Blackstone Code

After briefly explaining why the news lagged behind reality, Lynch left. He wasn’t a government official—there was nothing for him to do by staying.

Mr. Truman, however, was asked to remain by the President.

The President knew full well that Truman and Lynch were now working together, yet he still placed great trust in Truman.

For one, they’d known each other a long time and were familiar with one another. Secondly, the position of Minister of International Affairs was ultimately the President’s decision.

Those in power often have a flawed perception—they don’t believe anyone can easily deceive them. They assume they can see through all problems, even when they’re facing a minor crisis.

“Is there any way we can restrain Lynch’s Blackstone Security Company?” the President asked seriously. “I know Lynch is your friend, but as you know, what we’re discussing concerns national security.”

He meant that personal relationships should come after national interests.

“He’s too bold. I honestly suspect that if someone offered him enough money to attack the Presidential Palace, he might take the job.”

Mr. Truman was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “Mr. President, before I share my thoughts, I want to assure you that everything I say is from an objective standpoint.”

“Blackstone Security is currently the largest private military organization in the country. But compared to other entities, it’s actually harmless to us.”

“Granted, during the major demobilization, we had limited choices, but that incidentally gave us a degree of control.”

“Most of Blackstone Security’s core members are retired military officers, and there are people from the Security Council and the Intelligence Bureau embedded. If there were a large-scale or potentially threatening military operation, we’d know in advance.”

The President interrupted, “But no one informed me about this one!”

“That’s because we didn’t consider it dangerous, Mr. President.”

The President looked sternly at Truman, who met his gaze without flinching. After a moment, the President seemed to sense his sincerity and nodded.

“How did you determine this operation wasn’t a threat?”

“The Security Council has a dedicated risk assessment unit, as does the military. Combined with the Ministry of International Affairs, we determined this to be a low-risk operation.”

He wasn’t telling the full truth. The Security Council, Intelligence Bureau, and Ministry of Defense assessed the operation as medium-to-low risk.

If 100 points meant guaranteed danger and 0 meant none, this operation scored 30. It wasn’t risk-free.

That 30-point rating accounted for unpredictable international politics and potential operational issues.

But for the military, these weren’t considered real risks.

A recent naval battle had significantly boosted the military’s confidence. Military budget proposals were flooding into the Congressional Military Committee—and many were getting approved.

Previously, they lacked such influence. Budget proposals were often rejected or slashed under the pretext that “increasing military spending may cause unnecessary misunderstandings and lead international friends to think we’re pursuing military confrontation.”

Now, those issues were gone. As long as the proposal wasn’t ridiculous, it would likely pass.

If a conflict with Sugra broke out just because of a single attack, the Navy and Army had already run simulations. They were confident they could end a full-scale war in Sugra within a month—and win.

In fact, they almost looked forward to something happening.

Seeing that the President was still unconvinced, Mr. Truman continued, “Lynch and Blackstone Security are a very unique combination. It’s hard to evaluate either him or his company.”

“They’re not that dangerous—in fact, in some ways, they’re quite safe. But they are a private company. If problems arise, Blackstone Security and Lynch become the first layer of buffer.”

“Sometimes, it’s inconvenient for us to act directly. For example, in this recent case—if we had sent in the military, it could’ve sparked international conflict.”

“But with Lynch taking the job, it becomes a matter between private organizations. It doesn’t escalate to the level of state conflict.”

“More importantly, we need Blackstone Security to keep the newly emerging private armed groups in check. The Overseas Security Act’ is certain to pass.”

“When that happens, Blackstone Security will actually become our strongest tool to restrain these people.”

This last point was genuine. In Mr. Truman’s view, since the ‘Overseas Security Act’ was bound to pass, private armed forces owned by big capitalists would proliferate. This entire sector needed order.

And who would create that order?

Certainly not the weakest player—but the strongest.

Currently, Blackstone Security was both the strongest and the safest private military organization. If it could set industry standards and suppress other companies, many future problems could be avoided.

The President gave a wry smile. “Sounds like I need to help him out?”

Mr. Truman could tell the President had once again been persuaded. “If you’re willing.”

Meanwhile, Sugra’s diplomats anxiously awaited a response.

When Mr. Truman revealed that the so-called Mick incident had been fabricated, it became clear that the central government and the local authorities in Sugra had been deceived.

The disconnect between the central and regional governments had allowed localism to fester, and warlordism was taking root. The top leadership had no idea what was happening on the ground.

Whatever the other side claimed, they had no choice but to accept it—for now—as fact.

Just like this time, everyone believed the photo was genuine, including the diplomats and their president. But as it turned out, that photo was the problem.

There was no direct phone line between the Federation and Sugra. Communication had to go through the nearest international port to Sugra, where a telegram would be sent back home. A single exchange could take several hours—or up to a day or two.

But the situation on the Federation’s side couldn’t wait. The diplomat was already thinking that when he returned to report to the President, he would insist on building a dedicated line to the Federation for faster communication.

Too much had happened in just one morning. Some countries’ diplomats were already starting to waver.

Amid the frenzy of public opinion, the day passed.

By 8 a.m. the next morning, a new edition of the newspaper hit the stands. This time, the front page featured a girl.

She wore shorts, covered her chest with her hands, her head bowed. There wasn’t a single uninjured spot on her body.

The headline contained only one word:

Monster.

Ms. Tracy had somehow found a gifted storyteller of a journalist, who wrote a compelling narrative.

The story featured not only a romantic plot but also deep sorrow and righteous indignation. It told of a foreign girl and a middle-aged Federal man who had given up on life and bowed to fate.

By chance, they sparked a romance.

The girl found a man she could rely on for the rest of her life.

The man, once numb and indifferent, was reawakened by this lively and innocent girl—his love for life rekindled in a journey of self-redemption.

It ended in tragedy. And it was precisely because of its tragic ending, its lack of resolution, that the story etched itself into people’s hearts.

Readers were first drawn in by the purity of the love story—then enraged by the cruelty. Many began to wonder how such brutal acts and such inhuman people could exist in this world.

The urge for revenge spread like wildfire.

At 9:30 a.m., Lynch was finishing breakfast and sitting on the second-floor terrace, enjoying the view, when suddenly, a group of girls appeared on the street outside the Mid-Hill Community.

They wore only shorts—bare-chested in the still-frigid February weather.

Painted wounds covered their bodies, and collars meant for small animals hung around their necks.

They said nothing. No chants, no slogans—just silent marching. Yet this silence carried a suffocating, terrifying power.

The power of silence.

Lynch quickly grabbed his binoculars. As he looked at the broad-chested girls, he couldn’t help but marvel at Ms. Tracy’s capabilities.

To organize such a large demonstration in such a short time—perhaps the Condenser Company could donate a bit more.

With that thought, he raised the binoculars again and quietly watched.

The women’s rights protest was seen by many and quickly became well-known. For the Federal public, this period felt almost festive.

People could rally or demonstrate on a whim—free fried chicken, beer, and small giveaways included. More importantly, any wages lost by participating had to be paid by employers under the Minimum Wage Act.

Protesting and demonstrating were fundamental rights of Federal citizens. Employers couldn’t dock pay for employees exercising their rights—and suing over such matters wasn’t worth it—so the capitalists had no choice but to comply.

Typically, large-scale demonstrations were coordinated in advance—held on weekends, for example—so everyone could live with it.

Such was the beauty of the Federation: a land full of freedom and equality. No wonder everyone wanted to be part of it—willing to endure exploitation just for a chance to become Federal citizens.

Elsewhere, one of the masterminds behind this entire affair was also watching closely.

He observed the unfolding events with keen interest—not in how others were reacting, but in the role Lynch was playing.