put him in a jail….

The Silence Before Rothschild

When the last bird sang its final note and the jungles breathed no more, the Earth fell into a deep and terrible quiet. No howl, no chirp, no lowing of cattle or bark of dog. Mankind had long since plundered the planet’s beasts and forests, traded whales for oil, cattle for burgers, and lions for Instagram likes. When the last elephant collapsed under the weight of its poached tusks, a stillness spread across the continents like a burial shroud.

In this silence, Jacob Rothschild rose like a black obelisk over the ashes of creation. At first, they said he was just a man—a financier, a baron of banks. But time warped the truth. The wars had stopped listening to generals and started listening to interest rates. It was said Jacob did not fund wars out of ideology or hate—he financed them like one might water crops. He financed both sides. Always.

And so, from the smoke of cannon fire and the contracts of arms deals, Jacob grew exalted. He did not rule by sword or decree, but by debt. His agents wore no uniforms, but they signed treaties thicker than steel. His throne was not gold but numbers, glowing on encrypted ledgers buried deep in Arctic servers.

Every country, every nation, and every prince—even the ones who once spoke of revolution and republic—came kneeling to him. For the crown meant nothing when it owed interest. Their flags became handkerchiefs, waved before the altar of liquidity. And he, Jacob, raised his gaze to the silent skies and said:

“Let them serve. Let them pay tribute, for I have tamed the earth.”

Children in the megacities heard no birdsong—only the hum of cooling towers and the buzz of commerce. The animals were extinct, yes, but so too was wonder. They knew nothing of wildness or instinct, only balance sheets and price points. And in that lifeless peace, Rothschild smiled.

His heart was lifted up.

And the Earth, so long trampled and eaten, lay quiet beneath his feet. A quiet that was not peace.

But profit.