Blackstone Code-Chapter 437: Want to Make Money?

“Life’s twists and turns are truly strange!”

Watching Asel from a distance, Lynch felt something almost absurd.

A few months ago, Asel was furious here, seeing his fellow countrymen suffering physical harm and exploitation due to poverty and other reasons.

His anger burned wildly, like a wildfire blazing across the sky—reckless and fierce.

But just months later, Asel seemed to have begun accepting this life.

There was no real choice. The shift from barbarism to civilization takes centuries, a gradual accumulation from quantity to quality.

But to go from civilization back to barbarism, all it takes is abandoning personal morals and ethics.

At first, Asel was furious. He thought this was wrong, even blaming his family—they were profiting by exploiting ordinary people’s health, which was shameful.

If these merchants operated in the Federation, they’d likely rot in jail!

He tried to offer redemption—talking to workers, giving out rubber gloves.

Though rubber gloves couldn’t fully protect the workers’ hands—some detailed work wasn’t suited for gloves—they could reduce the harmful effects of chemical corrosives on their bodies and wounds.

Asel vaguely recalled that heavy metals in chemicals could cause irreversible damage once absorbed into the body.

He hoped to save his family’s conscience, and protect these workers’ health, one pair of gloves at a time.

But soon he realized it was useless. Workers hid the gloves at home or sold them; they kept working as before.

He tried persuading them, explaining the dangers, desperately searching in their eyes for any sign of understanding—but all he found was deep, hidden mockery.

They saw him as a fool who didn’t understand life.

Why was society like this?

Before, he hadn’t felt such ideological complexity, but now he did. Everything here felt wrong—perhaps because he was used to life in the Federation.

The process—from anger and confusion, to disillusionment, habituation, then acceptance—was brief.

When most people don’t see themselves as human, treating them as such only makes you seem crazy.

When Lynch met Asel again, he no longer spoke of unrealistic changes; he’d grown used to his new role—as Lynch’s agent.

Now, standing amid a crowd, Asel loudly announced the job requirements. The area was packed, people crowding every house, tree, and corner.

For locals, foreign factories were the most desirable places to work.

First, joining a foreign factory guaranteed at least one free set of clothing—durable and sturdy.

Second, foreign factories provided a meal, a blessing for the poor people of Nagaryll who often only ate once a day.

They didn’t have to scavenge alongside wild dogs, and could eat in clean places.

Finally, foreigners paid cash—real cash!

Cash had great value in Nagaryll society; it allowed families to shop directly instead of bartering household goods, hoping to trade for what they needed. ṛＡΝỒᛒƐᶊ

Foreign factories offered better benefits than local ones—more protective gear, even if no wages were paid, it was still a gain.

So when Asel announced recruitment, word spread quickly. Crowds surged from nearby areas.

He read the standards as the crowd swelled.

Lynch watched from the second floor of a foreign-owned café nearby. This was the city and provincial center, home to many settled foreigners, but it couldn’t hide the pervasive poverty.

It was Lynch’s second day here. The day before, he had met with the Magulana governor and reached a good consensus.

For the governor, the challenge wasn’t balancing power, religion, and new capital, but gaining as much benefit as possible before losing his authority.

The Nagaryll Joint Development Company—born from recent meetings and banquets in Eminence—was a special firm with no real assets: no factories, no sales channels, not even products. Yet Lynch, Mr. Wadrick, and others held significant shares.

This company represented a new kind of monopoly, more stringent and ruthless than the crude control of the Preyton Trading Company.

The Drag governor also held shares, seeking yearly dividends. Now a Federation citizen, he no longer cared about his provincial status.

Once, he might have enjoyed his power despite religious constraints, using it to live well here.

But now it was different. The Federation’s arrival would rapidly dismantle the local native ruling class’s defenses. He chose the right side, even investing in Lynch’s company through influence.

At this moment, Lynch waited for someone. Before arriving in Nagaryll, he had called Herbes—the international banker, Herbes Zizifonko.

Lynch planned to ease his funding shortage by leveraging international speculators, needing cooperation from bankers like Herbes.

Just before arriving, he’d told Herbes they had matters to discuss, withholding specifics to avoid surprises.

International bankers were little different from speculators—chasing profit without regard for politics, nationality, or morality—only money.

They were less reckless than speculators, and had strong cash reserves, hence they became bankers while others turned into wild dogs.

As Lynch watched Asel begin selecting workers, a rare luxury car bumped slowly along the dusty provincial capital’s center—a city center still unpaved, a joke to anyone who knew.

The car moved slowly to avoid shaking its passengers too much.The car slowly stopped outside the café, and a ceremonial staff first emerged from the door.

The staff’s base, made from some animal bone, was wrapped in a brass ring. The shaft was inlaid with numerous gemstones. The top, crafted from a joint of the bone, was carefully finished by artisans with a platinum coating, adorned with a circle of sapphires and some scattered diamonds—extremely luxurious.

Next came Mr. Herbes’s hand holding the staff, then his hat, and finally himself.

He held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as he quickly entered the café. The moment he stepped inside, he lowered the handkerchief but his expression remained uneasy—the stench was everywhere.

“This place is terrible!” Herbes complained. “It’s so foul. Do these people always soil their pants and never bathe?”

He shook Lynch’s hand as he entered but didn’t stop grumbling.

Since stepping off the ship, the smell had clung to him. It was mid-September, the hottest time of the year, and all the stench seemed to gather here.

They said whenever a cruise ship docked, some tourists would come ashore to experience local customs, but most would be frightened by the smell and run straight back to the ship without looking back.

Lynch agreed with the complaint. “Once you get used to it, you don’t notice the smell—just like I do now.”

Herbes frowned slightly. “Why should I have to get used to it?” He pulled the handkerchief away and wiped the sweat streaming down his face. “Damn it, is there no air conditioning or cooling here?”

No one would buy air conditioning or fans in a place where power outages were frequent.

Herbes watched the once-white handkerchief quickly turn yellow and grew more upset. This place wasn’t just smelly, it was filthy. In less than ten meters—from the car to the café and up to the second floor—he’d already collected a layer of dust on himself.

He was a prince. Though his kingdom was small, he was still a prince. Even if he didn’t wash his feet in milk, he at least maintained basic cleanliness. When had he ever encountered such conditions?

Annoyed, he put away the handkerchief; wiping only made him dirtier. Experienced as he was, he said, “Let’s keep this brief. Next time you contact me, pick a better place. I know some decent islands.”

“So, why bring me here? What’s the matter?”

After watching the other man’s little performance for several minutes, Lynch calmly asked, “Want to make money?”