"Miller, what is the land agent's offer for Nolan Steel Mill?"
Allen's gaze lingered on the factory sketch he had drawn himself.
"His initial offer was three thousand five hundred dollars, sir," Miller replied.
"But I told him we were cash buyers, and he relented, saying that if our sincerity was enough, three thousand dollars might be negotiable."
"Three thousand dollars…" Allen's finger lightly traced the tall walls on the sketch.
Allen had tallied all his liquid funds.
The down payments from Mr. Gable and other merchants, plus all previous profits, were piled on the workbench, forming a small mountain of money.
A total of two thousand four hundred and sixty-two dollars.
In 1860, this amount was enough for an ordinary family to live prosperously for ten years.
But for Allen's ambition, this money was merely a drop in the bucket.
"Oh, is it that expensive…?" Jones couldn't help but ask, "Sir, perhaps you could rent a larger warehouse first?"
"No," Allen replied without any hesitation.
"Renting means putting my lifeline into someone else's hands. The landlord can raise the rent at any time, and take it back at any time. My business cannot be built on sand. I must have this factory."
There was an undeniable decisiveness in his tone.
Miller and Jones exchanged glances, both seeing awe in the other's eyes.
This young man before them, though young in age, possessed a will like Napoleon's.
"Miller, inform the land agent that I, Allen Williams, wish to have a formal meeting tomorrow at ten AM with Mr. Nolan himself and his lawyer. The location will be at the agent's office."
"Yes, sir!"
The next morning, Allen appeared alone, precisely on time, at the land agent's office.
He did not bring Miller, because this battlefield was not on the streets, but at the negotiation table.
He needed to play the role not of a "hero" escorted by bodyguards, but of a calm, rational entrepreneur.
In the office's reception room, besides the agent, sat a man in his fifties, with graying hair and a haggard face.
He wore a well-tailored but slightly old suit, and his eyes were full of fatigue and a hint of unwillingness.
It seemed this was the owner of Nolan Steel Mill, old Mr. Nolan.
"Good day, Mr. Nolan," Allen bowed slightly, showing respect.
"Hmm," old Mr. Nolan grunted, turning his head away, clearly a little uncomfortable with this young man who was about to take away his life's work.
"I hear you want to buy my factory? A young man who makes canned goods, quite the big talker."
"Mr. Nolan, I deeply admire everything you once built."
Allen's tone was sincere, without any hint of mockery.
"Nolan Steel Mill was once the most dazzling pearl along this river. Its structure and design were full of power and foresight."
These words softened old Mr. Nolan's expression slightly.
No one loved that factory more than he did; Allen's words touched his heart.
Seeing this, the agent quickly interjected: "Mr. Williams truly appreciates your masterpiece, Mr. Nolan. Shall we… discuss the price? Mr. Williams, our offer of three thousand dollars is already very reasonable."
"Three thousand dollars?" Allen smiled and shook his head.
"What? Does Mr. Williams think it's not worth it?" The agent's face looked a bit unpleasant.
"No, it's certainly worth it."
Allen looked at old Mr. Nolan, his gaze frank.
"It's even worth five thousand, ten thousand dollars. Because it carries the lifelong efforts and dreams of an entrepreneur. Such a thing is priceless."
Old Mr. Nolan's body trembled slightly, and he stared at Allen in a daze.
"However," Allen's tone shifted, becoming businesslike and calm, "we are not talking about dreams now, but business. Mr. Nolan, with all due respect, you are currently facing bank Demand Notice, workers' unpaid wages, and countless sleepless nights. What you need is not an inflated offer, but a solution that can immediately resolve all your problems."
He took out a heavy cloth bag from his briefcase and placed it on the gleaming mahogany negotiation table.
The mouth of the cloth bag was open, revealing coins and banknotes piled high inside, gleaming with gold and silver.
"Here are one thousand five hundred dollars," Allen's voice was clear and strong.
"It's cash, not bank promissory notes, nor a lawyer's guarantee letter. It's cash that can be yours immediately, as long as you agree."
Old Mr. Nolan and the agent's breathing stopped for a moment.
Their gazes were firmly drawn to that bag of visually impactful cash.
"One thousand five hundred dollars?!" The agent reacted with disbelief.
"Mr. Williams, you are insulting us! This isn't even enough for the land price!"
"Please calm down, sir." Allen's gaze never left old Mr. Nolan, "I haven't finished yet."
He pushed the cloth bag forward.
"I admit, one thousand five hundred dollars is relatively low. But Mr. Nolan, please consider. If you reject my offer, what will you face? You will need to continue waiting for the next buyer. Perhaps a month, perhaps half a year.
And during this time, your debt interest will roll higher and higher. Your lawyer will continuously charge you consultation fees. Your creditors will eventually lose patience and force your factory onto the auction block in court."
Every word he spoke was like a small hammer, precisely tapping on old Mr. Nolan's most fragile nerves.
"A public auction, sounds good, right? Perhaps it could fetch three thousand, or even four thousand dollars, but the auction house will take a commission, the court will charge handling fees, and your lawyer will take his 'hard-earned money.' In the end, how much money will truly end up in your pocket to solve your urgent problems? Will it be even less than this one thousand five hundred dollars right in front of you?"
Old Mr. Nolan's face was ashen.
He was a businessman; he certainly understood this calculation. What Allen said was the naked truth.
"What I'm giving you is not just one thousand five hundred dollars."
Allen's voice slowed, carrying a hint of persuasion.
"What I'm giving you is liberation. Sign this contract right now, and you can take this money, walk out of this office, pay off your most troublesome debts, and start a new life. You will no longer be woken by nightmares in the middle of the night, no longer have to face the contemptuous gazes of those creditors."
The reception room was dead silent.
The agent tried to argue something, but old Mr. Nolan raised a hand to stop him.
This former steel magnate, now like an aging lion, looked at the bag of money on the table, then out the window, his eyes filled with struggle.
Allen knew the time was ripe.
He decided to add the final straw that would break the camel's back.
"Mr. Nolan," he stood up and bowed slightly to old Mr. Nolan again.
"I know that factory is like your child. I also cannot bear to see a great name forgotten. I promise you here and now that after I take over the factory, a plaque will forever hang above the main factory building's gate."
"What plaque?" Old Mr. Nolan asked, surprised, his voice hoarse.
"Nolan Hall."
Allen said, word for word, "I want everyone who works in my factory to know that the great founder of this building is you, Mr. Nolan. Your name will be reborn with this factory. Your efforts will become the cornerstone of a new empire's rise."
These words completely shattered old Mr. Nolan's last psychological defense.
He could care less if the money was a bit less.
But dignity and reputation were his last pride as an entrepreneur.
What Allen gave him was not just money, but the right to preserve that pride.
"Alright…"
Old Mr. Nolan closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, as if expelling half a lifetime of fatigue.
"Mr. Williams, two thousand dollars, and it's yours."
He opened his eyes and stated a number.
This was the last five hundred dollars an old entrepreneur fought for, for his dignity.
"Deal!"
Allen didn't hesitate for a moment, immediately took out a slightly smaller money bag from his briefcase, and placed it on the table.
"Here are five hundred dollars. I had already prepared them for you."
At this moment, even the shrewd land agent looked at Allen with an expression as if he were seeing a monster.
This young man not only accurately calculated the price but even anticipated the other party's psychological bottom line and final counter-offer.
This was no longer a negotiation; it was a thorough psychological conquest.
The contract was signed quickly.
As old Mr. Nolan walked out of the office, crestfallen, with the two thousand dollars in cash, his figure appeared incredibly desolate.
Allen, holding the deed document representing ownership of the factory, felt no joy of victory in his heart.
He knew he had "killed" a predecessor using the most brutal commercial principles.
But this, indeed, was the true face of capital.
He walked out of the office and looked up at the New York sky.
The foundation had been laid.
Next, on this foundation, he would build his first palace with steel, steam, and the sweat of countless people.