Blackstone Code-Chapter 655: Forming Factions

“You’ve earned my friendship, Director,” Lynch said before getting out of the car.

The Federal Tax Bureau was indeed a sharp and effective blade—but a blade has no mind of its own. As long as it’s taken from another’s hand, even if not used for oneself, at least it stops being a threat.

As for sayings like the blade is part of the hand—anyone who believes that clearly never thought about how people with blade-hands go to the bathroom.

Outside the car, the moonlight and neon illuminated Lynch’s face. He smiled and waved goodbye to the Deputy Director in the driver’s seat.

“Thank you for understanding me and what I said. Also, I suggest delaying certain things…”

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner. Goodbye, Director.”

At that moment, a car without plates sped up and stopped by the curb. Lynch stepped inside, and it quickly disappeared into the night.

The Deputy Director looked down at the sticky soda all over him and the soaked fried chicken. He slapped the steering wheel hard, the car horn drowning out the curses from his mouth. Then he angrily threw the entire food tray out the window.

It was unclear if he was cursing the food—or Lynch.

Everything was under control.

At the same time, a man named Dyson, just under sixty, was on top of a woman in her late thirties or early forties, sweating as he exercised. The woman lying beneath him showed no expression. Her eyes were vacant, soulless—like something inside her was gone.

Dyson had lucked out a couple of years ago when someone interesting pulled him in to register a company. He received a 1% share every month but had no control over the business.

He’d heard of arrangements like this. At the time, he was still a homeless man, and among the homeless there were all kinds of talents. He knew exactly what it meant.

He didn’t mind even if he ended up in prison. His life had always been hard—every extra day of comfort was a gift.

Since then, he’d been receiving thousands or even tens of thousands in dividends monthly. He sometimes thought about pushing for more—after all, the company bore his name. But that thought always stopped there. He knew he was no match for those people.

With money, his life got better. He rented a large house near a park where many homeless people gathered. The real estate market had cooled, and nice homes were cheap to rent.

He also formed a family. At the start of last year, a mother and daughter came to the park—one around forty, the other under twenty. The younger one seemed mentally impaired, supposedly from a high fever. She had no ability to work and received less than $40 in disability assistance each month from the city.

The mother had been abandoned by her husband, lost her job, and had her assets seized by the bank. She ended up on the streets.

She’d tried selling herself to provide for her daughter, but the men wanted both.

After learning this, Dyson took them in. He gave them a place to live, hot water, regular meals, and even occasional pocket money. In return, they cleaned the house, and the older woman offered him what warmth she could.

Exhausted from exercise, Dyson sat beside the woman and chugged from a bottle of alcohol.

Just then, the mentally impaired daughter walked in, smiling foolishly as she stared at them from the doorway.

The woman hastily pulled the blanket over herself and scolded the girl, who eventually left.

Watching her wobbling figure exit, Dyson swallowed hard and glanced at the woman. “So, have you thought about what I said?”

Her eyes, once blank, now glinted with alarm. “I’m not ready. I really can’t accept something like that!”

“Better me than someone else,” he said bluntly. “Let’s face it—she’s never going to marry a normal man. At best, it’ll be another homeless guy in the square or the park. Or worse, she’ll end up as a toy passed around.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for her to be treated gently by me than abused by others? And besides…”

He drank again. “I don’t have a wife or kids. When I die, everything I have will go to you two. At least that gives you a stable life.”

“Think it over. But my patience has limits.”

With that, he got dressed, grabbed his bottle, and left the room. The woman sat on the bed, her face full of pain.

His purpose for taking them in was to have both mother and daughter. He’d waited long enough.

As Dyson reached the park, other homeless people greeted him warmly. He was somewhat of a local figure.

No one knew how he got rich, but he never forgot his old friends, often bringing alcohol to share. They liked him.

Most homeless people weren’t just broke—they were alcoholics.

After wandering around and saying goodbye to his friends as evening fell, he headed home, his mind full of alcohol—and that young, burning body.

The forbidden feeling, though perhaps nonexistent, still stirred something in him. He felt flushed, dry-mouthed.

He wouldn’t wait any longer. Tonight was the night. Even if he had to use force. He’d spent enough on them—enough to keep a stripper on retainer at a club.

He gripped his bottle and took another swig.

His face was red—almost unnaturally dark. It was unclear if it was the lighting or just the grime on his face.

At the last intersection, less than twenty meters from his home, a sudden pain struck his waist. He walked two more steps before realizing it.

He reached down and felt something hot and wet—blood. Looking down, he saw red. Spinning around, he felt searing pain at his lower back, like boiling water had scalded him.

Terrified, he turned to see a boy—just twelve or thirteen.

The kid wore a tan-yellow plaid cap and a brown-gray vest. In his hand was a sharp knife.

He stabbed Dyson a few more times. Blood gushed faster. Dyson staggered, barely able to walk straight, and collapsed after a few steps. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

The boy approached, searched his pockets, took some money, then calmly walked away, knife in hand.

About five minutes later, police found Dyson lying on the roadside.

He didn’t resist or struggle. When he saw the police arrive, he even voluntarily dropped the knife, knelt on the ground, and raised both hands.

He remained silent throughout. The police pinned him down, cuffed him, and threw him into the car.

Without a doubt, it was another robbery-homicide.

In today’s deep economic decline, with unemployment on the rise, incidents like this had become far more common than usual. Many people had lost the means to survive and were forced to take desperate measures.

Better others suffer than dying themselves—it’s selfish, it’s criminal, but it’s also the instinct of a species to survive.

Of course, none of this had anything to do with Mr. Lynch. Absolutely not.

The morning mist dissipated quickly. Some scientists believed it wasn’t conventional water vapor fog, but rather dust in the air.

Environmental issues in the Federation had become increasingly serious, especially over the past six months.

Cement factories across the country were working overtime. Despite the economic downturn, construction hadn’t slowed—if anything, it kept going.

This gave the Environmental Agency and grassroots environmental organizations plenty to do. One day they’d storm into inspections here, the next they’d stir up trouble there.

Early in the morning, people wearing green uniforms with brown logos were already marching through the streets with protest signs. It looked like they’d found a new target.

In hard times, joining an organization like this was one way to get by. Especially in Eminence—some of these roles even offered better pay than regular jobs.

Suddenly, they began yelling at a luxury motorcade parked on the roadside, waving their signs aggressively. A few even ran toward the vehicles, trying to block them.

Unfortunately for them, the motorcade didn’t slow down. Some were nearly hit and had to curse and jump aside.

“These people are getting more and more annoying…” said Mr. Truman from inside the car.

After finishing things up in York State, Lynch had come to Eminence. What was left over there wasn’t worth much—cleanup work that didn’t need him. His real battlefield was Eminence.

If he didn’t deal with the ones working in the shadows, even if he fixed the Tax Bureau situation in York, it wouldn’t be long before the York State Investigation Bureau came knocking.

Unless the troublemakers were dealt with, trouble would never end.

Mr. Truman had personally come to pick up Lynch. Still technically “on vacation,” he had plenty of time for personal matters.

“It’s all because of money,” Lynch said, matter-of-factly.

Environmental organizations weren’t born from guilt over what humans had done to nature, nor from some noble awakening. Humanity wasn’t that sacred. These groups were born from capital, and conflicts between capital.

But some fools actually believed in them. They never asked where the money came from for all the events these “non-profit” groups held every year. They’d been brainwashed by justice.

The convoy didn’t stop in the city and headed straight to the hillside villas. Eventually, both men entered Lynch’s large estate.

Sitting in the spacious study, Lynch handed a glass of liquor to Mr. Truman, sat beside him, and asked,

“Do you want to teach those people a lesson?”