Rain fell over London in thin silver lines.
Cold.
Elegant.
Ancient.
The city had always felt old to Julius.
Not because of its buildings.
But because of its atmosphere.
London remembered things.
Empires.
Kings.
Wars.
Secrets.
And hidden beneath centuries of civilization—
The Foundation's influence had quietly existed longer than most governments on Earth.
Inside a private political estate far removed from the public eye, Julius sat calmly at the center of a long oak table.
Or rather—
Julian Brown.
That was the identity he currently wore.
A wealthy British financier with absurd influence, old money connections, and political reach extending through nearly every major institution in the country.
The perfect mask.
Unlike Lincoln, Julius wasn't a political architect.
He lacked Lincoln's terrifying mastery of governmental systems and centuries-deep manipulation networks.
But Julius possessed something arguably more dangerous.
People liked him.
He was charming in a way that felt effortless.
Warm without appearing weak.
Intelligent without seeming arrogant.
And when necessary—
Absolutely terrifying.
Tonight, several high-ranking British political figures sat across from him quietly.
Senators.
Advisors.
Intelligence officials.
The kind of people who quietly shaped nations from behind curtains.
Crystal glasses reflected softly beneath chandelier light while classical music played faintly somewhere deeper in the estate.
An expensive atmosphere.
Intentional.
Julius understood presentation mattered.
"You're asking for considerable influence, Mister Brown," one official said carefully.
Julius smiled pleasantly.
"I'm offering considerably more."
Interesting how often powerful negotiations boiled down to variations of the same sentence.
Unlike Lincoln's colder style, Julius preferred gentler pressure.
The carrot before the stick.
Of course—
The stick still existed.
The Foundation possessed enough blackmail material to collapse entire governments if necessary.
Scandals.
Hidden operations.
Corruption.
Affairs.
Financial crimes.
Illegal intelligence programs.
Human beings were remarkably easy to compromise once you observed them long enough.
And the Foundation had been observing humanity for centuries.
But Julius genuinely preferred not using that leverage unless necessary.
Fear created unstable allies.
Loyalty—or at least comfort—lasted longer.
One of the senators leaned forward slightly.
"And why exactly does a businessman care so much about the World Security Council?"
Julius nearly laughed.
Because humanity had no idea how much of its future would be decided by five chairs in a hidden room.
Instead, he simply shrugged lightly.
"Global stability interests me."
A partial truth.
Another politician studied him carefully.
"You're offering a rather large donation for mere 'interest.'"
A faint smile crossed Julius' face.
The donation was enormous.
Several million pounds quietly routed through enough shell corporations and private accounts to make the money effectively untraceable.
To normal people, it would've been absurd wealth.
To the Foundation?
Operational expenses.
Containment sites alone consumed more money daily than most governments spent in weeks.
Research divisions consumed billions.
Anomaly recovery operations consumed more.
Then there were the truly expensive projects.
Space infrastructure.
Mutant programs.
Reality-anchor networks.
Deep containment sectors.
And now—
Your increasingly absurd scientific ambitions after integrating Herta's memories.
Money had stopped being a meaningful limitation for the Foundation a long time ago.
Julius folded his hands calmly.
"The Council requires individuals capable of seeing beyond politics."
Another partial truth.
"It needs people willing to make difficult decisions for humanity's future."
That statement at least sounded noble.
Even if the actual meaning was:
We need control.
One of the older officials frowned slightly.
"And if we refuse?"
The room grew subtly quieter.
Julius' smile remained perfectly warm.
But his eyes changed.
Just slightly.
The supernatural pressure behind them activated gently.
Not enough to dominate minds outright.
That would be crude.
Obvious.
Inelegant.
Instead—
His abilities simply encouraged trust.
Agreement.
Comfort.
People naturally wanted Julius to succeed.
Wanted to cooperate.
Wanted to believe him.
Combined with his immense charisma, centuries of social experience, and carefully controlled supernatural influence—
The effect was devastatingly effective.
"You won't," Julius said softly.
Not threatening.
Simply certain.
The room fell silent.
Several politicians shifted slightly in their seats.
Their tension fading almost unconsciously.
Then Julius casually slid several folders across the table.
Backup leverage.
Insurance.
The officials opened them slowly.
And immediately understood.
Ah.
There it was.
The invisible edge beneath the velvet.
None of the information would destroy them individually.
But together?
Enough political damage to ruin careers permanently.
Julius sighed quietly.
"I truly would rather avoid unpleasantness."
And unlike many manipulators—
He meant it.
One of the intelligence officials finally broke the silence.
"…You already have people inside MI6, don't you?"
Julius smiled.
"Of course."
That wasn't even remotely classified from the Foundation's perspective.
Britain's intelligence agencies had been infiltrated decades ago.
Mostly for containment purposes initially.
Then later—
Influence.
The negotiation continued for another hour.
Careful wording.
Political promises.
Financial incentives.
Subtle psychological pressure.
And beneath it all—
The quiet understanding that Julian Brown was not someone they wanted as an enemy.
Finally, one of the senior officials exhaled slowly.
"The British seat can be arranged."
There it was.
Second seat secured.
Julius smiled warmly.
"Excellent."
Tea was poured afterward.
Because Britain remained Britain.
Even during covert global conspiracies.
As the meeting ended, one politician hesitated before speaking.
"Mister Brown…"
Julius looked toward him calmly.
"Who exactly are you connected to?"
A dangerous question.
For a brief moment—
The ancient immortal hidden beneath Julian Brown's identity surfaced slightly.
A man who had witnessed kingdoms rise and collapse.
Wars reshape continents.
Civilizations erase themselves through arrogance.
Then the mask returned.
Perfectly charming.
Perfectly human.
"People preparing for the future," Julius replied gently.
"Long before the rest of the world realizes it's arriving."
And with that—
He stepped out into the cold London rain.
Two seats now belonged to the Foundation.
America.
Britain.
And somewhere far away—
The future itself was beginning to move.