“Gentlemen, we will be written into textbooks. We will become figures every banker and merchant must know!”

Mr. Herbes, sitting at the head of the table, had lost all royal composure and elegance. He was just a drunk man.

Alcohol clouded his mind, but he didn’t care if others found him ridiculous—others were even more so. All he wanted was to indulge.

After making so much money, if this couldn’t make him enjoy himself, then being written into history books and textbooks surely could.

Though he felt dizzy, his spirit was unusually lively and excited. “Just think, gentlemen, how will future generations judge us?”

“Excellent bankers? Or successful bankers?”

His words ignited a frenzy in the room. Everyone watched him. Being positively recorded in history and textbooks was the ultimate goal for capitalists.

People cannot live forever, but a spirit, a theory, or glorious achievements can grant immortality. Capitalists yearn for this immortality, something every intelligent being desires.

“Lynch will be beneath us, a clown highlighting our greatness. Gentlemen, drink up this cup and let us leave our mark on history!”

Toasts rang out.

The already wild crowd raised their glasses and gulped down the alcohol. Some drank and vomited, some collapsed into their chairs only to return to their frenzy soon after.

Billions in profits—this might be the brightest moment in their lives. After this deal, some could retire immediately.

Many bankers’ money wasn’t truly theirs; most were poor

in that sense. The wealth they managed largely belonged to others.

Take Mr. Herbes: the richest among them, about half the money he handled belonged to a king who lived a humble, almost destitute life in cheap clothes.

His own money was only a fraction; most belonged to the king and ministers. Other bankers were the same, managing investors’ money.

If they hadn’t missed this chance—no, they couldn’t miss it—they had already persuaded Gephra’s finance minister to side with them. Even the emperor agreed. They had won.

They multiplied their wealth several times over using other people’s capital. Retirement was now an option.

The sum was so large that everyone was ecstatic.

Some who had vomited casually tossed some ten-fura notes onto their mess. Surely, the cleaners wouldn’t curse them but thank them for their generosity. Such is the value of money and the joy it brings.

The revelry continued. The drunk group, mostly bankers over forty-five, sought to keep partying.

They went to a famous nightclub, bringing along many women to drink with them.

It was a joyous occasion; their happiness had to be shared.

Some locals resented the noisy men but quickly dropped their complaints when told, Tonight’s tab is on Mr. Herbes. Some even sent respects via waiters—hoping to share a drink with him.

After a night of chaos, the next day came with the price of their madness. Herbes smiled bitterly as he struggled from tangled limbs. His body ached. His age no longer allowed youthful exploits; most of the time, he rested quietly. But last night, he felt like he was twenty again.

Now, regret set in.

“I shouldn’t have drunk!” he complained loudly, calling for his butler.

The butler entered with a barely concealed smile. Herbes grumbled, “You should’ve stopped me…” but trailed off, knowing no one could at that point.

“Fine, laugh if you want. Damn it, help me up—my back’s killing me!”

With help, Herbes stood, dressed, and sighed. “I have a headache.”

As he left, he muttered this. The harm alcohol causes the brain hadn’t yet been widely recognized, but soon people would know.

Outside, two well-dressed young men—agents for the women—stood respectfully, having witnessed Herbes’ wealth firsthand the night before. They bowed their heads in greeting.

“Don’t worry, I’m no unreasonable jerk. I may look bad, but I’m a man of integrity!” He pulled out a checkbook, wrote an amount and his name, then handed it over.

With their eyes following him, Herbes quickly departed.

“What’s my schedule today?” Herbes asked from the backseat, watching the street, feeling the country’s power.

“At two, you have a financial magazine interview, lasting 40 minutes to an hour; then a tea salon from 4:30 to 5, ending no later than five. You’ll rest after that, and in the evening, dine with the finance minister.”

The butler had the day mapped out clearly. Usually, Herbes would comment or adjust plans, expressing thoughts or attitudes on the day’s agenda.

This habit had lasted decades and was hard to break. But today, he said nothing, making the butler curious enough to glance back.

Herbes held the head of his ceremonial staff—a pure gold lion’s head about the size of a child’s fist, plain without gems.

Different countries had different styles. In the Federation, his staff head was an eagle with jewels—symbolizing freedom and adventure, colorful but dignified.

In monarchic Gephra, society was more serious; a plain gold lion suited local tastes better.

Herbes had many ceremonial staffs, each fitting different places.

Now, hands folded on the staff’s lion head, his eyes fixed outside the window, lost in thought.

The butler didn’t disturb and raised the glass partition between the driver and rear cabin, ensuring quiet.

Herbes was pondering one question: Is Lynch an idiot?

After the wild celebration and emotional release, he reflected. Was Lynch foolish?

Federation people praised Lynch endlessly, calling him a leader of the new generation. Everything about him seemed perfect.

Young, handsome, refined, friends with influential figures—perhaps overhyped, but was he a fool?

Could he be unaware of what he was doing?

If he knew, why act this way?

The question unnervingly crept into Herbes’ mind. Everything was going too smoothly, as if Lynch were a long-lost father who had just delivered a fortune.

But he knew that couldn’t be true—there had to be some hidden secret.

He firmly believed that every action ultimately served self-interest. No one was foolish enough to selflessly sacrifice themselves, and even if they were, such people wouldn’t become successful businessmen or capitalists.

Yet he couldn’t find any flaws. The only risk in Lynch’s contract with him and others was that Gephra had to allow Lynch to cash in his bonds before June, so Lynch wouldn’t have to pay any interest.

But Lynch couldn’t take the money lent by Mr. Herbes and the others. That money was borrowed, not exchanged. When the contract expired, he had to repay everyone, or they could seize the bonds and sue him.

Lynch’s risk was huge—but his profit? Almost invisible. This was abnormal. There had to be a problem, but Mr. Herbes couldn’t see it yet.

The sudden worry wiped the ease from his face. In the end, he convinced himself this wouldn’t cause issues beyond his plan.

After all, Gephra’s finance minister was already persuaded, and through him, even the emperor had been convinced.

If the emperor supported this, even if others wanted to change the outcome, it wouldn’t be easy.

Thinking this, he sighed—maybe he was just being paranoid.