The train bound for Connecticut rumbled rhythmically on the tracks.
Inside the carriage, Mr. Miller meticulously wiped a Colt revolver with an oily rag.
Frank Cole, the first supervisor of Militech's manufacturing department, sat opposite him. Frank was a man who understood machines, and he looked at Mr. Miller with both admiration and curiosity.
"Mr. Miller," Frank finally spoke, "I've always wanted to ask, why did you and Supervisor Jones choose to follow the Boss back then? I heard Supervisor Jones say that at the time, the Boss was just a small merchant living in a basement."
Mr. Miller paused his wiping.
The sound of the train wheels hitting the rail joints was monotonous and repetitive. This sound was like a key, unlocking the door to his memories.
His thoughts returned to two years ago, that winter that changed everything... 1860, Bowery District, New York.
In a foul-smelling back alley, cold rain mixed with mud, Mr. Miller dragged Jones into a cheap rented room.
Jones had a deep wound in his abdomen, sustained during a conflict with several local gang members in a tavern. The wound had already started to turn black and emitted a putrid smell. Jones lay on the bed, his forehead burning, muttering deliriously.
"Water... Mr. Miller... give me water..."
Mr. Miller picked up the bottle of cheap whiskey on the table and took a swig.
He had given his last three dollars to the so-called doctor in the alley. That doctor had merely wiped Jones's wound with a dirty cloth, then returned the money to Mr. Miller, telling him to prepare for his friend's funeral.
Mr. Miller looked at Jones, the brother who had survived the battlefield with him.
Having dodged shells and bayonets on the battlefield, only to die in a dirty alley, his heart was filled with despair.
Just as he despaired, the door to the room was pushed open.
A young man walked in, wearing a clean but thin coat, completely out of place with the room's squalor.
The young man asked, "Are you Mr. Miller?"
"Who are you?" Mr. Miller stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of the knife at his waist.
"I apologize for my abrupt visit, my name is Felix Argyle," the young man said. "Someone told me that two of the best former soldiers live here. I need help protecting my business."
Mr. Miller looked at him, then gave a self-deprecating laugh, pointing to the dying Jones on the bed.
"In our current state, I'm afraid we can't protect anyone."
Felix's gaze fell on Jones's wound, and he frowned. He walked forward, ignoring the stench, and examined the wound carefully, "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Of course, all the money I had left went to see him."
"Did that doctor tell you he was beyond saving?" Felix asked.
"Yes."
"Your friend isn't beyond saving, his wound needs to be treated."
"Treated?" Mr. Miller said, "That butcher already treated it."
"No, that wasn't treatment." Felix looked at Mr. Miller, "Listen, I'm not a doctor, but I know how to keep your friend alive. Now you have two choices. First, continue to sit here drinking and wait for him to die. Second, you listen to me and do as I say."
Mr. Miller looked at this strange young man; there was a kind of confidence in his eyes.
Felix didn't wait for his answer. He took out a stack of money from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was probably ten dollars. At that time, it was a considerable sum.
"Go buy the cleanest bandages, a bottle of the purest alcohol. Then buy a small knife and a pair of tweezers, sterilize them with fire."
"Then," he continued, "you'll need a lot of boiling water. Use boiling water and soap to clean all the dirt around the wound. Use the small knife to cut away all the rotten black flesh in his wound. Finally, rinse the wound with alcohol and then bandage it with clean bandages."
Felix looked at Mr. Miller, saying word for word: "This process will be very painful; he will howl like a slaughtered pig. You must hold him down. This is his only chance to live."
Mr. Miller was skeptical; he had never heard of these procedures. "Why should I believe you? And aren't you afraid I'll take the money and run?"
Upon hearing this, Felix spread his hands, "Because you have no other choice, and I don't believe a person who would use all his money to treat a comrade would take the money and run."
"Besides, I also need you two alive. The Viper Gang is eyeing my workshop. I need warriors, not corpses."
Felix finished speaking and didn't linger for another second, turning and walking out of the room.
"I'll be back in three days," his voice came from the doorway. "I hope by then, I can talk to both of you."
The door closed.
Mr. Miller looked at the money on the table, then at the dying Jones on the bed. He made a decision.
Those three days were the longest three days of Mr. Miller's life.
Following Felix's instructions, he treated Jones's wound like a surgeon. Jones fainted several times from the intense pain, but a miracle occurred. On the morning of the third day, Jones's fever broke. Although the wound was still gruesome, it no longer discharged black pus.
When Felix pushed open the door again, Mr. Miller was sitting by the bed, feeding weak Jones a little broth.
Felix looked at Jones's condition, "It seems you'll be a good caregiver."
Mr. Miller stood up, said nothing, but bowed deeply to Felix.
"Alright, fella, don't be like that," Felix said. "Now, we can talk."
He placed a simple employment contract on the table.
"I need you two to protect me and my workshop. Each of you can earn five dollars a week. It's not much, but it's the most I can offer right now. However," Felix looked at them, "I promise you, this is just the beginning. In the future, you will get much, much more than this."
Jones, from the bed, said in a weak voice, "No need for a contract... you saved my life, whatever you say from now on, it goes."
Mr. Miller also nodded. "Yes, from today onwards, we work for you."
"Excellent." Felix smiled, "Then, welcome to Spartan Company. Although it currently only exists in my mind."
...The roar of the train pulled Mr. Miller back from his memories.
He looked at Frank opposite him, a rare softness appearing on his face.
"The Boss didn't just save Jones, he saved both of us," Mr. Miller's voice was low. "After retiring, we were just two drunks struggling at the bottom of society. He gave us a job, and more importantly, the dignity of living like soldiers again."
Frank listened quietly, finally understanding why this group of the Boss's earliest followers possessed such unwavering loyalty.
Mr. Miller picked up his gun again and continued wiping it.
"So Frank, the Boss put you in charge of the manufacturing department because he trusts you. Don't disappoint him."
"Of course, I understand, Mr. Miller." Frank nodded emphatically.
The train continued north, carrying this group of pioneers, forging swords for the empire, towards the land of Connecticut.
The train stopped at the small station in Whitneyville.
The air here was different from New York; there wasn't as much soot, but more of a smell of rust and damp earth.
"Rambo."
Miller ordered a muscular Action Department member, "Take two men to the only tavern in town. I want to know what the factory workers have been talking about recently, if they've been paid, and what kind of person the heir, Arthur Whitney, is."
"No problem at all, this is my specialty. Wait for my good news, Boss," Rambo thumped his chest, assuring Miller, then quickly disappeared around the street corner with his men.
"Frank, come with me to take a look around here, see if it's really worth us buying it."
Frank nodded knowingly, then said, "Woah, good idea, I mean, I was thinking the same thing."
Patting Frank on the back, Miller led him towards the center of town.
As they got closer.
A massive complex of red brick and stone appeared before their eyes. The chimneys weren't smoking, and most of the windows were dark, like a beached, dead giant beast. This was the Whitneyville Armory.
At the factory gate, only an old gatekeeper sat dozing in a chair.
"Hey fellow, can we go in and have a look?"
The old man woke up, opened his eyes, and mumbled, "The factory is closed, sirs, there's nothing to see."
Seeing that he didn't want to let them in, Miller said, "Sorry, perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I intend to acquire this factory, so I'd like to go in and inspect it first. So, may we go in and have a look?"
Sure enough, as soon as he heard that Miller and his group wanted to acquire the factory, the old man's eyes lit up. After all, if the factory continued to decline, he would lose his job.
"Oh, of course, please come in... I'll show you around." The old man quickly took out the keys to open the gate, then led them around like a guide.
After touring the factory, Miller took Frank and the others to the residence of Lawyer Hoffman from the Argyle Empire Bank.
Upon arriving at the address, Miller stepped forward and knocked on the door. Soon, the door was opened from the inside.
"Hi, you must be Mr. Miller, right? Please come in."
Opening the door was a middle-aged man in a suit, who looked very much like a lawyer. He ushered them into the house.
Once seated, Miller began to ask the questions he was concerned about, "Lawyer Hoffman, do you have any progress on your end?"
"Yes... of course there's progress."
Then Miller and Lawyer Hoffman began to chat.
The next day, in the dust-covered office inside the factory, they met the new owner of the factory, Arthur Whitney.
He was a young man in his early twenties, dressed in a silk shirt that seemed out of place in the small town, holding a poetry book in his hand.
"Mr. Miller, and... Mr. Cole, I hear you want to buy the factory?"
Arthur's tone carried a hint of arrogance and impatience, born from a life of privilege. "My father passed away, which makes me very sad. This factory was his life's work, and I originally had no intention of selling it."
Miller didn't want to waste words with him and went straight to the point, "Mr. Whitney, we visited your factory yesterday. The power for the forging workshop is still hydraulic, and the rifling machines are at least ten years old. There are hundreds of unfinished old rifles piled in the warehouse, but not a single active contract. I also heard that you haven't paid your workers in three months."
Arthur's face instantly turned red. "So what? This is my father's legacy! Its value cannot be measured in money!"
"Of course." A calm voice came from the doorway.
Mr. Hoffman, the Argyle Bank's lawyer, walked in. He placed a document on Arthur's desk.
"But the bank's debt can be measured in money, Mr. Whitney. According to records, before your father passed away, he mortgaged forty percent of the factory's shares to the bank. The ten-thousand-dollar loan is due next week. Unfortunately, our bank has just taken over this loan from the previous creditor."
Arthur's face turned ashen.
Miller looked at him and finally spoke. "Mr. Whitney, we are not here to force debt collection. My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, greatly admires your father's talent. He hopes to get this factory running again."
He pushed an acquisition contract towards Arthur.
"My Boss is offering fifteen thousand dollars to acquire the remaining shares of this factory, including all its equipment and land."
"Fifteen thousand?" Arthur's voice trembled slightly. "No... My father said before he died that those sixty percent of shares were worth at least twenty thousand dollars!"
Lawyer Hoffman scoffed mercilessly.
"That was when it was still producing rifles for the army, sir. Now it's losing money every day. Frankly, fifteen thousand dollars is already a very generous price. This money is enough for you to pay off the bank loan and employee wages, and still have enough left over to go to Paris or Rome and live the life of a poet you dream of."
Arthur looked at the contract, then at the lifeless factory outside the window. He knew he had no choice.
"I... I need to see cash." He made one last struggle.
Miller nodded towards the door. Two Action Department members walked in, carrying briefcases.
The briefcases were opened, revealing neatly stacked federal currency, still smelling of ink.
Arthur's breathing quickened. Finally, he picked up the pen and, with a trembling hand, signed his name on the contract that would decide the fate of the rest of his life.
After the transaction was completed, Frank and Miller walked on the grounds of the new factory.
"The foundation here is very good," Frank said excitedly. "With enough money and manpower, restarting it will be no problem at all."
Miller nodded and looked at Rambo beside him.
"Rambo, go and collect information on the factory's original employees first."
Looking at the factory's tall chimneys, Miller seemed to already see the scene of thick black smoke billowing from them again.
That night, a telegram was sent from Connecticut to New York.
The urgent telegram from Connecticut arrived at Felix's Fifth Avenue mansion that afternoon.
Catherine personally received and translated the message. When she hurried into the study, Felix was standing by the large French window, looking down at the street below, which was covered in the first snow.
"Felix," Catherine's voice held a hint of joy, "Miller's telegram, he succeeded."
"It was expected, wasn't it?" Felix turned around and took the thin strip of paper from her hand. The content of the telegram was as concise as he had anticipated, full of Miller's style: "Factory acquired, mission accomplished."
"He only took less than three days," Catherine added. "Lawyer Hoffman explained the details in another telegram. Mr. Miller used the bank's debt to completely crush the young heir's psychological defenses. This was a very efficient acquisition."
"It seems Miller has also grown, learning how to manipulate opponents at the negotiating table." Felix tossed the telegram into the fireplace, watching it curl and blacken in the flames, eventually turning to ash. "Now that Militech has its scabbard, next, we need to forge its sharp blade."
He looked at Catherine, the relaxed expression on his face gradually replaced by a deep contemplation.
"Catherine, my businesses are expanding too quickly. Argyle & Co. Foods, Metropolitan Meat United Company, Umbrella Corporation, Argyle Bank, Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company, and now an additional Pioneer factory. They are like independent stars; although they all revolve around me, they lack sufficiently close connections with each other."
"I cannot handle all company decisions simultaneously," Felix asserted. "Therefore, I need to step back and transform from a company operator into the helmsman of an empire. I intend to establish a systematic structure that allows commands to be clearly conveyed and responsibilities to be precisely assigned."
Catherine immediately understood Felix's intention. "You want to establish a… Board of Directors?"
"No." Felix shook his head. "A Board of Directors is for companies that need to be accountable to external shareholders. However, most of my companies belong only to me. What I need is not checks and balances, but absolute efficiency and execution."
He walked to the desk, picked up a blank sheet of paper and a pen.
"I am establishing the 'Argyle Executive Committee'."
"It will be the highest decision-making body for all my ventures, responsible for formulating strategies, allocating resources, and resolving all major inter-company issues. And you," he looked at Catherine beside him, "will be an executor on this committee."
A week later, the first informal meeting of the Argyle Executive Committee was held in the conference room of Felix's new home, which could accommodate twenty people and featured a large mahogany table.
Not many people attended, but each represented a core pillar of Felix's business empire.
Catherine and Jones, as representatives of Argyle & Co. Foods, sat to Felix's right, with thick production and sales reports in front of them.
George Templeton, the Bank President of Argyle Bank, sat quietly in his impeccable English suit. He represented Felix's financial power and his credibility on Wall Street.
Tom Hayes, the head of Patriot Investment Company, appeared much more casual. He leaned back in his chair, toying with a gold coin, his eyes gleaming with the characteristic light of a speculator.
Bill and Charles Reeves, who had traveled all the way from Chicago, seemed like visitors from two different worlds.
Bill wore his best leather jacket, still carrying the scent of the livestock market; Reeves, on the other hand, was like a meticulous engineer, more interested in the gas lamp pipes in the conference room than the cigars on the table.
Miller and Flynn, who had just returned, stood silently behind Felix like two statues, representing Militech and the Intelligence Department, respectively.
"Gentlemen," Felix began, breaking the silence in the room, "welcome to my home, and welcome to the first meeting of the Argyle Executive Committee."
He looked around, at these subordinates and allies he had personally chosen, each with distinctly different personalities, backgrounds, and abilities.
"I have invited you here today, not to celebrate a victory, but to optimize our internal structure."
"As you know, my businesses are no longer limited to food. They now encompass food, trade, railways, banking, investment, pharmaceuticals, and soon, our own military industry."
"This is a vast system, and it requires a unified brain to think and command. This committee is our brain."
He stood up and looked down at everyone.
"Starting today, I will be making some adjustments to company positions."
"Miss Catherine O'Brien," he called out Catherine's name first, "I appoint you as the President of Umbrella Corporation, with full responsibility for its daily operations, finances, and market expansion. Concurrently, you will serve as the Executive Secretary of this committee, responsible for coordinating the work of all companies."
Catherine stood up and bowed slightly to everyone. "Boss, I will not disappoint you."
"Mr. George Templeton, your mission is to ensure the absolute security of our funds and to provide the most stable financial support for the expansion of our industries."
"Mr. Charles Reeves, I will approve another one hundred thousand dollars for the railroad company. You must, with the fastest speed, transform these funds into sturdier tracks and faster locomotives."
"Mr. Bill, the supply of goods from Chicago has been secured, but I need you to establish a more efficient meat processing and distribution network in New York."
"Miller will be the President of Militech. His primary task is to make the chimneys of Whitneyville smoke black again within three months."
"Jones, you will take over as President of the Food Company. Remember to prioritize supplying the military and develop more new product categories."
Felix put down the list in his hand. "And I will serve as the Chairman of all companies and this committee. All major strategic decisions will be discussed by everyone and ultimately decided by me."
He looked at everyone, establishing the committee's first rule.
"At the beginning of each quarter, all company presidents will hold a regular meeting here. I need to hear from each of you a summary of your work from the previous quarter and your plans for the next quarter. I need data and results, not excuses."
"My goal is not to operate a few independent companies, gentlemen."
"But to build a self-sustaining, mutually supportive business ecosystem."
"The trade company provides raw materials, the food company provides stable cash flow, Argyle Bank provides capital leverage, the railroad company transports raw materials and products, and the pharmaceutical company and military factory will explore future high-profit blue oceans for us and provide the most solid protection."
"This is a closed loop."
Felix's words left everyone present with an unprecedented sense of shock.
For the first time, they so clearly saw their positions within this vast empire, and they also saw the terrifying potential of this business empire's future.
"Felix," Bill was the first to speak, saying in a booming voice, "This sounds great. Anyway, I just need to deliver the raw materials to the factory, and you smart people can decide the rest."
President Templeton, on the other hand, clapped his hands in admiration. "A clear structure is the cornerstone of a company's long-term development, Boss. Your decision is very wise."
After the meeting, everyone gradually left. Catherine stayed behind to organize the documents on Felix's desk.
"President of the Pharmaceutical Company," she softly read her new title, a complex smile on her face. "Felix, you've given me too heavy a burden. I've never worked in pharmaceuticals before."
"Because only you can bear it," Felix gently embraced her from behind. "You are my chief housekeeper, Catherine. And pharmaceuticals are not much different from food. I believe in you."
He buried his head in her hair, inhaling the familiar clean scent.
"Go get some rest, my Miss President," he said softly. "Tomorrow will be your first day officially in office."
Catherine turned around, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips.
"Good night, my Mister Chairman."