Chapter 440: Not Comforted Again
Lynch’s good mood ca quickly—and left just as fast.
As people gathered around Asel and his team for basic checks and to receive forms, a sudden disturbance erupted at the outskirts of the crowd. The unrest quickly spread inward, and many in line or watching grew visibly tense. Soon, only Asel and a few staff remained nearby.
A group of locals, ard with sticks and clubs, charged forward, overturning chairs and tables in their path and striking others with their weapons.
“Boss, I’ll handle them,” the sergeant in the corner said, rising with his gun in hand, his expression grim. His job was to maintain order, but clearly, he was failing.
Lynch paid them more monthly than they earned in the army. Even their families were given jobs within Lynch’s enterprises if they wished. At first, they struggled to adapt—from pledging loyalty to the country to serving one man. Not long ago, they’d rise at dawn to salute the Federation’s flag and sing the anthem.
Now, the one giving orders was not an officer but a sir—different words, sotis even the sa word with the sa pronunciation.
This unrest was embarrassing. Herbes had told Lynch the local situation was stable, that people were almost bored, yet here was trouble the very next day.
These people always found a chance.
Lynch hardened his resolve. The other soldiers who joined Lynch early on looked equally resentful. As they prepared to intervene, Lynch raised his hand to stop them.
“No, don’t show yourselves. If they don’t attack, don’t provoke them. I trust the bullets in your guns will resolve this faster than their crude weapons, right?”
The sergeant nodded, but instead of returning to their posts, they quietly took positions suitable for shooting.
This didn’t an they would kill locals on the spot. Stopping a conflict doesn’t always require killing; neutralizing one side’s ability to harm is also a tactic.
Lynch watched calmly.
He’d known this would happen from the start—internal and external powers, ideological clashes, social conflicts, religion, belief, freedom…
Too many things contradicted local traditions. So issues were minor, like lifestyle habits, but others—religion, faith—carried deep conflict potential.
Such problems could never be fully suppressed. Only upper-level issues could be covered up, because they involved few people—a small five percent. As long as those few kept quiet, the remaining ninety-five percent stayed blind and deaf, relying solely on information the elites chose to share.
But lower-level problems couldn’t be hidden. When they erupted, they affected eighty to ninety-five percent of the population, rendering the decisions of the top five percent far less relevant.
Lynch knew from the beginning that developing Nagaryll wouldn’t be smooth sailing—and this would not be the last conflict. It was only the first.
Now, he wanted to see who was behind this—who was pulling the strings or what their purpose was.
The rioters surged into the hiring area. Most were young n, around twenty, so even younger.
They stopped in front of Asel, arguing loudly. Lynch soon understood what was happening.
Voices from outside the glass walls grew louder. So locals who had been re spectators now joined the crowd.
They raised fists in rhythm and shouted, “Foreigners get out!”
Seeing their coordinated actions and hearing slogans likely prepared days—or longer—before, Lynch couldn’t believe no one was backing or directing them. ??????óΒЕ??
This was a serious problem—a host expressing malice toward an unwelco guest.
Less than a minute later, a group of police blew sharp whistles as they ran over. In the past, such rioters would scatter imdiately, but this ti was different.
Especially the leaders—they didn’t flee but stood firm, as if waiting to be arrested.
When police reached them, thin rubber-coated batons struck their bodies. Unlike before, the n didn’t roll on the ground to avoid blows.
They stood rigid, taking hits on their heads and bodies, even when bloodied and bruised.
Their unexpected resilience left the police unsure. They halted their attacks and stood awkwardly.
The suddenness of it overwheld them—they realized they lacked experience and ability to handle such a situation.
These n’s refusal to flee unsettled the police’s composure.
Lynch’s expression remained calm. He knew the police had made a mistake.
When soone on the side of justice sees a villain doing wrong, they can pretend not to notice and walk away. But once they intervene, there must be clear results. If the suppression isn’t thorough, their actions can cause more harm to society than doing nothing.
People once hoped evil would go unnoticed while growing, but now they felt sothing else entirely.
The young leader suddenly raised an arm. His head was riddled with cuts, blood obscuring his features.
In the sunlight, among the fierce, wolf-like police stood a few frail figures who remained unbowed. Amid the chilling red, one pair of sharp black-and-white eyes t every face. He raised his arm silently, without expression.
Police nearby stepped back, uneasy.
Most avoided his gaze, but so endured an indescribable pressure and slowly raised their arms in return.
The atmosphere grew suffocating. Lynch’s face finally shifted.
“Is there a phone?” he asked, turning to the café owner watching nearby—a local man who stepped out from behind the counter. Whether owner or clerk was unclear.
The man nodded quickly, “Yes, sir…” He looked at Lynch, his lips parted as if to speak, but said nothing.
He wanted to tell Lynch that making a phone call required an extra fee. In Nagaryll, anything related to modernization, like phone calls, was expensive.
But he didn’t say it. The weapons in the hands of the foreigners around Lynch intimidated him. He didn’t want a small fee to cause misunderstandings. He was willing to bear the extra cost just to avoid trouble.
Lynch called the police station. Soon, several police cars rushed over; the station wasn’t far.
When the chief arrived, he adjusted his clothes and his ard belt. Seeing the confused officers, his face darkened further.
He drew his baton and didn’t just target the bloodied young n this ti—he struck the police officers as well.
More police arrived, the scene grew more chaotic, but sothing had clearly changed.
anwhile, several kiloters away in a villa—though calling it a villa was an understatent.
Calling it a mansion or even a castle felt exaggerated.
The cheap land in Nagaryll allowed people to build huge houses, especially the wealthy, who added bricks and tiles without limit until satisfied.
This house was like that—sprawling, no more than three stories tall at its highest point. Only one and a half masters lived there; the rest were servants.
Simon was in a side room, speaking quietly with a few n. Their expressions were serious. The room was filled with smoke that lingered even with the windows open.
Outside the door, a sowhat frail boy carefully carried a tray. He was Simon’s son with a local woman, but his status wasn’t high—likely because his mother wasn’t a legitimate daughter.
Or perhaps because he was a half-breed, a child born of efforts to integrate with locals. Simon disliked him.
His position was awkward—half a master of the house.
Higher than ordinary people, but far beneath Simon and the foreigners.
Simon and his friends were discussing matters inside. Usually only Simon’s biological son was allowed in at such tis.
They’d been inside a long while. The boy, as usual, brought fresh tea and pastries.
He knew Simon didn’t like him but believed that through effort, he could change his father’s mind.
As he pushed the door open and barely uttered half the word father, a teacup smashed against his forehead, leaving him dizzy.
An angry command rang in his ears—nothing like a father speaking to his child.
“Get out!”
“Now!”
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