The day after concluding matters with the Corleone Family, George received a call from Osborn, urgently requesting his return to school.
Upon returning the next day, George went straight to Osborn's office. As soon as he saw George at the door, Osborn pulled out a magazine. Back then, magazines closely resembled newspapers—thin, gray, and densely printed. He opened it to the first page—there it was, a research paper on Penicillin, with George listed as the primary author.
George took the magazine and looked at the title on the cover: The Lancet.
Indeed, it was this very medical journal that would become world-renowned in later generations. Though headquartered in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, The Lancet—as one of the four most prestigious medical journals—had an influence that was beyond imagination.
The Lancet is one of the oldest and most respected peer-reviewed medical journals in the world, primarily published by Elsevier, with some issues co-published by the Reed Elsevier Group. Founded in 1823 by Thomas Wakley, the journal publishes original research articles, review articles (including group discussions and critical reviews), editorials, book reviews, short research articles, and other recurring pieces such as special announcements and case reports.
Upholding the highest standards of medical science, The Lancet maintains exceptionally rigorous academic publication criteria, only accepting the most outstanding research papers from scientific scholars.
Because of its high impact factor, The Lancet enjoys a wide global readership. It is considered a "core" general medical journal, and in some respects, its influence in the medical community even surpasses Nature and Science.
This makes being published in The Lancet a truly rare honor.
For George, the recognition was deeply significant. According to Osborn, this achievement would be a powerful asset in their ongoing Penicillin patent application.
"George, congratulations!" Osborn said, unable to hide his admiration for the young man before him. Though he had personally overseen the entire experimental process, that very involvement made him acutely aware of the pivotal role George had played.
From the initial proposal and research direction to the methodology, troubleshooting, and eventual breakthrough, every step had George's fingerprints. While any biologist could have assisted in the experiment, Osborn's position as second author on this groundbreaking Penicillin research was, by his admission, largely a stroke of luck.
"Heh, we should be congratulating each other," George replied. "This research wasn't mine alone—it was a collective effort. Without the school's support and your guidance, Professor, it wouldn't have been possible."
Osborn shook his head. "Thank you, George. I know exactly how much I contributed. But thank you for giving me the chance to be part of it."
George chuckled. "Professor Osborn, it's a bit early to be saying that. There's still so much work ahead. Let's keep going strong."
"Heh, you're right. Let's keep at it!"
"Professor, I have a proposal—if I may?"
"Of course, George. You can always speak freely."
"Well, I'm thinking of starting a private biological research center. I'd like to invite you to join. Naturally, you don't need to worry about funding—I'll provide top-of-the-line research equipment and ample financial backing."
Osborn blinked, then leaned back in his chair, absorbing the weight of the offer.
"George... I've been in academia for twenty years. No one's ever made me an offer like that."
He smiled, not with surprise, but with quiet admiration.
"Truth be told, the university's been struggling to fund our lab for the last five years. If you're serious, then yes—I'd be honored."
"Alright, Professor Osborn."
At this stage, the research on Penicillin was essentially complete. The next objective was to develop a method to extract and mass-produce it safely and efficiently. With knowledge from his past life, George was fully confident in what lay ahead. As he had said before, he would not make anything public until the patent was secured.
After leaving the laboratory, George returned to his apartment near the school and immediately contacted his newspaper to arrange a special interview featuring the entire research team. Naturally, this included himself.
Such media coverage was more than just publicity—it was a protective measure George still found necessary. The following day, he, as the lead author of the paper, participated in the interview.
By the third day, newspapers were running extensive reports on Penicillin.
The materials George had prepared in advance ensured the coverage offered an in-depth look at Penicillin's potential. Combined with features from George's newspaper and eager coverage by others, the entire United States was once again abuzz with excitement.
Under George's guidance, the title "Father of Penicillin" began to circulate in headlines.
Of course, in later interviews, George publicly rejected the title. He repeatedly emphasized that the achievement was a collective one, made possible through the efforts of the school, Osborn, and many other colleagues.
Still, as media coverage continued to grow, more people began to see the significance of Penicillin from various perspectives.
The day after the feature ran, George received calls from the Morgan, Rockefeller, and DuPont families—each expressing their desire to collaborate.
George didn't accept or reject the offers outright. Instead, he stated that any cooperation would have to wait until the patent was officially approved. Meanwhile, the ripple effect of Penicillin's success only intensified.
George and Osborn were soon giving academic presentations at universities across the country. Newspapers revisited George's rapid rise, piecing together his story for the public. It was fair to say—George had now become one of the most celebrated young figures in America.
Naturally, some still questioned his academic abilities. But in discussion forums and academic exchanges, George's depth of knowledge won them over. Despite frequently leaving campus to manage business affairs, his clones studying in the library ensured that he returned with a formidable knowledge base, on par with any university professor.
Just like that, on the eve of an underground syndicate meeting, George requested a leave of absence from Osborn, citing urgent company matters, and left an intercollegiate seminar early.
His first stop was the Black Shield Security base. Ryan had just returned from San Francisco. Only he had come back; the security personnel remained stationed there. However, the base's current manpower—plus the 100 trainees from the Corleone Family—was sufficient for the upcoming operation.
Inside the Security Company's Strategic Research Room, Ryan and Tessio were huddled over a hand-drawn layout map. Ryan circled a specific location on the map using a thick graphite pencil, the mark dark and precise against the paper.
"We'll attack from here then."
George smiled. "This time, we're not eliminating them—just knocking them out. After all, they may soon be working for us."
The building's layout and conference location had, of course, been supplied by Vito Corleone, the Italian Mafia leader.
Ryan turned to George. "Should we lay the ambush in advance and strike as soon as they enter?"
George shook his head. "No rush. Let them all go in first, then surround and infiltrate from the perimeter. I want to see what our team members have learned from six months of training."
"Don't worry. You won't be disappointed."
George studied the graphite-marked map, a sharp gleam of anticipation in his eyes. "I look forward to their performance tomorrow."
__________________________________________________________________________
🧁 Interlude: "Bread, Boys, and Miracles"
June 6th, 1919 – Outside Cohen's Cake Shop, Brooklyn
The scent of cinnamon and yeast drifted out of Cohen's Cake Shop, mixing with the smoke of streetcars and the tang of coal dust. Joseph Rogers leaned against the brick storefront, apron dusted white with flour, reading a folded newspaper with quiet intensity.
"Miracle drug," he muttered, squinting at the headline. "Orwell's gone and cured death now?"
Beside him, George Barnes Sr. — delivery cap pulled low, sleeves rolled to the elbow — sipped weak coffee from a tin mug. "Saw the same piece this morning. Penicillin, right? Supposed to stop wounds from goin' bad."
"Yeah." Joseph tapped the paper. "Stops infection, they say. Fever too. Says Orwell showed it at Columbia. Had a professor with him. Real demonstration. Some sort of film reel."
George let out a low whistle. "Must be nice. Meanwhile, the doc down on 4th Street's still usin' whiskey and hope."
Joseph smirked, but it faded quickly. He looked across the street where his boy, Stevie, was sitting on the stoop with a book too big for his lap.
"If it's real," Joseph said, voice low, "maybe our boys grow up in a world where a cough ain't a death sentence."
George followed his gaze. His son, James—everyone called him Bucky—was perched on a railing, flipping a coin with some older kids.
"I'll take that," George said. "Hell, maybe they won't even need to go to war."
"Wouldn't that be somethin'," Joseph replied.
They stood in silence a moment, the city's noise softening behind the thought. A trolley bell rang. Somewhere down the block, a baby cried. In the bakery window, a cake shaped like an American flag slowly rotated on a wooden stand.
"You trust him?" George asked suddenly. "This Orwell kid?"
Joseph exhaled through his nose. "I trust results. That's more than most give us."
George nodded, then raised his mug. "To miracle drugs and kids who live long enough to use 'em."
Joseph clinked his coffee cup against it.
"Yeah," he said. "To that."