The Magic of Journalism

Old Ed felt that when a person was speechless, they were truly speechless.

This kid was simply throwing his good intentions back in his face.

He was a ghost who had been dead for fifty years and didn't even have a physical form; what could he possibly lust after? It was pure nonsense!

“When your sister’s eyes got a little red, you were so flustered you were practically incoherent,” Old Ed grumbled.

“How come when it's another girl, you turn into a heartless, black-hearted factory owner?”

Elias let out a cold snort in his mind.

“Old man, you said it yourself—that's my sister. How can it be the same?”

Though his words were as stiff as a dead fish fresh out of cold storage, Elias did feel a subtle stir in his heart as he looked at Ophelia on the floor.

This stir didn't stem from any sense of pity for a beautiful woman.

Rather, it was a sense of belonging.

A sort of revolutionary camaraderie with a fellow stubborn fool who wasn't afraid of death.

As a fellow repeat offender who had also screwed over Wayland Capital...

Elias looked at Ophelia as if seeing a brother-in-arms from a different mother.

But he truly didn't know how to comfort people.

Facing a professional female journalist he didn't even know...

He simply didn't bother.

“Fine, dry your tears.”

Elias's tone was blunt, maintaining his cold persona as “Bruce.”

“Crying here isn't going to kill Wayland's people.”

Ophelia let out a loud hiccup and wiped her face hard with the back of her hand.

The two crooked pieces of her fake beard finally gave up the ghost after being soaked in tears and fell onto her knees.

“You... should probably sit down and talk,” Elias said hesitantly, gesturing to the padded sofa opposite him.

“Th—thank you, sir.”

Ophelia stood up slowly, her movements stiff.

Due to her frantic escape and the cramped hiding spot under the seat, her legs were almost completely numb.

When she finally sat back in the seat across from Elias, she couldn't help but marvel at the luxury of the wealthy.

This was a single-person compartment filled with industrial beauty and aristocratic flair.

The walls were inlaid with mahogany panels with fine textures that emitted a faint scent of pine.

The seats were upholstered in thick velvet, feeling silky and soft to the touch.

As Ophelia sank into the thick cushions, she felt as if she were being gently wrapped in a warm cloud.

This level of comfort was something she had never experienced in her rented room in Landon.

Earlier, in the life-and-death tension of her escape, she hadn't had the chance to appreciate any of this.

Now that the crisis had temporarily passed and she could relax...

She suddenly felt all the fatigue and anxiety accumulated over the past few days being swept away by this absurdly comfortable seat.

If she could, she truly wanted to sleep in this chair until the end of time.

“Are you going to talk or not?”

Elias frowned slightly, his fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest.

The dull thud of wood brought Ophelia back from her brief trance.

“I'll talk!”

“I'll talk!”

Ophelia jerked awake and hurried to sit up straight.

She was still very afraid that this heartless capitalist would change his mind.

“Gurgle—”

Just as Ophelia took a deep breath, intending to continue the story of her theft...

Because the compartment was so quiet, the sound was abrupt and loud.

It was a symphony of gastrointestinal movement.

Low, powerful, and filled with a primal desire for life.

“...”

Ophelia's face turned beet red in an instant.

The flush rapidly spread to the base of her neck, making this even more embarrassing than when her fake beard had fallen off.

“I'm sorry... sir.”

She lowered her head in shame, her voice as thin as a mosquito's buzz.

“I... I haven't eaten anything proper for two days...”

Ever since she had given the fifty gold crowns her editor-in-chief gave her to her parents, she only had a small amount of change left.

For the sake of infiltration and escape, her only supplies over the last forty-eight hours had been cold water and half a moldy biscuit.

Now, she barely had the strength to speak.

Elias let out a helpless sigh.

This wasn't a journalist investigating the truth.

This was simply a burden adding to his own troubles.

“Troublesome,” Elias muttered. He stood up, pulled open the compartment door, and stepped into the hallway.

A short while later.

A waiter in a white uniform, spurred on by the glinting Shillings Elias had used as a tip, eagerly carried an exquisite silver tray into the compartment.

A fragrant truffle roast chicken, its surface coated in golden fat.

Accompanied by a cup of steaming, rich, and silky hot cocoa.

It was a luxurious breakfast exclusive to first-class passengers.

“Eat.”

Elias sat back in his seat and pointed at the table board.

“Talk while you eat. I don't have the patience to sit here while you reminisce over and over.”

Ophelia looked at the roast chicken, her eyes almost shooting green light.

She didn't care about elegance or etiquette anymore.

She stuffed the tender chicken into her mouth without any regard for her image, starting her story through mouthfuls of food.

“After my brother vanished... I kept looking for a chance to truly enter the interior of Wayland Capital to investigate.”

Ophelia swallowed a mouthful of meat with effort, her gaze gradually becoming feverish.

“Just three days ago, I finally got that chance.”

“The powerful elites of Landon held an extremely grand social gathering at Lord Drake's estate.”

“To show off their so-called enlightenment and transparency, they also invited members of the mainstream media.”

“Among them was... Thomas Wayland.”

“Thomas Wayland?”

Elias repeated the name softly, his eyes flickering.

This was the first time since arriving in this world that he had heard the name of the true controller behind Wayland Capital.

The name of the man standing at the tip of the pyramid, whose single word could decide the fate of countless people.

“The helmsman of Wayland Capital,” Ophelia paused, blinking in surprise.

“You... you didn't know?”

She did find it very strange.

This gentleman calling himself “Bruce” could not only afford a first-class seat but also had such a thorough understanding of Wayland Capital's obscure and secretive business of hiring lighthouse keepers in Moon Bay.

How could such a person not know of Wayland Capital's top tycoon?

The logic didn't add up.

Elias felt a bit uneasy under her gaze, and his poker face instantly went into full effect.

“I'm in the steel business. I'm not interested in Landon's social circles.”

Elias made up an excuse on the fly.

“It's fine. Continue.”

Ophelia secretly lamented in her heart.

She found this man to be completely impervious to persuasion.

Every word she said, he would peel away her secrets like an onion.

And him? He just sat there like a marble statue, saying nothing useful except for that high-pressure capitalist attitude.

She was reflecting.

With her amateurish investigative skills and her constant state of being hunted...

Would she really be able to find the truth once she reached Moon Bay?

Or was she just going to contribute the next “red cross” to that ledger?

“Coincidentally, the Landon Post also received an invitation to that banquet,” Ophelia said, pushing aside her stray thoughts as the warmth of the hot cocoa slightly calmed her startled spirituality.

“Taking that chance, I begged the editor-in-chief in every way possible, even making a solemn commitment, before I was allowed to go as an accompanying journalist.”

“That night, the banquet hall was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and hypocritical laughter.”

“Thomas Wayland was surrounded by a crowd of fawning capitalists and bureaucrats.”

“I was looking for an opportunity the whole time.”

Ophelia bit her lip, a look of desperate determination flashing in her eyes.

“To truly catch his attention and force him to answer my interview face-to-face, I went all out that day.”

“I squeezed to the very front and asked him a sharp question directly.”

“Oh?”

Elias raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly.

He wanted to see exactly how this seemingly dim-witted journalist had courted disaster.

Ophelia took a deep breath, mimicking her tone from that night.

“I asked loudly at the time: ‘Mr. Wayland, do you agree with the rumors circulating in the streets?’”

“‘That within Wayland Capital's increasingly massive commercial empire, beneath every cornerstone lies the blood and tears of your employees?’”

“‘Do you admit that in your company's commercial operations, the exploitation of the grassroots workforce has reached a level that the current society's common moral standards can no longer tolerate, even being a hundred times worse than any other enterprise?’”

“...”

Elias sat opposite her, criticizing her in his mind.

This could no longer be described as just “sharp,” could it?

This had exceeded the scope of an interview; this was pure public humiliation, crashing the party.

“That question certainly caught his attention.”

Of course it caught his attention.

But...

Elias looked at the journalist before him.

Why did this tactic seem so familiar?

First, use a highly impactful negative question to forcibly break through their defenses, grab attention, and create hype, then use the opportunity to cut into the core topic.

This routine...

Could this be the magic of journalism?