Blackstone Code-Chapter 488: Lackeys, the Big Picture, and Passing Marks

Seeing the enthusiastic response from the crowd and the butler posing as a journalist snapping pictures, all of this would make the front-page headline tomorrow.
And it wasn’t just going to be a local edition—it would be published globally. People around the world would witness Mr Lynch’s compassion and sense of duty. He had just arrived and was already organizing donations for the local victims. Such nobility was deeply moving.
The festive atmosphere made it easy to forget that the city outside was suffering from some terrible calamity. People vented all the anger, resentment, and negativity they had accumulated against society in that moment.
As night fell, more people poured out from every corner of the city. They covered their mouths and noses with whatever they had and joined this massive, chaotic movement.
The most prosperous districts of the city were completely looted. People didn’t even spare a single door panel. Driven entirely by desire, they resembled the mindless undead from horror novels.
Their only purpose was destruction.
Mayor Mishehaye, hiding in the basement of his home, had taken refuge the moment he learned of the unrest.
This riot couldn’t have come at a worse time. It would take time to restore order and restart production, and time was exactly what Mishehaye lacked.
He had previously offended Lynch. Without the riot, he might have slipped away before Lynch even thought of him.
But now, trapped by the chaos, if Lynch remembered him, it would spell serious trouble.
This was the tragedy of small men—used at will by those in higher positions, discarded once their value ran out. He didn’t believe Governor Drag would help him; after all, he belonged to a different clan.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. His butler soon informed him that the police chief was at the door.
After some hesitation, Mishehaye instructed the butler to let him in. Once inside, the police chief asked to speak with him privately.
Mishehaye led him into a study in the basement. Before he could adopt his usual mayoral authority, a gunshot rang out.
A gunshot doesn’t kill instantly.
There’s a process from life to death. Gephran biologists once conducted experiments with death row inmates who were promised benefits in exchange for participating in research.
The most famous was the decapitation experiment.
Generally speaking, after execution by beheading, the severed head would roll a few times. If this were a myth or a legend, perhaps a black dog would come and carry the head away.
But in the scientific version, heads were fixed on frames and quickly severed. Scientists would then ask questions, and the subjects would respond in whatever way they could—by looking left or right, for example.
The point was to prove that consciousness didn’t vanish immediately after beheading. It sounded cruel and boring, but it did provide valuable insights into biology.
Most participants retained cognitive function for a brief period—long enough to answer two or three questions—before blood loss and oxygen deprivation ended all activity.
So when Mishehaye was shot, he didn’t die instantly. Clutching his chest, he collapsed, grimacing in pain as he stared at the police chief, a man who once groveled before him.
More gunshots and a woman’s scream came from other parts of the basement, but everything fell silent within seconds.
“The Governor regrets that you made things difficult for Mr. Lynch. For the sake of Nagaryll-Federation friendship, and his own with Mr. Lynch, he asked me to offer his apologies,” said the police chief.
He adjusted his uniform, ensuring it looked sharp and composed.
Gasping for breath, Mishehaye rasped, “It was… Drag’s son who made me do it… not my choice.”
“But Mr. Lynch doesn’t know that!” the chief retorted, raising his gun. “Anything you want me to pass on? If not, I’ll send you to God now.”
Mishehaye knew he wouldn’t survive. He could feel blood filling one lung, making it harder to breathe. In a place like Nagaryll with poor medical care, he had no chance.
Smiling with morbid satisfaction, he said, “It’s me now—next, it’ll be you.”
The chief hesitated, then pulled the trigger repeatedly. Bullets tore apart the mayor’s once-arrogant face until only the click of an empty chamber remained.
He paused, then holstered his gun. Looking at the unrecognizable corpse, he shook his head. “I’m not you. You had some value. I’m just a dog.”
He left with a look that was somewhere between regret and relief.
The basement reeked of blood. Everyone inside was unmistakably dead.
Outside, police officers with blood-streaked faces and bulging pockets snapped to attention as the chief stepped out.
“I’ve inspected the scene. Mayor Mishehaye was attacked and killed by criminals. This is the most serious case in Magulana Province’s history. I swear before the gods, I will catch the culprits!” he declared.
The others, still gripping warm weapons, echoed his vow with pride and fervor.
Sunlight streamed in, glinting off their wide-brimmed hats and shining police badges.
Mishehaye’s death was not immediately disclosed. Even Drag and Lynch didn’t begin restoring order yet. They were still waiting.
Both men understood: stirring the lower class to revolt against the upper class was a strategy to completely reshuffle the deck.
The Federals had arrived—not as a rumor or metaphor, but as a tangible, unstoppable force.
Their first step was cleansing. The entrenched elites, unless aligned with them, would be swept away.
The city burned. The chaos spread. The underclass, finding no gains locally, moved to other cities in search of opportunity. The unrest might engulf all of Nagaryll.
Perhaps that’s what some people wanted. While they hesitated, Lynch lit the match.
Back in his room, Lynch, assisted by a maid, undressed and entered the bath.
Drag certainly knew how to enjoy life—partly due to local customs.
The forty-square-meter bath was filled with hot, slightly sulfuric spring water. A reclining groove allowed Lynch to lie in comfort without submerging completely. Cool breeze drifted in, the tropical jungle just beyond. Apart from the occasional mosquito, the setting was near-perfect.
He closed his eyes slightly, savoring the heat and ease. It nearly lulled him to sleep.
He was thinking about what came next. Disrupting the local power structure had always been part of his and the Joint Development Company’s plan.
If they didn’t dismantle the old, independent elite, they’d later waste endless time and effort battling entrenched factions.
So the best move was to ignite conflict immediately and force everyone to choose sides.
Those willing to cooperate would be given Federal status—a crucial shift. Once they became Federals, they’d never betray the corporation.
When locals realized their old rulers had abandoned them—and their gods—they too would relinquish loyalty.
The next step was to remove all opposition. Some wouldn’t even realize they had been forced to take sides. They wouldn’t know they had no real choice.
But that didn’t matter.
What mattered was the space—new space for a new group of Nagaryllians to rise, supported by Federals, becoming the new elite, even rulers. The Federals would…
Hiss—
Lynch’s muscles tensed, then relaxed.
He hadn’t opened his eyes, too deep in thought to notice someone else had entered the bath.
Ripples spread across the calm surface. The maids standing outside the bath blushed, watching curiously, half-embarrassed.
Lynch’s breathing deepened. Eventually, the water calmed.
“How much did little Fox pay you?” Lynch asked hoarsely. “Is there water?”
A maid quickly approached with a tray offering wine, fruit wine, juice, and flower tea.
He hesitated, then chose flower tea. Alcohol wasn’t good, despite its popularity. He’d seen what alcohol poisoning could do.
Many thought tremors were the worst part, but it was the brain damage that killed.
Juice was too sweet, favored by the young. Lynch, now a
man of age,
preferred milder tastes.
A flushed, slightly panting Penny lay beside him. Her cheeks glowed like they held the sunset.
“Thirty thousand,” she said breathlessly. “The agency takes two-thirds. The rest is mine.”
Lynch’s voice recovered, and he looked at the girl with some surprise. “They really care about you. I thought they’d pay you less than that.”
Turning an ordinary person with no entertainment experience into a star requires a lot from the agency—time, money, connections. Not everyone succeeds or makes the agency their money back. That’s why, at first, a large portion of the artist’s earnings goes to the agency.
Only when artists become popular do they renegotiate their share, eventually taking just 5 to 10 percent. Given Penny’s current influence, she probably wouldn’t even get a third.
Penny smirked and reached for a tropical fruit from the basket by the bath. She bit into it, juice spraying everywhere. “Because they think I can become a big star, my initial contract was a bit better than others.”
She leaned closer, tilting her head as she stared at Lynch’s handsome face lying in the water, lost in thought.
But she quickly snapped out of it, biting her lip and asking, “How was I this time? Did I mess up?”
Lynch thought for a moment and replied, “Honestly, you were a bit unskilled at first, but it got better. I’d give you a passing grade.”
“What?”
“Just a passing grade?”
“I think I did pretty well!”