"Bullshit."

The word cleaves the hush like a blade, slicing through all that polite chatter and leaving behind an echo of rancor. Roy Buxton's voice—hard-edged and stripped of any earlier veneer—shatters the stillness first, yet he isn't alone in expressing disbelief. It's as if by speaking aloud what some of them are thinking, he's granted the rest permission to erupt.

Their voices surge in a chaotic chorus

"He's lying!"

"What an imbecile!"

"Some upstart with illusions of grandeur."

It's a spontaneous storm of scorn. I watch them—men and women in sumptuous attire, once so measured and demure—transform into a seething crowd all too willing to bare fangs. They twist in their seats or lean over the table, snapping retorts that brand me a fake, a dreamer chasing illusions. In mere seconds, the façade cracks, and the room no longer feels like an esteemed banquet for dignified guests but a den of wild creatures itching to tear prey apart.

I glance at Beryl two seats away. She gives me a look of alarm edged with something else—anger? Concern? She'd told me she was used to living in the public eye, yet even she looks unsettled. The scorn rolling my way has a primal flavor, like the tang of blood on a beast's breath.

Not everyone joins in, though. Among the howls, I spot a pocket of cooler faces—Diana Fenston, the Californian Senator, sits with her lips pursed. She's evidently skeptical, but there's a difference between measured doubt and furious condemnation. A few others, notably Darryn Gefford remained silent, warily glancing between me and Buxton.

It was at this moment that Henry Huntington, Charlotte's father and host of this entire evening stood. The hush that fell next was abrupt, as though all the air has been sucked from the manor. His posture was upright, rigid, and the jolly, fatherly figure who'd greeted me at the door was nowhere in sight.

His voice, tight and cold, cut across the space

"Most of you have forgotten one glaring fact, it seems. You are in my house. The wine you are savoring, the meal you devoured, and every inch of silverware in your hands—all mine. If you cannot stomach myguest's words, you can at least keep your mouths shut or find the door."

No one so much as breathes loudly. Huntington's gaze moves methodically from guest to guest, pinning them in place. It's not just anger in his voice. It's the unmistakable sign of a predator. In that moment, his face holds the same dark glower I remember seeing on the Cyclops yesterday, right before it lunged at me with lethal intent. Something about the rigid angle of his jaw, the dark spark in his eyes—it makes me flash back to that moment, to the corpse of the child, to what I did to the Cyclops.

Henry's next words were hissed through clenched teeth "Furthermore, you've insulted my guest. He is the one I invited—the rest of you were merely allowed to come here and speak your little deals and suggestions. If I wanted to, I could destroy you so thoroughly that even your grandchildren would be begging for crusts of bread. Do you doubt me? Try me."

A tremor seems to ripple through the attendees. Some pale visibly, while others sit stock-still as though worried that a single move might draw wrath. A new odor creeps into the air, something intangible but undeniable, fear. The nasty edge in Henry's voice conjure in my mind possible way he could enact his words, images of corporate retribution, cancelled contracts, blackballed reputations, fortunes obliterated overnight and yes, I realize, these people know Henry can back up the threat.

The Huntington family name commands old money influence stretching across decades—like a giant mechanism they set in motion at will, shaping events with ease. Their empire has existed longer than some entire careers. Old money is a quiet engine that can pull strings behind the scenes, forcing the world to shift in carefully orchestrated ways. That's why it is called old money. It was not moved and shaped by the world but the inverse.

Henry steadied his breath, then continued in a voice just above a murmur "But I won't. I won't burn you all, though you all deserve it for this gall. Instead, I want to remind you how small you are. Your insults, your barking, your desperate attempts to tear down a 'nobody' who stands at my side—pointless. You call his claims impossible? Fine. Let's make a wager."

His words send a ripple of astonishment around the table. Beryl, I notice, leans forward a fraction. The rest of the table tilts collectively in Henry's direction like sunflowers trying to catch the slightest angle of light.

Henry lifted his chin, scanning faces with an arrogance that felt practiced. "If you doubters turn out to be correct—if my guest has lied, if this talk of an energy device is utter nonsense—then I vow, in front of each of you, to offer five-sixths of my fortune as compensation to you here."

A collective gasp broke the tension, some guests nearly dropping utensils. I almost heard someone's heart literally skip. A few exclamations peppered the air.

"My God!"

"Is this truly—"

"Impossible! Why wager so high?"

"Why wager for him?!"

I gaped too, shock crawling up my spine. Five-sixths of his wealth? That's an absurd number, wealth enough is that a person could live all their lives in the greatest filthy rich opulence without having to even think about fearing to exhaust the money. Even if Henry liked me for whichever reason, this did not justify staking so much. The dinner's atmosphere warped under that pronouncement.

'He's insane.' The words hammered in my head or at the very least, he's a gambler willing to push his chips all-in on a single hand. Yes, I'm not lying about what I can do. My device is more than real and functional but to risk almost everything because of a hunch in someone he just met—someone even it's a person he wants to apparently fold into his family? It was downright madness.

I sneaked a look first at Charlotte, the daughter, half expecting her to look horrified or outraged that her father would endanger the family fortune for my sake. I was surprised when she instead appeared eerily calm. She shifted slightly in her chair, eyes shining with an excitement that bordered on contentment.

It was as if though she was perfectly sure her father's pledge would not cost them a dime then my gaze slips to Mrs. Huntington, the patriarch's wife. She too radiated tranquil confidence, not the faintest sign of dismay.

So Henry is either truly unhinged or they know something really really big that I was missing.

One of the guests, a portly man whose face remained clammy from the earlier shock, spoke up with careful hesitation: "And if… if we lose, Henry? I mean, if he—the man's voice wavers, pointing a shaky finger in my direction as if I was devil which was rude—"turns out to be telling the truth about unlimited energy… what then?"

Henry's lips curved into a slow, predatory grin that bared his teeth—something I'd call a shark's smile if we were by the sea. "You? You lose nothing. Not a single cent I want from you."

Silence returns. People glance among themselves with parted lips. No penalty for losing? I was sure that were thinking and I could understand because his words honestly almost beggared belief.

Meanwhile, Henry's gaze slided to me, his eyes raking over my posture, my face, as if confirming my presence is real, as if he had searched for something and had found it. The corner of his mouth quirked upward

It was at this moment I realized. He thought, he saw me as the real prize. By making this bet, he signals to every other person in the room that backing me is an unstoppable call, that if they doubt me, they can slink away or risk shame. He's telling them that his entire fortune rests with me—and that he's certain he'll walk away intact, even richer because I had seen in his eyes, he had believed me. He was doing this to show me that he was in my corner. He was doing this because he wanted me to have a modicum of trust in him. He was doing this because he knew what unlimited energy represented.

Right or wrong, he's declared himself my fiercest champion, or my cage, depending on how events unfold.

An uneasy hush hanged around the table. The tension no longer belonged solely to me. Some of the guests appear more curious than ever—like they're reevaluating me in a new light. Maybe, in their minds, if Henry's confident, there must be something remarkable about this "boy."

The candlelight flickered, each flame casting elongated shadows on the opulent spread of china and fine silver. Plates of glistening food remain half-eaten, the meaty aromas mingling with the tang of unsettled dread.

Slowly, I lift my gaze across the table. Some older man is dabbing sweat from his temples. A woman next to him sits with her jaw clenched, eyes flicking to Henry, to me, back to Henry. Another figure's glassy stare tries to puzzle out if perhaps a new star has been born among them or if they have to adapt to a changed landscape overnight. And in the midst of that roiling atmosphere, Henry's voice resonates like thunder:

"The thing is," he says to the petrified guest who asked about losing the bet, "I've already won."

His eyes were gleaming, brimming with a predatory finality, a

He repeated softly, "Yes, I've already won. The reward won't come from your pockets, nor will you contribute anything. My victory is something far more interesting—and far more valuable."

I was dancing amongst wolves—and I was apparently, the leading partner.

scene

The thing about proof is that it doesn't begin as one. You could have facts—cold, hard, undeniable facts—numbers etched into stone, theories backed by calculations so precise they might as well be celestial scripture, but none of that mattered unless they, unless humans, unless people, unless society accepted it. A proof only becomes one when the world decides to call it so.

And truth? Truth was just another construct, another monument built on collective agreement. What the world believed to be true became truth. The logic followed that proof operated under the same principle.

I could explain it all. I could bring out diagrams, stacks of papers inked with equations, stand beneath fluorescent lights and lecture until my voice cracked. I could talk about the Arc-like Reactor Unlimited energy Device until my lungs bled, and still, it would not be enough especially with the skates

Because knowing—being told—was rarely sufficient. There's a reason why the phrase seeing is believing exists. People need the sight, the spectacle, the undeniable grandeur of it.

I needed them to see my device working, being used and so, here we were. It wasn't enough to power the Huntington manor. No, it had to be bigger, bolder—it had to illuminate all of Hancock Park.

Technically, such a feat shouldn't even have been considered. The Hancock's park grid was supposed to remain isolated, inviolate but all it had taken was one phone call from Henry Huntington himself. A few sharp words, an insistent tone, and the grid for the entire neighborhood would soon fall silent, waiting, expectant—like a held breath before a plunge.

My thoughts scattered when a voice, sharp and light, cut through the humid night air.

"I've known toddlers with more decorum and class than those people," Beryl said, her voice carrying a sharp edge of mischief, like glass scraped across stone.

I chuckled, leaning against the balcony railing, my gaze still sweeping over the opulent houses dotting Hancock Park like jewels on black velvet. "If you're using me as an example, I'd like to point out that I was not a regular toddler."

Beryl smirked, her lips pulling tight, her pale blue eyes glittering under the faint glow of the moon. "Oh, you're not the only example. Thalia had more manners than most of them, and she managed that while I was—well, while I was less than present."

Her voice softened on the last few words, carrying the weight of memories she probably wished she could drown—that she probably had tried to drown with numerous bottles. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling in restless patterns.

"You raised her better than I could've," she murmured, her words fragile, like cracked porcelain. "She was my responsibility, my daughter, but you… you gave her more than I ever did."

A sad smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "It may not seem like it, but Thalia was… sensitive. She felt everything. Every word, every glance, every silence. She carried it all, whether she wanted to or not." Maybe this was why in canon even though Luke had betrayed her, had poisoned her tree form, she still had fought to make him come back.

Beryl looked away, her gaze falling somewhere into the middle distance, as if trying to find something tangible in the shadows between streetlamps. "She wasn't like that with me. Not that I would've deserved it to see this side of her."

"Maybe she was, at the beginning," I said softly. "But caring too much has a price. It leaves you open, vulnerable—and no one likes being hurt. Maybe she showed you that side, and when she realized you wouldn't change, she closed herself off. Walls go up fast when you're trying to protect what little you have left." This is what I had done in my past life. After all, you could not be hurt if you didn't let yourself be vulnerable.

Beryl laughed—a short, bitter sound that barely reached her throat. "In other words, she gave up on me." Her voice cracked slightly, a jagged edge to the syllables. "I would've given up on me too."

For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick and unyielding. I turned my head and looked at her, really looked at her—the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders hunched inward, like she was bracing for a blow that would never come.

"Don't forget, Beryl," I said softly. "Whatever happened, happened. The only thing left to do is be better tomorrow. Better for her. Better for yourself."

She exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that carried more weight than a thousand apologies. "I know."

We both turned our heads skyward then, as if some cosmic decree might fall from the heavens and grant us clarity. But the moon—the pale queen of the night—was not what met my gaze.

Artemis' chariot.

It was faint, a silvery glimmer etched across the dark expanse, but I could see it. Most mortals wouldn't, not with the veil put on by the mist on their mundane perceptions but the chain around my neck almost seemed as if humming softly, and the C'tan Star of Knowledge embedded in my mind stirred with faint light, granting me sight beyond sight.

Beryl huffed beside me, crossing her arms. "You can't even brood in peace under the sky anymore without them showing up. That chariot is an eyesore."

I laughed softly, the sound vibrating in my chest. "You couldn't be more right."

She tilted her head, smirking slightly. "You know, the Huntington daughter keeps asking about you. Endlessly. Saying she's infatuated would be underselling it. I'd warn you to be careful, her being the daughter of a billionaire and all that, but I'm pretty sure I'm the last person qualified to give relationship advice."

I sighed, raking a hand through my hair. "There's something about the Huntingtons that doesn't add up. Something I'm missing and I know it's important—I just don't know how important. But something tells me we're going to be dealing with them for a long time even if I don't necessarily like it."

As if summoned by the weight of my words, the lights of Hancock Park flickered once, twice—and then died. The entire neighborhood plunged into darkness, save for the scattered glimmers of stars and the faint glow of Artemis' chariot far above.

"It seems it's time," I said aloud, the words carrying an odd finality.

Footsteps echoed softly behind us. From the corner of my eye, I saw another butler—a tall, almost skeletal man with impeccable posture—approach from the shadows.

"Master Alexander," he intoned, his voice as smooth as polished marble. "All the preparations are complete. A car awaits to take you to the grid. Miss Beryl, alternate vehicles are available for those who wish to observe from a closer vantage point."

"Nah," Beryl said, leaning her elbows against the balcony railing. "I like this spot. Could be better, but it's got its charm. From here, I'll be able to see the whole neighborhood light up at once."

She glanced sideways at me, her smirk returning like a flickering ember in the dark. "Don't take too long, Alex. Their screaming earlier gave me a headache. The faster you finish, the faster we can leave, and I can sleep it away."

I pushed away from the railing with a faint smile, my hands sliding into my pockets. "Not even a good luck?"

She snorted. "Why would I, when I already know the result? A normal person might need encouragement, but you said it yourself earlier—aren't we the exception?"

scene

I always considered Hancock Park a prime reflection of how progress coexists with tradition: a wealthy enclave, old mansions steeped in the quiet hush of large lawns, gated gardens, and refined architecture yet for all its grandeur, it still relied on a typical 1990s distribution grid due to the current time period meaning overhead lines or underground cables would feed transformers that stepped power down to standard household voltages (in the U.S., that's 120/240 volts).

When you think about bridging an advanced reactor into a neighborhood, the concept sounds borderline outlandish. But in plain terms, these homes expect an alternating current (AC) at 60 Hz, plus that nominal voltage of 120/240 V. The distribution lines out by the streets might carry four, eight, maybe even twelve kilovolts. Transformers perched on poles or placed in locked enclosures then step that down to what each residence needs. If the standard utility feed is gone, we're effectively looking at blank wires. My job was to become the station that powers them, safely and stably, as though the entire normal apparatus were in place.

I recall reading once in my past life on the internet about how distribution grids handle frequency and voltage. In the U.S., everything is locked to 60 cycles per second—old motors, refrigerators, even pre-2000 electronics revolve around that rate. If frequency drifts too high or too low, you can burn out motors or cause them to spin incorrectly. So if I want my arc-like reactor to replace a power station, I must supply the correct wave shape. That is a tall order, but necessary.

The high side might be 4–12 kV, while the houses want 120/240 V. My device can't easily produce 12 kV from the get-go. I'd either generate a moderate AC (like 240 V at 60 Hz) or even DC, but then I would step it up via a specialized transformer. That's the heart of the operation: build stable AC, run it into a step-up transformer, feed distribution lines, re-energize all those idle transformers in the neighborhood, and ensure each mansion flicks on its lights as if the utility never left.

Even with my device's ability, none of this is something that could be deemed trivial. I can weave matter and shape exotic components using my Adaptive Material Synthesis, but physically putting together the hardware—transformers, switchgear, safety devices—would consume time and energy. Also, hooking up high-voltage lines is not a trifling task. One slip, and you can blow your circuit breakers or, worse, kill yourself or the people around you.

So I count it as a blessing that, on arrival at the small substation in Hancock Park, I found that Henry Huntington's foresight included hiring a cluster of technicians. He left them under my command. He also procured every tool I'd enumerated: High-Voltage Switchgear, a Step-Up Transformer, an Inverter/Power Conditioner (in case my device's wave needed smoothing), Voltage and Frequency Monitors, Protective Relays, Grounding Systems, Heavy-Duty Cables, Insulated Tools, and so forth. Everything laid out neatly, waiting.

My reactor was advanced, yes, but the local lines still obey 1993's constraints. They were not built for random supersonic frequencies or bizarre waveforms. They wanted plain old AC, 60 Hz, correct voltage. That is how the televisions, coffee makers, and ancient microwaves of these homes remained functional. So I'd planned out a step-by-step approach.

Firstly, it was dealing with Reactor Output Panel & Circuit Breakers. I would install a robust control panel on the side of the arc-like reactor. It would include sturdy breakers for safety. If a fault or short circuit on the line occurs, these breakers would trip instantly, safeguarding my device even thought it was most likely that nothing happens to my reactor with it literally made with C'tan knowledge but following precautions never hurt.

After would come the Inverter / Power Conditioner part because If my reactor happens to produce direct current or something that's not a perfect sine wave, this specialized gear would turn it into stable 60 Hz AC, typically in the range of 240–480 V.

A real power station would have probably use massive turbines to spin a generator in perfect sync, but In my case, I would rely on electronics that sense and adjust the frequency in microseconds.

The next step would be the Stepping Up part.

I needed to use a "step-up" transformer that accepts the 240–480 V from the device's inverter. The transformer might push the voltage to around 4 kV if that's the typical local distribution standard for Hancock Park. This figure was guesswork—some neighbourhoods see 7.2 kV or more, but Henry's staff thankfully found a matching transformer.

Once the transformed voltage matched the lines, we would connect everything so the cables from this substation fed the existing distribution lines.

The next thing to do would be consisting in Reclosing the Circuit Breakers because the grid was intentionally shut down, the lines were not live. I would make them close the substation breakers, bridging my newly minted power source with the local distribution infrastructure. This should re-energize the lines, letting each home's step-down transformer deliver 120/240 V inside every living room.

I exhaled a slow breath, taking a moment to appreciate how fast Henry's people assembled these items. Over in a corner, I see sets of heavy cables coiled like serpents, thick insulation gleaming under portable floodlights. Next to them, a row of personal protective equipment—face shields, rubber gloves, arc-rated jackets—suggests we're not taking any shortcuts. Even with advanced tech, 4 kV can kill you in half a second if you get sloppy.

.Some watchers from the dinner have come, presumably curious or just plain skeptical. They stood at a respectful distance, murmuring to each other. Among them were those who, an hour ago, ridiculed me yet here they remain, hoping to see how I defy conventional logic or me making a fool of myself, more than likely the later. Meanwhile, a half-dozen technicians milled around me, eager for instructions.

I rubbed my forehead, scanning the supplies. Then I stepped forward, raising my voice so that the entire team can hear. "We'll start with the protective relays," I say. "I want them fully tested before we feed any real current. That means hooking them up to the breaker system, verifying they trip properly under simulated overload."

One tech, a tall man with an old-school moustache, nods. "Yes, sir," he says, turning to gather testing leads. Another grabs a multi-meter and heads to the switchgear.

In my head, I run the mental check: The step-up transformer is already placed near the substation busbars. Hefty busbars can handle thousands of amps. My arc-like reactor's output panel is nearby, a thick set of cables bridging it to the inverter input then from the inverter's AC output terminals, more cables route to the transformer's primary side. The transformer's secondary side is what goes out to the lines.

A slight sound behind me triggers me to glance back. It's Beryl, leaning against a lamp post that stands unlit. She must have been bored and left the manor to join me. She was also fiddling with a small ring on her finger, spinning it incessantly.

"There you are," I say lightly, turning from the equipment. "Thought you'd stay at your vantage. Did the hush get boring?"

She shrugs, a grin flickering. "Boring? Not quite. I just decided you might need my moral support or comedic relief. Or maybe I need a front-row seat to watch their dismay as you pull off the impossible."

I nod, letting a bit of warmth seep into my voice. "Stay if you want. I can't promise a fireworks show, though."

She makes a show of batting her eyes. "I'll settle for the moment the lights flicker on and the way they will react. That's all the performance I need."

Then Beryl stepped aside, letting me return my focus on the plan. One of the technicians signalled to me that the protective relay checks were complete. Another handed me an insulation tester. "We're ready to confirm cable integrity, sir," he said voice way more eager than someone working at night should be.

I made them methodically measure each cable run—looking for any inadvertent short to ground, verifying the insulation could handle the thousands of volts. This was crucial: a hidden nick in a cable sheath can lead to an arc flash once real power flows. The readouts looked good. The next step was checking the inverter.

The inverter was custom. In 1993, large grid-tie inverters were rare, but I rigged electronics to handle the job. Freed from the city's power feed, it needed to produce a perfect 60 Hz wave on its own. No external station to rely on, so it was islanded in way.

I ran a quick load test using a bank of resistors: the inverter hums, stepping from near-zero output to about 50% capacity. The wave remained stable, unwavering at 60.00 Hz. Good. Satisfied, I cut the test.

Finally, the step-up transformer. A heavy beast of iron and copper, with a rating around 500 kVA or so—should be enough for the neighbourhood. I directed the team to make the final connections from the inverter's output leads into the transformer's primary coils then the secondary side leads tie into the substation's bus, bridging out to overhead lines.

I stood up near the main breaker. The entire crowd hushed as if they sensed the moment of truth was closed. Beryl edged closer, arms crossed, face devoid of any whiff of tension. In the distance, I spotted Henry Huntington, flanked by his wife and Charlotte. They stood beneath a portable lamp, their expressions a mix of anticipation and surety. Henry, especially, exudes the aura of a man who bet big and expects to win. Charlotte's eyes flicked from me to the device, as though measuring my every breath.

One of the technicians runs up, nodding. "All set, sir. The lines are physically isolated from the city feed, so we're free to energize. We can do it on your word."

I release a measured breath. "Very well," I said, my voice carrying an odd hush. "Open the circuit breakers on the distribution side first. Let's energize the bus bars with no load, watch for stability. Then we'll sequentially close feeders to the homes."

He acknowledged. Another man flipped a switch in a large cabinet, stepping aside so that I could see the meter. The device's readout climbed as I powered up my arc-like reactor. Inside my metal chassis, advanced systems spool up a stable AC wave. The inverter stood ready, cables humming softly as voltage built. The step-up transformer thrummed, metal core carrying the energy to the high-voltage side.

With a thunk, the bus bars became live. My eyes flicked to the display: 4.2 kV. Frequency: 60.0 Hz, holding. The watchers exchanged glances, probably wondering, uncertain whether that dull mechanical hum was good news or a dire sign.

It was at that moment I said "Close the first feeder." The technician toggled another lever. A mild spark crackled behind a protective shield, and the monitor logs a current surge then it stabilized

I flicked my gaze to Beryl. She was poised, no words, just a faint tilt of her head. The rest of the crowd seemed to hold their breath. Another feeder: we close it. Another surge then stable again. Over the next minute, we systematically energize each feeder circuit that branches off to different blocks of Hancock Park.

At first, the night remains dark—residents likely switched off their lamps or lights. Then, as if triggered by an instinct, house after house flares with illumination. Porch lanterns blink on. Streetlights hum to life, filaments glowing from dull orange to bright. It's almost like watching a wave of rebirth spread across this wealthy enclave.

Gasps ripple behind me. Some of the guests, who had scorned me before, now stare bug-eyed as the roads are no longer silent shadows but corridors of lamplight. Homes transform from pitch black to cozy beacons of comfort, air conditioning units whirring to life with gentle rumbles.

I let a slow grin surface. This is the moment that cements the proof.

Beryl arcs an eyebrow, a smirk curving her lips. "Huh," she remarks, affecting a playful boredom. "Would've liked sparks or pyrotechnics. Also I had hoped for more despair on their faces. It's unfortunate"

I chuckle. "You can't please everyone."

Henry Huntington approached from the shadows, Charlotte and his wife at his flanks. Others from the dinner trailed behind, like uncertain courtiers.

Henry's face was glowing almost like a gambler who just raked in all chips, who had won the jackpot

"My boy," he crowed, spreading his arms in triumph. "I never doubted you for an instant! Watching you work was… extraordinary." He stepped closer, maybe forgetting the presence of high-voltage gear, but a tech quickly gestured for him to keep a safe distance. Good because something told me if it was not the case, the man may have hugged me.

Henry's grin stood unstoppable. "You're a genius, my boy." He clapped a hand on my shoulder with what seemed like paternal pride.

"Thanks," I said, inclining my head politely.

From behind Henry, I saw a handful of the cynics from earlier. Their expressions were dancing between fear and awe, as if they were replaying every insult they flung and realizing how colossally they misjudged me. I knew some wished to hide, or pretend they'd been supporters from the start. The hush that fell around them feels laced with an unspoken admission: they messed up and in a generational way. They had talked crazy to someone who literally had made something that would not but will change the world.

I flicked a glance to Beryl, who stands with arms folded, smirking at the guests. I guess she found some satisfaction. Good.

I gathered myself and turned again toward the Huntington's patriarch. i knew that i had already succeeded. I knew that the knowledge of what I just did would spread.

This night had also showed me something, for the best and the worst this evening had showed that the Huntingtons were on his side and in a way, the only ones I needed for Arasaka was them. Henry had won his wager and something in his gaze told me that he already knew.

I stepped forward. My voice remained calm but I injected it with sharpened resolution. "Henry," I say, meeting his eyes. "There's a next step for me. I've been thinking about forging an enterprise, one that stands above and beyond, harnessing the concept behind this device but spanning much more and so many other ideas. I want to found a company that ultimately becomes the mightiest in the modern era, rewriting what's possible."

The hush intensified. Henry's wife stood with a reserved smile, while Charlotte looked at me as if she was enthralled, as if she was restraining herself from pouncing on me. I saw some of scattered guests pivot their ears, drawn by my words.

I pressed on, "This unlimited energy device is merely the start. You've seen how, with a few cables and some transformers, I can power an entire neighborhood. Imagine scaling that, coupling it with advanced manufacturing, new materials, leaps in research. I can't say I need people to help me to succeed. I'm confident I'd find the route by myself but I'd be a fool to ignore the advantage of having steadfast allies. Allies like you and your family." The problem was time. I needed them to gain time, to advance my plans more quickly so that Thalia would be back with me, safe. Thalia was the only reason I was doing any of this.

Henry's eyes gleammed that cunning business sense swirling behind them. I sensed his mind turning over the possibilities, tasting the sweet allure of controlling the next big revolution in power generation.

So I look him full in the face and say, "I want your support—on paper. Become a shareholder in my prospective venture. I promise you that the returns will dwarf anything you currently consider wealth."

Henry's mouth curled in a winning half-smile that reveals equal parts ambition and satisfaction. He extended his hand, palm open. "As if there was any chance in the world I'd refuse." He laughs. "You give me an opportunity to stand at your side and shape destiny? I'd sign in blood if you asked. My boy, let's reach beyond man's inheritance, let's reach beyond the stars."

As I shook his hand with mine, I felt as if I had done so with the devil.

I got more chapters on my :

p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / Eileen715. Don't hesitate to visit if you want to read more or simply support me or maybe both