Empire of Shadows

The skyrocketing prices of alcoholic beverages surprised no one, but the speed of the increase exceeded expectations.

Other states that had joined the Prohibition Alliance had experienced price hikes as well, but the growth had been gradual at first. People were unsure how far the alliance would spread or how strictly the rules would be enforced.

Now, however, things were different. It looked like Prohibition would soon become part of the Federal Constitution. Once it did, no state could circumvent it.

Speculation ran rampant: when nationwide Prohibition was enacted, alcohol prices across the Federation would reach unprecedented heights.

Just a few days ago, the President had alluded to the matter at a private party, mentioning discussions with the Speaker of the House and the Senate Majority Leader about implementing a nationwide Prohibition.

Though he hadn’t explicitly stated he would sign the measure, his tone, expressions, and manner of speaking led many to believe he had already made up his mind.

The delay seemed to hinge on the outcome of the midterm elections. This wasn’t just legislation—it was leverage in a broader political deal.

The midterms, set for November, should have been a lively “social event,” yet this year’s elections had unusually low engagement.

While some groups accused the government of conspiracies, their protests barely made a ripple. The President’s four years in office hadn’t brought much improvement to the Federation, but he had achieved one critical goal: he hadn’t made things worse. That alone was enough to secure reelection, barring an exceptionally strong opponent.

His main challenger, however, had dropped out of the race in late August, ostensibly due to other pressing matters. This left the President effectively unopposed, and election fervor waned over the next two months.

With the midterms approaching, nationwide Prohibition seemed imminent.

Meanwhile, breweries in regions not yet part of the Prohibition Alliance ramped up production of high-proof alcohol, hoping to exploit the gap before federal enforcement.

Major distributors were wiping their records clean, and even the breweries themselves were stockpiling supplies in anticipation of the “crazy times” ahead.

For Mr. Jobav, this was a nightmare.

His warehouse of tens of thousands of bottles had dwindled to just 2,000, most of which were low-grade gin—not exactly premium stock.

If Arthur demanded to redeem the whiskey he had pledged as collateral, Jobav would be in serious trouble.

He didn’t want trouble, but trouble always found him.

“Mr. Jobav, young Mr. Williams would like to see you,” his assistant announced, knocking at the office door.

“Young Williams?” Jobav blinked in confusion.

“James,” the assistant clarified.

While some found the title “young Williams” derogatory—emphasizing one’s identity as merely “so-and-so’s son”—James wasn’t offended. For most, being referred to as “young Williams” implied prestige, something tied to a respected figure like Congressman Williams.

It wasn’t a label anyone could earn. If your father wasn’t someone important, the title became a mockery.

After hesitating, Jobav sighed and nodded. “Let him in.”

James and Arthur were brothers, but their reputations couldn’t have been more different.

James was widely regarded as the heir apparent to Congressman Williams, with a sterling résumé to match. After graduating from a prestigious university, he had become the Congressman’s trusted assistant.

In recent years, James had increasingly handled his father’s public responsibilities, earning a strong reputation in Jingang City’s elite circles as humble, refined, and well-mannered—the complete opposite of his brother.

Two minutes later, James entered, impeccably dressed.

“Mr. Jobav, thank you for making time to see me,” James said, handing his coat and hat to the assistant, who hung them neatly on a rack.

“Something to drink?” Jobav offered with a smile.

“No, thank you,” James replied, taking a seat on the sofa. Jobav joined him.

“I’m here to discuss the alcohol Arthur pledged as collateral,” James began. “He’s authorized me to handle the matter fully.”

He handed over the documentation. “According to this, there are about 42,000 bottles of Gold Label Napoleon Whiskey and 3,500 bottles of gin.”

Though less valuable than whiskey, the gin was easier to sell due to its lower price point.

Forcing a smile, Jobav took the documents and skimmed them, despite being intimately familiar with their contents.

“No problem. Have you brought the payment?” he asked, returning the papers.

James didn’t notice anything unusual in his demeanor. “As you know, it’s a substantial sum. Arranging the funds will take a few days, but we’ll transfer them to your account by next week.”

“Before that, I’d like to inspect the warehouse,” James added.

It wasn’t that he distrusted his brother, but Arthur’s reliability—or lack thereof—was well-known.

“Of course, that’s a reasonable request,” Jobav agreed, signaling to his assistant. “Prepare the car.”

The assistant hurried off, and as they waited, Jobav struck up small talk about recent events in Jingang City.

After a frustrating delay of over ten minutes, the car was finally ready. Jobav lost his temper, but James reassured him with a few kind words, noting that conversing with a successful banker like Jobav was always a valuable experience.

James’ polished demeanor contrasted sharply with Arthur’s crassness, but it made Jobav uneasy.

The more refined a Federation citizen appeared, the deadlier their metaphorical knives.

The drive to the warehouse should have taken twenty minutes, but the car broke down halfway. Another vehicle had to be called, dragging the journey out to over an hour.

When they finally arrived, the warehouse matched the location Arthur had mentioned.

Jobav opened the doors to reveal towering stacks of alcohol.

Tens of thousands of bottles, neatly arranged, were an awe-inspiring sight. At that moment, they weren’t just alcohol—they were resources, liquid cash.

Even James, usually composed, was briefly breathless.

Approaching the stacks, he turned to Jobav. “May I inspect one?”

“Of course,” Jobav replied.

James picked up a bottle and examined it. Gold Label Napoleon Whiskey was highly recognizable. Each bottle featured a unique embossed medallion below the neck, indicating its grade: bronze, silver, or gold.

Twisting the cap open, he sniffed the whiskey and smiled. It was genuine.

“Everything is here?”

Jobav nodded.

James’ mood improved instantly. Everyone knew the value of this stock would rise again soon. Even selling it at current prices would curry favor with buyers, as he’d be giving them a chance to profit.

“Mind if I take this bottle?” James asked, holding up the opened whiskey.

“Of course, it’s on me,” Jobav replied with a smile.

“Thanks, but business is business,” James said. He turned to his assistant. “What’s the current price for Gold Label?”

“$11.55 per bottle.”

James handed over a $10 bill, two quarters, and a nickel, placing them in Jobav’s hand. “Cash on the barrelhead!”

Though Jobav maintained a polite smile, it faltered briefly.

Federation citizens like James were always pleasant on the surface but guarded underneath.

After James left, Jobav sat in uneasy silence. Eventually, he picked up the phone and called the mayor.

He had invested heavily in the mayor for precisely this reason—to have protection when trouble arose.

But as he realized, he had underestimated the shamelessness of Federation politicians.