Autumn in Pennsylvania came a bit early this year.
For the independent oil producers of Oil Creek, this autumn meant more than just falling leaves; it meant the freezing winter of bankruptcy.
The cold wind whistled through those crude wooden derricks, sounding like a dirge for these former nouveau riche.
With the total collapse of the pipeline plan, the already shaky "Petroleum Producers' Union" disintegrated in an instant.
Fear and suspicion spread through Titusville like a plague.
Everyone was secretly inquiring about who had already sold their wells to Standard Oil and who had signed letters of surrender in the shadows.
Those who once loudly cursed Rockefeller in taverns now walked with their heads bowed, terrified of being recognized.
But the more fatal blow came from the price.
The Ohio Standard Oil Company suddenly issued an announcement: Due to "surplus crude oil inventory" and "refining technology upgrades," the purchase price for crude oil would be lowered from $3 per barrel to... 50 cents, effective immediately.
50 cents.
This price wasn't even enough to cover the coal costs for pumping oil out of the ground, let alone workers' wages, the cost of barrels, and equipment depreciation.
This was nothing short of a massacre.
"This is robbery, pure and simple."
An old oil producer stood under his derrick, trembling with rage as he looked at the newly posted purchase notice.
He still clutched a sample of oil freshly drawn from the well; the black liquid flowed through his fingers and dripped onto the parched earth like black tears.
"My oil is the finest light crude, with extremely low sulfur content. It used to sell for $4; why don't you vampires just go rob a bank?"
"The past is the past, old-timer."
The one in charge of the purchase was a young clerk from Standard Oil. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and a neat suit, his face bearing the arrogance and indifference characteristic of a large corporation's employee.
He held a notebook, impatiently jotting something down.
"The market has changed now. Look over there."
The clerk pointed across the river with his pen.
There, several high-yield wells that originally belonged to McDowell were operating at full capacity.
The massive pumpjacks seemed to be kowtowing to the sky, making a rhythmic creaking sound. Long lines of Standard Oil's black tank wagons were hauling away barrels of crude. The words "Standard Oil" printed on those wagons looked particularly piercing in the sunlight.
"Mr. McDowell transferred all his wells to us yesterday. He's a smart man who took a lump sum of cash; they say he's gone to California to buy a vineyard for his retirement. But you..."
The clerk looked the old oil producer up and down, his oil-stained overalls met with a gaze full of disdain.
"If you don't sign the contract today, you might not even get 50 cents tomorrow. Because President Miller said that starting next week, we will conduct 'safety assessments' on the drilling equipment in this area. If it doesn't pass... the wells will be sealed."
"Safety assessments?" The old oil producer gave a hollow laugh.
"You seal them whenever you want? Is there no federal law here?"
"Law?" The clerk found this hilarious.
"Oh, how can you be so naive at your age? In this place, Standard Oil's regulations are the law. Look at those derricks; they're all built with rotten wood and could collapse at any moment. Sealing them for public safety is perfectly reasonable."
The old oil producer's lips trembled, wanting to curse, wanting to throw the oil in this bastard's face. But then he thought of his wife at home, his children still in school, and the collection letter from the bank.
Ultimately, he bowed his head like an old ox whose spine had been removed.
"I... I'll sign."
Scenes like this played out every day across Oil Creek throughout September.
But not everyone chose to yield.
There were still some fierce oil producers who would rather destroy everything than sell their life's work for a pittance to that vampire.
By a tributary called "Widow Creek," a young man named Tom Harkins was standing by his oil well.
His eyes were hollow as he held a lit torch.
That well was the only inheritance his father had left him, and the hope of his entire family.
A crowd of onlookers gathered, along with several reporters with cameras sent by The New York Times and The Tribune to cover this "Oil War."
They were like sharks scenting blood, anticipating this moment.
"Don't do anything stupid, kid!" someone shouted.
"Stupid?" Harkins gave a hollow laugh.
"Giving them the oil is what's stupid! This is the land my father left me! Even if I burn it, I will never let that devil Rockefeller have a single drop."
With that, he threw the torch into the oil storage pit.
"Boom!"
It wasn't as earth-shattering as imagined because most of the oil in the pit had already evaporated, leaving only viscous residue. Flames leaped several meters high, accompanied by billowing black smoke, instantly swallowing the abandoned derrick.
The heat wave rushed forward, forcing the crowd back. Black smoke obscured the sky, as if it were a silent indictment from the land itself.
The reporters frantically clicked their shutters.
Flashbulbs flickered, freezing this tragic and helpless moment in time.
Yet for Felix in New York, this was merely a bit of seasoning for his breakfast.
He would simply sip his coffee and say indifferently, "What a waste of all that oil."
At the scene, Miller just sat in a carriage nearby, watching the flames coldly through the window.
"Let it burn," he said to Borg beside him.
"The brighter it burns, the better. This fire will burn away the last illusions of those who are still waiting and watching."
"Boss, that well is ruined. Aren't we losing out?" Borg asked, feeling a bit of pained regret.
"It's just one well."
Miller flicked his ash, his eyes reflecting a shrewdness that had grown day by day.
"As long as the land is there, the oil is still beneath it. Once this storm passes, we'll just drill a new one. Remember, we are buying the sea underground, not these few broken faucets on the surface."
"And..."
He looked at the young man weeping in the firelight.
"This is also good material. Have Mr. Fowler write about it in the newspaper, saying the fire was caused by independent oil producers neglecting safety in production. That way, our 'safety assessments' will be even more justified."
Borg was stunned for a moment, then gave a thumbs up. "Brilliant. Truly brilliant."
On the edge of Titusville, a refinery named Light of Hope was in the final stages of bankruptcy liquidation.
The factory's fence was already leaning, and the paint on the gate was peeling off in patches. Only the towering chimney still stubbornly pointed toward the sky, though it hadn't emitted a trace of smoke for a long time.
The owner, Samuel Parker, was sitting in his empty office, staring blankly at a pile of messy bills on his desk.
At forty years old, he had once been a somewhat famous refiner in the area. But now, he looked like a vagrant.
He was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot, and his once-respectable wool coat was covered in unwashable oil stains.
"Damn it... it's all over."
Samuel cursed under his breath, clutching an ultimatum from the First National Bank of Philadelphia.
If he couldn't pay back the two-thousand-dollar loan within three days, his factory, his house, and even the tuition for his young son who was still in school would all vanish into thin air.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought about resisting; he had even considered burning down the derricks like Tom Haskins did.
But he didn't dare.
He still had a family, a large family of relatives waiting for him to support them.
"Knock, knock, knock."
There was a gentle knock on the office door.
Samuel snapped his head up, a flash of panic in his eyes. Was it the bank's bailiff?
Or that even more terrifying undertaker?
"Come in," his voice trembled slightly.
The door was pushed open, and in walked neither a burly bailiff nor the Grim Reaper in a black top hat.
Instead, it was a young man dressed in a sophisticated black suit. He appeared to be around thirty years old, slender, wearing a tall black top hat and holding a leather-bound book. He didn't look like a businessman, but rather like a minister about to lead a sermon.
He didn't bring the usual thugs or bodyguards; he was accompanied only by a middle-aged lawyer, also dressed appropriately and carrying a briefcase.
"Good afternoon, Brother Samuel."
The visitor's voice was gentle and calm, possessing a strange affinity, as if in that moment, the office filled with the smell of mold and oil smoke had become sacred.
Samuel was stunned for a moment, then recognized the man.
John D. Rockefeller.
The man who called the shots in Cleveland and was regarded as a devil by all independent oil merchants.
"Are you here to mock me, Mr. Rockefeller?"
Samuel's voice was full of hostility as he gripped the corner of the table tightly, his knuckles turning white.
"No, no, no. As God is my witness, I am here to help you."
Rockefeller did not back down from the other's hostility; in fact, the expression on his face didn't change at all.
He pulled a handkerchief, blindingly white, from his pocket, walked to the dust-covered chair opposite Samuel, wiped the seat like a gentleman, and then slowly sat down.
That unhurried posture gave Samuel a sense of invisible pressure.
"I know you are in a difficult situation right now, Samuel." Rockefeller crossed his hands over his knees, his habitual prayer posture, his gaze pious and focused.
"You owe the bank three thousand dollars, including interest and late fees. Your workers haven't been paid for two months; they are even cursing you behind your back. Your wife, Mary... I heard her illness has flared up again and she needs to see the best doctors in Philadelphia, but you probably can't even afford a train ticket right now."
Samuel's body shook violently, as if struck by lightning.
"How... how do you know?"
"Because I care about every soul struggling in this industry."
Rockefeller's voice remained gentle, as if stating a simple fact.
"Oil is a gift from God to America, a light to illuminate the darkness. But look at it now, Samuel. This industry is sick. Very sick."
He pointed out the window at the abandoned derricks and the ditches flowing with foul oil.
"Disorderly competition, blind extraction, wasteful production... this is a desecration of God's gift. Look, you undercut each other's prices, fighting tooth and nail for a few cents of profit. In the end, no one makes money, and only the oil buyers benefit, while this land is left devastated. This does not conform to the logic of business, nor does it conform to God's will."
"Therefore, someone must establish order."
Rockefeller tilted his head slightly, signaling the lawyer behind him. The lawyer immediately opened his briefcase, took out a neatly bound contract, and placed it gently on the worn-out desk.
The cover of the contract was printed with the logo of the Standard Oil Company.
"This is an acquisition contract for Standard Oil."
Rockefeller looked Samuel in the eye and said slowly.
"Three thousand five hundred dollars. Cash. Enough to pay off all your debts and leave a sum for Mary's medical treatment."
"That's impossible!"
Samuel stood up abruptly, waving his arms excitedly, spittle flying.
"My factory's equipment alone is worth five thousand. Including the land, it's at least eight thousand dollars! You're... you're trying to rob me."
At the same time, he cursed in his mind, *You son of a bitch, don't you know why there's a price war?*
*This chaos was brought about by the pressure from your Standard Oil. Damn you.*
"Eight thousand? That was before, Samuel."
Rockefeller remained seated calmly, his tone not even changing, as if reasoning with a troublesome child.
"You know the market price for refineries now. Crude oil prices have dropped to 50 cents. If you don't sell to me, the bank will come for an auction next Monday. By then, those greedy bankers might not even give you two thousand. Besides, the bank people aren't as easy to talk to as I am; they'll throw you out onto the street."
Samuel was speechless.
After all, Rockefeller was telling the truth.
In this brutal business environment, no one would sympathize with a bankrupt man.
"Furthermore, if you are willing to sign this contract, I can hire you to continue serving as the manager of this factory."
Rockefeller threw out the bait; it was his final card.
"What?" Samuel could hardly believe his ears. "You... you want to hire me?"
"Of course."
Rockefeller thought to himself that if he didn't keep these old managers to run things, by the time Jenkins returned from Europe, the factories and machines would probably be covered in dust.
He wouldn't stay long himself; after all, he didn't have any shares in the Standard Oil parent company.
Then he stood up, walked over, and patted Samuel's greasy shoulder like a kind older brother.
"An annual salary of six hundred dollars. You won't have to worry about the rise and fall of oil prices, railroad freight rates, or that damned bank interest anymore. You just need to focus on refining, making good products, and turning those wasted oil residues into useful things. Leave the rest to me, and to Mr. Argyle."
Six hundred dollars.
In this era, it was a fortune.
It was enough for him to live a decent middle-class life in Titusville, enough to send his wife to the best hospital and his son to the best school.
More importantly, it was that sense of security.
In this turbulent underworld of black gold, security was more expensive than gold.
"Can I... can I really stay?"
Samuel's voice choked up, and his eyes began to redden.
"Not only can you stay, but you will also become part of this great cause."
Rockefeller watched as he handed over the Parker pen.
"We are not enemies, Samuel. We are sailors on the same ship. Mr. Argyle is building an ark, and this contract is your ticket."
"This is God's will, Samuel. Accept it, and you will find peace."
The room fell into a deathly silence, with only the "tick-tock, tick-tock" of the old wall clock.
A few minutes later, with a trembling hand, Samuel picked up the pen and signed his name at the end of the contract.
The nib of the pen wrote across the paper.
When he put the pen down, he suddenly covered his face and began to cry.
It wasn't regret, but a sense of exhaustion after a heavy burden had been lifted.
He could finally stop waking up from nightmares in the middle of the night and stop facing the cold faces of debt collectors.
Rockefeller Put away the contract,He glanced at Samuel, who was still crying.,A satisfied smile appeared on his face.. Rockefeller put away the contract, glanced at the still-weeping Samuel, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.
This wasn't the first, nor would it be the last.
In the following month, he led his team like a tireless missionary, traveling through every corner of Titusville.
From dilapidated workshops to slightly more respectable medium-sized refineries, he used this rhetoric—a mixture of religious appeal, business logic, and cold reality—to break down the psychological defenses of one oil merchant after another.
He never threatened, because that was Miller's job. He only provided "salvation."
By the end of October, when the first snow fell in Pennsylvania, Rockefeller stood in the office established in Titusville.
A huge map of Pennsylvania hung on the wall.
The map of the oil-producing regions, which had originally been fragmented by various colors, had now turned into a solid block of black. Every blackened spot represented a surrendered oil well or an acquired refinery.
"It's over."
He said to Miller behind him.
"Sixty percent of the high-yielding oil wells in Pennsylvania now belong to Standard Oil. Combined with our refining capacity in Cleveland, we have controlled the upstream and midstream of the entire industry."
Miller was sitting on the sofa wiping the revolver that never left his side. Hearing this, he whistled and tucked the gun back into his waist.
"Well done, Pastor John. This was a well-fought battle. The Boss praised you for your speed of integration."
"No rush."
Rockefeller turned around and cast his gaze toward the right side of the map—there was the East Coast, bustling New York, and the industrial hub of Philadelphia, a much broader world.
"This is just the beginning, Mr. Miller. There are still many lost sheep waiting for our salvation. Next, it's time to see those arrogant refiners in Philadelphia. I heard they are still using those old-fashioned stills? That is a crime against efficiency."
A fanaticism flickered in his eyes.
It was a desire for monopoly and an obsession with establishing a perfect order.
Under Argyle' banner, he would become the chief architect of this black gold empire, even if it meant stepping over the bones of countless people.
Although they controlled most of the wells, Standard Oil soon faced a new technical challenge: the depletion of old wells.
Early oil drilling was entirely a matter of luck, like rolling dice in a casino.
You drill a hole, oil gushes out, and everyone cheers.
Then, as the underground pressure decreases, production plummets, eventually turning it into a useless well that can only sputter.
Some "high-yield wells" acquired by Standard Oil at low prices were actually at the end of their ropes, pumping out only a few barrels of murky oil and water a day—not even enough to cover labor costs.
"This won't do."
During an on-site inspection of the "Good Luck Valley" mining area, Miller frowned at a pumping unit that was struggling to operate.
The machine let out a creaking scream, as if protesting the endless labor.
"We spent so much money buying back this land; we can't just let it sit here breeding mosquitoes. The Boss wants oil—a continuous flow of black gold, not these few drops of piss."
Miller kicked a stone on the ground, somewhat frustrated.
"We have to find a way to make it gush again."
"There is a way, Mr. Miller. But it's a bit... intense."
The speaker was a technician specially dispatched from the Umbrella laboratory in New York, a young man named Roberts.
He wore thick protective goggles and a jumpsuit full of pockets, carrying a heavy iron box padded with cotton.
"While researching new explosives, Dr. Thorne discovered that if high-energy explosives are detonated at the bottom of a well, the resulting massive shockwave can fracture the surrounding rock layers. This clears the oil veins blocked by silt and wax, allowing the oil to converge again."
"Explosives?" Miller grew interested, his eyes lighting up. "Black powder? People have tried that before; the results weren't great, and it tended to collapse the well walls, making a total mess."
"No, not black powder."
Roberts tapped the box mysteriously. The surrounding workers instinctively stepped back a few paces, as if they had seen a venomous snake.
"It's nitroglycerin. Also known as 'liquid explosive.' It's more than ten times more powerful than black powder. This is Dr. Thorne's latest achievement; it's not even fully finalized yet."
Nitroglycerin.
In the industrial world of that time, the word was practically a synonym for the Grim Reaper.
It was extremely unstable; the slightest sharp vibration, friction, or heat would cause it to explode.
In Europe, several chemical plants had already been blown to the heavens because of it.
"Are you crazy?"
A veteran miner nearby spoke in horror, the wrinkles on his face trembling.
"How do you send that stuff down? Lower it with a rope? If it even bumps against the well wall, everyone here will be meeting God!"
"That's why we need a special device—one that can cheat death."
Roberts opened the box to reveal a long, torpedo-like iron tube with a smooth surface and no protrusions.
"This is the 'Oil Torpedo.' We carefully pour the nitroglycerin inside and lower it slowly using special shock-absorbing ropes. To prevent friction, we've coated the tube walls with lubricant. Once it reaches the bottom, we drop a heavy weight to detonate the blasting cap."
Miller stared at the iron tube for a few seconds, a flash of madness in his eyes.
He liked this kind of simple, crude, and high-risk approach. It fit the style of the Militech and aligned with Felix's motto: 'Risk and profit coexist.'
"Do it."
Miller waved his hand, his decisiveness drawing sideways glances.
"Find a dry well and try it. If it works, this will be our money tree. If it blows up... well, consider it a sacrifice for science."
The experimental site was chosen in a remote mining area called "Good Luck Valley," which originally had several high-yield wells that were now basically depleted.
For safety, everyone retreated to a hillside five hundred meters away. Only Roberts and two of the bravest Vanguard members remained at the wellhead to operate.
The iron tube, filled with liquid, was carefully suspended over the wellhead.
The winch turned slowly, making a slight clicking sound. Every turn of the steel cable felt like it was tightening the nerves of everyone present. The air seemed to freeze, and even the wind stopped.
Five hundred feet. Eight hundred feet. One thousand feet.
"It's in place!"
Roberts looked at the scale on the winch and made a gesture, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.
Next was the most critical step.
A team member picked up the iron hammer weighing several pounds and took a deep breath, as if he were about to lift the whole world.
He aimed at the wellhead and let go.
The hammer whistled down, disappearing into the dark shaft.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds... time seemed to stretch infinitely.
On the hillside, Miller held his breath, forgetting to puff on his cigar; he didn't even notice the ash falling onto his overcoat. Although Rockefeller still wore his poker face, his fingers gripping the binoculars turned slightly white.
"Boom...!"
There wasn't the deafening explosion one might expect, but rather a dull roar that seemed to come from the depths of hell.
It was like a sleeping giant had been startled awake.
Immediately after, the earth shook violently, and the surrounding trees swayed with it.
"Did it fail?"
Borg leaned out and asked, his voice a bit dry.
Before his voice had even faded—
"Pshhh...!"
A black column of water, accompanied by a sharp whistle, erupted from the wellhead and shot into the sky!
That wasn't water; it was oil!
It was thick, shiny black crude oil!
The oil column shot dozens of meters into the air, higher than the tallest trees. Then it dispersed in the wind, turning into a black rainstorm that poured down relentlessly.
Standing near the wellhead, Roberts and the team members were instantly covered in black, but they didn't hide; instead, they cheered wildly in the oil rain, as if celebrating a rebirth.
"Success... success! My God, it's alive!"
On the hillside, Rockefeller watched the spectacular oil column. Even his perpetually frozen face showed a hint of emotion at this moment.
Black droplets fell on his expensive cashmere coat, but he didn't wipe them off. Instead, he reached out, caught a drop of oil, and rubbed it between his fingertips, feeling its warm and slippery touch.
"This is a baptism."
He murmured to himself, his eyes filled with a fanatical devotion.
"This is the baptism of industry, the earth's response to us."
"This stuff is incredible!"
Miller pumped his fist excitedly and tossed away his cigar.
"Roberts, you did it, kid. Make me a hundred... no, a thousand of these torpedoes! I'm going to blow this land sky-high! Make all the oil spit out for me!"
This primitive technique, known as "Perforation Completion," was extremely dangerous (it indeed killed many people later due to improper operation, earning the nickname "Widow Maker"), but it instantly tripled the output of the old wells in Argyle' hands.
The lands that were once thought abandoned became treasures flowing with black gold once again.
In this crazy era, for the sake of profit, capitalists dared to trample on everything, even embracing death.
This black rain of oil became the perfect footnote for the rise of the Argyle empire.
Filthy, dangerous, yet full of intoxicating power.
It not only nourished Rockefeller's ambition but also allowed Felix, far away in New York, to truly grasp the lifeblood of this industrial age.