novelraw Chapter 317: The Other Side of the Board
Chapter 317: The Other Side of the Board
Wall Street, New York, the heart of the New World.
It was also a steel jungle forged from gold and desire.
The massive New York Stock Exchange building stood beside the broad street.
Although cold rain fell outside, the trading floor inside was as hot as a steam boiler.
Hundreds of brokers in vests roared here, waving their buy and sell slips in their hands.
The rows of the newest Edison stock tickers made continuous "clack-clack-clack" sounds, like machine guns firing, spitting out white paper tapes covered in numbers and codes.
That was the sound of money, and also the sound of countless fates shattering.
In a red-brick building opposite the exchange, in the luxurious office on the top floor, a huge floor-to-ceiling window blocked out the noise below.
The room was covered with thick Turkish carpets, and expensive oil paintings hung on the walls.
The fire in the fireplace burned fiercely. Ethan sat in a large leather armchair.He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray double-breasted suit that accentuated his tall, straight figure, his blond hair combed meticulously.
He held a glass of brandy in his hand but did not drink.
His gaze fell on the private stock ticker that had been moved into the office, its paper tape slowly spitting out.
"General Electric... 98.5... falling."
The corner of Ethan's mouth curled into a cold arc.
"Keep selling."
He said softly.
Standing behind him was an elderly, white-haired gentleman, the Redgrave family's chief financial advisor in North America.
"Young Master," the old advisor hesitated. "We've already sold thirty percent of our General Electric stock. If we continue to dump shares, it might draw the attention of regulators, and... it will cause us significant losses."
"Losses?"
Ethan turned his chair to look at the old advisor.
"Money is just a number, just a tool for the Redgrave family."
"What I want isn't profit. What I want is... panic."
He stood up and walked to the window.
Looking at the building opposite bearing the sign "J.P. Morgan," that was Edison's biggest financial backer.
"Contact Westinghouse," Ethan ordered. "Tell Mr. Westinghouse that the Redgrave family is willing to provide full interest-free loans for his 'alternating current' project, and we will purchase all the bonds he issues."
The old advisor drew a sharp breath.
This was a high-stakes gamble.
A gamble pitting the entire family's liquid assets in North America against the greatest inventor of the time.
"And," Ethan added, "call all those newspaper editors."
"*The New York World*, *The Sun*, *The Herald*."
"Any paper that can print words, I want it."
Ten minutes later.
The side door to the office opened.
Several reporters wearing flat caps, smelling of printer's ink, walked in.
They looked at this young British nobleman, their eyes filled with greed and awe.
In their eyes, he was a fat sheep ready for slaughter, and also the biggest financial backer.
Ethan picked up a file from the desk. It wasn't some trade secret; it was several photographs.
The photos showed a charred stray dog and a horse that had collapsed after stepping on an exposed wire on a rainy day.
These were accidents caused by DC power line leakage.
But under Ethan's direction, these photos would be given new meaning.
"Gentlemen," Ethan threw the photos on the desk.
"I want tomorrow's front-page headlines. I've even thought of the titles for you."
He picked up his glass and took a sip.
"*Edison's Death Trap: Direct Current is Murdering Our City*."
"Or *Souls Under High Voltage: Who Will Be Responsible for Innocent Lives?*"
The reporters looked at each other.
Although they loved sensational news, directly attacking the "American hero" Thomas Edison still required immense courage.
"Ten thousand dollars," Ethan said flatly.
"Ten thousand dollars in advertising sponsorship for each newspaper, paid in advance."
The reporters' eyes instantly lit up.
In 1889, this was a sum large enough to sell their souls.
"No problem! Mr. Redgrave!"
"We'll write the most 'truthful' reports!"
Watching the reporters scramble to leave, Ethan's gaze grew even more profound.
He wasn't lying; DC power did indeed have safety hazards, especially in the chaotic wiring of New York's slums.
He was just... amplifying that hazard tenfold, a hundredfold.
He wanted the name "Edison" to transform from representing "light" and "progress" to representing "danger" and "monopoly."
This wasn't just commercial competition; this was digging at the foundation of the Brotherhood of Light.
Edison's power stemmed from his technological monopoly, from the public's blind worship of him, from the continuous flow of financial support.
As long as these three pillars were cut, that seemingly invincible "Kingdom of Science" would collapse like a sandcastle in the tide.
"Young Master," the old advisor walked back in. "There is a visitor. He says he is your friend, from... London."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"Let him in."
The door opened, and in walked a middle-aged, portly man wearing a tang suit, a smile of "harmony brings wealth" on his face.
It was none other than I.A.R.C.'s "financial agent," Wang Qingnian.
"Young Master Ethan," Wang Qingnian clasped his hands in greeting. "Impressive tactics. This move of 'pulling the firewood from under the cauldron' is beautifully played."
"Mr. Wang," Ethan gestured to the chair opposite. "News travels that fast?"
"There are no secrets in this circle," Wang Qingnian said as he sat down. "Especially when you dump five million dollars in one morning."
He pulled a check from his breast pocket.
"This is the Association's 'special operations fund,' approved by Mr. Morgan."
"Though not much, it's a token of our regard."
Ethan glanced at the number on the check.
One million.
"That old fox Morgan is finally willing to bleed?" Ethan sneered.
"This is called 'risk hedging,'" Wang Qingnian corrected. "We cannot directly attack Edison in the Surface World; that violates the rules. But if it's normal commercial investment... that's another matter."
"And," Wang Qingnian lowered his voice.
"Our friend at the Patent Office discovered Edison is applying for a new patent, concerning an 'aether resonance transmission' technology."
Ethan's gaze sharpened; that was the core technology of the Aether Tower.
Edison actually wanted to legalize it?
"We must stop him," Ethan said coldly. "If that thing becomes a legal commercial patent, we'll face resistance from the entire American legal system whenever we try to touch it in the future."
"That's also why I'm here," Wang Qingnian smiled. "I've already arranged a legal team. We will file a lawsuit against this patent on the grounds of 'technological plagiarism.'"
"Plagiarism from whom?"
"Nikola Tesla."
Wang Qingnian pointed towards the ceiling.
"Mr. Tesla is currently in Westinghouse's laboratory. He is more than happy to help us prove that Edison's theory is merely a draft he once threw in the wastebasket."
Ethan laughed, laughed happily.
This was a perfect hunt.
Finance, public opinion, law, technology.
An invisible net was slowly tightening, trapping that lofty "Wizard of Menlo Park" firmly within.
"Then let's begin."
Ethan raised his glass.
"To... Tesla. And to... those dead stray dogs."
...
Meanwhile, far to the north, in the Adirondack Mountains.
This was a vast wilderness in northern New York State.
It was already late autumn.
The mountains were dyed gold and red. A cold wind howled, swirling withered leaves that echoed through the valleys.
This place was far from civilization, devoid of human presence.
Only the most primitive forests and the secrets hidden deep within them.
In a hidden valley halfway up a mountainside stood a structure made of gray concrete and steel.
It had no windows, only a massive entrance like a monster's maw, with several tall chimneys belching black smoke.
This was a secret base of the Brotherhood of Light, codenamed "The Ranch."
Even though the Aether Tower was stalled, the Brotherhood's research into UMAs had not stopped.
They were still scouring the world for bizarre creatures with special abilities, locking them in this sunless prison for cruel live experiments.
Two uniformed guards, carrying the newest repeating rifles, patrolled the entrance.
They looked relaxed.
After all, this was remote wilderness; besides wild beasts, no one would come here.
"Heard something happened in New York," one guard lit a cigarette. "The headquarters was bombed. Even Mr. Edison is furious."
"Who cares," the other guard shrugged. "As long as the paychecks keep coming. We're in this godforsaken place; even if the sky falls, it won't hit us."
"True."
The first guard blew a smoke ring.
The smoke didn't dissipate in the cold air but instead... solidified?
No.
That wasn't smoke.
It was a sudden white mist.
"What's going on?" the guard frowned.
Before he could react.
A black-feathered arrow silently pierced through that mist.
"Thud!"
The sharp arrow accurately pierced his throat. He didn't even manage to scream.
"Enem—" The other guard was just raising his rifle.
A massive black shadow dropped from the canopy above his head.
"Crunch!"
A heavy Native American war axe cleaved his skull open.
Blood splattered, staining the fallen leaves on the ground.
Hawk Hawkeye pulled the axe from the corpse.
He straightened up, flicking the blood droplets from the blade.
He wore his signature leather vest, his face painted with black and red greasepaint, the "Death God makeup" the Blackfoot tribe only used in wars of vengeance.
Behind him.
A dozen similarly attired Native hunters materialized like ghosts from the forest.
They held various weapons, from traditional bows to captured Winchester rifles.
The same fury burned in their eyes. These men came from different tribes.
Blackfoot, Mohawk, Seneca.
They had once fought each other over territory and beliefs, but now they had a common enemy.
Those white men who desecrated this land with steel machines, captured their totem animals, and turned forests into factories.
"Clean it up."
Hawk's voice was low and cold.
"No survivors."
The hunters nodded and quickly dispersed.
They expertly cut the base's telegraph lines, destroyed the outer generators, then swarmed into the massive entrance like a wolf pack.
The alarm finally sounded, the shrill electric bell echoing through the valley.
But it was already too late. This was an asymmetrical slaughter.
The researchers and guards inside the base never expected an assault of this scale.
They were used to facing lone UMAs or isolated hunters.
They had never faced a well-trained, coordinated, and well-armed Native American special forces unit.
Gunfire, explosions, screams.
One after another.
Hawk took the lead. The war axe in his hand, Thunderbird's Wrath, was already activated, blue-white electric arcs dancing along its blade.
Every swing of the axe could easily cleave through steel doors or split an enemy who couldn't dodge in time.
He was like a fierce tiger charging into a flock of sheep, unstoppable.
Ten minutes later, the battle ended.
The ground floor hall of the entire base was littered with corpses.
Those "scientists" now lay in pools of blood like trash. Hawk stepped across the sticky floor to the underground detention area.
The sight here fueled his rage.
Rows of huge glass jars contained specimens of various dissected, modified UMAs.
And in the steel cages, over a dozen barely alive creatures were imprisoned.
A young fawn, stripped of its fur, pierced with tubes.
A Thunderbird chick, its wings nailed to the wall, its eyes already vacant.
"These beasts..."
A young Mohawk hunter couldn't help but curse.
Hawk walked to the control console. He raised his axe and smashed the complex control panel.
"Click."
All the cage doors sprang open simultaneously. The imprisoned creatures didn't immediately flee.
They huddled trembling in the corners, seemingly having forgotten the feeling of freedom.
Hawk put away his axe. He walked to the cage holding the Thunderbird chick.
That was his tribe's totem.
He reached out and gently pulled out the nails. The chick let out a weak whimper.
Hawk took a bottle of healing potion from his chest, given to him by Evelyn before he left.
He fed the potion to the chick.
"Go."
He opened the escape tunnel leading to the back of the mountain.
"Return to the forest. Tell your kin."
"The hunters have come."
"We've come... to take you home."
The creatures seemed to understand his words.
They struggled to their feet, stumbling out of the cages, disappearing into the dark tunnel.
After doing all this.
Hawk took several bundles of dynamite labeled "DANGER" from his backpack.
Nitroglycerin.
He placed these explosives on the base's load-bearing pillars, then led the hunters out of the building.
Five minutes later.
"BOOM——!!!"
The entire base built into the mountainside turned into a massive fireball, thick smoke billowing into the sky.
Hawk stood on the opposite mountaintop, watching the flames.
He took out a map and drew a large cross over the red point marked "The Ranch."
This was the fourth base he had destroyed this month.
"Next."
He put away the map and vanished into the vast sea of forest.
This land did not belong only to those who built skyscrapers.
It also belonged to the souls running through the forests.
...
New York Metropolitan Museum, underground command room.
It was still as quiet as a tomb.
Mr. Morgan stood before the huge map of North America, a red marker in his hand.
His gaze roamed over the map.
East Coast, New York.
Blue arrows representing the "financial war" were frantically eroding Edison's territory.
The stock price curve of General Electric was posted beside the map, a startling downward line.
West Coast, wilderness.
Red thumbtacks representing Brotherhood bases were being plucked out one by one.
In their place, black wolf head symbols representing Hawk's team appeared.
One overt, one covert.
One internal, one external.
One knife cut open Edison's money bag.
Another knife severed Edison's claws.
These two knives coordinated flawlessly.
"This game is alive."
Morgan murmured, a satisfied smile appearing on his face.
The once ironclad situation in North America had finally been torn open with a huge gap.
I.A.R.C. had shifted from passive defense to active offense.
"Mr. Edison."
Morgan took off his glasses and wiped the lenses.
"Now it's your turn to make a move."
"I hope your 'Aether God' can protect your stocks from crashing, and also protect your laboratories from being burned down."
He threw the marker onto the desk with a sharp "crack."
Like a judge's gavel falling.
Judgment.
Had begun.