Chapter 120: Don’t Be a Bystander

Lynch’s vision was vast. When an individual or a company aims to grow big, the first step is to make others feel your determination to expand.

If you don’t have the resolve to become bigger and stronger yourself, why should others help you?

This is a rare kind of special behavior rarely described in books, but it truly exists.

If Lynch had told the mayor from the start that he only wanted to be a small-time businessman, never planning to expand the secondhand market statewide, never mentioning how revitalizing the secondhand market could ease social burdens, never promising to revive the club and Sabin City’s sports spirit, or create jobs…

He might only have earned a little from transaction fees, and probably wouldn’t have even had a chance to have lunch with the mayor. The mayor and the sports federation certainly wouldn’t have sold club shares to him for a token price.

He established an idea—an inspiring vision—and showed his determination and capability to realize it. He also solved some problems for others, so they naturally gave him an opportunity, even many opportunities.

We all value courage and know its price—charging forward only to crash into a stone wall.

We know kindness, humility, honesty, and all virtues, including courage, and aspire to possess them.

But thinking is always easier than acting. Normally, no one runs headlong into a stone wall. Yet when someone proposes the idea and starts running, others who share the dream but cannot act themselves are willing to help.

If he succeeds, all supporters win—they prove that flesh and blood can break stone.

If he fails, they mourn appropriately, learn from mistakes, and wait for the next tryer.

Such people are common. They’re often called speculators, a label that doesn’t fully capture their spirit or resolve.

In some ways, Lynch could be called a speculator, but that’s incomplete; the word never fully defines a true speculator’s spirit.

“These trucks will be parked here for a while. Someone will take care of them. You don’t need to worry,” Lynch said by the club’s gate, watching the trucks and Cook’s team.

Cook nodded timidly, then asked eagerly, “What about me? What should I do?”

Lynch’s words had fired him up. Like others, Cook believed Lynch had to sacrifice some righteous people to cut off rotten parts, then recruit them back fairly.

That was Lynch’s explanation, but Cook and the others truly believed it. That’s why less clever people tend to have more friends.

Lynch pulled a business card from his pocket. “This is from the sports federation. They say there’s a very professional sports team at this address. Contact them and see if you can bring them over.”

The federation knew Sabin City’s state. After years of decline, expecting these athletes to regain form and achieve success was something only novels and movies allowed.

In reality, the athletes hadn’t kept up their peak; once slipped, it’s hard to train back up.

The coaches were no different. Years without tactical discussions or competition left them clueless about current mainstream strategies and countermeasures.

So the federation kindly gave Lynch a card for a professional coaching team. The head coach had a difficult temper, so was currently idle at home.

Was this real help from the federation?

Not entirely. Who knows whose methods this coach followed? It didn’t matter. If he was capable, Lynch didn’t mind some oddity in ability.

If not capable, he and his backers would understand the consequences of fooling Lynch.

Cook took the card and hurried off. With the club in upheaval, he wanted to rebuild it quickly to find peace of mind.

After discussing renovations and the need for more truck drivers with Cook, Lynch left. That afternoon, he had a signing event with Sabin City’s Disabled Persons Association.

He would hire ten disabled people registered with the association, paying them at minimum wage.

Lynch only needed to cover 70% of their wages; the remaining 30% came from various welfare funds to encourage businesses to hire disabled workers.

Of course, Lynch, the generous philanthropist, would pay a bit more to show his kindness, generosity, and integrity.

These disabled employees didn’t bring much tax relief, but their social impact was significant.

No major company ever relied on hiring disabled people to evade taxes—if they employed tens or hundreds of thousands, they’d be overwhelmed, not tax-free.

Lynch’s motivation was social responsibility. He wanted to shoulder more of it. Also, this special group wielded great influence—they could quiet a restless society, make it listen, and swiftly stand in their shoes. It was a powerful, almost magical ability.

Even the federal conservative president had to sit patiently and listen to the long speeches of the Disabled Persons Association’s chair, then respond affirmatively.

Political correctness?

No. It was the will of the people.

The Sabin City Disabled Persons Association branch chair was a kind woman in her fifties with graying, permed hair.

She wore simple clothes, no adornments, but was well-maintained and dignified.

She smiled warmly at Lynch, her face marked only by crow’s feet, no other wrinkles.

“Thank you for supporting our cause and for your kindness and generosity!” she said warmly before reporters and staff.

Lynch remained humble and calm. He slightly adjusted his hairstyle to look younger—a cunning man who knew how to handle elderly ladies.

“It’s my duty, ma’am.” He shook her hand firmly and spoke earnestly, “A society that ignores and turns a cold shoulder to special groups is a sick society.”

“I don’t know what others will do, but whenever I can care for these people, I will help as much as I can.”

“My help may not change everyone’s life, but I believe it will warm their hearts and show them that goodness still exists in society.”

The chair nodded, “You’re right. Where there’s hope, there’s a future…”

They signed in front of reporters. Few were present; the news might not be front-page, but it would appear somewhere noticeable—that was enough.

Elsewhere, George hummed as he packed up, grabbed his briefcase, locked his office door, and left.

Not long ago, he had issued Lynch a loan, with the trucks as collateral, slightly overpriced. That was normal—used vehicle appraisal was always a mysterious art. Sometimes overvaluing was acceptable as long as it stayed below new car prices.

Lynch had been making moves constantly. He had just hinted publicly about handling some land transactions under the club when people started contacting him. Behind it all, he sensed another force driving the matter forward.

Bank workers felt the current economic situation more deeply than most. At a time when real tycoons were cashing out, someone willing to spend two million or more on a piece of land wasn’t making a smart choice—almost foolish.

If a smart person who can easily produce two million or more chooses to do something foolish, there must be an irresistible force behind it.

This was one reason George dared to assist Lynch. If anything went wrong, he’d be the least at fault. All his actions complied with the bank’s procedures, and at worst, appraisal errors wouldn’t lead to serious repercussions.

With no severe consequences and strong backing, George knew exactly what to do.

He drove back home, parked, and casually checked his mailbox. Inside lay an unstamped envelope.

He pulled it out, glanced inside, raised an eyebrow—it was a reassuring thank-you letter. This was why he liked Lynch: a responsible young man.