Blackstone Code

Anna stood by the window, watching her father talking with Lynch, watching as he fell into silence.

She rarely saw such a contemplative look on Mr. Patric’s face. Born into such a high-level family, she knew that what would be considered problems for others simply didn’t exist around them—especially not around Mr. Patric.

Business competition?

Major financial groups never fear competition. They can easily mobilize upstream, downstream, or even entire industries to target a rival.

Cut off supply chains, delay payments, cancel orders, pressure from banks…

For a dominant consortium, crushing an upstart company—or even an entire group—is child’s play.

A few phone calls, some chats or rounds of golf with bank presidents, governors, senators… and the opponent is finished.

That’s why, in Anna’s memory, Mr. Patric was invincible—the strongest man.

No one had ever been able to trouble him. Not Mr. Wadrick, not Mr. Geruno.

No one could push him into such deep and prolonged thought. No one.

But now, here he was, frowning and thinking hard. Clearly troubled. It made Anna curious—what kind of issue had he run into that required so long to consider, yet still no clear answer?

Was it really that difficult?

Five, six, seven, eight minutes later, Mr. Patric relaxed his brow and gently shook his head. “In principle, I agree with the idea, but I need more time to consider it carefully.”

This meant he couldn’t give Lynch an answer today—ironically, this situation was originally what he had prepared for Lynch.

If Lynch couldn’t give him a reply today, he would seize the upper hand. But that was overly optimistic—Lynch never played by the script.

“No problem. We’ve got nothing but time. You have to wait until I take the first bite before you try to split the profits with me, right?” Lynch said with a smile, extending his hand—it was time for Mr. Patric to leave.

Mr. Patric wasn’t offended. He shook Lynch’s hand and stood up. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

“So… goodbye?”

“Goodbye.”

After sending Mr. Patric off, Lynch began considering how to handle the next wave of investors.

Patric wouldn’t be the last. Look—Mr. Wadrick was already waiting in line. Who knows who else would jump in later?

Lynch didn’t know all of them, but he could already guess some.

Like the dominant arms manufacturers. These interest groups would never lower their guard around Lynch. Until they were sure planes would become the future, their best insurance policy was to buy in.

And without doubt, they would demand voting shares. Only then, if they felt Lynch was threatening the core profits of their defense businesses, could they use their stake to slow down his company—while accelerating their own.

There’s no such thing as clean or dirty in the war of capital. People only see the polished, well-dressed winners under the spotlight. No one remembers the flea-ridden vagrant in the park who was once wealthy.

As long as you bring your opponent down, and the method works—who cares if it’s dirty?

And Lynch himself was never clean.

While Lynch was deep in thought, the maid nervously approached the living room.

Ever since expressing her interest, she had been uneasy. What confused her was that Lynch hadn’t complained to the agency, nor asked anything of her.

She didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t what she had expected.

More beautiful young women had arrived from the agency lately. She knew what that meant: the replacement process was beginning.

These maids were registered through the community service company, but that didn’t mean they were permanent. Unless a homeowner specifically requested a maid long-term, it meant they weren’t satisfied.

In the Hillside Villa District, the residents were extremely powerful. The service agency made a fortune off them each year—they had to serve them wholeheartedly.

If this batch wasn’t favored, then swap them out. The contracts with these temporary maids were short-term anyway—three to six months. If they weren’t requested, they were out.

This girl had just one month left on her contract. She was getting anxious.

If she couldn’t stay, she’d have to re-enter society.

Some might think a pretty girl would have an advantage in Eminence. Only someone who didn’t know Eminence would think that.

Anyone who really understood the city knew—it was full of beautiful women. What’s considered premium elsewhere is a dime a dozen here.

This place is a paradise—but mostly a hell.

Girls here could rarely hold the line. Just like the ones in Lardimore who stripped for art but ended up in bed pretending they were still comfortable. Everyone resists at first, but reality doesn’t let them refuse for long.

If she left here, she couldn’t go work in a factory for $200 a month—that would be a disgrace to her looks and body.

She wouldn’t accept marrying some rough laborer, having kids, losing her figure, and muddling through life.

She’d most likely become a model. Eminence was full of modeling agencies—strike a pose or two and you’d earn an average person’s monthly wage.

Then she’d wear a little less and pose again…

Then wear nothing and pose…

Then pose with someone else…

Then pose with a whole group…

Eventually, the poses would turn into motion. People’s bottom lines collapse one compromise at a time.

That’s how people slide into the abyss—slowly, then all at once. They even convince themselves to accept it.

Every time she took a luxurious bus to a private residence and stayed the night, she could earn thousands, sometimes tens of thousands.

Otherwise, it might take her a year or two to save that kind of money through other means.

As for working a regular job at a proper company?

Come on—this is Eminence, the center of finance and politics in the Federation. Do you really think there are proper companies here?

Even if there are, those girls often end up as just another casualty of the corporate dominance culture. It’s no different from working on the street.

She didn’t believe she could last long in that kind of environment. She was still young. Yes, she tried to seduce the homeowner. Yes, her skirt was too short. Yes, she didn’t always act appropriately—but she didn’t want to become a real whore.

She pulled herself together and got back to work.

Maybe she was a little dumb—always in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the wrong clothes, doing the wrong thing.

No proper maid would disturb the homeowner while he was still there—not even to clean.

But she did. And she was rude about it. She bent over, back to Lynch, scrubbing an already spotless coffee table—hard.

She clenched her teeth and told herself deep down, I’m a good girl. I just don’t want to be a prostitute.

No one can focus when they’re interrupted mid-thought. Not even Lynch.

Nice dress. The ruffles were a little different from last time—would the texture be the same?

Lynch thought the girl wasn’t completely stupid. She knew how to use her strengths. Her character—intentionally or not—was designed to be appealing.

Two minutes later, she’d made the already-clean table even cleaner. Then she turned to face Lynch and started wiping the sofa.

That, too, was something you normally did when the homeowner wasn’t present. You wouldn’t ask him to move just so you could clean the sofa.

But she had her own way. She acted as if Lynch wasn’t even there. One hand on the backrest, one hand wiping with a dry cloth.

Every motion made contact. The air Lynch exhaled felt like it could melt her.

She bit down hard and kept working. Work was the only future.

To live with dignity, she had to keep working. Lying down was never the right choice.

Two days later, early in the morning, Mr. Wadrick’s car arrived to pick up Lynch. After meeting up, they headed out of the city.

By midday, they arrived at a hunting ground north of Eminence.

In Gephra, spring hunting was a significant ritual. Federals also loved to hunt predators during this time.

After a long winter, the beasts were starving and especially aggressive—making it the perfect moment to prove one’s bravery.

In some parts of Gephra, there was even a tradition of spring hunting with cold weapons. Every year, some people died doing it—but they still enjoyed it.

The mounted knights who handled clearing the area had already set off ahead. They would drive suitable prey toward Mr. Wadrick and Lynch so they could shoot at their leisure.

Wadrick and Lynch followed the planned route on horseback at a slow pace.

“I heard you registered a few more companies,” Wadrick said, striking up a conversation.

Plenty of eyes were on Lynch these days. His aircraft had just finished development and was already securing military contracts. Of course people were watching him closely.

Yesterday, Lynch registered several new companies. Word spread fast.

Capital has many ways to play the game—for example, breaking the research institute into four or five separate entities:

A research organization, a licensing management firm, a licensed manufacturer, a licensed sales company…

Whether the investors accepted his proposal or not, Lynch couldn’t pin his hopes on something so uncertain.

There were two options. They had to choose one.