Blackstone Code-Chapter 571: Capitalists and Pleasure-Seekers Are Fundamentally the Same

In a corner of the restaurant, two well-known men were deep in conversation.
“…A lot of people are going to get hurt,” Mr. Patric said with a teasing smile.
He didn’t care about the fate of the natives. He had more or less figured it out—once the plan was set in motion, the Valier would instantly become actual worthless paper, no longer just a metaphor for worthlessness.
Worthless paper—truly worthless. And those holding it would suffer.
So who holds the most of it now?
Without a doubt: the Federal government, the Big Six banks, and insiders like Lynch.
But they wouldn’t be holding it for long. With the Valier rapidly appreciating, they weren’t losing money—in fact, they were making a fortune. Mr. Patric could already imagine what would come next: some fools would end up paying the bill for the whole operation.
That’s the core of finance, or capitalism itself: for someone to profit, someone else must lose. Wealth doesn’t appear out of thin air.
“Looks like starting today, I’ll have to start paying the workers in Federal Sols directly.”
His tone carried a trace of regret. Some workers still insisted on being paid in Valier, which had allowed the Joint Development Company to save money on wages.
But that couldn’t last forever. Even getting away with it for a month was already a win. Losing that edge didn’t matter much.
Overall, the meal had a pleasant atmosphere. After it ended, Mr. Patric promptly left—he’d picked up some intel from Lynch and needed his aides to analyze it.
Lynch strolled around the ship, took in the unpleasant sea breeze for a while, then returned to his room.
The night passed uneventfully.
The next day, Lynch took his assistant to the opera. The male lead was known as
the last shining light of the Federal opera scene
.
He was a man in his sixties, overweight, and tonight’s opera told a dramatic story of a king outwitting his corrupt ministers. The plot was intense and required strong stage presence—something not every performer could manage.
The performance reinforced the idea that rulers are always right, so only top-tier opera stars could carry such narratives convincingly.
As for the message? It was, of course,
correct
. The entire world seemed to agree—not just the Federation. Gephra was even more extreme in this regard.
To be fair, the
shining light
had a powerful voice that resonated with the audience’s emotions. Yet the opera world now faced a grim reality: no successors.
Young people preferred talent shows or contracts with entertainment agencies. They wanted the path of a pop star, not the discipline of opera.
Fewer and fewer people were willing to invest the time to master opera, which required years of refinement.
Being a pop star never demanded much talent—just a good-looking face could lead to overnight fame.
Opera singers, by contrast, usually didn’t hit their stride until their fifties. They had to discover their uniqueness, refine their temperament, build their artistic foundation, and perfect their vocal skills. Even general refinement mattered. You couldn’t mass-produce opera stars.
This made opera a difficult path, with little chance of stardom—many remained obscure their entire lives.
In earlier years, before television entered every home, opera still ruled. Back then, most opera professionals didn’t believe TV could challenge them.
TV shows and movies were considered lowbrow. The term
art
wasn’t even extended to these media.
And back then, they were right. Opera had firm control over the Federation’s audio-visual culture, backed by the elite. They had the status to dismiss newer media.
But opera training took too long, and appreciation of it required artistic literacy—something the lower classes often lacked.
By contrast, TV and film became beloved by the masses.
Eventually, opera was overtaken by what it once scorned as
unrefined forms
.
No need for powerful vocals, emotional intensity, complex plots, or the kind of insight only connoisseurs could grasp.
All it took was a TV screen or a big projector, a couch or a row of chairs, some fattening junk food, and a family could sit there for hours, giggling away.
Influence?
If you can’t reach the masses, what influence do you really have?
It was only natural that opera fell from grace.
Normally, an opera lasts close to three hours. Lynch watched with great focus, which surprised his assistant, Helen.
Opera demanded artistic literacy—something she herself struggled with. Lynch, a mere high school graduate, seemed deeply absorbed. It made her feel a bit ashamed, and she pushed herself to get more involved in the performance.
But what she didn’t know was that Lynch only looked attentive—his mind was elsewhere.
He had been reviewing everything that had happened and everything about to happen. Only after confirming there were no gaps or mistakes did he shift his focus back to the stage.
Just then, the final trembling note faded, and the audience rose to applaud. Lynch stood up with them, clapping along in confusion.
But his face revealed nothing of what he was really thinking. To better blend in, he even made a remark:
“Time really flies… Immersing myself in the ocean of art made me forget it altogether. I wish it could’ve lasted longer.”
Helen, and others nearby, were immediately awestruck by his refined taste. Some had wanted to complain about how boring it was—but now, they could only nod in agreement to appear cultured.
There’s no denying it—wealthy people and wealthy families know how to enjoy life. On a cruise ship, with no work to face, all they did was play, and play recklessly.
As long as you have money, the Federation is a paradise!
Lynch stayed aboard until the third day. Finally, Mr. Wadrick arrived, and the board meeting could begin—much to everyone’s relief.
The families of regular employees might enjoy the cruise, but for the board members, it was dull.
They’d seen better, more sophisticated entertainment. To them, this was just boring.
That afternoon, the Joint Development Company of Nagaryll officially held its new-year board meeting.
There were over a hundred shareholders—not including those who weren’t invited.
Only those holding more than one-thousandth of the shares were eligible to attend. Anyone below that threshold wasn’t qualified.
In the ship’s largest conference room, all shareholders sat around an enormous round table.Sometimes it’s hard to understand the Federation’s obsession with round tables and roundtable meetings. They could easily arrange rows of desks and chairs so people could sit separately, yet everyone insists on gathering around these massive circular tables—as if it gives them more of a sense of participation.
Lynch was also seated at the table. As he looked at the people in the distance, a smile suddenly spread across his face—he started laughing.
The man next to him didn’t know him well. They’d seen each other a couple of times on the ship, just enough to exchange nods.
Still, since they were both part of the Joint Development Company, there was a natural sense of closeness. The man, in his forties, watched Lynch laugh for a moment before giving in to curiosity. “Mr. Lynch, did something amusing just happen?”
When Lynch turned to look at him, he explained, “I just noticed—you were smiling and even laughing out loud.”
“Was I?” Lynch quickly apologized. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize I was being distracting. Truly, my apologies.”
The man hadn’t meant to blame him—just curious. “No need to apologize, Mr. Lynch. I was just wondering if you’d be willing to share?”
Socializing requires interaction. If two people sit next to each other and never speak, they’ll leave as strangers. But now, with a reason to talk and a thread to follow, conversation had begun.
“Of course,” Lynch replied. “I was just looking at everyone here, and this round table… do you know what it reminded me of?”
The man played along. “What?”
Lynch chuckled again. “A strip club.”
“They have tables just like this—maybe a bit smaller—and in the middle, there are poles or a few chairs. Some girls dance around in there…” His face lit up, animated like an excited teenager.
The man beside him froze for a second, then nodded thoughtfully. “That’s… profound, Mr. Lynch. But I have to admit, it’s a vivid image.”
“Right? That’s why I couldn’t help but laugh…”
Really, what’s the difference between the people sitting here and those in a strip club waiting for the
show
to begin?
Not much at all. Even their inner thoughts were similar—impatiently waiting for their desires to be fulfilled.
Some board members sitting nearby glanced over. Lynch quickly reined in the expression on his face that seemed ready to talk again. He gave a polite nod, then sat up straight, wearing a perfectly serious expression.