Chapter 913: Intervention

Celebrity influence remains a powerful marketing tool in this era. Despite the oppression, exploitation, and hardships people endure, they are, at their core, still kindhearted.

Or rather, they haven’t yet developed an immunity. They firmly believe what celebrities say, often with unshakable conviction—

“Celebrities wouldn’t lie and ruin their reputations, right? They’re not that stupid!”

Most of the time, that’s true. But there are exceptions.

For instance… when capitalists offer too much money to refuse.

Celebrities and politicians appear on magazines and TV, promoting all sorts of products. This is the golden age for capitalists.

People are na?ve, easy to deceive, and have short memories.

Take this lighter, for example. Lynch didn’t even promote it or serve as a spokesperson. He just spent a million to buy back a lighter he had previously donated, and that alone turned it into this year’s hottest product.

The two gentlemen shifted their gaze away from the lighter. Mr. Patric pursed his lips. True to the stereotypical demeanor of Gephra citizens, he always came across as stiff and proper.

He raised his hand, rubbing his moustache between thumb and forefinger. “He might not succeed this time. The resistance is far greater than he anticipated.”

Mr. Wadrick agreed. “Still, it’s good that young people are bold. At least it shows the world hasn’t grown completely old.”

Neither man was optimistic about Lynch’s rise. It was simply the wrong time. Even though he had taken a surprising path, success would be extremely difficult.

The first-generation and second-generation financial conglomerates have always been cautious toward emerging capital forces. Whenever a new industry rises, an old one must inevitably die.

And among those fading industries are the core businesses of some major conglomerates.

Take railroads, for example.

Years ago, the Federation was obsessed with building railroads. Railroad tycoons even dreamed of railways covering the entire nation and beyond.

At one point, railway mileage in the Federation was increasing by 7,500 kilometers a year. Laying tracks was the most profitable business.

Governments begged tycoons to extend lines to their cities, offering generous incentives in return.

But now… that golden age is over. Profit margins have shrunk. Getting rich off railways is no longer viable.

Well-developed urban and interstate highways, along with a booming auto industry, have made trains less essential for long-distance travel. This has devastated the railway industry.

The rise of automobiles, the decline of trains—this is how eras shift, like a ball rolling forward.

Seizing new opportunities is something every conglomerate must do, or they risk marginalization and eventual elimination.

No one likes things that reek of decay. This is a world that changes every day. With technology evolving rapidly, people crave novelty and reject the outdated.

To survive, one must fight.

Airplanes are the next frontier.

Everyone sees it—once aircraft gain a decisive advantage, they’ll form an independent military branch.

When that happens, Lynch and his research institute will inevitably become major players in military procurement, as he holds some of the most advanced technology available.

To stop him, whatever he does must be made to fail. Only when he realizes who truly controls this country will the old conglomerates get what they want.

Sometimes, bowing your head isn’t shameful—especially when it’s to the top domestic conglomerates. For many, it would be a dream come true.

“But I still believe he’ll work another miracle,” said Mr. Wadrick. He had essentially watched Lynch grow, from someone with no value even as a pawn to someone now attempting to build his own financial group.

His ambition and capability were exceptional. It was a pity.

Mr. Patric hesitated, then nodded slightly, seemingly agreeing. Lynch was never short on miracles, and he was good at creating them.

“Let’s keep observing quietly, as we always have. Maybe he’ll bring about some unexpected changes—for us, and for the Federation.”

While they still believed Lynch founded Tomorrow Light Investment Company merely to protect his aviation research institute, the eldest son of a powerful warlord was already within Federation borders.

If they didn’t intervene now, it would be too late. Twenty percent of EveryMoment’s shares had already fallen into the hands of Federation businessmen, and most of the public stock had also been lost.

If EveryMoment became a Federation-owned company, the first to suffer would be their business interests in Marilo.

The warlord grew restless. Unable to act personally, he sent his most trusted eldest son to find a way out of the impasse.

This son was unlike ordinary men—his manner, his aura, even just standing there made him impossible to ignore.

His lake-blue eyes seemed to hold something mysterious. Many young women passing by couldn’t help but be drawn to them.

The twenty-plus people accompanying him were elite operatives under the warlord’s command. Apart from two strategists, the rest were fighters.

If it came to the worst, and they lost EveryMoment, they wouldn’t just sit idly by.

Whether through intimidation or real action, they had to show the Federation what it meant to be a Marilo native—and not to be underestimated.

Soon, a convoy pulled up outside the station, and the group boarded.

The warlord’s son removed his sunglasses and looked at the empty vehicle. “My uncle didn’t come personally?”

His Marilo accent sounded odd compared to the Federation’s, but it was still understandable.

The person sent to receive him, also Mariloan, was the company president’s assistant. “The president is currently in talks with shareholders about buying back stock. He couldn’t get away.”

The warlord’s son nodded. He was aware of this.

The best way to counter a hostile takeover was to concentrate shares in one person’s hands. If controlling shares could exceed 50%, they wouldn’t have to worry about sovereignty being threatened.

As long as company control remained intact, any losses could be recovered soon.

The Marilo warlord was even preparing a larger, higher-profile spring product fair, inviting not only wealthy Federation figures but also elites from around the world to visit their plantations.

As long as they could get through the current crisis, they were confident that EveryMoment’s stock price would soon return to normal levels.

The warlord’s son said nothing more. Silence fell over the car, and the atmosphere grew heavy.

Life as a warlord wasn’t all about indulgence, and being a “second-generation warlord” didn’t mean living in comfort either.

Every year—sometimes every month—some minor or mid-level warlord would try to test whether their power was still as dominant as before.

These tests were often brutal—armed conflicts, bombings, even assassinations—relentless and unending.

He had over thirty siblings. He couldn’t remember the exact number, because now, only three younger brothers and one sister were still alive.

The rest had either been killed by a stray bullet in battle or stabbed in the chest during some late-night ambush.

Surviving in that world wasn’t easy, and it had left a harsh, murderous aura clinging to him.

He lived—because he had killed too many others.

It’s hard to describe “killing intent” with any accuracy, or even prove it exists. But in that moment, inside the vehicle, the people sent to receive him could feel it—an overwhelming, oppressive presence in the air.

A chilling aura of death.

The convoy roared off into the distance under the envious eyes of bystanders—though in Eminence, such scenes happened so often, people were too numb to even feel envy anymore. There were simply too many rich and powerful people here.

When the convoy arrived at EveryMoment’s headquarters, a manager immediately came out to greet the distinguished guest.

But just as she opened the car door and reached out to help him exit, one look from him made her back off. Then, a scarred, calloused hand pushed her away.

“Has my uncle returned?” he asked while walking into the building.

The assistant trailing behind glanced at the manager, who shook her head. The president was likely avoiding this young man.

Understandably so. Sending someone like him at this moment wasn’t just about oversight—it was essentially a power grab. And being the general’s eldest son, no one dared confront him. They could only smile and stay silent.

If they spoke, they’d offend both sides. If they said nothing, they offended neither.

The warlord’s son snorted coldly and continued walking. His men opened the elevator for him, and he went straight to the top floor.

Two of his guards pushed open the doors to the president’s office. He walked right in and sat down in the oversized rhino-hide chair reserved for the president.

“Tell my uncle to come see me.”

“And notify all current shareholders—I have an announcement to make.”

The manager and assistant didn’t respond right away. They exchanged a look, sensing trouble. A power grab from Marilo at a time like this was a foolish move.

But they had no choice. Their families were still in Marilo. Unless they never planned to go back and weren’t afraid of assassination, it was best to obey.