Blackstone Code-Chapter 452: I’m a Reasonable Man

There was no hum of electronics in the city, no roar from factories, no constant whoosh of tires or engines on the roads—everything was eerily quiet.

And in that silence, the gunshot rang out even louder, echoing from a distance.

The Nagarylls who had been smashing and prying at the container froze as if someone had hit the pause button. Even the bystanders shrank back and moved farther away to watch.

Lynch slid the pistol back into the sergeant’s side holster and gave a simple order, “Control them.”

The sergeant signaled, and several soldiers ran over from the trucks, surrounding the ringleaders.

With more than a dozen guns pointed at them, even these uneducated Nagarylls understood well what a small-caliber bullet could do to the human body. They didn’t dare run. They stood there, frozen.

The police chief flinched slightly and lowered his head, standing humbly behind Lynch, trying to offer an explanation.

He had wanted to explain earlier, but Lynch’s actions had interrupted him. “Mr. Lynch…”

Lynch ignored him. With a flick of his hand, the police chief flinched, thinking Lynch was going to strike him.

At that moment, part of him almost hoped Lynch would slap him.

Not because he had some strange fetish, but because if Lynch struck him, it would symbolically erase all the mistakes he had made. After all, once Lynch had punished him, he wouldn’t need to take responsibility anymore. It would all be on someone else. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

His instinctive flinch, retreat, and bowed head weren’t just fear—they were also due to hesitation. Being slapped by a foreigner in front of his subordinates, even if that foreigner was powerful, would not be seen as the foreigner overstepping. People would only say he, the police chief, lacked dignity.

Such is the cruel nature of this world—double standards, always harsher on one’s own.

But Lynch hadn’t intended to hit him. He simply raised his hand to pull out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

Even this small gesture completely silenced the police chief, rendering him speechless and stuck—unable to stay, yet unsure how to leave.

By now, the rioters near the container had been subdued. The sergeant opened the container door, and out stepped Nail, his head covered in blood. The police chief knew things had gone terribly wrong.

He hadn’t known Nail was Lynch’s father. If he had, this would never have happened.

Nail wasn’t the kind of person to flaunt his identity or brag about it. He had fairly normal values. Unlike some hot-tempered man who would erect statues at the town entrance to let everyone know who his son was, Nail never did that.

For those statues, there was one of him and one of his remarkable son. On the young man’s statue pedestal, he had the stonemason carve the name Dulin, and on his own pedestal, he wrote, This is Dulin’s father.

That eccentric old man was amusing in his own right, but Nail was different. He was a reserved man who had grown a bit self-indulgent after gaining wealth, still adjusting to his new life. He had never broadcasted that Lynch was his son. He saw himself as just another man.

Now, supporting his head, he stepped out of the container, glanced around, and walked over to Lynch with an awkward, almost guilty smile. “Sorry, I messed up.”

Lynch had warned him, but Nail hadn’t realized how serious things could get or how extreme people’s reactions would be.

It wasn’t entirely Nail’s fault—he was simply too kind. He likely still didn’t understand what had really triggered this.

But Lynch could see through it all. These girls, and the so-called brothers around them, were after something specific—someone in the camp, a foreigner. ꭆ𝒶ℕȪᛒЁS

To put it simply, Lynch had once visited a place called Paradise Town, where a foreigner’s presence alone would draw swarms of women—women who, in their own country, might have seemed unattainable. Their warmth matched the tropical heat, almost suffocating in its intensity.

To a foreigner, it was paradise. But to the locals, especially the women, it was hell.

Their only hope was that some foreigner, in their brief stay, might look down and notice them. And maybe—just maybe—buy them a ticket out.

These girls, like the one nervously eyeing Lynch now, were no different. They wanted out. So did the young men beside them.

But they couldn’t leave. Not because the Nagaryll government forbade it, but because they couldn’t afford even a one-way ticket off this land.

To the ambitious youth of Nagaryll, this place was a prison. Foreigners might see it as paradise, but for the locals, it was purgatory.

With no proper education, no opportunities, and a society that offered nothing, they watched their lives rot away. The men scraped by farming; the women might resort to prostitution, often paid not in cash, but in essentials—food, supplies, maybe even disease.

This was a society decaying in quiet desperation, hoping to be reborn into a better life.

Then the foreigners arrived. This was their chance. Grab just one, and you might escape. Escape, and maybe others could too.

If asked what hope meant, they might not know the word—but they knew its shape: foreigners.

Lynch understood. He sympathized. And in that moment, he felt like laughing.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked.

Nail nodded, then shook his head. The bleeding had stopped. Calling a doctor now would just make his subordinates laugh at him.

He wasn’t a college grad in an office. He was a worker. And for men like him, injuries were a daily occurrence.

“I could use a cigarette more than a doctor.”

Lynch lit one for him. As they smoked, he asked, “Who started this?”

Nail waved over a timid young man. The unexpected outbreak had clearly terrified him.

Before the boy reached them, Nail asked, “What are you going to do?”

Lynch smiled. “Help him build a family here.”

Nail looked at him in confusion. “But he’s already married—with a wife and kids.”

Lynch scoffed. “But he can’t keep his own damn hands to himself!”

The young man in question—though actually older than Lynch—still gave off an immature, inexperienced vibe.

As soon as he approached, Lynch grabbed him by the collar, slapped the back of his neck, and dragged him toward the container. Without warning, he kicked the back of the man’s knees.

The man collapsed with a thud, kneeling on the ground. His face flushed red, then quickly turned pale.

A crowd of locals had gathered around. The gunshot had drawn even more from farther away. Most of the unemployed Nagarylls had nothing but time to watch a scene unfold.

Without this many people, the matter would have been simple to resolve. But with so many eyes on them, things got complicated.

A single misstep—anything that didn’t look proper—and the Youth Party would stir up another storm.

Lynch hadn’t come to Nagaryll to fix petty drama. He came to make money. And anything—or anyone—that stood in the way of that would be swept aside. If something didn’t interfere with his business, maybe he’d pause for a moment. But only a moment.

He glanced around, then gestured to the trembling girl nearby. She hesitated for a long time before finally forcing herself to walk forward and stop a short distance from Lynch. She didn’t dare look at him—instead, she stared angrily at the man on the ground.

“I’ve heard the cause, the story, and now I see the result…” Lynch’s voice carried far. Like seasoned public speakers, he knew how to project—how to throw his voice to the edges of the crowd.

The wind was the only sound in the camp now, with countless eyes fixed on him.

“I’m a fair man. A reasonable man. I never take sides.”

“I’m giving this young woman, and this man, a choice. A fair choice.”

Lynch looked down at the man. “Whatever happened between you two, now that you want to walk away—it’s not that simple.”

“Leave behind an arm. Or a ball. That’s the price for your sin.” He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the distance. “Or… you marry the girl.”