Chapter 3: First Steps into Finance
The five years following the "BASF Prophecy," as Charles Sterling secretly called it, had transformed the family's reality. The Great War had been a crucible, melting down old European orders and forging new American fortunes. For the House of Sterling, it had been an ascension. They were no longer merely wealthy; they occupied the rarified stratum of high finance where their movements could create ripples in the market. Their brownstone had been sold in favor of a sprawling Fifth Avenue mansion, a veritable palace of limestone and marble that stood as a monument to their newfound status.
Charles Sterling was now a titan of industry, his name whispered with a mixture of awe and suspicion on Wall Street. He was known as a reclusive genius, an investor with an almost supernatural ability to foresee market shifts. In reality, he was a glorified proxy, the public face and legal hand of an operation directed from the sanctum of his own home. The true command center was the mansion's library, a two-story cathedral of knowledge that had become the exclusive domain of his son.
By 1920, at the age of ten, Arthur Sterling had perfected the persona required for his survival and ascent. To the outside world, he was a quiet, painfully shy prodigy. An ethereal boy with unnervingly intelligent eyes who spent his days devouring books far beyond his years. He was an object of curiosity at the exclusive social gatherings his parents frequented, a polite but distant child who spoke with the vocabulary of a Rhodes Scholar and the emotional affect of a statue. His tutors came and went, leaving with the same bewildered conclusion: the boy did not need to be taught, merely guided to the correct section of the library.
This carefully constructed façade was a shield. Behind it, Arthur was a king surveying his domain. His mind, augmented by the relentless processing power of the Great Sage, was a whirlwind of activity. While his peers were grappling with long division and the geography of the United States, Arthur was running complex predictive models on global supply chains and geopolitical tensions.
His new reality was comfortable, but he viewed it with the cold detachment of a master strategist. The luxury was a tool, the wealth a weapon, and his father a willing, obedient subordinate. The awe in Charles's eyes had long since replaced any semblance of conventional paternal authority. He treated his ten-year-old son with the deference an ancient priest would show his oracle.
The post-war world was drunk on optimism. The roaring engine of American industry, retooled for peace, was churning out automobiles, radios, and consumer goods at an unprecedented rate. The stock market soared on a wave of euphoria. Men were making fortunes overnight. It was an era of boundless confidence, a sentiment Arthur found both contemptible and exquisitely useful.
Great Sage, Arthur commanded one afternoon, his eyes scanning the ticker tape that now spooled endlessly in a quiet corner of the library. Run a final analysis on the post-war economic boom. Compare current market valuations against industrial output, consumer credit expansion, and agricultural commodity prices.
«Analysis complete,» the familiar, sterile voice replied in his mind. «Conclusion: The current market is a speculative bubble. Industrial production is outstripping consumer demand, which is artificially inflated by untenable levels of credit. The agricultural sector is on the verge of collapse due to the cessation of wartime demand from Europe and a massive surplus. A severe deflationary recession is imminent. Projected timeframe: within six months.»
The Great Sage confirmed what his own knowledge of history already told him. The brief but brutal Depression of 1920-1921 was approaching. A forgotten dip between the Great War and the Roaring Twenties, it was a perfect, contained storm—an opportunity to test his ability to manipulate the market on a grand scale.
He sent for his father. He didn't call for him or ask a servant. He pressed a small, discreet button on the side of the enormous mahogany desk that had been built to his specifications. A quiet buzz would sound in Charles's private office, the summons he never ignored.
Minutes later, Charles entered the library, closing the heavy oak doors behind him. He looked at his son, who was seated in a custom-built leather chair, his feet barely touching the floor. Before him, spread across the desk, were financial reports, market analyses, and telegraph dispatches. It was a scene Charles had become accustomed to, yet it never lost its profound strangeness.
"Arthur," he said, his voice a respectful baritone. "You summoned me."
"It is time," Arthur said, his voice the clear, high tenor of a child, yet carrying a chilling weight of command. He gestured to a chair opposite the desk. "Sit. We have much to do."
Charles complied, sitting on the edge of the seat like an employee at a performance review.
"The prevailing sentiment on Wall Street is one of unbridled optimism," Arthur began, his fingertips steepled before him. "They believe the boom is permanent. They are fools. We are about to witness a catastrophic market correction."
Charles nodded slowly. "I've seen the signs you pointed out. The reports from our agricultural contacts are dire."
"They see the symptoms, but they misdiagnose the disease," Arthur countered. "They believe it will be a minor downturn. They are wrong. It will be a collapse. And we will not be its victims. We will be its beneficiaries. You will give the following orders to our brokers, effective immediately."
For the next hour, Arthur laid out his strategy. It was bold, ruthless, and flew in the face of every conventional piece of financial wisdom.
First, the Great Liquidation. "You will begin the systematic liquidation of eighty percent of our equity portfolio," Arthur instructed. "Focus on industrial manufacturing, automotive companies, and consumer goods. The process must be gradual, completed within two months to avoid spooking the market with a single large sell-off."
Charles paled. This meant selling the very stocks that had been soaring, the engines of the post-war boom. "Arthur, that is the core of our portfolio. It's…"
"A house of cards built on a foundation of sand," Arthur finished, his eyes cold. "It will be worthless within the year. Execute the order."
Charles swallowed hard and nodded.
Second, the Great Short. "You will use our network of shell corporations—the ones registered in Delaware and Zurich—to begin aggressively short-selling the market. I want massive positions against the agricultural sector, particularly cotton and wheat futures. I also want you to short the weaker automotive companies, the ones running on the highest debt-to-asset ratios. The Great Sage has compiled a priority list." He slid a neatly typed sheet of paper across the desk.
This was the most dangerous part of the plan. It was one thing to get out of the market. It was another thing entirely to bet on its ruin. If he was wrong, the losses would be catastrophic.
Third, the Haven. "All liquidated capital," Arthur concluded, "will be transferred into two assets: United States Treasury bonds for liquidity, and physical gold bullion. I have already arranged for the purchase and secure transport of the gold. It will be stored in private, audited vaults in New York and, for political diversification, Zurich. In a deflationary environment, cash is king. Gold is God."
Charles stared at his ten-year-old son, a storm of emotions warring within him. He was a man who had built his career on shrewd, if conventional, finance. The plan Arthur had laid out was financial heresy. It was a declaration of war against the entire American economy.
"If you are wrong, Arthur," Charles whispered, the words catching in his throat. "If the boom continues… we will be ruined. We will lose everything we gained."
Arthur leaned back in his enormous chair, his expression unchanging. "I am not wrong, Father. I have modeled the outcomes. The Great Sage has analyzed every conceivable variable. The European agricultural recovery, the tightening of credit by the Federal Reserve, the domestic production surplus—it is not a matter of 'if,' but 'when.' The panic will begin in the autumn. By winter, fortunes will be wiped out. While they are drowning, we will be holding the only life rafts."
He paused, letting the silence hang. "You have trusted me before. Trust me now. This is not about simply growing our fortune. This is about seizing power. The power to build, to acquire, to shape the world that will emerge from the ruins. This is our first great step."
The certainty in his son's voice was absolute, as cold and hard as a diamond. It was the same certainty that had convinced him to bet their future on a German chemical company years ago. Charles looked at the detailed plans, the lists of companies, the precise timelines. It wasn't the rambling of a child; it was the meticulous war plan of a financial Napoleon.
He rose from his chair, his back straight. The last vestiges of his doubt evaporated, replaced by a familiar, terrifying sense of destiny. "I will give the orders immediately."
The next few months were a period of tense quiet. As Sterling Holdings discreetly sold off its blue-chip stocks, their rivals and the wider market watched with confusion. Whispers circulated at the New York Yacht Club and the Union League that Charles Sterling had lost his golden touch, becoming a timid bear in the middle of the greatest bull market in memory. Charles endured the whispers with a stony silence, his faith pinned entirely on the small boy in his library.
Then, just as Arthur had predicted, the bubble burst. In the autumn of 1920, commodity prices plummeted. Farmers who had borrowed heavily to expand for wartime demand suddenly found their crops were worth less than the cost of harvesting them. The credit that had fueled the boom dried up. Businesses, unable to sell their massive inventories, began laying off workers by the tens of thousands. The stock market, once a soaring eagle, fell like a stone. Panic gripped Wall Street. Fortunes built over decades vanished in a single afternoon.
The atmosphere in the Sterling mansion was one of surreal calm. While the world outside descended into financial chaos, Arthur and Charles sat in the library, watching the ticker tape report the carnage.
"Ford Motor Company has halted production at its Highland Park plant," Charles read from a telegraph, his voice hushed with disbelief. "Goodyear Tire is on the brink of bankruptcy. The market is in freefall."
Arthur simply nodded, his eyes on the numbers. "The short positions," he said. "Report."
Charles reviewed another set of papers, his hands trembling slightly. "They are… the returns are astronomical. Beyond anything I thought possible. Our net worth… it has more than quadrupled in the last three months."
But Arthur was not looking at the profits. He was looking at the opportunities.
"The time for defense is over," he declared, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the library. "Now, we begin the offense. The harvest."
He produced another list from his desk drawer. "While our rivals are ruined and desperate, we are sitting on the largest private store of liquid capital on the Eastern Seaboard. We will now begin acquiring assets. Not for speculation, but for control."
The list was a catalog of his long-term ambitions. It contained machine-tool companies with advanced patents, chemical plants with unique infrastructure, logistics networks with national reach, and fledgling electronics firms. These were companies that were fundamentally sound but were being suffocated by the credit crunch. Sterling Holdings would buy them for pennies on the dollar, acquiring not just their stock, but their factories, their patents, and their expertise.
"And this one?" Charles asked, pointing to a name on the list. "Stark Industries. A minor firm. Their founder, Ricardo Stark, is a brilliant engineer but a poor businessman. Their patents are interesting, but their debt is significant."
Arthur considered it. He knew the true value of the Stark name was not Ricardo, but his young son, Howard, who was at this moment just a toddler. To acquire Stark Industries now might be premature. It could alter Howard's path, the very path that would lead to Captain America's shield, the Arc Reactor, and the foundation of the Avengers.
"No," Arthur decided after a moment. "Not yet. Monitor them. Offer them a small, low-interest line of credit through one of our subsidiary banks. Enough to ensure their survival, but not enough to attract attention. I want the Stark family indebted to us, but unaware of who their benefactor is. We will let that fruit ripen on the vine."
By the spring of 1921, as the economy began its slow, painful recovery, Sterling Holdings was transformed. It was no longer just a family investment office. It was a burgeoning industrial empire, a silent behemoth with controlling interests in dozens of companies across the American heartland.
The transfer of power, long a de facto reality, was finally formalized. One evening, Charles entered the library holding a slim leather portfolio. He looked tired but serene, like a man who had finally accepted his place in a story far grander than his own.
He placed the portfolio on the desk before Arthur.
"I had the lawyers draft these documents," Charles said quietly. "They establish a new master trust. The Sterling Imperium Trust. It consolidates all family assets, all corporate holdings, everything." He slid a pen across the desk. "It names me as the Chairman and public trustee. But it grants final, irrevocable authority over all strategic and financial decisions to a single, private director. You."
It was a legal abdication. A formal crowning. It gave a ten-year-old boy absolute control over a fortune that could now rival the Rockefellers and the Morgans.
Charles looked at his son, his face a mixture of awe and profound, soul-deep fear. "I was a good banker, Arthur. I understood numbers and risk. But I was playing checkers. You… you are playing a game on a board so vast I cannot even see the edges. A game with pieces I do not recognize."
Arthur picked up the pen. His hand was small, but his grip was steady. He signed his name at the bottom of the document: Arthur Sterling. The signature was neat, precise, and devoid of flourish. He slid the portfolio back to his father.
He didn't offer thanks. He didn't smile. He simply gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. His gaze shifted from his father to the large, newly installed world map that covered one of the library's walls. It was dotted with dozens of small, crimson pins, each one marking a key Sterling asset.
"This," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the map, already looking past the shores of America towards Europe and Asia, "is a good start, Father."
His mind was no longer on the recession of 1921. He was already modeling the great, decade-long party of the Roaring Twenties, a party he would secretly fuel and steer. And beyond that, the main event: the global cataclysm of the Great Depression. A disaster he would not just predict, but actively weaponize to cement his power over the entire planet, long before the first hero ever donned a costume. The first steps had been taken. Now, it was time to run.