Chapter 19
Chapter 19
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 019
Chapter Title: Eye of the Storm
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Mild air, gently swaying petals, shimmering sunlight and light clouds, fragrant breezes, streets bursting with lilac blossoms, and the low tolling of cathedral bells.
Every sight that adorned Vienna's spring filled the city on this afternoon.
Having led the platinum jewelry marketing to a resounding success, I was immediately elevated to a top-priority figure at the Hofburg Palace.
I'd been important before, of course—but back then, it was due to my background. Now, the difference was immense: I was starting to wield real influence.
The Emperor subtly included me whenever receiving foreign envoys, and we sometimes held detailed meetings in his office.
Even in the modern era, diplomacy, trade, politics, and money were inseparably linked—and it was the same here.
The Emperor acknowledged my talent for combining those last two elements, allowing me to share intimate discussions that no one else could hear.
"...What if we allocate some of the platinum jewelry to the Ostend Company?"
"Yes. Compared to the Dutch or English companies, the Ostend Company is clearly a latecomer. So, I believe it would be better to secure trade footholds by offering gifts to the ruling classes in India or the Qing Dynasty—gifts so unique they can't be bought with money."
India wasn't yet locked under Britain's monopolistic grip; France and other European powers were fiercely vying for control.
Handled right, we could even expand trade routes to the Qing Dynasty. That made buying local favor wiser than battling entrenched powers head-on.
"If you make that happen, I'd be immensely grateful. Of course, I won't take it for free—I'll ensure your dividends are generous. If there's anything else you desire, speak up."
"Not so much a desire, but there are a few matters I'd like to discuss."
"Regarding the Ostend Company? Go ahead."
"As Your Majesty knows, trade with Asia brings vast profits to the Empire. Adding platinum to win local goodwill should boost those gains even further."
According to Wolf's investigations, the Ostend Company was on track for a staggering black ink year, promising investors 33% dividends.
Considering they'd only recently entered India, that was an encouraging figure.
But precisely because of that, trouble was inevitable.
I decided to make the complacent Emperor aware of the tragedy that history demanded.
"Such massive profits will inevitably draw pressure from Great Britain and the Netherlands. In my view, business disruptions could start as early as next year without surprise."
"Hmm... You're right. The problem is when profits are too abundant."
In my past life, around this very time, Britain and the Netherlands had jointly hounded them, forcing Charles VI to suspend the company's charter.
Years later, Britain agreed to the Pragmatic Sanction in exchange for the company's dissolution—and the Emperor swallowed it bitterly.
A rolling stone squeezing into the gaps left by entrenched powers had proven impossible, as expected.
Yet Asia's trade routes were too valuable to abandon.
Unlike before, platinum gave me leverage over company operations.
With preparations, even if the Habsburgs withdrew, Franz Stefan personally might continue the venture.
"Your Majesty knows best, but our naval power for Asia is lacking. If they press hard, we couldn't protect the company militarily. Long-term, political factors make failure likely."
"Several financial officials have raised similar concerns lately. I knew you were knowledgeable, but you truly have a macroscopic eye for business."
"Thank you for considering my humble opinion. England will likely leverage the Pragmatic Sanction to check the Ostend Company—create conditions making continuation difficult, then demand closure in exchange for approval. That's what I'd do in their shoes."
From our side, we'd call those pirate thugs thugs again—but from Britain's view, it was entirely rational.
With ambitions to swallow India whole, they'd nip any proper rival in the bud.
"Indeed... If things unfold that way, even I might seriously consider their demands."
"That's why we must prepare first. I suggest no further imperial investments under the court's name."
"To avoid raising foreign suspicions... But that would inevitably slow the company's expansion."
"Precisely—fill the gap with proxy investments. There's that Jewish businessman who donated a fortune for Archduchess Theresa's birthday recently. Why not reward him with an investment opportunity?"
Proxy investments via Jewish capital.
With the clear pretext of honoring a major donor to the court, no one could object.
Of course, much of that investment would come from my platinum jewelry profits.
Jewish capital networks were so tight-knit that laundering through Dutch channels made tracing impossible.
Even if England or the Netherlands tried blocking it, Jews mostly backed fellow Jews.
With Wolf sincerely cooperating, pinpointing profits through Jewish channels would be impossible.
The Emperor, listening entranced, soon smiled contentedly and shook his head.
"Hahaha, Prince Eugene and Theresa were spot-on about you. I thought I was watching you closely, but I sorely misjudged."
"No, Your Majesty. It's just that my efforts to aid you and Archduchess Theresa are only bearing fruit now."
"Yes, yes. We'll proceed with the Ostend Company as you suggest. But this benefits me too, so it's hardly granting your request. Speak any other wish—the chance to ask something of the Empire's Emperor isn't common, as you know."
My gains were already overflowing, but I wasn't one to refuse such an offer.
"Then, Your Majesty, could you bridge me to the Duke of Lobkowicz in Bohemia?"
"The Duke of Lobkowicz? No issue, but why?"
The Ostend Company, competing with European giants' East India Companies, benefited from my staying low-profile for now.
But some fields demanded I step forward.
"I have plans to aid Bohemia's glass industry. Before implementing, I'd value the Duke's insights."
For Theresa's succession—and my recognition as next Holy Roman Emperor—I needed local nobles' favor now.
Bohemian glass was the perfect vehicle: not just money, but a golden ticket to skyrocket my reputation across the Holy Roman Empire.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ At the same time, in what claimed to be the world's premier intelligence network: the British Embassy.
"...After exhaustive investigations."
European powers blanketed the continent with intel webs, fixated on each other's moves.
France's Cabinet Noir and Britain's agents—later dubbed the Black Chamber—were especially voracious.
"Platinum refining is indeed impossible for anyone but Franz's artisans."
But the embassy conference room, filled with those proud agents, hung heavy with silence.
"And France?"
"Same conclusion."
"Can't we extract the secret?"
"Impossible. No matter how we probed, no one else knows it. Clearly, only Franz and his core artisans hold the method."
The listener was the illustrious British Ambassador Thomas Robinson.
His elite agents, spread across Austria, wiped cold sweat, dodging blame.
"First, report to the home office..."
"Report? Brag that you noticed nothing, like useless trash?"
"Ambassador, it's not..."
BAM!
Robinson slammed the table, raising his voice. Rage bulged veins on his usually impassive temple.
"Then what! What have you been doing that we know nothing?!"
"F-France too..."
The agents bowed, chagrined despite excuses.
The ambassador scowled, unwilling even to hear them.
He irritably shredded the papers on the table.
"Think I attended those balls and galas to end up like this! Know how much I spent bribing local nobles and merchants? How much to evade Austrian eyes?!"
If Britain and France ran spies, the Holy Roman Empire naturally countered with its own.
Vienna's Secret Cabinet Office boasted world-class security, demanding monthly fortunes in bribes to stay hidden.
Diplomats were, after all, the most elegant spies—upheld by money, ruined without results.
"And the real problem? Missing platinum sales in Vienna is bad enough."
"......"
"But the mastermind being Franz Stefan—the likely royal son-in-law? That's the catastrophe!"
It was a bolt from the blue.
Agents stared at the floor, speechless; Robinson's fury only mounted.
"You, James! Recite that report! What about Franz Stefan?"
"Ambassador, it's..."
"Read it!"
"...Yes."
The targeted chief agent read in a crawling voice.
"...Franz Stefan. Long in Vienna, but French identity stronger than German. Uses François Étienne, speaks only French, barely German. Intellect above average but no brilliance, thus favored by the Emperor......"
"Keep reading if your mouth works. You write it like a dog, then clam up—what am I supposed to do?"
James, handling royals intel, wanted to blow his brains out amid Robinson's scornful, hateful tone.
How could it mismatch reality so utterly, even reading it himself?
This wasn't mere oversight on platinum or one man's details.
Top-priority target.
Years of full resources yielded nothing accurate—a dire scandal.
"Heh, can't speak German? Then who fluently explained at the ball? No brilliance? That man invented platinum jewelry—and succeeded?"
"......"
"Explain. Why? Speculate if you must."
"...Certain. We—and France—were thoroughly duped by Holy Roman counterintel."
As commotion faded and tempers cooled, Robinson assessed coldly.
He recalled Franz's confident voice.
—A product of long planning, countless failures, and research.
No way such a project succeeded overnight.
Even minimally, Franz was researching platinum upon arriving in Vienna—a vast blind spot for Britain.
"Indeed, even a aging lion is a lion. Played like fools by their counterintel."
No one changes overnight; they'd collected useless intel for years, believing it true.
For intel handlers, the humiliation needed no underscoring.
"Anyway, revise Franz Stefan's intel."
"Naturally. Reinvestigate from square one. But first..."
Robinson eyed Britain's Vienna network.
His reliable underlings, shipping intel home.
Now, nothing from them was trustworthy.
Worse—how much planted fakes tainted past reports? Dizzying.
He smirked at Franz's final assessment.
—Character overshadows ability.
"What? Lacking talent but good character? These worthless scum. Believing this garbage..."
He seemed polite and pleasant, true—but that smile hid unfathomable potential.
"Time to... decide."
Robinson sighed deeply, then upended the inkwell over the network files.
SPLASH!
Unknown contamination meant rewriting futile.
Must uproot entirely—or forever chase fakes.
"Send urgent dispatch home: Purge all intel from here two years back—suspect contamination. Also, shut down Vienna network... rebuild from scratch."
Meanwhile, in a British mirror: the French Embassy.
Ambassador Count Polignac, face beet-red, personally broke agents' teeth in rage.
"What? Kidnap artisans? Sane?! You useless trash! You're all fired!"
Thus, Britain and France's vast Habsburg intel webs—thriving till then—collapsed overnight.
By their own hands.