The Tycoon's Odyssey

Pratap's gaze hardened. "Then we won't give him any choice. We'll hit him with everything we have. Naval warships, aircraft—an all-out assault. If it comes to it, we'll make Nicobar a graveyard. No mercy, no hesitation."

The ministers around the table fell silent, their faces lined with a mixture of dread and resolve. Rajesh broke the silence, his tone icy. "He'll go down in history all right. He'll be remembered for his brilliance, yes, but also for his arrogance. He'll fall with every piece of technology he's crafted, every plan he's set in motion, buried under the weight of his hubris."

Pratap nodded sharply. "And when it's over and the dust has settled, we'll move in to recover whatever's left—his research, his inventions… we will comb through the ruins and see if any of it can be salvaged for our use. His genius will serve us, one way or the other."

Rajesh scanned the room, ensuring everyone was aligned, "Do we have everyone's support for this."

When he said this, he looked at the ones sitting in opposition. After a few rounds of debate, everyone agreed to the proposal.

"Then we proceed," Rajesh declared, his voice steady and decisive. "Make the arrangements. From this moment forward, Evan and his legacy are nothing more than a chapter in history. One that we will write ourselves."

With that, the meeting came to an end. They rose, bound by a shared purpose, fully aware that they were about to unleash—a nation's entire might focused on a single man.

_____

The Federation was a group of a bygone age, an unseen hand pulling strings from the shadows and guiding the world. Forged centuries ago, it was the creation of the most powerful families in the world—an alliance born not out of unity, but necessity.

For generations, these families pursued their own ambitions, hoarded wealth, guarded secrets, and clashed repeatedly to achieve supremacy. But even the titans needed boundaries. Without regulation, the chaos of their constant conflict risked collapsing the very world they sought to dominate. So, to prevent mutual destruction, they formed the Federation: a secret council to resolve disputes before they spiraled out of control.

The Federation bore no official name, no emblem, and no public acknowledgement of its existence, yet its influence spanned every corner of the globe.

Though it was meant to be a collective, over time, one family had risen above the rest… and emerged as its de facto leader: the Thompsons. With wealth that could rival numerous nations and a vast network of influence embedded in every major economy, the Thompsons quietly steered the Federation, ensuring their dominance remained unchallenged.

The Federation served many roles, but at its heart, it was a gatekeeper. It determined who could rise to power and who must fall. No leader, no corporation, and no revolutionary could emerge without its tacit approval. Those who dared to bypass its authority or challenge its decrees were swiftly and decisively dealt with. The methods varied, but the result was always the same—utter ruin.

In business, entire conglomerates would collapse overnight under the weight of lawsuits, sanctions, and market crashes, all meticulously orchestrated by the Federation's unseen hand. On a personal level, reputations were shredded by carefully planted scandals, and alliances would crumble as once-loyal friends and allies would abandon the ship, driven by fear. For the most stubborn rebels, there were darker measures—disappearances, accidents, and whispered rumors that erased them from even history.

Even nations were not immune. The Federation manipulated economies as easily as a puppeteer, controlling currencies, stock markets, and trade agreements to suit its agenda. Wars could be started or stopped with a single decision in their secret chambers.

Natural disasters and global crises were often opportunities to tighten their grip, ensuring that the world would always remain dependent on their oversight.

To the unknowing masses, the Federation was the stuff of myths, a shadowy conspiracy whispered about in hushed tones. But to those within its reach, it was absolute. It wasn't just a council; it was the invisible architect of the world order, holding together a fragile peace through fear, influence, and unparalleled power. For those who dared to defy it, the consequences they faced were swift, brutal, and final.

Shrouded in the mystery of this shadow empire, the Thompson dynasty had perfected the art of discretion. They moved unseen, their power threading through the global economy like an invisible web. At the helm of this dynasty sat Walter Thompson. A man whose mere presence alone could silence a room, his reputation as chilling as the power he wielded.

_____

The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of an ancient chandelier. The air hung heavy, saturated with the faint aroma of cigar smoke and aged wood.

The walls bore carvings of cryptic symbols and intricate patterns that seemed to writhe and twist under the faint glow, as if alive. In the center of the room sat Walter, reclined in a high-backed chair of dark leather.

His sharp, pale features were illuminated by the ember of his cigar, casting shadows across his face.

The only sound was the pattering of rain against the tall, narrow windows, a quiet accompaniment to his thoughts as he studied a report in his hand. The chaos in Indra had caught his attention, an unsettling ripple in the grand design he and his family had maintained for generations.

"Things have been quite chaotic, haven't they?" Walter's voice was smooth but cold, his words slicing through the silence like a blade. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, the curl of it drifting upward into the gloom.

Across from him, his secretary stood stiffly, his head bowed and hands trembling slightly, betraying the fear that Walter's presence inevitably inspired.

"Why has this situation spiraled out of control?" Walter asked, his tone deceptively calm but tinged with cruel amusement.

"It's because… it's because…" the secretary stammered, his voice cracking under Walter's piercing gaze.

Walter's lips curled into a mirthless smile, his eyes narrowing. "I detest stuttering, you know. It implies a lack of clarity. Speak."

"It's due to the war between Rajput and Evan, sir," the secretary managed to say at last while beads of sweat formed on his brow.

Walter paused, his expression inscrutable. Then, he let out a low chuckle devoid of any warmth. "Evan… Who is this little man who has managed to make the great Rajputs cry?" He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze enough to make the secretary flinch.

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