committed to maintaining peace and the balance of power on the European continent."
The Ambassador spoke in official jargon, being evasive.
"As long as Belgium's neutral status is not violated, London will not interfere in continental European disputes. We are more concerned with keeping trade routes open."
The Ambassador put down his teacup and turned his gaze to Baron Valois.
"However, the Baron's mention of that Argyle just now has indeed caught the attention of Downing Street. This person's expansion is too rapid. He uses the so-called 'Standard Gauge' act to squeeze out British capital and uses electric light technology to try to phase out our gas industry. The closed industrial cycle he has established in North America is a huge threat to free trade."
lord Lyons leaned back on the sofa, fingers interlaced.
"If France can quickly crush Prussia in this upcoming war and re-establish absolute authority in Europe, then after the war, perhaps London and Paris can sit down and seriously discuss how to jointly deal with that increasingly disobedient upstart in North America. We cannot let an America with an independent energy and heavy industry system escape the control of Europe."
A glimmer of light flashed in Napoleon III's eyes.
"That is exactly what I hope for, lord. French bayonets will clear all obstacles for Europe."
Baron Valois looked at this group of power-holders immersed in past glory, feeling a deep sense of powerlessness in his heart.
He had seen Argyle' strangulation tactics on Wall Street.
He also knew that the man in New York would never make a losing deal. Since Argyle dared to sell weapons to Prussia, it meant he was certain Prussia would win.
Yet these nobles in the Tuileries Palace still treated that monster like a bumpkin who only knew how to haggle.
Such arrogance.
It was a poison more lethal than black powder residue.
The Baron gathered the documents on the table and stuffed them back into his briefcase. He decided that as soon as he left the palace, he would immediately have his traders start selling off French government bonds and transfer the funds to Swiss bank accounts.
He didn't want to gamble on this war.
May 10, 1870.
London, British Empire.
Brooks's Gentlemen's Club, St. James's Street.
In this private club that only accepted top politicians and diplomats, the light was soft. Large leather sofas separated each conversation circle.
Count Shuvalov, the Russian Imperial Ambassador to Britain, and Count Beust, the diplomatic envoy of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, were sitting in a quiet corner.
On the round table in front of them were two glasses of vodka and a plate of caviar.
"Damn it... Napoleon III's illness has made him lose his mind; he was provoked by Bismarck's Ems Dispatch. There are parades in the streets of Paris every day demanding war."
Count Beust lowered his voice.
"The Austro-Hungarian Empire has not yet recovered from the defeat at Sadowa, and we are simply unable to interfere in this matter. Therefore, Vienna's position is absolute neutrality."
Count Shuvalov picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp.
"Is that so? Saint Petersburg's position is also neutral. However, if the Prussians can beat the French to a pulp, His Majesty the Tsar would be very happy to tear up that damned Treaty of Paris while Paris is too busy to look east. The black Sea Fleet needs to sail into the Mediterranean again."
"You Russians are always staring at the sea outlets."
Count Beust shook his head.
"I am more concerned about Berlin. If Bismarck wins, a unified German Empire will appear in Central Europe. That will be a true monster."
Shuvalov pinched a piece of bread spread with caviar and tasted it.
"Monsters need to be fed, don't they? By the way, Count, have you noticed those cargo ships on the Atlantic routes lately?"
"You mean those armed merchant ships flying the Liberian flag but actually controlled by the Argyle Family?"
"Yes, exactly." Shuvalov sneered.
"You should know, French warships are patrolling the English Channel. But they don't dare intercept those merchant ships. Because although those ships aren't flying the American flag, they are escorted by retired U.S. Navy gunboats. Argyle has fed the politicians in Washington well, and that President Grant has acquiesced to this behavior."
"He's selling arms—a kind of smokeless powder and Gatling guns. Berlin is settling the accounts with crates of gold at the Port of Hamburg."
Count Beust sighed, filled with melancholy.
"Europeans are bleeding, while Americans are counting money. That merchant named Felix is using our war to complete his capital accumulation and expansion."
"It's fine, let him earn it."
Shuvalov bit into the bread nonchalantly.
"When the war is over, he'll find that even with a pile of gold coins in his hand, it's nothing in the face of European bayonets."
...
At the same time.
New York, United States of America.
The entrance to the vault on the ground floor of the Empire Bank Building.
The heavy cast-iron gate was slowly pulled open by a winch. The air in the basement was dry and the temperature constant.
Felix stood outside a row of walls, with Frank Cole and Tom Hayes standing behind him.
Inside the glass wall, over a dozen bank clerks were prying open wooden crates that had just been transported from the port.
The wooden crate lids hit the floor.
Dazzling golden light instantly illuminated the entire vault.
There were gold bars bearing the mark of the Prussian Royal Mint, as well as bundles of German gold marks.
"The first batch of payment has been settled."
Frank Cole held the manifest.
"After deducting shipping costs and bribes for port customs, the net entry is five million dollars worth of gold. The Prussians didn't haggle; they prepaid in full."
"What about the French side?"
Felix's gaze did not shift from the gold bars.
"As expected, they refused," Frank replied.
"That Marshal Le Bœuf believes our weapons are a scam; they firmly believe their Mitrailleuse volley guns are invincible in the world."
Felix let out a short, cold laugh.
"Hehehe... Truly a fool. They will pay hundreds of thousands of lives for that ridiculous bit of pride. Forget it, let them be. As long as the Prussians are still firing, our accounts won't lack money. Perhaps they'll come knocking on our door themselves by then."
Felix turned around and looked at Tom Hayes.
"Hayes, don't let this five million in gold collect dust in the vault. Turn it into ammunition."
"But Boss, the arsenal's funds are already quite sufficient," Hayes said, somewhat puzzled.
"No, you misunderstood. I'm not talking about bullets for shooting people. I'm talking about bullets for shooting Carnegie."
Felix strode toward the elevator, and the two hurried to keep up.
"Carnegie has rallied a group of mine owners in Pittsburgh and formed something called the Appalachian Alliance. He's swapping rails for the bonds we rejected, trying to maintain his cash flow."
Felix said as he stepped into the elevator.
"Carnegie's steel mills need coal and iron ore, and he uses water transport on the Ohio River."
The elevator rose slowly.
"Go to Chicago and find Bill. Have him step forward and try to buy out all the flat-bottomed barges at the confluence of the Monongahela and Ohio Rivers. For those he can't buy, rent them at double the price. Let them rot at the docks, but don't let them haul a single ounce of coal for Carnegie."
Hayes understood instantly.
"You want to seal off his waterways?"
"Not just the waterways."
Felix watched the floor indicator light on the elevator door flicker.
"At the same time, go find Drexel's rival, the First National Bank of Philadelphia. Deposit this gold there as collateral. Demand they step forward and frantically sweep up the bonds of those Midwestern railroad companies in the market. Drive the prices up."
"Isn't Carnegie swapping rails for bonds? Once bond prices are high, those railroad companies won't be willing to trade bonds for rails; they'll demand Carnegie lower his prices. The bonds in Carnegie's hands will depreciate, and his capital cycle will break."
The elevator stopped at the top floor.
Felix stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his office.
"Use the money from dead Europeans to buy out the paths of the living in North America."
Felix pushed open the office door and walked to the huge map of America.
"General Electric's No. 2 power station goes online next week. Tell White to immediately start the plan for free installation of electric motors in New York and Chicago as soon as the meters are developed. Use this method to bind all small and medium-sized factories to our power grid."
Felix picked up a red and blue pencil from the desk and drew a knot over the Old World on the map.
"When the war is over, I hope to see a better situation."