Blackstone Code-Chapter 640: Unrestrained

“Mr. Lynch, we’ve been expecting you. Please, come in,” the president of the chamber of commerce said, forcing an invitation despite the unpleasant look on his face.

Lynch took his time surveying the surroundings. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and placed one between his lips.

Tss—his assistant struck a match and shielded the flame as he brought it to Lynch.

Under the soft lighting, Lynch’s face was bathed in the match’s glow—a sharp, vivid red that momentarily outshone the electric lights.

He took a few slow drags and exhaled smoke. “I’m not from Gephra…”

The president turned to look at the sign, then exploded with anger. “Who put this here? Take it away, now!”

Storming down the steps, he stopped in front of Lynch. “My deepest apologies, Mr. Lynch. It seems we’ve made a mistake. I sincerely apologize.”

“But please believe me—this was not intentional…”

With the president having stepped down, the others had no choice but to follow, even though the platform wasn’t very high.

From looking down, to standing level, to now seemingly being looked down upon—the change in the merchants’ expressions was fascinating.

“I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding,” Lynch said as he shook hands with the president. After a few polite exchanges, the president led him up the steps.

Under the heavy, unreadable stares of the crowd, Lynch entered the building.

The merchants exchanged glances before following. Tonight’s banquet had been arranged specifically to welcome Lynch.

Compared to other federal businessmen, Lynch held a unique status—he was a baron of the Empire, a noble of Gephra.

However, this title had only been announced by the emperor; the formal investiture had not yet occurred. None of the ceremonial proceedings had taken place.

In Gephra, noble titles were usually granted in the autumn, a season symbolizing harvest—of grain, titles, or abstract rewards.

Historically, investitures involved granting land. If done in spring, it would interfere with planting; in summer, the current landholders would resent losing a half-year’s worth of effort. But after the autumn harvest, it became easier to assign new lords.

Even though the Empire no longer had true feudal estates, many of the customs remained.

It was still summer. Lynch could only be called a prospective baron. Without the official ceremony, he was not yet fully a noble of the Empire.

This was part of why the merchants dared to try and embarrass him. Behind them stood numerous other nobles—complicated, entrenched power structures that a federally-born noble couldn’t easily disrupt.

Moreover, everyone knew Lynch’s title wasn’t easily earned. A foreigner being made a noble was already strange, and since the emperor had initiated it on his own, people had plenty of reason to speculate.

The house wasn’t particularly luxurious—it was a local building repurposed for their use. More suitable properties were given to officials, while the rest were handed over to the garrison.

Still, the interior had been renovated, giving it a much-improved appearance.

Led by the chamber president, Lynch walked through a corridor into a large hall.

The moment Lynch’s right foot crossed the threshold, the conductor raised his baton, and a light, cheerful melody burst forth.

With the music, the entire hall seemed to come alive.

Attendants brought in trays of food. Ladies in elegant gowns entered with practiced grace. Though just a simple banquet, the scene felt fundamentally different from those in the Federation.

Everything here followed strict rules—from the orchestra to the attendants to the guests. It was a stark contrast to the carefree chaos of a federal event.

This difference in structure and spontaneity was the clearest cultural gap between the two nations—one bound by rigid hierarchy, the other by unrestrained freedom.

“Allow me to introduce…,” the chamber president stood in the crowd, speaking to those who hadn’t come out to greet them. “This is our Empire’s newest noble, a baron from the Federation—Mr. Lynch.”

What kind of joke was that?

Lynch didn’t believe for a second that a grown man could accidentally phrase things so poorly. It was clearly deliberate. He didn’t respond immediately, instead greeting the crowd with polite nods and eye contact.

“Mr. Lynch, would you say a few words for us?” the president said with a smile. Another trap.

They didn’t believe Lynch knew this place well, certainly not like he had with Nagaryll. Here, he didn’t even have friends.

Alone in a room full of Gephrans, what could he say?

Probably some generic flattery, trying to appeal to the crowd. And if he did, he’d lose.

Watching the glint in the president’s eyes, Lynch understood. This wasn’t some underhanded scheme—it was a blatant trap.

Even if you saw it coming, you couldn’t avoid it.

He looked around the room, half-smiling. “What should I say?”

Without waiting for a response, he continued, “I’m not sure what I should say. I’m not someone who fakes sentiment. I won’t betray my principles just to please others.”

“I know you don’t like me. It’s not just me—you don’t like the Federation or its people. Because we just did something unforgivable.”

“And now, I’m here to do something else you’ll see as unforgivable—and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Like a thunderclap, the polite mask was torn away.

Looking at the stunned, angry, uncomfortable, confused faces around him, Lynch didn’t feel a hint of regret. In fact, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

Would pandering words have earned their acceptance?

No. Absolutely not. They would’ve only banded together more tightly to reject him.

If humiliating himself wouldn’t change their stance—then why bother?

Whether Lynch said something pleasant or harsh, these people would oppose him regardless—so there was no need for pretense.

He had deliberately used the word unforgivable—the very word the Emperor of Gephra had roared in the imperial hall upon learning his fleet was nearly annihilated. Unforgivable!

Lynch used that same word without hesitation, to make clear why he was here—and again, to declare what he intended to do.

He was here to take profits from their pockets. To these merchants, that was unforgivable.

No flattery. No subtle games. Just direct confrontation.

Even the music in the hall wavered slightly, as if shaken by his words.

Surrounded by enemies, Lynch stood tall—calm, confident, and smiling. Few could hold his gaze for more than a second before looking away, unable to withstand the intensity in his eyes.

“Mr. Lynch…” the chamber president faltered. He’d expected polite, diplomatic words—perhaps something about shared prosperity.

After all, Lynch was unfamiliar with the area; vague, agreeable talk would have been understandable. Such words could be spread, twisted, and used to paint Lynch as someone aligning with local interests—appeasing the empire.

A Federation man bowing to Gephra—that’s exactly the kind of spectacle the lords back home wanted.

But Lynch hadn’t just fired shots at everyone present—he’d even fired at the Empire itself.

What the hell?

Was the bastard drunk?

Yet nothing in his composed, handsome face showed it.

The chamber president didn’t know what to say next. He tried to interject—“I…”

But Lynch cut him off, raising a hand and placing it on his arm to stop him.

“I know what you want to say. I understand perfectly.”

“I didn’t come here just to shake hands, drink wine, exchange pleasantries, and then leave.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I came here to do business. I came to compete with you for this market. Nationality, ideology—we are not on the same side. That makes us both partners and rivals.”

“I hope we can respect each other, show our strength, and meet on the ‘battlefield’ that belongs to us—fighting with everything we have.”

“No matter who wins or loses.”

He shot a sidelong glance at the chamber president.

“And not resort to petty tricks that only make us look pathetic to each other.”