Building a Conglomerate in Another World

The White House shook from the distant explosions, the muffled booms echoing through the fortified walls. Smoke curled into the sky as fires spread across the capital. The Order had changed tactics.

They weren’t just trying to take the city anymore. They were trying to destroy it.

White House War Room

Hesh stood at the center of the war room, his sleeves rolled up, sweat beading on his forehead. The siege had lasted through the night. The National Guard held firm, but the fight was far from over.

"Report," Hesh demanded, his voice sharp.

Collins wiped soot from his face, reading from a hastily written report. "We have full control of the National Mall, the Capitol is secured, and most of the White House perimeter is holding. But the enemy has shifted focus. They’re setting fires, blowing up supply lines, and attacking infrastructure. Downtown is in flames."

General Monroe slammed his fist onto the table. "This isn’t just an attack—it’s scorched earth. They’d rather burn Washington to the ground than let us win."

Hesh inhaled deeply. "And the civilians?"

Whitaker exhaled sharply. "Panic is setting in. People are either barricading themselves in their homes or trying to flee the city. The roads are blocked. It’s chaos."

Hesh clenched his jaw. "Then we stop playing defense."

Monroe looked at him. "Sir?"

"We’ve been reacting to them. That ends now. We take the fight to them."

The Order’s War Room

Langston sat at the long table, listening as reports flooded in from the battlefield. The siege had failed. The White House still stood. But their secondary plan was working.

Hawthorne lit a cigar, smirking. "Washington is burning."

Langston didn’t share his amusement. He tapped his fingers on the table. "And yet, Hesh still breathes."

Cornelius Voss entered, looking exhausted. "We’ve lost too many men. The militias are running out of ammunition, and our inside sources are turning on us."

Langston’s eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Voss hesitated. "Some of our contacts in the military are switching sides. Hesh’s government is offering full pardons to any soldier who lays down arms. Some of our ’loyalists’ are taking the deal."

Langston cursed under his breath. "Then we have one option left."

Hawthorne looked at him. "Which is?"

Langston’s voice was cold. "We kill Hesh. Tonight."

Washington burned, but the White House stood.

The gunfire had slowed, shifting into isolated battles around the city. The National Guard tightened their control, pushing The Order’s forces back.

But inside the war room, Matthew Hesh knew it wasn’t over.

Collins rushed in, his face pale. "Sir, we intercepted a message."

Hesh looked up. "Go on."

Collins swallowed hard. "The Order has ordered a direct assassination. They’re making a final attempt on your life—tonight."

The room fell silent.

Hesh remained still, processing the information. "Do we know how?"

Collins handed him the transcript. "We believe they’ve already infiltrated the city. We don’t know how many, but they’re coming."

Monroe straightened. "Then we prepare."

Hesh met his gaze. "No. We set a trap."

The White House was a fortress. Every entrance was heavily guarded. But The Order had planned for that.

Three assassins—highly trained, ruthless killers—moved through the darkened streets. They had been given one mission: eliminate Matthew Hesh.

They split up.

The first assassin, disguised as a wounded National Guard soldier, approached a checkpoint. The guards hesitated for a moment—just long enough for the assassin to pull a concealed knife.

But before he could strike—a sniper shot rang out.

The assassin dropped, blood pooling beneath him.

The trap had been set.

The second assassin, using the underground tunnels beneath the city, emerged near the White House’s east wing. He moved fast, his silenced pistol drawn. He never saw the soldiers waiting in the shadows.

A single bullet ended his mission before it began.

The third assassin made it the farthest.

Slipping through the chaos, he breached the White House. Moving like a ghost, he navigated the corridors, his target locked in his mind.

But when he entered the Oval Office—it was empty.

A door slammed shut behind him.

A figure stepped forward. Matthew Hesh.

The assassin raised his pistol—too slow.

Hesh lunged.

The fight was brutal. Fists, elbows, grappling—the assassin was fast, but Hesh was desperate.

A gun went off.

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The assassin staggered, blood pouring from his chest. Collins stood behind him, holding a smoking revolver.

The assassin collapsed.

Hesh exhaled sharply, gripping his shoulder where a knife had cut him. "That was close."

Collins lowered the gun. "Too close."

By morning, the coup had failed.

The National Guard crushed the last remnants of The Order’s forces. Washington was still standing.

Inside The Order’s war room, Gideon Langston knew it was over.

The doors burst open. Federal agents stormed inside.

Langston stood, adjusting his suit. He didn’t resist as they seized him. "It was worth it," he muttered.

Hawthorne, Voss, and the rest of The Order’s leadership were arrested.

The rebellion was over.

Hesh stood before the press, bandages on his shoulder, exhaustion in his eyes.

"My fellow Amerathians," he began. "The storm has passed."

The nation listened.

"We have faced the greatest threat to our democracy. But we have prevailed."

He exhaled, looking over the battered capital.

"The Order is finished. Those who tried to destroy this country will face justice."

Silence.

Then—cheers.

Washington was wounded, but it was still alive.

Hesh had won.

And Amerathia had survived.

Inside the White House, Hesh sat in the Oval Office, his body aching, his mind restless. The battle had been won, but he knew the war for Amerathia’s soul wasn’t over.

Collins entered, holding a stack of documents. "They’ve finished the initial reports, Mr. President."

Hesh took them, flipping through the pages. The damage was worse than expected—entire districts reduced to rubble, government buildings burned, thousands of civilians displaced.

Whitaker walked in next, his face grave. "The trials begin next week. Langston, Hawthorne, Voss… They’ll all face the highest charges possible."

Hesh nodded, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Justice would be served, but rebuilding would take time.

He looked at his battered city. The people had endured terror, betrayal, and war.

Now, they needed something more than a victory speech.

They needed a future.

Hesh took a deep breath.

"We start today," he said. "We rebuild. We heal."

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe in tomorrow.