Lord: Starting with Biological Modification Chapter 51 - 47: An Umbrella in Sunshine, Withdrawn in Rain

In the hall, no one spoke.

Bach’s corpulent body lay sprawled on the floor like a bled-out hog, completely motionless.

Outside the window, the white hell churned and bubbled sluggishly. The foul, fishy stench was so thick it felt tangible, pressing down on everyone’s nerves.

The assembled creditors exchanged glances, their eyes silently confirming their mutual thoughts.

They were the most cunning speculators in the world, the kind who would fight to offer you a magnificent silk umbrella on a sunny day, only to snatch it back faster than anyone else at the first drop of rain.

And now, in their eyes, the storm Caroline had unleashed had passed. The skies had cleared, and a rainbow forged from pure gold now arced across them.

The first to move was the representative from the Royal Capital Bank, Duncan.

The color returned to the man’s face with theatrical speed; he who claid to be a friend of Caroline’s father was now unnaturally flushed. He straightened his slightly wrinkled bow tie, strode up to Caroline, and gave a deep, humble bow.

"Caroline, my child... no, President Channing. I... I knew all along that you were destined for greatness. This... this is nothing short of a miracle! A grace bestowed upon you by the Lord himself!"

But Caroline didn’t respond. She simply stared at him in silence until her gaze made his skin crawl and his smile froze on his face.

Then, Caroline chuckled. The sound was soft, yet it carried clearly through the hall. "Uncle Duncan, you were just saying that Mr. Bach’s terms, while harsh, were..." She paused deliberately, mimicking his earlier tone, her eyes glinting with ridicule. "...Were what, now? I seem to have forgotten."

Duncan’s face drained of color in an instant, and cold sweat soaked his fine collar. He realized the woman before him was no longer the junior he knew—the one who needed his "guidance."

’She’s about to settle the accounts.’

Caroline’s gaze swept across the room. She addressed the pack of creditors—who, just monts ago, had been ready to pick her bones clean—in a tone dripping with condescension. "The Golden Sail Comrce Association’s credibility is forged from victory, not sustained by your pity."

"Freeman," she said without even turning her head, "distribute our ’New Cooperation Frawork.’ Whoever is willing to sign can stay. Whoever isn’t... the accounting office is downstairs. Settle the old ledgers. The door is over there. I won’t see you out."

Freeman imdiately stepped forward and, with an unprecedentedly hard-edged posture, announced to the creditors, "Please form a line. The President’s ti is precious."

The other senior executives of the association stood frozen on the periphery of the crowd. They watched Caroline at the center, a star orbited by adoring planets. Their own recent advice echoed in their minds: "cut our losses," "downsize," "give up."

How foolish and laughable those words sounded now.

...

「anwhile.」

In a mountainside villa overlooking Tarry Port.

Hector Este stood silently before an expensive brass telescope.

He had a crystal-clear view of everything happening in the port.

From the mont the Golden Sail Comrce Association’s people poured the alchemical agent into the water, to the entire harbor beginning to boil like a thick porridge.

He watched as the "Disaster Stars," his great hope, were squeezed from the ships’ hulls like hideous pustules, only to burst into clouds of debris in the water.

That wasn’t death. It was... an execution.

’Yes, an execution.’

Hector’s discerning eye could see it. The deaths were orderly, synchronized. They had all received the command to self-destruct at the exact sa mont.

His perfect, nearly complete masterpiece, "Silent Annihilation," had been defaced by an unseen hand, which had flung the crudest paint imaginable right across its center.

He slowly straightened, lowering the telescope.

His face showed no anger, not even the slightest flicker of emotion. He turned, walked to the center of the room, and stopped before a priceless statue of an ancient goddess.

He reached out, his fingertips gently caressing the goddess’s cold cheek as if soothing a lover.

"An anomaly..."

he whispered, the word a soft sigh.

"There is nothing I despise more in life than anomalies."

He opened a velvet-lined box and took out a set of... miniature tools for restoring ancient frescoes.

Then he walked back to his most prized oil painting, a depiction of a fleet caught in a storm.

He sorted through the tools, selecting the finest, most probe-like blade. He turned to the shadowed area of the canvas that symbolized his "Disaster Stars" and, with the focus of a master artist, began to ticulously pick and dig out the threads of the canvas, fiber by fiber.

SCRAPE... SCRAPE...

The sound was faint, yet utterly hair-raising.

He wasn’t venting. He was making a "correction." He was going to personally excise this "flaw," this contaminant born of an "anomaly," from his world, piece by tiny piece.

Just then, a commotion erupted outside. Several of his most trusted subordinates burst into the room, stumbling and tripping over one another in their haste, their panicked shouts a chaotic jumble.

"Sir! We’re finished! The market has collapsed! The Golden Sail Comrce Association announced that their shipping capacity is fully restored! The contracts in our hands are now just massive debts!"

"Those traitors from the Sea Wolf crew! They’re here to collect on the minimum guarantee contracts! We have no cargo for them to haul! Fulfilling the orders ourselves will just lose us more money... Our cash flow..."

"The designers... they all went back to them! They even took the blueprints for our ’Wave Breaker’ and handed them over to Caroline as a pledge of loyalty!"

The barrage of catastrophic news rained down like hailstones. Yet Hector seed not to hear a word. His back remained to them, his focus entirely on the small blade carving into his painting.

The faint, rhythmic scraping beca the only sound in the room, drowning out all the panic.

Hector didn’t stop until he had carved out the "flaw" completely, leaving a stark, gaping hole in the canvas.

He blew away the non-existent dust from the tip of the blade and asked in a soft, curious tone—like a child who had just found a new toy, "That country herbalist... what is his na?"

His n froze.

’The house is burning down around us, and you’re asking about that?’

Hector turned around slowly. There was no anger on his face. Instead, there was a morbid smile of pure excitent.

His eyes were terrifyingly bright. "I am very interested in him. He didn’t kill my ’Disaster Stars’ with brute force. He... taught them a new way to die. He didn’t play by my rules; he forced a new rule onto the board." He licked his dry lips, his smile a mask of pathological excitent. "I am very interested in him. He is no herbalist. He is the... one and only ’blemish’ on my perfect masterpiece."

Hector handed the small knife to one of his n, his voice as soft as a lover’s murmur.

"Go find him. Do not harm him. Invite him to be a guest at my gallery. I want... to dissect his ’inspiration’ with my own hands."