Blackstone Code

News that Lynch had set up a factory to produce airplanes quickly spread throughout Eminence, and soon even more people knew about it.

He was now considered a celebrity-level businessman—officially referred to as a capitalist.

That wasn’t seen as shameful. You could feel the nation’s hunger for capital and wealth in the eager expressions of employees who had devoted their youth to capitalists when they spoke of their bosses.

Wealthy people were the real celebrities. Whatever they did—even if they never intended to publicize it—word would still spread quickly.

This time, the one interested was Mr. Patric.

Stardream Butterfly was a large, diversified conglomerate whose core business lay in natural resource extraction—oil, various metal ores, plants, anything found on the land was within their scope.

They dabbled in other industries too, but not deeply.

This was the inevitable outcome in every world and every era: established industries were monopolized by certain players, leaving no room for newcomers. Either you hit a wall taller than the sky and die, or you carve out a future on your own.

The arms industry was the same. Massive defense conglomerates dominated it from top to bottom. Outsiders couldn’t get in.

Their weapons and equipment were the Defense Ministry’s and military’s standard choices. Newcomers could only sell to civilians.

But how big was the civilian market? This wasn’t an era where everyone could afford to eat.

Rather than buying a weapon that might never be used, people preferred to find other ways to improve their lives—excluding robbers, of course.

Still, people were tempted by the profits.

That’s how it always was.

Until an opportunity appeared.

“Good evening, Baron Lynch…”

“Good evening, Count Patric!”

Seeing Mr. Patric’s meticulous aristocratic manner reminded Lynch a bit of his time in Gephra.

But there was always something odd about Patric. It was hard to describe—a presence, a kind of aura. He lacked something that real nobles had.

The simplest comparison was between him and the young Count. Both were counts, and according to Mr. Patric, the Aginel family’s ancestors were hereditary counts who fled to the Federation during noble wars and infighting.

But despite having the same title, there was a clear difference in bearing. Patric fell short compared to the young Count.

It might have to do with the rumors surrounding the Aginel family—some said their ancestor was merely a servant to a noble, who killed and replaced his master.

There were so many rumors, some quite detailed and hard to debunk, that even the family themselves might have started doubting their identity.

And once you start doubting, you lose that unshakable confidence.

One doubts whether they’re truly a count. The other never has. That’s the difference.

That might be why those rumors have never faded.

Hearing Lynch address him as Count brought a subtle smile to Patric’s lips. After all, no one knew for sure whether his title was real, but Lynch was an actual noble.

Recognition from a fellow noble meant far more than others’ mockery.

This was an unofficial visit, but even then, a small gift was customary.

“These are pastries I made myself. I hope you like them!” Anna handed a small package to Lynch. It gave off a strong buttery aroma.

It weighed around two-thirds of a pound. Lynch glanced at it—adorable bear-shaped cookies. Bear-themed products were trending in the Federation at the time.

“They smell great. I’ll definitely try them when I have a moment. Thank you!”

He passed the cookies to a maid, then led the two guests into his study. Patric wasn’t here to watch TV—he clearly had business.

Once inside, Anna took over from the maid. Mr. Patric sat opposite Lynch, got comfortable, and began the conversation.

“I heard you sold airplanes to the Defense Ministry.”

Lynch nodded. “Yes. They’re optimistic about the project.”

“But Congress hasn’t approved it yet, right?” Patric added.

Lynch nodded again. “Correct. Some are still unsure about the future of aviation. It’s not a small sum, and they have to treat it seriously—it’s taxpayer money, after all.”

“No one wants their taxes to be wasted. I understand.”

Anna, standing nearby, couldn’t help but smile. For some reason, watching Lynch lie so seriously always amused her. It was fascinating.

Maybe it was because he looked too serious when lying—so serious you’d doubt whether he was lying at all. But Anna knew the truth.

Mr. Patric nodded in agreement. “I can solve those problems.”

Lynch looked at him calmly. “What do you want from me?”

That question made Patric frown slightly. Lynch had clearly positioned himself above Patric—using words like want and get, as if Patric were making a request.

And since Patric had volunteered to help, it sounded like he was asking for something in return—like he was seeking Lynch’s favor.

Which, to be fair, he was. But it still felt unpleasant.

It also suggested Lynch already knew what he wanted.

Once again, that feeling of dealing with a peer in capital surfaced quickly. That lack of control was deeply unsettling.

But Patric soon eased his expression. “I’m very interested in airplanes. Are you open to outside investment?”

He was trying to shift the dynamic of their conversation—subtle word choices and small phrases were already starting to have an effect.

“Mr. Patric, people like you and me are never short on money. But we must abide by market rules. I won’t sell too large a share to any single individual—I hope you understand.”

His expression carried a hint of pride mixed with a trace of regret. He was, after all, telling the truth.

That’s how the capital game worked in the Federation—everyone, including the Duncan family, had to play by the rules.

If you want to feed off others through the system, you must first open yourself to the system.

Whether others succeed in taking from you depends on your ability to protect your interests. But you can’t refuse to open up just because you’re afraid of loss.

By federal financial standards, Lynch’s aircraft factory would inevitably be valued in the hundreds of millions.

To prevent monopolies and financial crimes, companies of that size must either go public and submit to market oversight, or break themselves apart and cease operations.

That’s the system. Everyone faces this decision—everyone must choose.

Some choose to self-divide, breaking a billion-Sol company into ten companies worth a hundred million each.

That might dodge the go-public rule in the short term. But then what? Keep dividing?

Eventually, you run out of room to split. And once you’re forced to go public, you’ll collapse even faster—because there are too many fronts to stabilize.

Every major conglomerate in the Federation is publicly listed. All the financial giants obey the rules. Anyone smaller who tries to defy them is quickly crushed.

Lynch didn’t intend to challenge the entire financial structure of the Federation. Even if he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t reject it. That’s how the system worked.

When you’re powerless to resist, the best you can do is find the most comfortable position to surrender in.

“If possible, I’d like to secure no less than 20% of the shares. The price is negotiable.” Just as Lynch had said, what was a financial barrier for most meant nothing to them.

Patric didn’t even ask the price. His only concern was the stake.

Lynch shook his head. “Twenty percent is too much. More investors will join in later. If each of you takes too much, it’ll dilute my ownership too far.”

Patric quickly countered, “I can compensate in other ways—help resolve some of your current issues, boost the valuation.”

He was determined to hold onto that 20% stake and was very persistent about it.

Just as Lynch was about to persuade him to compromise, the phone rang.

He apologized and answered.

Patric stepped away to the window, chatting quietly with Anna.

As the call went on, Lynch’s expression turned slightly odd. The caller was Mr. Wadrick, inviting Lynch to the upcoming Spring Hunt—but between the lines, it was clearly related to his aircraft.

There was no hiding this anymore. Two hundred planes at thirty million each—two thousand would be three hundred million. With the size of the Federation, and the world, there was no way two thousand planes wouldn’t sell.

And with war inevitably looming on the horizon, anything tied to warfare would be driven to staggering highs. His company might soon become a rising star in the arms industry.

It was well known: to break through entrenched industry barriers, the best way was to forge a new path.

Lynch and his aircraft were clearly doing just that. With massive profits already visible, the financial giants were never going to let this go.