Blackstone Code-Chapter 561: Foolish and Glorious

There was a loud bang as something heavy hit the ground, and the impact was strong enough that it could be felt through the floor.
Some guests walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked outside. After a brief silence, the street erupted with the screams of women.
This celebration hosted by Ferrell was held at a hotel. He didn’t own a large enough house, mansion, or estate in Sabin to host so many guests—doing it at home would have made him look inadequate.
So he chose the Sabin Hotel for the event. The hotel manager, showing great tact, waived all fees and even provided plenty of alcohol, drinks, catering, a band, and two singers—a man and a woman.
The room they selected overlooked the busiest intersection outside the hotel. That’s when people realized someone had jumped.
It wasn’t a rare occurrence. Last year saw even more jumpers. But witnessing it in person still stirred something in these wealthy guests—something they wouldn’t admit.
The woman who softly gasped, “How terrifying,” had a glint of excitement in her eyes that gave her away. Not far from her, a man loosened his tie, eyes locked on the jumper, his breath shallow, pupils dilated—not from fear.
Everyone reacted differently. Ferrell was curious too. He had seen things like this before, though back then, he was the one handling the aftermath—minimizing the impact, managing negative press. Now, with his status changed, he found it oddly interesting. Holding his wine glass, he stood at the window, watching the jumper’s twitching body below.
The man had picked a poor place to jump. The hotel’s main building wasn’t tall enough for instant death. The pain of a shattered body would last anywhere from several seconds to half a minute. He would’ve been better off choosing a different way out.
“I know him…” someone exclaimed. “He started a company. I heard it just went bankrupt and got liquidated.”
Faces that had moments ago shown schadenfreude now turned somber. Most guests were businessmen. They felt an uneasy empathy—no one could say for sure they wouldn’t take the same path one day.
It was still better than the early days of the financial crash, when the rooftops of every skyscraper in Eminence had queues—people had to wait their turn to jump.
Someone once described that day in abstract terms:
“People were like a feast for God and the Devil—slammed into the ground by invisible forces, turned into bloody meat patties, splashed with tomato sauce.”
Lynch also walked to the window, gave the now-lifeless body a glance, and raised an eyebrow.
“You know him?” Ferrell asked, noticing something odd in Lynch’s reaction.
Lynch shook his head. “No. Just reminded me of a guy who once told me he’d rather go to hell than sell me his factory.”
Ferrell laughed. “Who would refuse you? Even I, who don’t do business, know that selling off assets while they still have value is the smartest move.”
They clinked glasses and took a sip.
“That’s why you’re more suited to politics than capitalism,” Lynch said seriously, setting down his glass.
There are two kinds of business that are truly secure.
The first is policy-driven business—where you need people in high places. Knowing where a country or region will invest next, even before the news breaks, allows you to snatch up resources for cheap. Once the policy drops, the value of those assets skyrockets.
The second is over-investment. Not the best term, but it fits. These companies don’t stay afloat because they know how to avoid losses—they can simply afford them. Like Mr. Wadrick buying a film studio for his daughter—even if it loses money for decades, he can keep it running.
Other than these two, every business is a gamble—on an uncertain future, on whether one can survive until the dawn.
Some succeed. Most fail. Miracles are rare. Economic recovery doesn’t come in a few days or months—it can take years.
Those who can’t see that, like the man on the ground, will simply disappear—maybe get a small mention in tomorrow’s paper, then be forgotten by society.
Even his wife, children, and family will move on soon after the grief passes.
Lynch looked at the body and shook his head slightly. Suicide—the stupidest way to solve a problem.
What he didn’t know was that another man was currently on the roof, also preparing to jump. But seeing the mangled corpse below had drained him of courage.
He gripped his fedora tightly—so hard the brim was bent out of shape.
The wind howled across the rooftop. Though it was already January, the temperature had dropped further.
Suddenly he sneezed—either from standing too long or from the cold wind—and the force of it made him dizzy.
In that moment, as his eyes shut and air rushed from his lungs, he felt a wave of vertigo that scared him into falling to his knees, frozen in fear.
When he finally recovered, he looked once more at the man who, just moments earlier, had chatted with him, and now lay like trash being bagged up. He felt a deep sorrow.
He also saw several police officers heading up to the roof.
A chill ran through him. He turned quickly toward the stairs—he couldn’t afford to be caught up in this. They might think he pushed that fool off the building.
Surely they wouldn’t be that stupid… right?
He hurried toward the stairwell, the panic on his face a far cry from the rage he had shown earlier, yelling at Lynch,
To hell with you and your greed!
As he descended, he ran into the officers coming up. They gave him a quick once-over. He smiled and nodded. Just as they were about to pass each other:
“Sir, were you just on the rooftop?”
“Rooftop?” The old man turned and exaggerated his surprise. “Of course not. At my age, why would I be somewhere so cold?”
The officer squinted at him, then smiled. “Did you see anyone suspicious?”
He shook his head again. “Didn’t notice anyone.”
“All right. Sorry to bother you. Take care, sir.”
After the old man left, one of the officers bent down and picked up a small pebble. With a knowing look, he said, “Follow him. His knees have dirt on them, and this pebble likely came from the rooftop. I bet there are plenty more like it up there…”
The old man had no idea that despite fleeing quickly, he was now a key suspect. Nor did he know that the incompetent officers at Sabin’s police department had recently been fired due to a strike.
Now, the ones on duty were either recently discharged soldiers—still sharp and efficient—or seasoned detectives. In short, he was very unlucky.
In the Federation, anything tied to homicide is a serious crime. Even if he’s innocent, the legal process won’t go easy on him. He’ll need a lawyer—and that alone will cost a fortune.The gentlemen in the building quickly shook off the heavy mood. After all, they were gathered to celebrate Ferrell’s appointment—albeit temporary—as Mayor of Sabin City.
The band resumed playing, the singers launched into soulful renditions of classical music. Amid the opulence and intoxication, people wore hollow smiles and raised their glasses high, as if they were still living in the
golden age
of a few years ago.
At dawn, a thin worker with a tool bag on his back bid a cheerful farewell to his wife and children. After nearly a year or two, he had finally found new work.
Following screening by the city hall and the workers’ union, families most in need were prioritized for the available jobs.
Never had these workers craved employment so badly. In the past, they hated working a full eight-hour day—stealing two hours for slacking off if they could, pretending to work if they couldn’t.
Now, ten-hour shifts didn’t faze them. Even twelve hours was considered fair.
They lined up at the factory gate, showing their work permits—small booklets with photos and embossed seals, proving they were legitimate employees.
This seemingly harsh and freedom-defying measure was implemented after it was discovered that some people had tried sneaking into the factory for work.
To prevent such incidents, photo ID work permits were created and issued.
Only with a permit could one enter and work. In the past, such a permit would’ve been seen as a symbol of capitalist oppression.
Now, it stood for honor and pride.
It was harsh—but it was real. And no one was laughing.