Chapter 151: Donations and Food Vouchers

Mark representing the mayor to invest in Interstellar Trading Company might be hard for some ordinary people to understand, but in reality, it was quite normal—especially since many ordinary people hadn’t even heard of things happening behind the scenes.

Some joked that every last second of the Baylor Federation’s election cycle marked the birth of a new financial conglomerate. The Federation had a history of over three hundred years and had seen fifty-two presidents.

Why fifty-two? Because some presidents met unfortunate ends—falling down stairs fatally, disappearing into the sea while fishing, or other mysterious accidents.

In short, some had bad luck. But that’s life, isn’t it?

Except for those unlucky presidents, almost every other president had a financial group behind them. For example, the well-known Jerry & Dace conglomerate, which was born from the presidency.

This conglomerate backed three politicians to their shining moments in Federation history. Because of these three presidents, Jerry & Dace had not faced any trouble for over a hundred years.

No one knew when they would select the Federation’s next president—who would be the fourth from their group.

By the way, those three presidents were the founder’s son, his grandson, and his great-grandson. They were family.

Political power and capital sometimes clash, but other times they’re inseparable. This is the Baylor Federation, a free and sweet land.

In this light, the mayor’s investment in Interstellar Trading Company didn’t seem so shocking. Mark, the mayor’s nephew, was the one handling it. Lynch believed that if anything went wrong, Mark would immediately come forward and apologize.

Because Mark did these risky things without telling his uncle—the mayor—who would never easily forgive anyone breaking laws or rules, even if it was his nephew.

If nothing went wrong, and Interstellar Trading Company could keep making a steady profit, maybe Lynch and his company would eventually become part of a conglomerate. Of course, the mayor wouldn’t be president; it would be his superior or someone higher up.

Lynch had long passed the cynical age. He wasn’t offended; instead, he thought it was good. If some things became difficult after Mark invested, Mark could handle them.

No one was better suited. Many thought Mark represented the mayor and that if trouble arose, Lynch should handle it himself to avoid bothering Mark—because bothering Mark was bothering the mayor. But Lynch didn’t think that way.

Everyone knew when Mark appeared, it meant the mayor’s stance. Mark didn’t even have to say a word—just standing there was enough.

Putting aside this tiny matter, the next day Lynch met the mayor at a charity gala. Strictly speaking, it was a charity event, attended by local social elites of Sabin City.

Only a few hundred attended—an upper-class circle in a city of 800,000 could only hold so many. Almost half or a third were there only because their partners had the connections, not themselves. So the actual number of elites was even smaller.

Lynch sat near the back. His age, career, and wealth didn’t yet merit a front-row, center seat. But sitting behind had its benefits—he could observe all the subtle gestures of the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen in front.

Tonight’s charity theme was donations to help the unemployed through their hardships. Sabin’s unemployment rate had hit a frightening sixteen percent, and people had already starved to death.

It wasn’t a good sign. The city hall—or the mayor himself—had suppressed the news, but he realized the situation required political action.

People starved every year—homeless dying from heat in summer, cold in winter, or hunger. This was normal.

A few years ago, a homeless man was attacked by wild dogs and devoured after losing the fight, causing a brief social uproar, which soon faded.

Many journalists heard the common opinion: homeless people had hands and feet, could work—even scavenging to survive—but chose to beg, so they didn’t deserve sympathy.

This time, the victim wasn’t homeless but an unemployed elderly man living alone.

Fifty-something—not quite old enough for retirement—he had lost his job four months ago, wanted to work but couldn’t find anything. After his savings ran out, he starved to death in his bed.

If neighbors hadn’t been disturbed by the stench, it might have taken much longer to discover.

The mayor knew things couldn’t wait; they had to act.

The mayor stood on stage, speaking briefly and solemnly about the news. The elites below were shocked; some ladies even shed tears.

Some were truly shocked, others not genuinely saddened.

For these elites, it was hard to imagine a common person starving to death. Things were worse than before but probably not this bad—right?

But the reality was clear: many were facing hunger and hardship, needing help.

In over three hundred years, the Baylor Federation had faced similar crises and developed an effective method: issuing food and supply vouchers.

Initially, cash aid was given, but soon people abused it—some claiming aid fraudulently, others gambling or wasting money, then reapplying. So cash aid became food and supply vouchers.

Donations bought large amounts of grain and essentials, which helped families in need.

It wouldn’t make them wealthy, but it prevented starvation—the current limit of what the Federation could do.

Every wealthy donor’s generosity wasn’t pure kindness but a tax deduction in disguise.

At least a full deduction, sometimes more. It wasn’t a loss; donors might even profit a little. This was why top tycoons happily gave charity—they paid massive taxes and saving some was a win.

But deductions had limits, and how much to donate wasn’t their decision. Their accountants advised them before the gala.

Everyone appeared genuinely caring and donated generously. Lynch gave a hundred thousand, drawing many curious looks at this unusually young man.

Maybe Lynch seemed like a plant to some, and soon a second donation round raised minimum contributions from a few thousand or tens of thousands to at least thirty to fifty thousand, some up to a hundred or two hundred thousand. People were unsure if this was the mayor’s directive.

But they couldn’t risk ignoring any chance.

By the end, the mayor had raised nearly fifteen million in donations, largely addressing some current problems. In his closing speech, he said over two hundred thousand hungry Sabin residents would have full stomachs thanks to everyone’s kindness.

After the event, the mayor was ready to leave for other matters. The city’s problems weighed heavily on him. Even Mark’s lucrative deal hadn’t brought much smile.

Money could only meet material needs. What he truly desired was power.

Still, he took half a minute for Lynch, placing him last. “I heard from Mark he really likes you.”

They shook hands and talked; no one else could approach—that was etiquette.

Lynch nodded. “I like Mark too. He’s a great guy…” His words trailed off, making the mayor curious and urging him to speak quickly—he had a closed-door meeting soon.

Lynch finally said what he hadn’t before: “Is it still possible to start a food factory now?”

The mayor paused, then laughed heartily. He expected Lynch to talk about Mark or their deal, but Lynch was thinking about the fifteen million in donations.

A young man with a unique and special vision—the mayor affirmed that again. Then he shook his head, “Mark probably didn’t tell you—he already owns a food factory.” He hinted, “I’m optimistic about you two. You’ll be good friends.”

Lynch curled his lip. “That’s really sad. As for Mark and me…” He smiled, “I believe we will be good friends.”

The mayor patted Lynch’s hand, said nothing more, and let go, then left. This disappointed those who hadn’t had a chance to speak with the mayor and had hoped to approach him. However, they quickly began scrutinizing Lynch—what was his relationship with the mayor, and why did the mayor save the last moment for him?

Some tried to make contact with Lynch, but he turned and disappeared into the post-charity gala reception.