Let's Create a New Material
"Allen Goldman?"
Isabel tilted her head, frowning.
"And who the hell is that supposed to be? Looking at the trade records, he's some heavyweight making serious waves on the exchange — but I've never even heard the name."
Isabel's mind held a vast web of connections spanning the entire Empire. No matter how thoroughly she searched it, the name Allen Goldman was nowhere to be found. Skill like that — supernatural, almost possessed — should have made him a legend on the trading floor. And yet he was a complete unknown. She was certain she'd never heard of him.
"Goldman… Goldman…"
Heath muttered the unfamiliar surname, sifting through his memory. Then a scrap of knowledge flickered across his mind.
"…There used to be a gold-mining boom in a region of the Empire called Goldfield. The lord who governed it was Baron Goldman."
"What? He was a noble? No wonder. I was wondering where three million gold came from."
"Isabel. Dig up everything you can on Allen Goldman. There's no telling what connection that bastard might have with Rachel."
"Understood, Brother."
The door clunked shut. Alone now, a sigh tore from Heath's lips.
"…This is fucking bullshit!"
BANG!!
Unable to contain his rage, Heath slammed his fist down on the desk. His mood was foul. Of all the times — right after he'd acquired the company, that godforsaken disaster of a vein running dry had to explode in his face. A company he'd bought for a hundred million gold had, overnight, become a lemon with projected annual revenue of two and a half million. And that was revenue, not net profit — which would be far less. Recovering even the principal would take over a century. He'd been well and truly screwed.
Not a soul in the Vesmont Group dared voice a word of criticism. They all kept their mouths shut as if by prior agreement, eyes averted. That silence pissed Heath off even more. He could see exactly what they were swallowing down.
A hundred million gold? That money could be recouped easily enough from the family's other businesses. What made his blood boil wasn't the financial loss. It was the fact that the choice of Heath Vesmont — heir to the dukedom, Vice Chairman of the Vesmont Group, a man whose every decision was supposed to be flawless and brilliant — had spectacularly crashed and burned. The thought of company executives snickering behind his back, questioning his judgment, twisted his guts.
So he'd had Dr. Benzos — the root of this entire mess — killed first. The man's wife had been with him and gotten caught in the blast, but Heath couldn't have cared less. If she had a grievance, she should have blamed her own misfortune for marrying the wrong man. Besides, they'd hired a foreign contractor through Isabel's connections. There would be no blowback.
Which meant the next target was obviously Rachel — the one who'd dumped this bomb in his lap.
And then there was the unidentified man who'd raked in profits with that freakish investment, scuffing Heath's pride in the process. Allen Goldman. If that baron bastard had even the slightest connection to Rachel — if he'd known about the information in advance…
He picked up the telephone on his desk. Click, click. He spun the dial, and a low vibration hummed through the line.
"This is the Altaira Empire Central Stock Exchange. How may I assist you?"
"Heath Vesmont. I want to place a trade."
"For identity verification, please provide your account number."
"7-7777777."
An otherworldly number. It had been a trophy, purchased at enormous cost from its original owner — the product of an arrogant, superstitious obsession that the heir of Vesmont needed an account number with matching symbolism.
"Which security would you like to trade?"
"Selwyn Trading. Five million gold. All of it short."
The trade ships laden with Eastern luxuries had gone down. Edward's fall from power was a foregone conclusion. Everyone else thought Edward would pull off a miraculous recovery based on his track record, treating the current dip as temporary.
According to insider information, Selwyn Trading's executives are already moving to oust him.
He'd crush the man with every attack he could muster, before Edward even had a chance to fight back. The stock was already falling day after day, but the moment Edward was dragged from the CEO's chair, a crash incomparable to the current decline would hit. Heath intended to time that moment and pocket the short-sale profits. He needed to recoup the losses from Rachel Mining somehow, or he'd never be satisfied.
"Please dial your four-digit password."
The dial whirred.
"Yes, your order has been processed. The repayment period is ninety days."
ACCOUNT:7-7777777
SECURITY:Selwyn Trading
POSITION:SHORT SALE — 5,000,000 GOLD
REPAYMENT PERIOD:90 Days
STATUS:PROCESSED
He set down the receiver.
Click!
He snatched up the telephone in the branch manager's office.
"This is the Altaira Empire Regional Telephone Bureau. How may I assist you?"
"Ah — Selwyn Trading in Grivel. Could you connect me to Technology Department 3?"
"Yes, please hold a moment."
The ringing stretched on as the call was transferred. An agonizing wait that drained the blood from him — and then.
Click!
They picked up!
Please. Please let it be Rachel…!
"Hello?"
…Huh?
It was a woman's voice, but it wasn't Rachel's.
"Um, is this Selwyn Trading, Technology Department 3?"
"Yes, it is. Who's calling, please?"
Okay. At least he'd gotten through to the right place.
"This is Baron Allen Goldman, lord of Goldfield."
A sharp gasp came through the receiver, as if she'd swallowed her own breath.
"Ah, B-Baron Goldman! I beg your pardon. M-may I ask what business you have with our department?"
"Is there an employee there by the name of Rachel Vesmont?"
"Ah, yes. She is here, but…"
"Then put her on, please. It's urgent."
For a moment, the voice on the other end went silent.
"…Hello? Are you there?"
"I-I'm terribly sorry, Baron. But… Department Head Rachel isn't in a position to take calls at the moment…"
Not in a position to take calls? What was that supposed to mean?
"Why? Has something happened over there?"
The employee hesitated, then answered in a voice that seemed to shrink into itself.
"W-well… she's received the tragic news that her mentor passed away in a sudden accident… She isn't seeing anyone right now…"
Ah. So she'd just received word of Professor Sarah Benzos's death.
…Of course she had. During her academy days, that woman had been the only person — the only adult — who'd stood by her without conditions. Losing a mentor like that overnight… falling into despair was only natural.
But.
If you stay drowning in grief, Rachel, you'll be the next one to die.
She had to pull herself together and save Edward, or they'd never be able to cut the Vesmonts' throats later.
"……"
A sure, ruthless method of getting that office door open occurred to him.
It feels like using the deceased, and my conscience twinges a bit, but…
This wasn't the time for that. Death was already certain. If there was any way to avoid it, what did the means matter? This was the best option — for Rachel's sake.
"…The truth is, I was an acquaintance of the late Professor Sarah Benzos during her lifetime."
"Y-yes?! You were, Baron?"
"Yes. The professor told me a great deal about Rachel, her prized student. I understand the two of you shared a particularly close teacher-student bond. I imagined her grief must be immense, so I called to offer my condolences."
Now he cast the bait.
"More than that… as it happens, before she passed, Professor Sarah left me a message of guidance meant for Rachel. It's important, so please go to her office and relay that."
A dying mentor's last words. With a pretext like that, even Rachel would have no choice but to come running to the phone.
"Ah, understood! I'll go to the Head's office right away. Please wait a moment!"
"Hahh…"
He tapped his foot restlessly. Please pick up.
And then the ringing started again.
"…?"
What? Why was the dial tone coming back?
Click.
"It's been some time, Lord Goldman."
An intelligent, composed woman's voice — though thoroughly hoarse — came through the line. It was Rachel. You could tell how much she'd been crying.
Ah. They transferred the call to her office.
"Yes, yes. It's been a while, Miss Rachel. I… I just received the news myself. I heard the two of you were very close. You have my deepest condolences."
"…Thank you. But there's something I'd like to ask."
"W-what is it?"
"You said you were an acquaintance of Professor Sarah's. If you'd heard about me from her so early on, then why, when we first met in Hamilton, did you say you'd recognized me from the newspaper?"
…Huh? Did he… say that?
It had been such a sudden encounter that he'd just blurted whatever came to mind. He couldn't even remember.
No, why would this woman remember something that trivial in a situation this sad?!
Improvise. He needed to improvise…!
"Th-that's…! I wasn't in my right mind at the time! You remember, don't you? I showed up looking like a complete wreck."
"Ah, that… you did, didn't you…"
"On the way to Hamilton, my carriage sank into a swamp, so I had to sneak onto a freight train. It was a nightmare. I was so out of it I didn't even recognize you. I'm sorry."
"…No. If that's what happened…"
Whew. She'd bought it. Before she could press him on anything else, he quickly changed the subject.
"A-anyway, I saw in the paper recently that you'd been hired as Head of Technology Department 3 at Selwyn Trading. That's why I had the call transferred here, and it was the right call. By the way… how is the new work going?"
"To be honest… we're struggling. The core components keep failing — they can't withstand the output. We haven't found a material that can handle the load, so… we're just spinning our wheels."
The coil problem, no doubt. Allen began to act, drawing up a performance of grief crossing with surprise.
"I-I see… What a coincidence, this is…"
"…Pardon?"
"The truth is, the last conversation I had with Professor Sarah… was about the limitations of existing materials."
"…What? Professor talked to you… about new materials?"
A tremor entered Rachel's voice.
"I'm no engineer, so I don't fully understand. But she left me these words."
He cleared his throat and spoke slowly. Advice that Professor Sarah should have given her beloved student herself. In the dead mentor's place, he delivered those words to her.
"Ah…!"
"Given your current situation, it almost sounds like a last will she left specifically for you. Anyway, that's all I had to pass along. Take care of yourself. I'll let you go now."
"Yes, yes… Thank you, Lord Goldman."
Click.