Marvel 1919 : Rise of an Empire

At noon, when the market closed, George invited Economics and Paul to eat out. As they stepped into a restaurant across from the Wall Street financial department, a loud explosion erupted.

The restaurant's glass windows shattered. Screams rang out as patrons dove for cover, dodging shards of crystal falling from the ceiling.

Smoke and dust quickly engulfed the area, reducing visibility.

Instinctively, George reacted and pulled the two people next to him under the table.

Just as he turned his head, he noticed a row of cars parked across the street. Three suddenly accelerated and sped away.

This was highly unusual. In the face of an explosion, most would try to take cover, not drive toward the chaos.

Even stranger, George observed that three other vehicles immediately took the place of the ones that had just left. The transition was seamless, maintaining the illusion that nothing had changed.

The glass had only fallen for a moment, but already many inside the restaurant were injured.

George pulled his companions out from under the table just in time to see two figures dart from the last vehicle that had recently stopped. They quickly vanished into the smoke.

George's enhanced vision allowed him to see this; otherwise, the thick dust would have obscured everything.

He instructed the two to help care for the wounded sprawled across the floor.

It took George repeating himself twice before Paul and the other man snapped out of their daze.

While they attended to the injured, George slipped into the restaurant's restroom.

Spotting a window, he created a clone of himself.

The clone returned to help the wounded, while George's true form transformed into a sparrow and flew out the window.

Once airborne, he ascended to get a clearer view.

Above the haze, George spotted one of the earlier vehicles preparing to turn.

He saw that the cars were three enclosed vans, speeding away. They were modified escort vehicles.

What puzzled him was why they hadn't stopped at the nearby police station. Instead, they kept driving.

The entire situation—the explosion and the vehicle swap—reeked of deception.

George recognized it immediately as a classic case of "shedding the cicada's shell."

Given the effort, he guessed there was something valuable in the middle vehicle.

His curiosity piqued, George followed the three vans as they wound down a secluded road.

Eventually, they stopped at an abandoned construction site and drove into a warehouse.

From above, George watched as several men exited the vans. After securing the warehouse door, they left the site in two waiting vehicles.

Once they were gone, George entered the warehouse through a ventilation shaft.

Confirming that it was empty, he returned to his true form.

Without wasting time, he stored all three vehicles in his space and flew back to the restaurant.

He seamlessly switched back with his clone and resumed helping the injured.

By then, the police had arrived. Instead of entering, they blocked all intersections.

As the dust began to settle, someone called out, "Hey, Officer! We need help here!"

The scene was chaotic, cries of pain filling the air.

A police officer at the intersection shouted back, "Everyone, stay where you are! Rescue teams are on the way. Please wait in place."

Soon, armed officers poured in.

Medical teams began evacuating the wounded, while the uninjured—including George and his companions—were gathered and loaded into vehicles.

Being near the intersection, George's group left early and was taken to the police station.

With limited manpower, the police conducted interviews one by one.

George was among the first questioned.

By then, he'd changed out of his bloodstained clothes. Though a bit disheveled, his refined demeanor still stood out.

The female officer questioning him softened her tone.

"Hello, may I have your name?"

"George Orwell."

"Age?"

"Sixteen."

"Occupation?"

"Student. I also run a business and have published a book—so, writer as well."

"Which school do you attend? What kind of business do you run? What book have you written?"

"..."

This was no ordinary incident. It had happened in the heart of Wall Street—the U.S. financial epicenter.

A half-day trading halt alone could result in immeasurable financial loss.

To avoid complications, George decided to cooperate.

He answered truthfully, disclosing only what was necessary.

The questions were routine. After reviewing and signing the statement, he was told not to leave New York for a week unless necessary.

Fortunately, George's car was parked far enough away to remain accessible.

As they got in, Paul said, "Boss, thank you for saving me back there."

The agent echoed the sentiment.

"It was nothing," George replied. "I'm just glad you're both okay."

"Just barely," the agent said, still shaken. "The man in front of us got hit by a chandelier. His face was covered in blood. I don't know if he survived."

"Yeah..."

"I'll have the driver take you both home. Get some rest this afternoon."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Thank you, Mr. Orwell."

Back home, George asked the driver to drop off Paul, then ordered lunch before retreating to his room to shower.

His blood-soaked clothes were tossed out.

After changing and eating downstairs, he returned to his study.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, George sat down and focused on the escort vehicles he'd stored.

Because he hadn't used his space in a while, it felt more energized.

He concentrated on the vans. The doors opened in his mind's eye, revealing compartments filled with gold bricks.

With a thought, he summoned one.

It bore markings: Federal Reserve reserve gold, each brick weighing 12.5 kilograms.

He estimated a total of 30 tons of gold.

In 1920, gold was worth about \$30 per ounce.

Thirty tons would equal approximately \$31.7 million.

Gold prices fluctuated, but not drastically.

Excitement coursed through George. If these three vans held such wealth, what about the others still on the road?

Had he grabbed the sesame seed while letting the watermelon roll away?

Suddenly, the 30 tons didn't feel as satisfying.

Wait—he had spatial storage. Transporting heavy bricks was effortless for him.

Still, he needed confirmation.

He opened the study window, left a clone behind, and transformed into a sparrow.

Flying back to where he had parked that morning, George saw the vans were gone.

Disappointed, he noticed identical black cargo vans emerging from an underground lot.

He followed their origin and discovered a massive facility below.

Men in blue uniforms transferred gold between vehicles.

One empty van would leave, and another would take its place.

But how to get in? Transform into a mouse?

Mice in a gold storage site? Unlikely.

Even as a sparrow, flying inside felt risky.

This was Wall Street, not Wakanda. A stray bullet could end him—or worse, expose him.

While perched on a nearby rooftop, a man in a suit stepped out. He was a superior among the uniformed workers.

People greeted him respectfully; he acknowledged them with nods.

He paced briefly, then pulled out a cigarette.

Failing to light it amid traffic, he moved toward a shaded corner.

George saw his chance.

He swooped behind the man and knocked him unconscious.

George hit him hard enough to ensure hours of sleep.

He tied and gagged him, dragged him under a nearby car, and assumed his identity.

He lit the man's cigarette, playing the part.

When another suited man approached, he said, "John, you're out smoking again?

You know something big happened today. The Captain made us responsible for internal transport. If we screw up again, it'll be more than just sitting on the sidelines."

George nodded, extinguished the cigarette, and pocketed it. No trash can nearby—and it was evidence, after all.

He followed the man inside.

Without prompting, the man began revealing information.

They were part of the Federal Reserve's special security team, handling \$900 million worth of gold today.

An error had triggered the explosion.

Having fallen out of favor with the Captain, they were relegated to warehouse duty, narrowly escaping the blast.

Now, only the two of them remained here.

They walked through three secure doors and entered a large hall filled with short shelves stacked with gold.

The man observed the workers.

"Hmm, almost done. We'll leave it here tonight, count and weigh it tomorrow, and then store it properly."

He stretched while George took in the staggering sight.

Workers moved the most precious bricks in the world—gold.