War does not end the moment victory is declared.
It only truly ends when the enemy has completely lost the ability and will to resist.
By the third week of the two-front strangulation war launched by Williams, Silas Croft's business life had come to an end.
This morning, Mr. Gable once again came to the office of Williams Food Company.
He was not as worried as he had been on previous occasions; instead, he wore an expression of schadenfreude, as if watching a good show.
"Williams, I just came from Five Points," he said excitedly as soon as he entered, "My goodness, you should really go see that scene for yourself!"
"Oh?" Allen, who was reviewing last week's sales data compiled by Catherine, looked up at the sound. "Mr. Croft, any new developments?"
"He's finished. Completely, utterly finished," Mr. Gable described vividly.
"Early this morning, his last batch of inventory sold out. He pushed a broken cart to Finn's workshop, intending to get a new batch of iron cans. But Finn, that old fox, just as you taught him, spread his hands and told him that he had taken a big order from Philadelphia, and his production capacity for the next three months was already fully booked!"
"I imagine Mr. Croft's expression must have been quite something," Allen smiled.
"More than just something! He was stunned on the spot, standing in the street like a puppet whose soul had been extracted."
Mr. Gable imitated the scene at the time.
"He couldn't believe it, and then came the anger. He stormed into Finn's workshop, smashed his things around, and incessantly cursed that damned 'Iron Man Stew' that came out of nowhere, saying that bastard company used schemes to cut off his supply!"
The few people in the office all laughed.
Croft would never know who his true enemy was until his death.
"What happened then?" Catherine asked curiously.
"Then?" Mr. Gable slapped his thigh. "When he couldn't smash anything more, he sat at the entrance of Finn's workshop and wailed! Like a three-year-old child! After crying, he took the last few coins he had and went to a tavern to drown his sorrows. When I came over, he was already passed out from drinking, thrown out of the tavern, and was lying on the side of the road like a dead dog."
A competitor who once tried to challenge the market order thus exited the stage in the most pathetic and miserable way.
The smile on Allen's face, however, slowly faded.
He did not feel any sense of triumph from this description.
"Catherine," he suddenly spoke, his tone devoid of emotion, "Go find him."
"Me? Go find him?" Catherine was stunned.
"Yes." Allen's instructions were clear and calm. "Go to the tavern he frequents, or find him on the street. Then propose an acquisition plan to him."
"Acquisition?" This time, even Mr. Gable was puzzled.
"Williams, he has nothing left! A broken workshop, a pile of scrap metal, what's worth acquiring?"
"He still has three things that are very useful to us," Allen held out three fingers.
"First, his production equipment, which, though crude, is still usable. Buying it back, disassembling it for research, or simply selling it as scrap iron, is better than leaving it in his hands for someone else to pick up cheaply."
"Second, his customer list, which, though not long, is very real. These people are the lowest class in New York, the most price-sensitive customers. I need to know who they are and where they are. These people, in the future, will all be loyal users of 'Williams Red Label'."
"Third, and most importantly," a cold glint flashed in Allen's eyes, "I want to buy him out as a person. I want him to sign a legally binding agreement, ensuring that he, and his immediate family, will never engage in any industry related to food processing and sales within New York State for the next twenty years."
These words seemed to drop the temperature in the office by several degrees.
Mr. Gable looked at Allen, and for the first time, he felt a chilling sensation, almost fear, emanating from the young man.
Allen not only wanted to defeat his opponent; he wanted to uproot him, burn him to ashes, and then sprinkle a layer of salt over him, ensuring he would never be reborn. This was a thorough, root-and-branch commercial annihilation.
"How much money should I give him?" Catherine asked. Her voice was also a bit dry.
"Two hundred dollars. Cash," Allen replied. "Tell him it's from an anonymous investor who saw his 'potential'. This money is enough for him to pay off all his debts, then buy a train ticket to the West and start a new life. This is his only, and last, chance. He will accept it."
Catherine didn't ask another question. She picked up her briefcase and calmly walked out. She knew this was the "dirty work" she, as a company manager, had to carry out.
That afternoon, Catherine returned. In her hand, she held a signed agreement with Croft's scribbled signature, and a set of workshop keys.
"He didn't hesitate at all, sir," Catherine reported. "When I placed the two hundred dollars cash in front of him, he cried. He said it was an angel sent by God to save him."
"Very good." Allen locked the agreement in the safe. "Jones, take some men to clean up that workshop. Keep the usable equipment; dispose of the unusable as scrap metal. Miller, send someone to confirm if Mr. Croft really boarded the westbound train."
After dealing with Croft's "legacy," Allen issued another order.
He kept Mr. Gable and Catherine in the office.
"Mr. Gable, Catherine," Allen's tone was solemn. "Now, the trouble with Croft has been resolved. The 'ghost' used to fight him should also disappear."
"You mean… 'Iron Man Stew'?" Mr. Gable asked.
"Yes." Allen nodded. "Starting tomorrow, we will officially cease the production and sale of 'Iron Man Stew'. I will send notices to all retailers, saying that the 'outside company' has gone out of business due to poor management."
"This… this is too bad, isn't it?" Mr. Gable couldn't help but say, "'iron man' doesn't make money, but sales are very good! We're just giving up on it?"
"A brand, if it's associated with words like 'cheap' and 'low quality' from its very inception, will never have a chance to turn itself around," Allen explained. "Its historical mission has been completed. Now, it's time for our protagonist to make a re-entry."
He looked at Catherine: "I need you to draft a letter. A letter in my personal name, addressed to all consumers who have ever purchased Croft's canned goods or 'Iron Man Stew'."
"The general content of the letter is: 'Dear Customer, We regret to learn that you may have recently purchased some canned food not produced by Williams Company. We respect your choice, but we are more concerned about your health. To allow you and your family to personally experience what truly safe and delicious canned food is like, we sincerely invite you, with this letter, to redeem two cans of our proud 'Williams Standard Red Label' beef stew for free at any authorized Williams retail store.' "
"We not only need to reclaim the market," a never-before-seen light flickered in Allen's eyes.
"We also need to win people's hearts in the most generous and magnanimous way. I want every citizen of New York City to understand that the name 'Williams' represents not just deliciousness, but also responsibility and assurance."
"Sir…"
Catherine looked at Allen, her heart already completely filled with a complex emotion mixed with admiration, reverence, and even a hint of awe.
"Go do it." Allen waved his hand. "This war should end. After cleaning up the battlefield, we have a broader world to conquer."
When Allen was the only one left in the office, he walked to the window and looked at the factory operating at full capacity.
Croft was just a small stumbling block on his path forward.
Clearing him away, Allen felt no ripple in his heart.
He knew that countless "Crofts" would appear in the future.
And what he had to do was continuously fortify his walls, sharpen his weapons, until his enterprise became like a mountain, impregnable, allowing all latecomers to only look up, unable to shake it.