If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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Mary-Beth, who had been listening quietly beside Caleb, tilted her head, a playful, questioning smile touching her lips. "Is this truly necessary, Caleb?" she asked, gesturing to the towering white pillars of their current home. "Our mansion already has twenty rooms we rarely even walk through. We have sprawling gardens, a conservatory, and a massive ballroom. Do we really need to buy out the neighbors just to park six automobiles?"
Caleb turned to her, a warm, affectionately mischievous spark in his eyes. He reached out, gently wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close against his side.
"The motor house is only half of the equation, my love," Caleb admitted, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Yes, we have a beautiful home. But I was looking at the western gardens yesterday, and I had an idea for an addition. Something to make this estate truly unparalleled."
"An addition?" Mary-Beth repeated, her curiosity entirely piqued. "What kind of addition?"
"A glass domed botanical garden," Caleb revealed, his visionary mind painting the picture in the evening air. "A massive controlled conservatory built of iron and imported glass, large enough to house exotic orchids from the Amazon, towering ferns, and a cascading waterfall. A place where you can walk through a tropical paradise in the dead of winter, without ever leaving our property. And to build it on the scale I am envisioning... we need the Boudreaux property. Of course there's other he have in mind but that's for alter."
Mary-Beth's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat at the sheer, breathtaking romance and magnitude of the idea. A private, glass domed jungle built just for her. She looked at her husband, completely overwhelmed by the boundless, unyielding scope of his affection.
"You are absolutely mad," she whispered, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "But it sounds beautiful."
"Only the best for the Queen of the five states," Caleb smiled, leading her up the steps. "Come inside. Let the men play with their new toys. We have dinner waiting."
While Caleb and Mary-Beth retreated into the quiet, opulent sanctuary of their home, the city of Saint Denis was experiencing a seismic social shockwave.
The sight of Caleb commanding a roaring, horseless carriage through the heart of the commercial district had not just turned heads, it had shattered the established social hierarchy of the southern elite.
By noon the following day, the entire city was buzzing with frantic, breathless gossip. In the smoky, velvet lined back rooms of the Bastille Saloon, in the immaculate parlors of the mayor's office, and over fine porcelain teacups in the high society drawing rooms, the conversation was singularly focused on the "Iron Horses of Thorne."
Saint Denis was a city obsessed with status. And Caleb Thorne was not just a resident, he was the undisputed apex predator of the social and economic food chain. His influence did not stop at the borders of Lemoyne. Through his railroads, his firearms, his luxury hotels, and his radio towers, Caleb had consolidated absolute economic dominance over the entire five state territory: Lemoyne, New Hanover, West Elizabeth, New Austin, and the frozen peaks of Ambarino.
If Caleb wore a certain cut of suit, the tailors of Saint Denis sold out of that fabric within the week. If Caleb dined at a specific restaurant, the waitlist stretched into months.
So, when Caleb abandoned the traditional, horse drawn carriage in favor of a loud, smoking, gasoline powered machine, the old aristocracy did not view it as a crude novelty. They viewed it as the new, absolute baseline for wealth.
Suddenly, the matched pairs of thoroughbred Arabians and the silver trimmed broughams that the wealthy families had spent fortunes acquiring felt entirely obsolete. They looked like relics of a bygone era compared to the sheer, terrifying modernity of the Model T.
The wealthiest and most powerful figures in the city immediately realized that if they did not possess an automobile, they would be left behind in the dust, literally and socially.
By the third day after the vehicles' arrival, the quiet, oak lined street outside the Thorne estate had become an impromptu staging ground for the desperate elite.
Carriages pulled by sweating horses lined the avenue. Antonio's silver receiving tray in the foyer was practically overflowing with heavily embossed, gold leaf calling cards from shipping magnates, plantation owners, federal judges, and textile barons. They were all utilizing every political and social connection they possessed just to request a ten minute audience with the master of the house. They didn't fully understand what the machines were, how they operated, or who built them, but they knew they needed one.
Caleb, recognizing the massive, unprecedented marketing opportunity falling directly into his lap, did not turn them away.
Instead, he transformed the grand drawing room of his mansion into an exclusive, high stakes showroom.
That afternoon, Caleb sat in a plush leather armchair, a glass of bourbon in his hand, facing three of the most powerful men in Lemoyne: Henri Lemieux, the notoriously corrupt but highly influential mayor, Beauregard Sterling, a man who controlled half the freight shipping on the Lannahechee River, and a wealthy cattle baron from Blackwater.
The three older men sat rigidly on the velvet sofa, looking both deeply intimidated by Caleb's presence and entirely captivated by the prospect of the new technology.
"It is a marvel, Mr. Thorne, an absolute marvel," Mayor Lemieux was saying, waving his hand in an animated, dramatic gesture. "I saw you driving past the municipal building. The speed! The lack of beasts of burden! The entire city council is in an uproar. I must confess, my own carriage felt rather primitive on the ride home."
"It is the nature of progress, Henri," Caleb replied smoothly, crossing his legs and resting his glass on his knee. "The world is accelerating. The horse served humanity well for five thousand years, but its time is drawing to a close. The internal combustion engine does not tire, it does not require a stable boy, and it does not panic in the streets."
"But where on earth did you acquire them?" Beauregard Sterling demanded, leaning forward, his eyes burning with capitalist greed. "I sent wires to my contacts in New York and London. The European models are fragile, custom built toys for aristocrats that break down every three miles. But your machines... they look like they were forged in a steel mill. They look like they could drive through a brick wall."
Caleb smiled, a cold, calculating expression that signaled the closing of a trap. He wasn't going to hoard the technology to maintain his exclusive status. He was going to use his status to build the Ford Motor Company into an unstoppable monolith, directly enriching the Thorne Holding Company in the process.
"They were built in Detroit, gentlemen," Caleb revealed, setting his bourbon down and pulling a stack of heavy, embossed business cards from his breast pocket. He tossed them onto the low mahogany table between them. "By an engineering genius named Henry Ford."
The three men leaned forward, staring at the cards as if they were maps to El Dorado.
"The Thorne Holding Company provided the capital and the metallurgical expertise to perfect the chassis," Caleb continued, flawlessly endorsing the product. "I can personally guarantee that the tubular steel framing and the planetary transmission are the finest pieces of mechanical engineering currently existing on this continent. The machine is designed for endurance, reliability, and speed."
"I want one," the cotton baron from Rhodes blurted out instantly, abandoning any pretense of polite negotiation. "I will write a check today. Five thousand dollars. Ten thousand. Name your price, Caleb."
Caleb let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "I am not a car salesman, gentlemen. I am an industrialist. I will not sell you the machines sitting in my driveway for any price. But..."
Caleb leaned forward, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial register that made the men hang on his every word.
"If you truly wish to join the twentieth century," Caleb offered, "you will send a telegraph to that address in Detroit. You will place an order for the Model T. And when you send the wire... you make sure to tell Mr. Ford that Caleb Thorne personally endorsed your purchase."
The psychological manipulation was an absolute masterclass. By refusing to sell his own cars, Caleb maintained his untouchable aura. But by offering them a direct line to the manufacturer with his personal blessing, he elevated their status while simultaneously acting as the ultimate, unpaid marketing agent for his own investment.
The three men scrambled to grab the business cards from the table, their eyes wide with eager gratitude.
"Thank you, Caleb," Mayor Lemieux said breathlessly, tucking the card into his vest pocket as if it were a state secret. "I will wire Detroit this afternoon."
"See that you do, Henri," Caleb smiled, standing up to signal the end of the meeting. "Because a mayor riding in a horse drawn buggy in a year's time is going to look like a man entirely unqualified to lead a modern city."
As Antonio escorted the frantic, eager aristocrats out of the drawing room, Caleb walked briskly toward his private study.
The sheer volume of interest was staggering. If Saint Denis was reacting this violently to the presence of six automobiles, the rest of the country would soon follow. He needed to ensure the factory in Detroit was prepared for the incoming tidal wave of capital.
Caleb stepped into the quiet study and locked the heavy oak door behind him. He walked over to his desk, where a highly specialized, secure T&T radio receiver sat, glowing with the warm orange light of its vacuum tubes.
Several weeks prior, Caleb had dispatched one of his most trusted couriers on a private train to Detroit, carrying an identical, heavily encrypted military grade receiver directly to Henry Ford. It was a vital lifeline, allowing Caleb to communicate instantly with the automotive pioneer without relying on public telegraph lines that could be intercepted by rival manufacturers.
Caleb flipped the heavy brass toggle switch, engaging the transmission coil, and picked up the heavy microphone.
"Saint Denis actual, calling Detroit," Caleb spoke clearly into the metal mesh. "Do you read, Henry?"
The line hissed with the heavy static of distance. Without the massive, ionospheric bounce tower Tesla was currently building in the swamps, the signal had to rely on the physical chain of relay towers stretching up the Mississippi River and across the Midwest. The audio was compressed and crackling, but the connection held.
"I read you, Mr. Thorne," Henry Ford's voice crackled through the wooden speaker box. The engineer sounded exhausted, but wired with a frantic, obsessive energy. "The assembly lines are running. We are churning out thirty chassis a day. What is the situation in the South?"
"The situation is a frenzy, Henry," Caleb announced, a triumphant smile on his face. "The six vehicles arrived flawlessly. My men are driving them across the city, and the local elite are practically rioting to get their hands on one. I just spent the morning sitting in my parlor, acting as your premier salesman. You are about to receive a flood of telegraphs from the wealthiest politicians, bankers, and shipping magnates in a five state radius, all requesting priority orders."
A sharp, static laced bark of laughter echoed from Detroit. "That is music to my ears, Mr. Thorne! Let them wire! The line can handle the volume. If we need to expand, we have the capital."
"You need to increase production by at least twenty percent starting Monday," Caleb ordered, his logistical mind instantly calculating the supply and demand curve. "The initial orders will be from the wealthy, but the moment the middle class sees their bosses driving these machines, the dam is going to break. I want cars ready to ship before they even realize they want them."
"I will authorize a third shift," Ford agreed instantly. "We will run the lines around the clock. But Caleb... while the lines are running, I haven't been sleeping. I've been in the design room."
Caleb leaned back in his chair, his interest deeply piqued. "Experimenting?"
"Constantly," Ford's voice took on the rapid, breathless cadence of a man consumed by his own genius. "The Model T is a masterpiece, yes. But it is only the beginning. I am already researching a redesign for the magneto housing to increase the spark efficiency by ten percent. I am drafting a new casting method for the engine block that could allow us to forge all four cylinders as a single, unified piece of metal instead of casting them separately. It would drastically reduce the weight and completely eliminate the structural weak points at the gaskets."
Caleb's eyes widened slightly. A unified, single cast engine block was a monumental leap in automotive engineering, a concept that historically hadn't been perfected for years. Ford was accelerating his own timeline, driven by the limitless capital Caleb had provided.
"Do it, Henry," Caleb commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, visionary approval. "I approve the research budget. Double it, if you have to. Keep experimenting. Keep drafting."
"You don't think we should focus entirely on fulfilling the current orders before we disrupt the line with new designs?" Ford asked, a hint of hesitation in his voice. Many traditional investors would have demanded he stop tinkering and just focus on selling the current product.
"Absolutely not," Caleb countered fiercely. "Henry, the moment these cars hit the streets of New York and Chicago, our competitors are going to buy them. Olds, Packard, the European firms, they are going to drag our machines into their workshops, tear them down to the last bolt, and try to reverse engineer our transmission and our steel framing."
Caleb leaned closer to the microphone, delivering the brutal reality of the twentieth century industrial war.
"They are going to try and copy us. And the only absolute defense against a copycat is to ensure that by the time they figure out how to build the Model T... we are already building the next iteration," Caleb explained. "We must always be one step ahead. When they match our current engine, we release the single cast block. When they figure out the casting, we give them a V8. We do not rest on our victories, Henry. We make our own products obsolete before the competition even has a chance to catch up."
The radio was silent for a long moment, save for the crackle of static. When Ford finally replied, his voice was filled with a profound, almost reverent awe.
"You are a terrifying man to have as a partner, Mr. Thorne," Ford breathed. "But you are absolutely right. I will secure the drafting room. We keep moving forward."
"Keep the lines moving, Henry. Thorne out."
Caleb killed the transmission, the glowing vacuum tubes slowly fading to a dull amber. He sat in the quiet study, his mind racing with the adrenaline of the industrial chess game. The cars were secure. The radios were secure. The airplanes were evolving.
He stood up, walking over to the large, ornate window of his study, pushing the heavy velvet drapes aside. He looked out over the sprawling, wealthy expanse of Saint Denis.
From his elevated vantage point, he could see the intricate, chaotic layout of the city. The beautiful, oak lined avenues of the Garden District gave way to the dense, cramped, smog choked tenements of the industrial sectors near the river. He saw the smoke rising from the factories, the packed dirt streets, and the open, sluggish gutters that ran alongside the cobblestones, carrying the filthy runoff of a booming metropolis directly into the Lannahechee River.
Caleb frowned, a sudden, sharp realization piercing his thoughts.
He was building a state of the art medical institute on the edge of town. He had recruited the finest surgeons and bacteriologists in the country to fight infection, pioneer sterilization, and conquer disease.
But as he looked at the open gutters of Saint Denis, his Past Life Memory slammed a brutal, undeniable historical fact into his conscious mind.
The greatest medical advancement in human history wasn't a surgical tool, and it wasn't a pill.
It was indoor plumbing.
It was the eradication of cholera, dysentery, and typhoid fever through the implementation of closed sewer systems, pressurized clean water, and the modern flush toilet.
In 1900, even in the wealthiest mansions, plumbing was often a crude, unreliable luxury. The majority of the city still relied on outhouses, chamber pots, and communal water pumps that were terrifyingly vulnerable to cross contamination.
Caleb's eyes widened as the sheer, staggering magnitude of the business opportunity unfolded before him.
He didn't need to be a master plumber. His Max Level Crafting skill and his modern memories gave him the conceptual framework. He knew about the U-bend trap, the simple, curved pipe design that permanently blocked noxious, toxic sewer gases from rising back up into a home.
He knew about the mechanics of a pressurized flush valve. He knew about the necessity of separating the clean municipal water intake from the waste outflow using heavy, cast-iron pipes instead of porous clay or rotting wood.
It was a blank canvas. An entirely unregulated, desperately needed industry waiting to be monopolized.
"Water," Caleb whispered to the empty room, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across his face.
If he could manufacture high grade porcelain fixtures, cast iron pipelines, and standardized brass fittings, he could pitch an entirely new infrastructure grid to the city. He could walk into Mayor Lemieux's office tomorrow and offer to tear up the filthy, disease ridden gutters of Saint Denis and replace them with a subterranean, sealed sanitary system entirely owned and operated by the Thorne Holding Company.
He wouldn't just be curing disease in his hospital, he would be eradicating it at the source, across the entire city. And he would be paid a fortune by the municipal government to do it.
Every home, every hotel, every factory would need to be retrofitted. And they would have to buy the pipes, the porcelain, and the valves directly from his foundries.
It was the ultimate monopoly. A monopoly on human necessity and hygiene. Caleb turned away from the window, his mind already calculating the required tonnage of cast iron and the logistics of establishing a porcelain kiln. He walked briskly back to his desk, grabbing a fresh stack of drafting paper and his fountain pen. The airplanes and the motorcars were going to change the world. But the Thorne Sanitary Works was going to own the earth beneath it.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -