The Consortium

Boer slowly rose from the seat of honor, thirty centimeters higher than everyone else's. He did not speak immediately, but his movement had already announced the start of the meeting.

Black metallic particles flowed silently from beneath his feet like water. Like living shadows, they swiftly spread across the expensive wool carpet in the center of the banquet hall.

They gleamed coldly in the candlelight, briefly flattening the carpet's texture wherever they passed.

Then something even more alarming happened.

The metallic particles seemed to become countless invisible, precise hands, gently yet irresistibly pushing the nobles seated on either side, along with their heavy carved wooden chairs and the dining tables laden with leftover food.

Chair legs scraped against the carpet with muffled dragging sounds, while table legs scraping the floor broke the silence.

Some nobles cried out instinctively, gripping their armrests. Others stiffened but let the force move them along with their chairs. Still others tried to remain composed, but the undisguisable fear in their eyes betrayed them.

In barely more than ten seconds, the separate long tables that had symbolized rank and distance were forcibly joined into one enormous, complete oval conference table.

The invisible force arranged the nobles face-to-face. With no barriers remaining between them, every subtle expression lay exposed to everyone else's gaze, and an atmosphere of naked, forced "honesty" spread.

Under gazes filled with surprise, fear, or unreadable complexity, Boer rose about three centimeters off the ground. As though freed from gravity, he slowly floated to the head of the newly joined conference table.

At 188 centimeters tall, he hovered in the air, looking down on everyone seated in their chairs from an absolute height advantage.

He raised a hand and calmly straightened the striking red tie at his neck. Yet that simple grooming gesture left these "predators," so accustomed to looking down on everyone else, feeling suffocated. Their breathing involuntarily quickened, as though the knot of that tie were tightening around their own necks.

Candlelight shone from behind him, stretching his shadow into a huge, distorted shape that covered half the conference table, adding boundless majesty and pressure.

"Now," Boer finally said, his voice calm, yet like cold metal scraping across everyone's eardrums, "let's begin with what interests everyone most."

He deliberately paused, sweeping his gaze across the room to make certain everyone's attention was fully focused. "The arms trade."

As he spoke, black metallic particles gathered and churned once more above his open palm.

Under the nobles' gazes, filled with both wonder and greed, the particles rapidly stretched, expanded, and turned gleaming white. In a way that utterly defied their understanding, they took the shape of a standard-issue saber with sleek lines and a chilling gleam.

They might not have understood this miraculous process of creation, but they understood all too well the candlelight reflected on its blade and the staggering profits it represented: one hundred million Beli a day.

Clang!

As the last detail of the blade took shape, Boer willed it to move. The saber became a streak of cold light and plunged precisely into the conference table's hard wooden surface.

The blade quivered, its clear ringing making every noble's heart tremble, as though they were prisoners pinned before a tribunal, awaiting their final sentence.

"I want half the profits." Boer's voice remained steady, but his eyes suddenly became as sharp as the blade he had just forged, sweeping slowly and forcefully across every noble's face.

Wherever his gaze fell, no one dared meet it. They either lowered their heads or looked away.

The nobles' expressions changed dramatically at those words. After the initial shock, a strange mixture of relief and the pain of having flesh carved away appeared on their faces. Losing half the profits certainly hurt, but after witnessing his absolute power, that proportion actually gave them a twisted sense of good fortune-at least they still had the other half to fight over.

"Roland." Boer turned toward the agent standing in attendance nearby.

"My lord, I'm here." Roland immediately bowed in response. He struggled to keep his expression calm, trying to display his usual composure, but the faint trembling of the fingertips hanging at his sides undeniably betrayed the turmoil and excitement within him.

"You," Boer said, pointing at him. Then he swept his arm, his index finger tracing a semicircle like a conductor's baton to encompass every noble present. "And all of you will jointly form-the Bernia Steel Heavy Industry Consortium."

Seated at the head of the right side, Locke Hall knitted his brows, instinctively repeating the unfamiliar term under his breath. "Steel... Heavy Industry... Consortium?" He seemed to be weighing the meaning behind those words and the changes they might bring to the power structure.

"It will operate on a shareholding basis, jointly distributing the other half of the profits." Boer's tone was indifferent, carrying an aloof disdain for such details. "As for how you divide it among yourselves, I won't interfere."

Then, without giving them time to digest the information, he began outlining a grand vision for the future.

"As we dump our weapons onto the market on a massive scale, ordinary smiths across not just Bernia, but all of West Blue, will face ruin. Widespread bankruptcy will be inevitable." His voice held a trace of cold certainty. "Whatever methods you use-threats, inducements, 'invitations'-bring back every truly skilled, intelligent smith. Every last one."

His gaze sharpened as he emphasized, "These people will be one of the indispensable foundations of our great undertaking! Their experience and knowledge can provide more sophisticated mechanical designs, better ore mixtures, and more efficient smelting methods."

He raised his voice slightly, adopting an almost instructive tone. "My friends, remember: abilities are not all-powerful. Individual strength has its limits. Collective wisdom and industrial power are the true future."

Boer spread his arms as though embracing the world and asked in a ringing voice, "When towering boilers rise from this land, when the roar of steel replaces pastoral silence, what will they ultimately bring us?"

"Wealth! Immeasurable wealth, my lord!" Roland practically rushed to answer, his face flushed with excitement. His earlier tension had been replaced by tremendous anticipation for the future.

"Exactly!" Boer affirmed, infusing his voice with powerful conviction.

"Heavy industry is the alchemy that turns dirt into gold! It can turn iron ore sleeping in the mines into gold and silver in circulation; turn inexhaustible seawater into fine, snow-white salt; turn ordinary sugar beets grown on the Central Plains into the snow-white delicacy of refined sugar; and turn sand and stones found everywhere along the roadside into sturdy bricks and cement!"

He made a somewhat theatrical lifting gesture. "In short, it will make the Beli in your pockets expand, steadily and continuously, like rising dough!"

The exaggerated gesture, slightly at odds with his cold demeanor, nearly made some of the tense nobles laugh aloud. They immediately held it in, however, the corners of their mouths twitching as they struggled to restore serious, attentive expressions.

"Locke." Boer turned his gaze toward the handsome "Wings of the Kingdom." "I hear the royal family agonizes every year over that enormous Heavenly Tribute. Is that right?"

When Boer clearly stated, "Once our consortium has developed, I will personally donate one billion Beli to the royal family every year, to thank them for the 'efforts' they have made over the years to hold this country together," Locke's pupils abruptly contracted.

Especially the words "every year," which Boer stressed heavily after a deliberate pause, struck his heart like a hammer.

"If... if that's true..." Locke Hall's voice grew hoarse and rushed with overwhelming excitement and disbelief. He was almost incoherent.

"No, what I mean is, the royal family will undoubtedly become your staunchest, most dependable partner! I swear it on the honor of the Hall Family! Please believe me: from this day forward, every policy in the Silver Capital-no, in all of Bernia-will make way for you and the consortium's endeavors! If any blind fool in city hall dares offer lip service while defying you, delaying matters or neglecting his duties-"

A vicious glint flashed in his eyes. "I will personally bring you his head in apology!" With that, he pressed his right hand firmly to his chest and offered Boer an exceedingly solemn bow, almost that of a vassal.

"Very good. I appreciate your attitude." Boer nodded slightly in approval. "Next, I need the cooperation of the army-or rather, the official armed forces. I will have Thatch-"

"My lord, Thatch is here!" The banquet hall's heavy oak doors were flung open, and the enormous Thatch entered at the call. Like the most loyal of knights, he dropped to one knee before everyone and answered in a booming voice.

"He will take the lead in establishing the Kingdom Security Company," Boer continued announcing his plans. "It will absorb and reorganize every gang in the Silver Capital. From this day forward, the word 'gang' will be erased entirely from this city's history. Commoners, merchants, and pirates coming here to trade will no longer suffer any form of extortion or harassment."

He looked around at them, his tone carrying an unquestionable chain of cause and effect. "And the money they once paid the gangs will instead flow into your pockets endlessly through the more regulated form of commercial taxes."

"Lord Boer is wise!"

"Gangs are a cancer on society. They should have been wiped out long ago!"

"We fully support the establishment of the security company!"

The nobles voiced their support one after another, their tones enthusiastic. At this moment, eliminating the gangs was no longer merely a matter of maintaining public order; it directly concerned their own interests.

"At the same time," Boer raised a hand to quiet them and announced another momentous decision, "I need the municipal government's cooperation in transferring all dockland in the harbor district, apart from the former Kent Family holdings, to our consortium at a reasonable price."

He leaned forward slightly, sweeping his gaze across every attentive face, his voice low and enticing. "Listen, everyone. Don't be shortsighted over that little bit of land value. This harbor will be our true 'gold mine' in the future!" Under their breathless, focused gazes, he revealed the answer:

"I will use my ability to easily expand it to more than five times its current size! We will build more deepwater docks and warehouse complexes with greater capacity! This will no longer be merely Bernia's harbor. It will become the most important trade hub, economic center, and... smuggling paradise in all of West Blue!"

His voice carried an inciting force. "How efficient can we be if we painstakingly seek out buyers ourselves? What we must do is build a platform, establish the rules, and let wealth-let the Beli of all West Blue-come rushing into our hands of its own accord, in an endless stream!"

The vast, clear vision Boer outlined seemed to materialize mountains of gold coins before every royal family member, earl, and viscount, letting them hear the delightful clink of money.

The flames of greed burned in their eyes. Faced with such enormous profits now within reach, their earlier fear and wariness of Boer vanished, transforming into fanatical allegiance.

"Very well, everyone." Looking at these allies who had now been thoroughly bound to his chariot, Boer's lips formed an almost imperceptible curve.

"The blueprint has been drawn. Next, we follow the plan and bring it to life, one step at a time." He suddenly raised his right hand high. Though empty, it seemed to hold an ornate goblet brimming with exquisite wine.

"To our shared undertaking," he declared, his voice echoing through the banquet hall. "Cheers!"

"To Lord Boer! To our great undertaking!"

"Cheers!"

Every noble present, whatever their private thoughts, raised an "invisible" wineglass in unison and responded with soaring enthusiasm.

They tilted their heads back and drained their glasses, as though drinking not air, but the sweet, rich liquor called "greed" and "ambition."

The flickering candlelight illuminated the scene like some mysterious ritual.

In this banquet hall reshaped by metallic particles, a "Steel Consortium" centered on Boer, binding Bernia's upper echelons of power together with chains of profit, formally came into being.

Here, a vast net intended to swallow the wealth of all West Blue quietly spread.