Chapter 41-42

Chapter 41: The Power Seeker and the Pawn

The world is such that at any given moment, some rejoice while others are filled with anxiety.

In a circular office atop the Lockheed Building in New York, Marlene Hewson strides in with a calm step. Recently ranked 29th on Forbes' list of the most powerful women in the world, she's the sole female arms dealer to make the list, the President and CEO of Lockheed Martin.

Despite nearing sixty, Marlene Hewson radiates a youthful vigor, appearing at least a decade younger than her age. Still referred to as the "Iron Lady," this nickname gives a glimpse into the kind of woman she is. Her black heels tap against the polished micro-crystal floor, drawing the attention of everyone in the large office.

"Good evening, Ms. Hewson," Charles Campbell, who shadows Lowell Lockheed like a guardian, quickly turns and bows slightly in greeting.

"Thank you, Charles. With you looking after Mr. Lockheed, we can all rest easy." Though her tone is gentle, Marlene Hewson's expression remains serene, her brows meticulously groomed and unmoving, not making direct eye contact as she speaks but instead focusing on Lowell lying in the hospital bed. "Sir, how are you feeling today?"

Lowell Lockheed signals for the nurse to adjust his bed's backrest and looks up at the woman he mentored. His eyes sparkle with a profound light as he smiles warmly, "Dear Marlene. What brings you to visit me today? How is everything at the company?"

Marlene Hewson joined the defense company in 1982, starting her career as an engineer and gradually climbing the ranks, largely due to her discipline and determination. Of course, her success couldn't have been achieved without Lowell's recognition, which is why, during his health decline, he entrusted the company's leadership to her.

It's because of this understanding that he trusts her.

He's well aware that despite Marlene Hewson's reputation for warmth and good relationships, she's fundamentally a realist who's always prepared to adopt a tough and direct approach, with a keen sense of prioritization, making her a qualified leader.

What he hadn't anticipated was her eagerness to consolidate power before his passing, already rallying shareholders to push him out of the chairman's position.

Two individuals driven by a strong desire for power could not enjoy a long honeymoon period. Although aware that the transition was inevitable, Lowell found Marlene Hewson's actions highly unsatisfactory. Unfortunately, he's now too preoccupied with clinging to life to address it.

This must be what Marlene is thinking, Lowell mused with a cold laugh. Why cling to a position that obstructs her from truly taking control of Lockheed?

Facing her former mentor, Marlene Hewson's smile broadens, her crow's feet becoming more pronounced as she leans in with a tender concern, "Sir, the company's been very busy, and I finally found some time to visit. How do you feel?"

Lowell waves his hand nonchalantly, looking better than usual, "The same old. I'm used to it. Change, from vitality to decline, is a natural law. Once you see through it, there's nothing to it."

"You will always be the backbone of the company," Marlene Hewson detects the underlying message in his words but keeps her smile unchanged, her words taking a turn, "Our only concern is your health. Many shareholders believe we shouldn't let company matters affect your recovery anymore, blaming me for not being able to take full charge sooner, saying you should rest easy."

Lowell stiffens, propping himself up slightly, his gaze fixed on Marlene Hewson without expression, "Is that so? I wonder which old friends are so concerned about me. Dear Marlene, you should remind them to visit me more often. I'm still very spirited, it's just that few people come to chat. If everyone cared as much as you, such misunderstandings wouldn't happen, right?"

Marlene Hewson, seemingly oblivious to Lowell's stern look, smiles as she adjusts the blanket over him, "You should lie down, sir, and be careful not to catch a cold. I've conveyed this to the shareholders, but they're worried out of good intentions. We should appreciate their concern, right? Now, you rest well. I won't disturb you any further."

Without giving Lowell a chance to respond, she turns away, her smile fading, her posture proud as she says to Charles, "Charles, you must take good care of the sir."

Charles Campbell, head bowed, eyes downcast, responds solemnly, "I will, Ms. Hewson."

Marlene Hewson nods, giving Charles a meaningful glance. Seeing his reluctance to meet her gaze, she pauses briefly before her heels click sharply against the floor as she exits the office. Throughout, her demeanor remains calm and composed, as if everything is under her control. As she steps out, a secretive smile curls her lips

.

Birth, aging, sickness, and death are the natural order, against which no one can stand. Even Lowell Lockheed, once an indomitable figure, how much longer can he hold on?

Lowell's gaze follows her until she's out of sight, then he lies back down, weary, his eyelids close, and his complexion instantly dims. Like an aged wolf king, he'll never show his weakness to those coveting his throne.

Silence envelops the room, not a sound to be heard.

"Ring~~~"

After what seemed like an eternity, the red hotline on the massive desk began to ring. Lowell's body jolted as his eyes snapped open, gleaming with an unusual brilliance.

Charles Campbell waved his hand, signaling the nurses to leave the room, before picking up the phone. He spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes before hanging up, his expression grave as he turned to Lowell Lockheed, lying in the hospital bed. The light in the latter's eyes quickly faded as he strained to speak, "What did they say?"

"Black Nest has returned the commission. According to the intermediary—our opponents were beyond their expectations. Their assault team was completely wiped out, no survivors. Due to special circumstances, they've abandoned this commission." Charles's face was a mix of shock, confusion, and incomprehension.

How could the young man's bodyguard be so exceptional as to utterly defeat Black Nest's special assault team?! What were these "special reasons"?

Hearing this, Lowell suddenly began to cough violently, lifting his thin arm to grab a handkerchief from beside the bed to cover his mouth. It took him a while to catch his breath, lowering his arm to reveal the handkerchief now stained with a shocking shade of blood.

Yet, both he and Charles seemed unfazed, accustomed to the sight. It was a late-stage symptom of kidney cancer metastasizing to the lungs: cancer cells invading the veins, forming tumor thrombi in the veins, and then advancing further into the inferior vena cava to reach the right atrium, spreading extensively to the lungs, bones, and other organs.

Doctors had already ruled out surgical removal of the tumor because it would only weaken Lowell's immunity further, accelerating the spread of cancer cells. They suggested trying to extend his life by other means—even though everyone knew it was a euphemism for being out of options.

Effortlessly, Charles picked up a white pill bottle from the cabinet next to the bed, unscrewed it, and fed two pills to Lowell, helping him wash them down with water before continuing, "Maybe we should consider other research institutes, like MIT, which seems to have made some new progress."

Lowell managed to swallow the water, coughing twice, his complexion ashen, "New progress, new progress. I've placed my hopes on them time and again, only to be let down every time. They're all useless. Charles, do you believe in them?"

Charles stood silently, his silence speaking volumes.

Lowell scoffed, "These guys probably wish I'd go for another treatment, to continue indulging in their useless methods so they can secure more funding for research. Then there's Bruce Lee. Although I'm not fond of the kid, he's the one young person I can't see through. If he were as incompetent as the other institutes, why hasn't he made any move to invite me? At least he could have tried. Nobody complains about having too much money!"

"Maybe he was just lucky before and now fears exposing his incompetence. Or he doesn't want to offend you by failing," Charles Campbell finished with a shake of his head, obviously finding his own explanation unsatisfactory, indeed as perplexing as Mr. Lockheed had pointed out.

"No, no, no. If the information leaked by that researcher is anything to go by, his lab's treatment must be effective. And why hasn't Bruce Lee shown any awareness or reaction to our maneuvers? Why hasn't he contacted us?" Lowell pondered for a long time, feeling that the lack of response was illogical and mysterious.

"Maybe he doesn't realize it's us? Or he's wary of making it public, given our disparity in strength," Charles's face showed a hint of pride, considering Bruce Lee, despite being a genius and a newly minted tycoon, couldn't compare to the behemoth that is Lockheed. Suffering in silence seemed only natural.

"Charles, I've told you before, never underestimate an opponent," Lowell's chest heaved, clearly dissatisfied with his assistant's response. "Precisely because we are a behemoth, we're under scrutiny. Every move we make is watched by those with intent. On the contrary, we often know nothing about these newcomers, and that's their advantage."

Charles dared not rebut, bowing his head slightly in thought.

"If he's so insignificant, why can't we grasp his weakness? Why hasn't he begged for mercy? I refuse to believe that a weakling could repeatedly neutralize our strategies." The physical pain was excruciating, and the lurking power-seekers were eager for his downfall, like a harsh stimulant. Although it tormented Lowell, it also sharpened his will to live and his mind, which was more alert than ever.

"Knowing he has something we want, why hide it?" Lowell's previously clouded eyes began to clear, as he arrived at a plausible explanation. "Does he really not want to give it to us?

 Impossible. Holding onto it serves no purpose for him, gains him no advantage. Unless he's waiting, knowing I don't have much time. The longer he waits, the more desperate I become. Eventually, we'll have no choice but to seek him out, allowing him to name his price!"

Could that young man have foreseen this from the beginning? If so, he was terrifyingly astute! Lowell's mind raced with images of Bruce's calm demeanor.

Shock appeared on Charles's face, hardly believing that Bruce, who seemed merely a capable young man to him, could possess such depth of strategy.

"So, the only question now is—what price will he demand?" Lowell wasn't pleased by deducing Bruce's stance; he suddenly felt this opponent was far more troublesome than anticipated. But he had no choice, as it seemed from the start to be an unequal bargaining.

After much deliberation, Lowell reluctantly picked up the phone.

"Hello, Bruce."

Chapter 42: The Living Legend

Cambridge, England, welcomed the autumn breeze.

Gone were the days of thick fogs unique to autumn; instead, clear blue skies were a rare sight. More often than not, the town was shrouded in misty rain, with the gentle autumn wind carrying a refreshing coolness that invigorated the spirit with its tender caress, extending a pleasant greeting from early fall.

On the damp cobblestone paths, Englishmen and women passed by, their postures straight, clad in snug suits, hats perched atop their heads, black umbrellas in hand, faces adorned with faint smiles.

Lowell's call evidently didn't achieve the desired effect. Bruce remained non-committal, his tone neutral, leaving the other party helpless and nearly pushing him to the brink of fury. It seemed best to let the aging arms magnate wait a bit longer, serving as a minor reprimand for previous disrespect.

At this moment, Bruce, alongside Trista, carried their coffees as they strolled down a leaf-strewn path, taking in the unique charm of Cambridge's early autumn. Both dressed sharply in suits, their tall figures walking side by side exuded an unspoken harmony and rapport, attracting admiring glances from passersby, mistaking them for a couple.

Bruce occasionally responded with smiles, while Trista paid them no heed.

"Everyone's trying to figure out the meaning behind Taylor's concert statement. It seems they're all eager to know who sent that grand gift. It's quite the buzz," Trista quipped, shaking her copy of The Sun, which featured a large photo of Taylor waving her arms at the concert alongside a digitally altered image of an airship. The headline read: "Mysterious Gift—Taylor Conquers London!"

Her pride was palpable, having brought up the topic for the third time today, her words nearly brimming with self-congratulation. Bruce couldn't be bothered to argue; after all, the joyful calls from Taylor Swift would be directed to him, not the lesbian before him.

Yet, he hadn't suggested meeting up, blaming their busy schedules—a clear excuse. Taylor required a bit more persuasion.

Their visit wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision; in fact, it was the primary purpose of Bruce's trip to Europe.

Many British universities blend seamlessly with their surrounding towns, and Cambridge University is no exception. Despite preserving many medieval buildings, Cambridge overall presents a bright and modern facade. Beyond the majestic university structures, there are quaint shops, serene parks, unique tea houses, and modern department stores, shops, and sports facilities.

Cambridge, renowned for its science and technology, has produced over 70 Nobel laureates. Yet, these scientific giants all pale in comparison to the brilliance of Stephen Hawking, considered by some to be the greatest living physicist, a title that, in the scope of scientific history, places him alongside the likes of Newton and Einstein.

Hawking was Bruce's primary goal for this visit.

At 74, Hawking continued his research, so Bruce and Trista met him at the Cambridge Centre for Mathematical Sciences. Upon entering his spacious, well-lit office on the second floor's southeast corner, they were greeted by the sight of an elderly man with a severely twisted neck sitting in a custom wheelchair, under the care of nurses.

As Bruce and Trista entered, Hawking blinked in greeting. His personal assistant, Judith, smiled and explained, "He's saying hello to you."

Diagnosed with ALS at 21, Hawking spent most of his life confined to a wheelchair, able to move only three fingers. A tracheotomy in 1985, due to pneumonia, robbed him of his ability to speak. His communications were facilitated through a speech-generating device, thanks to cheek muscle movements and eye tracking, a technology custom-made for him by Intel.

Despite his severely deformed body, Hawking's research on black holes and Hawking radiation, and his publication of "A Brief History of Time," which sold over 25 million copies worldwide, stand as monumental achievements in the face of his physical limitations.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawking. I'm Bruce, and this is my assistant, Trista," Bruce said, offering a smile despite Hawking's frail appearance, which belied a stronger physical condition than expected, making Bruce's plans all the more feasible.

"Hello... Mr... we apologize... for the intrusion," Trista stammered, her nervousness palpable in the presence of such a legend.

Hawking's computerized voice soon responded, "It's ok."

"Steve never wants pity for his condition. He's even thinking of space flight!" Judith commented warmly, inviting them to sit and offering beverages. As Hawking's personal assistant, her role was clearly significant.

Bruce casually took a seat, indicating they needed nothing with a shake of his coffee cup.

"You are truly inspiring, Mr. Hawking," Trista complimented

, unable to take her eyes off him.

Hawking tilted his head, and his voice synthesizer spoke again, "You're here for?"

Judith, ever patient and accommodating, often interpreted Hawking's intended messages, sparing him the effort of forming complete sentences.

"Each major illness takes a toll on Steve, weakening him and diminishing his physical capabilities. The doctors have advised him to rest, so he may not be able to engage in a long conversation with you. May I ask the purpose of your visit, Mr. Lee?" Judith inquired, clearly curious herself about the rare visit granted to Bruce and Trista by Cambridge's intervention.

Aware of the gravity of their request, Bruce leaned forward, getting straight to the point, "I run a lab in Los Angeles, where we've made some progress in gene editing and synthetic genomes. After discussions with Dr. Gordon, we believe our research might offer some assistance with your condition, Mr. Hawking."

Judith, who had just received a cup of tea from a nurse, dropped it in shock at Bruce's words, the cup shattering on the floor. She stood up, visibly angry, "Please don't make such irresponsible claims, Mr. Lee! Do you realize how dangerous such statements are?"

The sudden intensity of her reaction left Trista and the nurses speechless, tension filling the room.