Darkstone Code-Chapter 921 - 919: Eggs, Whites, Protein

After listening to the executive director’s statement, Lynch didn’t immediately express his opinion. He thought seriously for a while and said, "I need to consider."

"Of course, of course, Mr. Lynch. Such an important matter definitely requires extensive thought." He said this while pulling out a business card from his pocket, very respectfully standing up, bending down, tucking in the hem of his clothes with one hand, and offering the card with the other.

"This is my business card. You can call me at any time if you have any thoughts."

Lynch accepted the card. It had the person’s name, position, several phone numbers, and even specified which time periods were best to call, detailing even weekends and personal hours.

The Federation’s yearning for freedom is like a man’s longing for a woman... this description might not be entirely accurate, but it’s somewhat close.

Thus, the vast majority of people in the Federation refuse to discuss anything job-related outside of work hours.

No matter what it is, they quickly become annoyed, angry, or even throw a tantrum.

But this guy doesn’t mind doing this.

Lynch set the card down. This was also a significant characteristic: the director in front of him might be facing a shift or choice.

If he crosses over, he will become a member of the upper society. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

If he doesn’t, he will remain a high-income member of the Middle Class.

"I noted it down. Do you have anything else?" Lynch placed the card on the table, looking at the director of the executive department.

The latter quickly stood up, "Nothing else, sorry for disturbing you at this time. Then... I think I should leave."

Lynch pressed his hands on the armrest of the chair to lift himself, stood up straight, extended his hand to shake hands with the executive director, "Good night, sir, you know how to leave."

"Good night, Mr. Lynch."

After seeing the director leave, Lynch glanced at the business card in his hand, shook his head, opened the drawer casually, and put it inside instead of carrying it with him.

During these three days, he hasn’t been idle. He has been watching the exchanges between Sanchez and the President.

It must be said that the role of a special adviser to the Security Committee is indeed quite useful. As the son of a warlord and potentially inheriting the warlord’s position, Sanchez was under immediate surveillance by people from the Security Committee, Department of Homeland Security, and Military Intelligence Bureau upon entering the country.

This monitoring partly serves as indirect protection but also prevents them from causing trouble.

These people wreak havoc in their own country, disregarding social orders, each one extremely dangerous.

If the relations between the Federation and Mariluo weren’t... decent, alongside changes in policies and attitudes from the President and Ministry of International Affairs towards Mariluo, Sanchez might not have had the chance to enter the Federation.

Now that he’s in, it’s only natural to keep an eye on him to prevent harm to the society.

Today is the third day, and he hasn’t yet settled his Presidential uncle, which somewhat makes Lynch feel like he’s not as forceful in dealing as he is in the meeting room.

At least his capability doesn’t match his assertiveness.

If the President can continue to hold on for a while, Lynch might have other thoughts.

If he doesn’t and soon transfers shares to his nephew, Sanchez, then there’s nothing left to consider.

Even on this matter, Lynch finds it hard to intervene as it’s the other party’s "family affair."

While Lynch was wondering how long the President could hold out, the President was enduring horrific torture.

Sanchez, dressed in a black shirt with sleeves rolled high, exposing a layer of dense body hair on his arms.

Besides, there were all kinds of wounds.

His body wasn’t fat at all, quite standard indeed: fat people don’t survive long in Mariluo—

when assassins strike, running slow means you’re unqualified to survive further, hence Sanchez’s excellent physique.

He had a bit of sweat on him, and seated before him, the President had been stripped of clothes, his pale, tender body covered in scars.

Describing a middle-aged man with "pale and tender" might seem overboard, but that’s the real appearance.

Living in a privileged Federation environment, enjoying the most advanced medical technologies and inventions, his aging is much lighter than peers.

Appear to be only about forty or even younger.

But now, there are wounds all over this "good body."

Some wounds are still bleeding, others have stopped.

Knife cuts, burns, punctures, and even electrical burns.

Two wires were attached between the President’s legs, one red, one green, looking horrifying.

"As long as you sign, I’ll persuade the General, and you won’t be taken back to Mariluo," Sanchez tried to persuade, but no matter how he tried, his uncle refused to sign.

In the Federation, signing has always been an anti-counterfeit measure: where to start the stroke, what position the highest point of a stroke reached, and whether it ends before or after a certain line.

These are all means of anti-counterfeiting, and only they themselves and the institutions holding the original signed documents know about them.

Otherwise, with so many checks issued each year, without any concrete anti-counterfeiting measures, banks would have long been bankrupt, and major companies would’ve been emptied by now.

It is precisely because of these inconspicuous defensive measures that the prosperity of the Federation’s financial economy is fundamentally built.

No other country has ever been able to use various checks on such a large scale like the Federation. Although problems frequently arise, these issues are within an acceptable range.

If the President doesn’t sign, the shares in his hand won’t be transferred to Sanchez, and those anonymous companies holding shares on his behalf won’t transfer the shares to Sanchez either, leaving Sanchez with no status in the company.

He still remembers the contempt and questioning from Lynch and others three days ago. The anger from that time still affects his mood now.

After being tortured for two days, the President looked up at Sanchez, his mouth slightly opening and closing as if trying to say something.

Sanchez leaned closer; this was the first time in two days the President had shown any desire to express himself, but immediately he felt a warm fluid sliding down one side of his cheek.

Blood mixed with saliva, really fucking disgusting.

Sanchez walked over to the circuit breaker, looked coldly at his uncle, and pushed the switch.

The moment the electricity flowed, the President’s entire body convulsed. Years ago, after the Federation passed the "Electrical Safety Act," indoor voltage was kept within a safe range to avoid casualties from incorrect use of appliances and power sources.

Electricity was absolutely a revolution, but it also brought many tragedies. Some people died from electrocution due to incorrect use or mere curiosity, making the Federation Society taste the necessary pain of development.

Fortunately, these issues have been resolved now.

After more than ten seconds of electric shock, Sanchez pulled back the switch, and the tense President collapsed slackly onto the chair.

The places where his arms were bound with wire, some of the wires had cut into his flesh.

A slightly burnt smell, the scent of hair, and some foul odor.

Sanchez’s assistant took a hose and rinsed the President. It’s actually much better now.

The first time he was electrocuted, he lost control of his bowels and urinated everywhere.

Now, after two days of starvation without food, except for urinary incontinence, there won’t be any more liquid or solid release.

The cold water seemed to revive the President’s spirits a bit, and he started to chuckle.

The laughter was very low, tinged with a mocking tone, which darkened Sanchez’s face.

Actually, both the President and Sanchez knew they were gambling.

The President bet that Sanchez and his brother wouldn’t dare kill him without obtaining the shares. If they really did, they would lose Every Moment completely.

And Sanchez was also betting, wagering that his dear uncle couldn’t withstand various tortures and would eventually sign his name on the full authorization document.

But from now on, his uncle seemed more likely to win.

What surprised him even more was this useless uncle could actually resist until now.

Once the water stains were almost dissipated, Sanchez walked to the President, looked down at him, "You think that’s the extent of pain?"

"No, there’s much more pain, far beyond your imagination; this is just the beginning!"

He said as he walked to the side cart, put on surgical gloves, and took out a scalpel and a thread.

He returned to the President, "Have you made up your mind? Continue resisting, or sign the document?"

The President spat out another bloody smear, his voice very hoarse and weak, "So fucking painful, but compared to death, pain is acceptable."

"Either let me go, or... kill me, you have no choice!"

The President’s unexpected strength made Sanchez angry and embarrassed.

He raised a hand, pressed it on his dear uncle’s head, and pushed hard. The chair tilted backward, and the President lay against the ground, facing upward.

His legs naturally spread apart.

Sanchez squatted down, expertly removing a wire clamp, tightening with the thread, and with a knife...

Initially, it didn’t hurt at all; perhaps the current had numbed the nerves, but after twenty to thirty seconds, a weighty pain began tearing at the President’s will.

This pain was not only physical but also psychological!

He knew there was actually nothing there, yet in his feeling, it seemed as if a chain tightly fixed to his lower body was dragging him down to Hell.

Pain, despair, anger!

The room was filled with feeble roars and screams.