"Mr. Cape, there's one thing I still don't quite understand," Harmonie said calmly. "Why are your employees willing to endure such an unreasonable atmosphere of competition?"
Cape chuckled softly, eyes glinting behind the lenses of his glasses.
"When survival itself becomes a person's top priority, Miss Harmonie, most will eventually submit."
Her expression hardened slightly. "Could it be that your employees are…"
"Shh." Cape raised a finger to his lips, smiling with mock secrecy. "That's a trade secret. But—since mutual understanding is the foundation of trust between partners—I'll give you a hint. In today's world, what kind of labor could possibly be cheaper than the infected?"
He gave a light shrug. "Of course, they only make up a small portion of our workforce. Some jobs simply aren't suitable for the infected, after all."
"…Your sincerity," Harmonie replied after a pause, "has been duly noted by Dublinn."
"Then, shall we say—cooperation will be pleasant?"
"…Pleasant indeed."
---
"Oh~ Mr. Herman! It's been ages! You look as sturdy as ever."
Fresh off his aircraft, Cape Reiss greeted the well-dressed, pink-haired man with his usual careless cheer. The contrast between them couldn't be sharper—Cape wore a cheap—no, "cost-effective"—T-shirt from one of his own subsidiary brands.
"Mr. Cape, you haven't changed a bit. Still as… informal as ever," Herman said, half admiring, half exasperated.
As president, chairman, and major shareholder of an international conglomerate, Cape's carefree demeanor was something Herman could never quite imitate.
In high society, appearance was everything—clothing, manners, composure, bearing. Those were the metrics by which people were judged.
But Cape? He didn't need to care what others thought.
As the master of the Cape Group, few nobles or magnates were foolish enough to mock him.
After all—who in their right mind would pick a fight with a walking gold mine?
"Now then, Mr. Herman," Cape said, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Might I ask what's so urgent that you had to call me here?"
He had flown to Siesta after receiving Herman's letter—one filled with just enough intrigue to make the ever-profitable Cape take personal interest.
"…I want to discuss the sale of obsidian," Herman said gravely.
Cape leaned back lazily. "Heh… I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Herman. The Cape Group's ventures in Siesta deal exclusively in tourism."
"No need to feign ignorance," Herman replied coolly. "I have no intention of condemning you. As for how you've been manipulating the market—creating the illusion of massive acquisitions, inflating prices, and then selling to foreign nobles—I have no objection."
Cape chuckled. "The more something is restricted, the more people crave it. Surely, Mr. Herman, a man like you understands that truth."
He crossed one leg over the other, watching calmly as Herman attempted to pressure him. His gaze briefly shifted to the black-haired, golden-eyed Feline woman standing behind Herman.
"Besides," Cape continued smoothly, "it was your Siestan officials who first approached the Cape Group to sell obsidian. If your own subordinates failed to manage things properly, is that really something you should blame your guest for?"
He slid a prepared document across the table toward Herman.
Of course Cape understood exactly what Herman was after.
The Cape Group's meteoric rise wasn't luck—it was the result of a certain ancient intelligence guiding it from within.
Black Snake's insight, cunning, and the unique Originium Art of this body—Subjective Foresight—had built the foundation of his empire.
To the world, Cape Reiss was a self-made eccentric—a mad genius who struck gold by luck.
But in truth, he was something else entirely: the living manifestation of Black Snake's will.
The rise of capital had drawn the attention of that undying being.
Columbia's technological boom owed much to capitalism—and for an immortal who thrived on evolution, the world of industry and commerce was irresistible.
Thus, he crafted this vessel—let it wander the streets as a beggar for over a decade—before launching it into success.
Over time, the original man, once driven insane by his own Originium Art, was completely consumed.
In his place now stood a being of vast experience and terrifying adaptability.
Even if Subjective Foresight had once shattered that poor man's mind with countless tangled visions of possible futures…
It had also created something far more dangerous.
For Black Snake, who could operate multiple bodies simultaneously across different threads of consciousness, such complexity was still within the limits of control.
The Originium Art of Subjective Foresight Granted Cape fleeting glimpses of the future.
However, because those futures were numerous and parallel—branching endlessly like reflections in a shattered mirror—he could only rely on subjective inference to determine which possibilities were true. By continually adjusting his own actions, he could gently push reality toward the outcome most favorable to him.
The original vagabond who once possessed this body had gone mad precisely because of that.
He could not withstand the torrent of information—unable to distinguish between future and present—until his mind finally collapsed into chaos.
But when one sees the future… is that still truly the future?
If it is, then to a curious mind, the ability to see it is nothing less than a curse—
a curse that traps one forever in the illusion of what may be, never again allowing them to live in what is.
Yet Black Snake was different from that unfortunate soul.
He cared nothing for the phantoms of possibility.
He lived in the present—
and if possible, he intended to live there forever.
He used foresight not to obsess over what would come, but to shape the now—to ensure every thread of the future bent in his favor.
But one thing he would never do… was peer into the future after seeing the future.
An infinite loop of mirrors reflecting mirrors—
Black Snake found such recursion tedious.
"The market," Cape said with an easy smile, "has always rewarded those with foresight most generously, Mr. Herman."
Herman's expression darkened.
"Now then," Cape continued lightly, "why don't we be honest with each other? Tell your killer-bodyguard to take a step back. Her presence is… unsettling."
Herman raised a hand. The black-haired, golden-eyed Feline behind him obeyed, stepping back—
just one step, no more. That was as much concession as Herman was willing to give.
"…What must I offer," Herman asked quietly, "to ensure that the Cape Group does not interfere with Siesta's internal affairs?"
Lately, the Cape Group had nearly monopolized Siesta's tourism industry.
Right beside the city's political headquarters stood a massive purple statue of a smiling cat clutching gold coins and piles of paper money from countless nations—a symbol of Cape's growing reach.
Nearly half of Siesta's locals now worked under the Cape Group's banner.
For Herman—who dreamed of transforming Siesta into a mobile city—this was disastrous.
Such a corporation, deeply entwined with the city's people, possessed the influence to halt any policy that might threaten its profits.
And during the long reconstruction period, tourism would inevitably collapse.
That alone ensured Cape's opposition.
Herman understood: if he wanted to protect his vision, he would have to take a dangerous gamble.
"Mr. Cape," he said slowly, "you once told me—the more you restrict something, the more it drives people mad. If the mining of obsidian were to cease entirely—if it became truly extinct—would that not make it infinitely more valuable to the Cape Group, who already holds most of the world's supply?"
Cape's smile faded. His eyes narrowed, sharp and gleaming with calculation.
"Oh~? And what exactly are you suggesting, Mr. Herman?"
"...It seems," Herman replied, voice low and deliberate, "that Siesta's volcano has been rather… unstable, as of late."