Building a Conglomerate in Another World

A week later, in the West Tejas.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the iron tracks was a soothing sound to Charles Fitzwilliam. It allowed him a momentary distraction from the turmoil that had been brewing back at home. The compartment was comfortably appointed, with plush seats and polished wooden panels, a testament to his status. Yet, despite the luxuries surrounding him, Charles could find no peace.

He leaned back against the seat, staring blankly out of the window as the barren landscape of West Tejas rolled by. The argument with Amber weighed heavily on his mind. The memory of her tear-streaked face and the defiance in her eyes haunted him, even now. She had locked herself away, refusing to speak to him for the past week. He had hoped that with time, she would see reason, understand that everything he was doing was for her future.

But she had grown more stubborn with each passing day, leaving him no choice but to focus on business for now.

The train gave a jolt as it began to slow, pulling into the small, makeshift station at West Tejas. As the train came to a halt, Charles straightened his jacket and adjusted his hat. He was eager to see the fruits of Matthew’s labor. Exiting the train, he was greeted by the harsh midday sun and the dry, biting wind that seemed to carry the scent of oil in the air.

A familiar figure stood waiting for him by the platform—Matthew Hesh, looking every bit the industrious entrepreneur in his rugged work clothes, smeared with oil and dust. He looked worn but triumphant, the lines on his face etched deeper from weeks of hard labor.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam," Matthew called, stepping forward with a wide smile, his hand outstretched. "I’m glad you could make it. We’ve struck more than just oil—we’ve hit a steady flow."

"Mr. Hesh," Charles said coolly, raising an eyebrow, "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but perhaps you should wash up before we exchange formalities."

Matthew’s smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly nodded in understanding. "Of course, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Forgive me, it’s been a hectic few days," he said, wiping his hands on a rag that was tucked into his belt.

"Well the wagon will take us to the camp, it’ll be four hours from here."

Matthew gestured toward the waiting wagon, where Jennings was already stationed, holding the reins. The horses, sturdy and dust-covered, pawed at the ground impatiently

Charles nodded curtly and climbed up into the wagon. Matthew followed, settling into the seat beside him. Jennings gave the horses a gentle flick of the reins, and they set off, the wagon lurching forward with a jolt that sent dust billowing into the air.

As they began the long journey toward the oil camp, the landscape stretched out before them—a seemingly endless expanse of arid plains, dotted with sparse vegetation and the occasional tumbleweed skittering across their path. The sun beat down mercilessly, casting shimmering heat waves that blurred the distant horizon. Charles adjusted his hat to shield his face, his eyes squinting against the brightness.

"Four hours, you said?" Charles asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "That’s too far from the town."

"Well once we get your money, we will be able to build a train track which will connect the town to the site," Matthew grinned.

Charles Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at Matthew’s bold declaration. "A train track, you say?"

Matthew nodded confidently. "Indeed, sir, but with a steady flow of crude and the right backing, it’s entirely possible. Transporting barrels by wagon is inefficient. If we can lay down tracks, we’ll be able to move the oil to the refineries much faster and at a fraction of the cost."

Charles chuckled as he was intrigued by the determination of the young boy. His entrepreneurial spirit is so strong in him. If he had a son, he would like to be like Matthew.

Four hours later.

"We have arrived," Matthew announced as the wagon creaked to a halt. The camp before them was a hive of activity, with men bustling around, steam engines hissing, and the steady clank of metal against metal resonating through the dry air.

Charles Fitzwilliam climbed down from the wagon, adjusting his hat to shield his eyes from the relentless sun.

"This way, Mr. Fitzwilliam," Matthew gestured, leading him toward the heart of the drilling operation.

As they walked, Charles couldn’t help but notice the organized chaos around him. Workers, their shirts stained with oil and grime, moved with a sense of urgency. Crates of supplies were being unloaded, and wooden barrels filled with crude oil were being sealed and rolled toward a staging area. It was clear that Matthew’s camp was running at full throttle.

"The past week has been hectic," Matthew explained. "Once we struck the main reservoir, we’ve been working non-stop to extract as much crude as possible. But we can only extract in a limited capacity. If we want to dig more, we’ll have to build infrastructure for mass extraction."

He led Charles deeper into the camp, weaving between stacks of wooden crates filled with tools and barrels ready to be shipped.

"I see," Charles said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the drilling rigs in the distance. "You’ve done well with the resources you have, but it’s clear you’ve hit your limits. Without a proper setup, you’ll only be scratching the surface."

"Which is why we have to discuss the bet we made, two million florins," Matthew said. "We need that money Mr. Fitzwilliam." @@novelbin@@

"Very well, let’s discuss it on your office…if you have one here," Charles

"Oh I have one," Matthew chuckled, gesturing toward a modest wooden structure near the edge of the camp. "It’s not much, but it serves its purpose."

Charles followed Matthew.

They approached Matthew’s makeshift office. He pushed open the wooden door, revealing a small but tidy space. A sturdy desk made from reclaimed wood dominated the room, its surface cluttered with maps, geological surveys, and drilling logs. A single oil lamp hung from a hook on the wall, casting a warm, flickering light that pushed back the shadows.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Fitzwilliam," Matthew offered, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk. Charles took the seat, adjusting his suit jacket as he settled in. Matthew sat down behind his desk, leaning forward with an eager, almost restless energy.

"So," Charles began, steepling his fingers. "I am a man of my word. And since you accomplished the end of your bargain, I will grant you the two million florin that you are asking for me. Since this is also an investment, I want to discuss my stake here."

"I’ll give you twenty percent stake," Matthew leaned back slightly, watching Charles’s reaction as he offered the stake.

"Twenty percent, you say?" Charles echoed, his tone contemplative. "That’s a generous offer, Mr. Hesh, but considering the level of risk I’m taking and the substantial amount I’m investing, I believe thirty percent would be more appropriate."

Matthew tried to hide the tension that flickered across his face. He had expected Charles to negotiate, but he hadn’t anticipated such a steep counteroffer. He knew he needed the funding, but giving away too much of his company could jeopardize his long-term vision.

"Thirty percent is quite a chunk," Matthew said carefully, choosing his words. "Mr. Fitzwilliam, with all due respect, I understand your position, but I’ve built this operation from the ground up. I’ve put in the sweat and labor to make this a reality. Twenty percent ensures that you’re rewarded handsomely without me losing control over the direction of the company."

Charles leaned forward, the corners of his mouth curling into a shrewd smile. "You’re a sharp negotiator, Hesh, I’ll give you that. But consider this—my investment isn’t just about the money. With my influence and connections, I can open doors you didn’t even know existed. I can secure contracts, expedite permits, and ensure that your future ventures face no bureaucratic hurdles. That kind of leverage is worth far more than just florins."

Matthew took a deep breath, considering his options. He couldn’t deny that Charles’s backing could accelerate his plans exponentially. The Fitzwilliam name carried weight, and with it, he could bypass years of red tape and obstacles. But he also had to weigh his own ambitions—he couldn’t afford to give away too much control.

"Twenty-five percent," Matthew finally offered.

"That’s my final offer. It’s a significant share, Mr. Fitzwilliam, and it acknowledges both your financial investment and your strategic value to this project. But it also leaves me with enough control to steer this company where it needs to go."

Charles sat back, tapping his fingers on the armrest thoughtfully.

"Very well, Hesh," he said, extending his hand. "Twenty-five percent it is. I’ll have my lawyers draft the paperwork, and you’ll have the funds within the week."

"Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. You won’t regret this."