Blackstone Code-Chapter 486: A New Term

“The unrest continues to intensify…”
In Governor Drag’s residence, people had gathered for what looked like a relaxed afternoon tea party. But unlike the calm demeanor of Governor Drag and Lynch, most others wore visible expressions of fear and anxiety.
The local police chief was ing the situation. Anticipating the riots, he had stationed police officers around the governor’s residence even before the chaos broke out—a routine precaution, given that the governor was the highest-ranking official in Magulana Province and absolutely could not afford to be compromised.
“Large crowds have already disrupted most foreign residential areas and even parts of the local wealthy districts. They’ve vandalized stores, looted goods, and set fires…”
The police chief felt a complicated mix of emotions. He was a member of a clan, though his position within it was marginal, which had led to his assignment here. As part of the ruling class, he felt a certain satisfaction upon hearing that the so-called “third ruling class”—the foreigners—were under attack. He had even sneaked a glance at Lynch and the other foreigners earlier.
But more than that, he felt fear. In his eyes lurked a ruthless determination. Once the emergency orders were lifted, he intended to make sure some people were reminded that this was not the free-spirited Federation—it was Nagaryll. Here, all must obey the lords and the will of God.
And the lords came before God.
The sight of the rabble raising their fists unsettled him. He broke out in a cold sweat just remembering how he used to drive them away with a baton, thinking himself brave. If even one of them had tackled him to the ground back then, he would have been torn to pieces.
Today, they attacked foreigners. Tomorrow, who’s to say they wouldn’t turn on the local elite? This trend had to be stopped—violently if necessary.
Lynch noticed the subtle shift in the chief’s expression. Holding his wine glass, he stood and turned to address the other foreigners in the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am deeply saddened and angered by this news.”
“Civilization is built brick by brick, but it only takes one wave of savagery to bring it all down. I propose, and will begin by donating, one hundred thousand Federal Sols to assist those who have suffered loss, lost loved ones, or are in need of help.”
Governor Drag, while not highly educated, had sharp instincts and political savvy—traits forged in the crucible of harsh struggles. He quickly followed, “I will donate ten million Valiers to support those in need.”
The two exchanged glances, their faces solemn, but behind their eyes flickered a shared and knowing smile.
With Lynch leading and the governor backing him, this was no longer just a suggestion—it had become a donation campaign. The foreigners in the room began calculating furiously, trying to decode the implications.
“I’ll donate twenty thousand Federal Sols…” said Fox Jr., drawing everyone’s attention.
No one in the room was truly poor—they could all spare some money. But they didn’t yet understand the nature of this donation. Unlike in the Federation, there was no tax rebate incentive here. If not for invisible rules back home, many of them would’ve donated their entire taxable income just to avoid taxes.
Here, donating came with no clear benefit. So how much was appropriate? What would they gain from it?
They waited, hoping someone would clarify—hoping Lynch would explain further.
Fox Jr.’s timely action spared Lynch from further coaxing. Lynch nodded slightly, then looked at the others. “Mr. Fox has donated twenty thousand Federal Sols. Are we to believe he is the only one here with a spirit of internationalism?”
Just then, someone unexpected stepped forward.
Penny walked up, locking eyes with Lynch and raising her eyebrows subtly. “I’ll donate my entire acting fee to help those in need!”
Lynch was a little surprised. To him, Penny had always seemed like a
plain cup
—young, modestly educated, from a middle-class background. Girls like her, without advanced education, usually ended up as decorative figures. But this move changed his view.
He was already planning how to spin this for the press: to show Nagaryll that Federation citizens were different—that even an independent woman was willing to donate. The local and foreign communities alike could benefit from the goodwill this created.
Just as people were still hesitating, two gunshots rang out outside—followed by over a dozen more. The police chief jolted and rushed out to investigate.
Lynch, however, didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t change. He smiled at the nervous crowd and said, “Miss Penny’s compassion is moving. I’m sure once this story reaches home, many more will become your fans.”
His calm voice pulled everyone back from the tense silence. He smiled and said casually, “Ladies and gentlemen, don’t be afraid. I give you my word—anyone who is my friend will not come to harm.”
Then, a thirty-something small businessman seemed to have an epiphany. He stepped forward, raised his hand, and shouted, “Mr. Lynch, I’ll donate… five thousand!” He looked pained and added, “That’s all I have right now, but I believe someone else needs it more.”
Lynch’s expression softened. He reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Your kindness would move even God. Thank you for your donation. If you have financial difficulties, go see President George at Gold Exchange Bank. Just mention my name—he’ll be happy to help.”
These small businessmen were no different from the now-dead Simon and his kind. Unable to find opportunities or secure contracts back home, they were on the brink of bankruptcy and had come to Nagaryll seeking new beginnings.
Unlike Lynch, Patric, or Wadrick, who were truly wealthy, even five or ten thousand was a lot for them. That five thousand was the man’s entire savings. He had left himself no safety net. Coming to a foreign land to start a business was already a gamble—now, he was just raising the stakes.
And he won.
If the bank agreed to finance him, he could soon build a factory here and mass-produce cheap goods for export.
Over the past two weeks, most of them had figured out how to make money here: near-free labor dramatically slashed costs.
Hiring 100 workers back in the Federation—including all living expenses—cost at least 25,000 per month, regardless of productivity. Even if the factory lost money, they couldn’t skip this payment, or the workers’ union would sue and demand compensation.
A factory had to earn over 40% net profit monthly just to break even—but what products could maintain such high profit margins over time? (This labor-heavy production model is one reason mechanization is pushed.)
None.
But here, everything was different. The margin allowed them to profit handsomely even from products that would lose money back home. Their real income came from exploiting the labor cost differential.
The bigger the factory, the more workers, the better. Even with less than 10% net profit, they could make a fortune.
As long as the bank loaned them money, the more, the better—because the more workers they hired, the more profit they could make.
This place was bursting with obscene profits.
The businessman whose hand Lynch shook was glowing with joy. His cheekbones lifted, his brows arched slightly, and his muscles involuntarily formed a broad, gleeful smile.
“Mr. Lynch, thank you so much. I can’t even begin to express how overwhelmed I am right now…” he said, bowing slightly while still tightly gripping Lynch’s hand, pouring out his surging emotions.
Lynch remained calm, his face bearing a knowing, restrained smile. There was a subtle arrogance in his demeanor, the quiet confidence of someone who held power over others’ fates. He resembled a king, an emperor, even a deity—seated high above the clouds, watching mortals at the foot of his divine throne express their joy, anger, sorrow, and delight.