The seed planted in the dark soil of Thomas Logan's mind did not simply grow; it festered. James observed the results with the detached interest of a mycologist studying a particularly virulent fungus.
Thomas's presence on the estate became a study in deteriorating equilibrium. Where once there had been sullen, contained resentment, there was now a volatile, nervous energy. James would catch him staring, not with his usual contempt, but with a confused, almost pleading hatred. The man's scent had changed, the sharp musk of his anger now undercut by the sour tang of deep-seated shame and powerlessness. James's words—your greatest failure—had become a psychic parasite, feeding on Thomas's fragile ego.
Their interactions were brief, calculated strikes.
Passing Thomas on the path to the stables, James would pause and say, quietly, "The north fence is holding well. It's good, strong work. It's a shame it will never be yours to leave to your son." Then he would walk on, leaving Thomas standing rigid, his tools hanging limply in his hand.
At dinner, on the rare occasions the Logans were obliged to attend, James would compliment John Howlett on some aspect of the estate's management. "The yield from the south field is impressive this year, Father. A true testament to your stewardship." He would then turn his gaze just enough to graze Thomas, a flicker of cold acknowledgment. The unspoken words hung in the air: Your labor, his legacy.
He was eroding Thomas, not with hammers and chisels, but with droplets of acid, each one precisely placed to eat away at the man's sense of self. It was a slow, meticulous process. The brute force of a physical confrontation held no appeal; it was the province of animals like Victor. This was a higher art. He was rewriting the code of Thomas's reality, line by agonizing line.
But targeting Thomas was merely a preliminary exercise, a calibration of his tools. The true objective required a broader, more stable foundation. Power, he had concluded, was not merely personal prowess or the secret accumulation of points. True control was systemic. It was influence, wealth, and the unassailable authority they conferred. To move unseen in the shadows of this new world, he needed to command the light.
His opportunity came with John Howlett's return from a week in Toronto. The man was weary, the scent of cigar smoke and city soot clinging to his clothes, underpinned by a frustration James could all but taste.
"The Americans and their damned tariffs," John grumbled at dinner, stabbing his meat with more force than necessary. "And the railways… they have us by the throat. The cost of shipping timber east is bleeding us dry. A man can't build a future on lumber alone, not with these vultures circling."
Elizabeth offered placating murmurs. James ate in silence, processing. This was the opening.
Later, he approached the door to John's study. He could hear the clink of glass, the rustle of papers, the sigh of a man bearing a weight he feared was becoming too heavy. James knocked softly.
"Enter."
John was seated behind his massive oak desk, a ledger open before him, a glass of amber whiskey at his elbow. He looked older in the lamplight, the lines on his face etched deep by worry.
"Father," James began, his voice adopting a tone of hesitant concern. "I… I couldn't help but overhear at dinner. About the difficulties with the railways."
John waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes remained sharp. "It's not a child's concern, James. Complicated business."
"I know, sir." James lowered his eyes, the picture of filial deference. "But in my reading… I came across some fascinating principles from Europe. In a journal of industrial science." He let the words hang, a carefully baited hook.
John's interest was piqued, if only slightly. "Oh? And what would a scientific journal know of Canadian timber and railways?"
"Not of timber, Father. Of steel." James looked up, meeting his gaze with an expression of earnest intellectual discovery. "There's a process. A new way to mass-produce steel. They call it the Bessemer process. It uses a blast of air through molten iron to burn out the impurities. It makes steel stronger, and far, far cheaper to produce than before."
John Howlett stared at his son. The dismissiveness was gone, replaced by a dawning, calculating focus. He was a practical man. He understood materials, costs, and profits. "Cheaper steel? How much cheaper?"
"Dramatically," James said, his voice gaining a subtle confidence. "It could revolutionize… everything. Railways, for one. Tracks that are stronger and less expensive to lay and maintain. But also, the frames for buildings. The skeletons of skyscrapers they're starting to build in New York. The machines for factories." He took a small step forward. "Imagine, Father. Not just shipping timber to others, but producing the very material that builds the modern world. Here. In Canada. The Howlett name wouldn't just be on a deed to a forest. It would be on the foundations of cities."
The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire. John Howlett's mind was racing, James could see it in the slight dilation of his pupils, the quickening of his pulse he could now hear. The idea was a spark landing on the dry tinder of his ambition and frustration.
"This… Bessemer process," John said slowly, leaning forward. "You are certain of this?"
"The principles are sound, Father. The scientific journals from London are full of it. The patents are the key. If one could secure the rights, or better yet, innovate upon the method…" He let the implication hang in the air. "It would require capital, of course. And influence. But the return… it wouldn't be mere wealth. It would be a legacy of progress. A name that means more than land. It would mean the future."
John leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on James as if seeing him for the first time. The bookish, fragile boy was now the source of a vision that could elevate their family to an entirely new echelon of power. The frail son had just presented him with a key to a kingdom.
"Leave the journals with me," John said, his voice gruff but containing a new, vibrant energy. "This… this requires thought. Serious thought."
"Of course, Father," James said, bowing his head slightly. He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "It's just… it seemed a shame that others should build the future with tools we could master ourselves."
He left John Howlett sitting in the glow of lamplight and nascent ambition, the ledgers of the past forgotten, his mind ablaze with visions of steel and empire.
Back in the silence of his room, James stood by the window. The moon was a cold sliver in the sky. Below, he could see the faint light from the Logans' cottage, a dim hovel of petty schemes and decaying pride.
A name that means more than land, he had said. It would mean the future.
His internal monologue was a river of cold, clear logic.
In my previous life, I was a scalpel, excising rotten tissue from a dying body. I worked on individuals, because the body was already terminal. The world itself was the hospital, and its sickness was a constant. Here… the body is not terminal. It is evolving. It is giving birth to new, strange life—mutants, vampires, who knows what else. Gods and monsters stepping out of the shadows.
A scalpel is insufficient for such a world. To control a world in flux, one does not need a surgeon's table; one needs an architect's blueprint. One needs leverage over the very systems that shape it: economy, industry, politics. Influence is a weapon with infinite range. Wealth is an armor that can withstand any ordinary assault.
John Howlett is not a target; he is a vessel. A means to an end. Through him, I can build a fortress of legitimacy and power. The Howlett name will become a shield behind which I can operate, a platform from which I can observe the emerging chaos. Let others scramble in the dirt for coins or bloody their hands in alleyways. True control is exercised from the boardroom, the senate, the shadowy consortium that owns the boardroom and the senate both.
Thomas… he is a lesson. A reminder of what happens to blunt instruments. They are used, and when they become too damaged, they are discarded. His suffering is a useful calibration, but it is a small, local affair. The game I am preparing for is global. Cosmic.
He felt the System interface, a silent, reassuring presence in his mind. 3,110 Points. It was a treasure of pure potential, waiting for the perfect moment. It would not be spent on trivialities. It would be invested in a transformation that would complement the empire he was now building in the tangible world.
He had set two wheels in motion. One was grinding Thomas Logan into dust. The other was launching John Howlett toward a destiny of immense wealth and influence. One to sate the artist's need for a immediate, intimate masterpiece of ruin. The other to fuel the strategist's plan for ultimate, unassailable control.
The monster was no longer just hiding in a boy's skin. He was weaving himself into the very fabric of the coming century. He was becoming the system. And soon, everyone would be playing by his rules.
[I have stonk many chapters🤏🤏, when i am writing this i feel like i am doing math🤕🤕. Give me u thought 🙂]