No one in the hall spoke first.
Bach's corpulent body lay sprawled on the floor like a fat pig drained of its blood, utterly motionless.
The white hell outside the windows still churned and bubbled slowly. Its foul, fishy stench seemed almost tangible, bearing down on everyone's nerves.
The creditors exchanged glances, confirming one another's thoughts through their eyes.
They were the shrewdest speculators in the world, always competing to offer the most magnificent silk umbrellas in sunshine, and always snatching them back faster than anyone else when the first drop of rain fell.
And now, in their eyes, the storm Caroline had stirred up had already passed. There was even a rainbow cast from gold hanging in the sky.
The first to move was Duncan, the Royal Capital Bank's representative.
Color returned to the face of this man, who claimed to be an old friend of Caroline's father, with theatrical speed. His cheeks even took on a somewhat unnatural flush. He straightened his slightly rumpled bow tie, hurried over to Caroline, and bowed deeply in a show of humility.
"Caroline, my child... no, President Channing. I... I always knew you were destined for greatness. This... this is nothing short of a miracle! A blessing bestowed upon you by our Lord himself!"
But Caroline did not respond. She simply watched him until her gaze made Duncan squirm and the smile froze on his face.
Only then did Caroline chuckle softly. Her voice was quiet, but everyone in the hall heard it clearly. "Uncle Duncan, you said just now that although Mr. Bach's terms were harsh, still..." She deliberately paused, mimicking Duncan's earlier tone, her eyes full of mockery. "...still what was it again? I've forgotten."
Duncan's face turned white in an instant, and cold sweat soaked his expensive collar. He realized that the woman before him was no longer the junior he knew, someone who needed his "guidance."
She was about to settle scores.
Caroline surveyed the room again and addressed the creditors who had been eager to feast on her just moments before, her tone bordering on charity. "The Golden Sail Merchant Guild's reputation was forged through victory, not your sympathy.
"Freeman," she said without even turning around, "hand out our 'new cooperation framework.' Those willing to sign may stay. Those unwilling can settle their old accounts in the accounting office downstairs. The door is over there. I won't see you out."
Freeman immediately stepped forward and addressed the creditors with unprecedented firmness. "Please form a line. The president's time is valuable."
Several other senior members of the guild stood frozen at the edge of the crowd. They watched Caroline, surrounded by admirers like the moon among the stars. Their own recent talk of "cutting losses," "scaling back," and "giving up" still echoed in their minds.
How stupid and ridiculous those words sounded now.
Meanwhile.
In the hillside villa overlooking Wrong Anchor Harbor.
Hector Ester had remained standing quietly before the expensive brass telescope.
He had seen everything that happened in the harbor with perfect clarity.
From the Golden Sail Merchant Guild's people pouring out the concoction to the seawater throughout the harbor bubbling like boiling porridge.
He had watched those "Calamities" on which he had pinned such high hopes tear themselves hideously free of the hulls, like boils forcibly squeezed out, then burst in the water and become clouds of debris.
That was not death. That was... execution.
Yes, execution.
Hector's discerning eyes could tell that those things had died in an orderly, coordinated fashion. They had received the command to kill themselves at the same moment.
His perfect, nearly finished painting of "silent destruction" had been splashed across its center with the crudest paint by an invisible hand.
He slowly straightened and lowered the telescope.
There was no anger on his face, not even the slightest ripple of emotion. He turned and walked to the center of the room, where a priceless ancient statue of a goddess stood.
He reached out and gently brushed his fingertips across the goddess's cold cheek, as though soothing his lover.
"Unexpected developments..."
He spoke softly, as if sighing.
"The thing I have loathed most all my life is the unexpected."
From a velvet-lined box, he took out a set of... miniature blades used to restore ancient murals.
Then he returned to his most treasured oil painting, which depicted a "fleet and storm."
He sifted through the tools and selected the finest blade, thin as a probe. With the concentration of a master painter, he began severing and picking out the fibers of the canvas, piece by piece, from the shadowed section that represented the "Calamities."
Scritch... scritch...
The sound was faint, yet it made the scalp prickle.
He was not venting. He was "correcting." With his own hands, he would gouge this "flaw," tainted by the "unexpected," out of his world, bit by bit.
Just then, a commotion came from outside the door. Several trusted subordinates stumbled and scrambled inside, colliding with one another as they competed to shout first, their voices dissolving into chaos.
"My lord! It's over! The market has crashed! The Golden Sail Merchant Guild has announced that its shipping capacity is restored! Every contract we hold has turned into a liability!"
"Those traitors with Sea Wolf! They're demanding payment under their guaranteed-minimum contracts! There's no way we can give them cargo to haul! If we force ourselves to source cargo, we'll only lose more... our cash flow..."
"Those designers... they've all gone back! And they handed our 'Wavebreakers' blueprints... over to Caroline as proof of their loyalty!"
The string of disastrous reports pelted down like hail. Yet Hector seemed not to hear them. He still had his back to everyone, concentrating on cutting his painting with the little blade.
That faint, rhythmic sound became the only sound in the room, suppressing all the panic.
Only after he had carved out the entire "flaw," leaving a jarring hole behind, did Hector stop.
He blew nonexistent dust from the blade's tip and asked softly, in the tone of someone who had discovered a new toy, "That country herbalist... what is his name?"
His subordinates froze.
Everything's going up in flames, and you're asking about that?
Hector slowly turned. There was no anger on his face, only an intensely excited, sickly smile.
His eyes shone with a frightening brightness. "I'm very interested in him. He didn't kill my 'Calamities' through brute force. He... taught them a new way to die. He didn't obey my rules. He forced a new rule into existence instead." He licked his dry lips, his smile feverish and excited. "I'm very interested in him. He isn't an herbalist. He is... the only 'blemish' on this perfect work of mine."
Hector handed the little blade to a subordinate, his voice as soft as a lover's whisper.
"Find him, but don't hurt him. Invite him to visit my gallery. I'd like to... dissect his 'inspiration' with my own hands."