The Succession Bloodbath (2)
A roar of cheers filled the air.
It was impossible to believe such raw, primal sounds of support and condemnation could erupt from the usually refined opera house. The noise blended together like molten steel in a furnace.
“Chairman Serget, are you ready? We begin in thirty minutes.”
With a knock at the door, a middle-aged man strode confidently into the waiting room.
He had a thick mustache and gentle, almost hypnotic eyes. It was Henry Ward Beecher, the star preacher of Brooklyn.
“A pleasure to meet you, Chairman Serget. I’ll be moderating today’s event.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Reverend.”
“We haven’t much time, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’m sure you’ve already been briefed on the format, but allow me to confirm the details once more.”
Beecher continued with fluid, elegant gestures, his diction crisp and commanding, like a preacher at the pulpit.
“Thirty minutes for opening remarks, followed by witness examination, cross-examination, and closing arguments. Each segment is strictly timed. When I ring the bell, you must stop speaking immediately. Should the audience’s jeers or cheers grow too heated, I will intervene, so you needn’t worry about that.”
“Having the referee in the ring with us is reassuring.”
Beecher’s expression remained solemn even at my joke. He placed a hand over his chest and spoke with firm resolve.
“There is one thing I must make perfectly clear. As a devout Christian, I will conduct today’s proceedings with complete fairness according to the Lord’s will. I am neither on the side of the North nor the South. I stand only with conscience and truth.”
So that was his warning not to try any tricks. I shrugged with a smile.
“That’s a relief. I happen to like the truth quite a bit myself.”
“…I pray you mean that sincerely.”
Beecher gave me a peculiar look before bowing politely.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must also brief Mr. Lawrence.”
He vanished as swiftly as he had appeared. A strange silence settled over the waiting room—though it wasn’t truly silent.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
A steady vibration shook the floor. I leaned back on the sofa, swirling a glass of champagne, and glanced sideways.
“Leo.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
“Anyone watching would think you’re the one on trial today. Stop shaking your leg. It’s distracting.”
Leo finally realized what he was doing and pressed his knees down with both hands. Beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead, and I nearly burst out laughing at the sight.
“Ah, my apologies. It’s not nerves, it’s just…”
He forced an awkward smile and offered a feeble excuse.
“I’m excited. Truly excited. Today’s the day we finally crush those Northern bastards. My blood’s boiling—I can hardly contain myself.”
“Right, right. Of course. I’ve never seen our chief of staff get cold feet before.”
“……”
Despite my jab, Leo scratched the back of his head sheepishly before returning to his usual composed expression and meeting my gaze.
“It’s no joke, sir. I have no concerns whatsoever. I will simply follow behind you.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. The future you show us is the future I will walk.”
I had only meant to tease him, but when he looked at me with such unwavering eyes, I felt compelled to live up to his expectations. I checked the time and rose from my seat.
“Then stay close and watch carefully. This is Serget Cotton’s Northern debut.”
* * *
“Let’s go over our strategy one last time.”
While Serget chatted leisurely, Lawrence was still preparing for battle right up until the moment he left the waiting room, surrounded by the many experts his colleagues had assembled.
“We will meticulously dig into James Serget’s past. His notorious record as a slave master. And the horrifying reality of the so-called Rehabilitation Center in the South—a place that was, in truth, little more than a concentration camp.”
They would avoid making it look like a petty squabble over market share. Their entire strategy was to attack James Serget’s moral character from every angle.
“Therefore, we will argue that everything James Serget has built rests upon the exploitation of Black people—upon their blood and sweat—and is nothing more than a blood-soaked sandcastle.”
Lawrence nodded repeatedly as the experts briefed him. He had only shared his trump card with a handful of trusted aides to prevent leaks. The ace up his sleeve was the testimony of John Brown, the legendary abolitionist revered across the North, and Tom, a former slave who had actually lived in the Rehabilitation Center.
If those two took the stage and began criticizing James Serget, public opinion would inevitably swing in their favor.
“Of course. If we follow the experts’ advice, Serget will be finished today.”
As Lawrence listened to their confident assurances, his eyes drifted to the seating chart pinned to the wall.
Vanderbilt, Jay Cooke, August Belmont. Even Secretary Seward, representing President Lincoln, and the Radical Republicans in Congress. The titans who moved the United States were packed tightly into those narrow box seats.
They were running the numbers right now. Was it the enormous profits Serget could bring, or the traditional prestige of Boston?
But tonight, those calculations would shatter. The moment Serget was morally bankrupted and branded a hypocrite, no Northern company would dare purchase his blood-stained cotton openly.
Starting tomorrow, a boycott of Serget Cotton would erupt. Capitalists mindful of public opinion would have no choice but to side with Boston, however reluctantly.
That would create a debt—one that could never be repaid with money. A massive obligation for having protected the North’s pride and its industries.
When that time came, neither the White House nor Congress could simply stand by and watch. They would have to punish the Southern upstart who dared disrupt the sacred Northern market and open the floodgates of subsidies to save Boston’s patriotic textile industry in its hour of crisis.
Lawrence straightened his crooked tie in the mirror.
No matter how clever Serget thought himself, he was still just a planter. A man who had ruled slaves with a whip could never prevail in a rational arena of debate.
Serget might have prepared some clever counter of his own, but nothing could surpass the weight of John Brown’s name.
The North would not lose to the South. Lawrence was certain this absolute truth would not waver today.
* * *
At last, the curtain rose.
When Serget and Lawrence, the two gladiators, stepped into the center of the stage, the opera house erupted in a deafening roar. The audience packed into the first floor, second floor, and balconies shouted for their chosen side, while the VIPs in the box seats maintained a dignified facade, offering only polite applause—though their eyes gleamed like predators eyeing prey.
This was no ordinary debate.
It was a blood feud for succession between the old guard holding the reins of Northern industry and the terrifying new generation rising to challenge them.
Henry Ward Beecher, standing at the moderator’s podium, raised his voice with solemn authority.
“I will say this once more. This is a sacred forum for debate. Any baseless slander or personal attacks will be immediately halted by my authority as moderator. In severe cases, I may order removal from the premises. Keep that in mind.”
With that grave warning, the bell rang.
Lawrence struck first. He kept his trump card hidden and tested the waters.
“Chairman Serget. You are a Southern planter. You amassed your fortune by driving hundreds, even thousands of slaves and squeezing them dry. Do you truly believe you have the right to speak of innovation and the future?”
A probing jab—an attack on principle and morality.
But Serget didn’t even blink before landing a counter.
“The right, you say? Well now. I’d rather ask you something, Chairman Lawrence. Are you truly granting genuine freedom to the workers in your own factories?”
“What?”
“Words mean nothing. We have a witness here. Will, come up.”
At Serget’s gesture, a sturdy Black man stepped onto the stage. It was Will, the “Fifty-Cent Man” who had gained considerable fame even in the North.
He spoke clearly and without hesitation before the thousands of spectators.
“I lived as a free man in the North. But with a daily wage of fifty cents, I could barely afford a single slice of bread. I fell asleep each night in a rat-infested room, terrified I might starve to death the next day.”
Will paused to catch his breath, then looked at Serget with eyes full of respect.
“But under Chairman Serget, it was different. We had three meals a day, complete with meat. When work ended, we could rest. When we fell ill, we received treatment. Freedom? If it means the freedom to starve, I’ll pass. Even if I could go back, I would choose Serget Cotton again.”
The crowd stirred. Cheers erupted from the sections where poor laborers made up the majority.
Serget seized the momentum.
“Did you hear that? Chairman Lawrence accuses me of exploiting slaves, yet the food and housing costs I provide for each slave far exceed fifty cents a day.”
It was an irritating claim, but undeniably true. The Fifty-Cent incident had been a painful humiliation that turned Boston itself into an object of ridicule.
Serget smirked and fixed Lawrence with a piercing gaze.
“If anything, isn’t it the Northern factory owners here who have built their wealth without even providing workers a living wage? If you wish, shall we compare our ledgers right here and now? Who is the real exploiter?”
“Waaaah!”
“Serget’s right!”
“Pay us the same wages as Serget Cotton!”
In an instant, the tide turned toward Serget. Lawrence, who had tried to seize the moral high ground, now found himself on the verge of being branded a hypocrite.
He’s good. As expected, he won’t go down easily.
But Lawrence did not panic. He had anticipated that Serget would try to shift the atmosphere this way the moment he appeared confident.
Instead, Lawrence curled his lips into a smile, as if he had been waiting for this.
Money? Wages? None of that mattered.
What moved the masses was not numbers or logic, but emotion.
“Your boasts about money were entertaining. But humans have values more important than bread. Dignity.”
Lawrence slowly, dramatically, revealed his next card.
“Do any of you know of a place called the Rehabilitation Center? The name sounds respectable, but in reality it was the most infamous concentration camp across the entire South.”
The moment the words “Rehabilitation Center” were spoken, the hall fell deathly silent, as if doused with cold water. Those who knew the truth openly frowned.
“The man responsible for designing and running that place is none other than James Serget. And now, we have another witness who survived that hell. Come forward, Tom.”
You’ve been basking in the certainty of victory until now, haven’t you?
It’s time to wake up from that dream.
As Tom stepped onto the stage, Lawrence draped a protective arm around his shoulders.
“Tom was forced to endure unimaginable, brutal training there. When his performance was poor, an atmosphere was created that compelled him to harm himself—self-mutilation, as it were.”
Gasps of horror rose from the audience. That single provocative word shattered the welfare image Serget had built moments earlier.
Whatever he said about operating costs or meat dishes no longer mattered. In the face of the claim that he had mentally abused people to the point of self-harm, every excuse would be meaningless.
“Tom found the memories so painful that he never wanted to recall them again. But for the sake of revealing the truth, he agreed to speak just this once. This is the truth about that evil institution called the Rehabilitation Center—a truth even I have never heard before.”
Lawrence looked at Serget with triumphant eyes.
How about that? This is real incitement.
The moment Tom’s anguished testimony poured out, Serget Cotton would face moral bankruptcy.
I’ve won.
“……”
Yet something was wrong. Serget’s expression across from him was strangely calm. There was no sign of panic or anger.
Instead, he stepped forward and politely addressed the moderator.
“Might I also greet the witness?”
“Well… if you must.”
With the moderator’s permission, Serget approached Tom. He spoke gently, like a teacher meeting a long-lost student.
“It’s been a while, Tom.”
To everyone’s astonishment, Tom bowed deeply at the waist.
Was it learned fear? No—if it were, the emotion in his eyes wouldn’t look quite like that.
“I know how difficult your education at the Rehabilitation Center was. It’s all right. If there’s something you wish to say, tell us everything exactly as it is.”
Lawrence’s brow furrowed.
What is that bastard planning? Is he threatening him?
“Moderator! Serget is now making threatening remarks to the witness through clever wording!”
“It didn’t sound like a threat to me, but Chairman Serget, please finish your greeting and step back. Witness, please give your testimony.”
Whatever Serget tried, the die was already cast.
Tom opened his mouth.
“The education at the Rehabilitation Center was extremely difficult.”
Lawrence smiled. The audience sent sympathetic glances.
But then—
“For someone like me who had never received a proper education, learning the knowledge necessary to live independently in this country was grueling.”
Something strange was coming out.
“Wh-what? Hold on… So what kind of education did you receive?”
Even the moderator blinked in confusion and stammered.
“I learned all the knowledge needed to live peacefully in this country without engaging in antisocial activities. Not just how to grow cotton or food, but the precise principles of farming. And from basic skills to the knowledge required to master those skills—everything.”
Of course, no seditious words like “letters” or “weapons” appeared.
“Then what about the claim that you were forced to self-harm when your performance was lacking?”
“I was so frustrated with myself that I would punch the wall with my head or fists in anger. Why can’t I do better than this? How can I become a useful person if I’m this incompetent?”
The entire hall stared at Tom and Lawrence in disbelief.
But the most dumbfounded person was, naturally, Amos Lawrence himself.
What? Why is a slave who was dragged off to a concentration camp defending Serget?
The situation was so absurd that the thought of being deceived didn’t even occur to him. Stunned, he stared blankly at Serget.
Could the rumor that James Serget could control Black people’s minds actually be true?
If so… had that just been some kind of hypnotic ritual?
“Chairman Lawrence.”
James Serget spoke quietly to Lawrence, who had been about to open his mouth.
“Who is your next witness?”