The Unbreakable Empire
Rockefeller and Carnegie, upon receiving my orders, hurriedly returned to the North, promising to recruit as many close associates as possible.
The two men seemed convinced that the seeds they had sown would soon sprout into a major corporation capable of influencing the entire United States.
“Someday even the U.S. government may have to watch its step around us. Hahaha!”
“There you go again… Though I suppose it isn’t entirely a delusion.”
Their confidence was unmistakable: once a golden empire spanning the nation took shape, neither the White House nor Congress would dare touch them lightly.
But my thoughts differed slightly.
Of course, a corporation of that scale would be difficult for politicians to challenge. They might be forced to tread carefully or even yield ground. Yet how long could such a situation truly last?
Even Standard Oil, which Rockefeller built into the world’s richest company, was eventually torn into thirty-four pieces by antitrust laws.
No matter how powerful, a corporation remains a corporation. It is common sense that no company can stand above the nation itself.
Therefore, if one truly wished to remain free from political interference, one could not be satisfied with merely becoming a large domestic enterprise.
This was the realm that even Rockefeller and Carnegie, constrained by the limits of their era, had never considered: not a company bound within the United States, but a multinational corporation expanding across the Pacific, endlessly extending its reach.
One might point to the East India Company, but I had no intention of comparing myself to such a hollow, half-dead relic. This would not be a sham global firm that merely bought cheap and sold dear. It would be a true multinational that connected and dominated the world market as one.
Beginning with cotton textiles and extending into food, oil, and steel—becoming a super-conglomerate that controlled every sector was the only way Serget Cotton could avoid being torn apart.
So for now, the birthday party would have to be as splendid as possible.
Leo, who had boldly declared he would host his own birthday party, felt cold sweat trickle down his back the moment he began preparations.
“Ah… damn it. Did I get carried away for nothing?”
He should have simply accepted when the chairman offered to handle it. What on earth had possessed him to insist on doing it alone?
This was the problem with people. After shaking hands with the British Prime Minister and dining with Qing royalty, he had clearly become drunk on his own importance.
Leo’s fingertips trembled faintly as he refined the wording of the invitations.
Nick, grinding ink beside him, spoke without reading the mood.
“Chief, your hands are shaking. Is that the Invisible Claw’s secret technique?”
“Be quiet, Nick. I’m serious right now.”
“Aw, don’t worry. Who wouldn’t come if you invited them? I’d swim across the ocean if I had to.”
“Haa… I told you to be quiet.”
Leo sighed and set down his quill.
The invitations were being sent under his own name as a Black man, without Serget’s name attached. Recipients might tear them up, calling it an “arrogant darkie trying to act equal,” or simply ignore them as “let them play among themselves.”
Choosing the venue was another concern. If he reserved too large a hall and it remained empty, he would be accused of diminishing the chairman’s dignity.
“…Should I tell the chairman even now? That it was just a joke?”
Leo mailed the invitations with a trembling heart, regretting the decision dozens of times over.
And a few days later, the results far exceeded his expectations.
[I will attend. Schedule cleared. — John D. Rockefeller]
[Of course I’m coming. Save my seat. I’ll bring the drinks. — Andrew Carnegie]
Those replies had been anticipated. But the Northern magnates were only the beginning.
“Secretary Chief! Members of the New York State Assembly have confirmed their attendance! They’re connected to the chairman’s hospital ventures!”
“Chairman Farrar of Mississippi says he’ll prepare a congratulatory address. Congressman Williams is asking whether he may bring his entire family!”
Far from refusals, replies flooded in. Even business partners of Serget Cotton began protesting.
Knock, knock.
A cautious knock preceded the hesitant entrance of a white finance director from one of the partner firms. The man, normally known for his strictness, wore an unusually troubled expression.
“Um… Chief Leo. Do you have a moment?”
“Yes, Director. Is something the matter?”
“Well… Have we done something wrong?”
“Pardon?”
“I heard all the invitations have been sent, yet I never received one. If it was deliberate… Did I make some mistake? If so, please forgive me!”
The director looked ready to drop to his knees. Leo waved his hands in alarm.
“No, I simply assumed you would be busy at year-end and didn’t want to burden you…”
“A burden? I’m completely free that day! I’ve already cleared everything! Please, just one invitation. If I don’t attend, everyone in the South will think I’ve been pushed out of the company’s inner circle!”
The sight of a burly white executive begging a Black secretary chief for an invitation was surreal. The man finally clutched the card, beaming, and left with repeated thanks.
Once word spread that this was not merely a party but an event Leo himself was hosting for the first time, it became something far more significant—an opportunity no one could afford to miss.
Serget Cotton’s second-in-command. The chairman’s eyes and ears. No one was foolish enough to overlook the chance to make an impression.
The mailroom of the secretariat was swamped.
“Where is the venue? May I attend as well? Standing room is fine!”
“Could I possibly obtain an invitation? I’ll pay extra!”
Leo sorted through the deluge of requests, then stared at his own hands in a daze.
“……I’ll need a larger banquet hall.”
Twice the size, and far more luxurious. He felt anew the true weight of power held by Serget Cotton’s secretary chief.
On the day of the party, Leo arrived still carrying the fear that many who had promised to come might not appear.
The largest banquet hall in Natchez, Mississippi, was packed to capacity. Gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies in splendid gowns filled every inch. Magnates from both North and South, politics and business, gathered in one place.
Naturally, the overwhelming majority were white. To be precise, the only Black attendees were the directors of Serget Cotton. No other Black individual could show their face at such a gathering.
Yet these same magnates, accustomed to commanding respect in their own regions, approached Leo first. They bowed and offered their hands with genuine respect.
“Happy birthday, Chief. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Your achievements during the Asia trip were extraordinary. They say it will become legend. When you have time, I’d love to hear the details.”
“We look forward to working with you in the future. Hahaha!”
Leo stood holding a champagne glass amid the stream of congratulations. White men lined up to celebrate his birthday.
Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind like a lantern show.
Before Serget Cotton existed, when he had been nothing more than his master’s slave. It had been one morning when Serget’s sister visited. After shaving his master’s beard, he had stepped back.
‘Yes, clean. Thank you.’
That single, casual remark had sounded like a death sentence. He had dropped to his knees at once.
‘Master! If I have done something wrong, please punish me severely! I beg you! Anything but selling me elsewhere…!’
He could still vividly recall pressing his forehead to the floor, begging not to be sold. In that era, when a slave owner thanked a slave, it meant only one thing: you were no longer needed.
‘Ha, just once more! Please give me one more chance! Tell me what I did wrong, and this Leo will never disappoint you again!’
Serget’s bewildered expression at the time remained etched in memory. Perhaps even then, the master had already been planning to overturn the entire South.
Leo could never have imagined that the terrified slave begging for his life would one day stand here, receiving the congratulations of countless white men while holding a champagne glass.
Turning his gaze, he saw Ben and Henry. Once he had suspected they were no different from other whites, yet now they were his most trusted colleagues and executives of Serget Cotton, conversing with congressmen.
Sarah, who took such pride in her husband’s success, clung to Leo’s arm and whispered.
“Darling, this truly feels like a dream.”
“…It does for me too.”
Sarah, who had once been sent to the slave auction, could never have imagined receiving such treatment. Simply working as a nurse at the plantation hospital had once seemed the height of happiness.
Just as the atmosphere reached its peak, the lively hall suddenly fell quiet. One man stepped forward.
James Serget.
He had deliberately remained out of sight until now. Holding a champagne glass, he ascended the stage at the center of the hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention for a moment.”
All eyes turned to him. Serget smiled gently and looked toward Leo.
“People often speak of a trusted aide as one’s right arm. If someone were to ask me who my right arm is, I would answer without hesitation with this man’s name.”
He gestured toward Leo, the evening’s protagonist.
“From the very first day I began my business until this moment, Leo has never once disappointed me. The reason I could run forward without looking back is because this friend cleared every obstacle from behind and paved the way. At times, he understands me better than I understand myself.”
Silence settled over the hall. This was no ordinary praise. It was a tribute brimming with trust and affection—an official affirmation of Leo’s standing in the South.
“Serget Cotton’s reach now extends beyond the South, beyond the North, to the entire world. The workload will grow heavier, the responsibilities greater. Yet I am not concerned.”
Every gaze shifted naturally to Leo. Serget nodded firmly, as though speaking for them all.
“That is because I have the finest secretary chief at my side.”
Something hot surged in Leo’s chest. His throat tightened; no words would come.
“Many call me the South’s hero, the South’s hope. Honestly, I am a fortunate man to receive such praise. Therefore, I hope the man who stands closest to me and makes this happiness possible will also find the same joy. Everyone here, please offer your heartfelt congratulations to this man—my friend and companion.”
Serget raised his glass high, smiling brightly.
“Happy birthday, Leo.”
The entire hall answered in unison.
“To Chief Leo!”
“Congratulations!”
North and South. White and Black. As though region and race no longer mattered, the nation’s most powerful figures raised their glasses to honor one Black man.
Glory. Acclaim. A future advancing under the name of success.
This was the path Serget Cotton walked.
The path the chairman walked.
And the path Leo now followed.