Chapter 199: Homecoming

Many people, as they grow older, begin to miss military life because it is simple and carries a certain joy.

There is less scheming; everything is straightforward and pure, including the happiness—though there are exceptions.

In this simple environment, the first word the sergeant before Lynch wanted to say was Reporting, but he suddenly stopped because this was no longer the army, and he was no longer a soldier.

He had almost forgotten how ordinary people communicate, and how to interact with his new boss.

Ferrell’s father-in-law quickly understood the sergeant’s dilemma. This wasn’t unusual; many soldiers had faced it.

He briefly introduced himself and, as a superior officer, asked the sergeant to introduce himself.

In that instant, everyone, including the sergeant, felt the spirit return. He loudly introduced himself, which was actually answering questions about his identity like a soldier.

When he finished, Lynch shook hands with Sergeant Charles and smiled. “You don’t have to force yourself to change habits you’ve already adapted to. If you want, you can still live and work like in the army—though it’ll be a bit more relaxed here.”

This greatly eased the social anxiety of Charles and the young men behind him. Some even smiled.

It was a good start. Ferrell’s father-in-law was very satisfied, and Ferrell breathed a sigh of relief.

The veteran immediately took the conversation further. “In three days, I’ll have their gun permits sent over, but I must first make one point clear…” His face turned serious. “If you let them keep their military habits, you’d better file a record. Understand?”

“This won’t affect your work or life. It’s just to ensure certain situations are under control. I believe you understand.”

Hiring veterans with gun permits is no problem. But Lynch allowing them to maintain military habits—and even encouraging it—meant these veterans would live and work in an unofficial militarized environment. This touched on national security and required reporting to the Federal Security Committee, the Federal Military Affairs Office, and the Ministry of Defense.

Otherwise, Lynch could be seen as breaking the law. This was serious.

Lynch nodded and left an address: a lakeside villa district.

The lakeside villa Lynch had acquired from Hart was already transferring ownership; many had become Lynch’s properties.

It was far from the city center, a good place to station people temporarily. Later, he planned to move these young men to land he had recently acquired. Their value wasn’t just for Lynch’s protection.

Once foreign trade was allowed, it wouldn’t be peaceful international commerce but bloody international plunder.

This was normal: trade always has surpluses and deficits. Even close allies engage in trade exploitation.

Some exploitations were disguised to seem acceptable; others were blatant—such as dumping low-cost, low-profit goods in less developed countries.

This was more than just making money; it could destroy a country’s light or overall industry and create dependence on Baylor Federation products.

The logic was simple: after investing huge amounts of money and manpower to develop their own products, why not buy cheaper goods instead?

No one needed persuasion; once a country joined the international community, these ideas and behaviors naturally emerged. Growth was humanity’s deepest selfish instinct—innate and unlearned.

There would always be some resistance. Baylor Federation was civilized, but the world was not. Some backward regions remained. When trading with those areas, controlling an armed force fit Lynch’s mindset better.

He also planned to visit several countries to see the world’s customs and help indigenous people abandon primitive ways, assisting their integration into the global community.

This was the core of what he discussed with the mayor: taking on more international responsibilities and pursuing common development—this was the ideal.

After leaving, Lynch asked Ferrell to first buy a bottle of red wine. Interestingly, many shops on the street temporarily closed after last night’s events, but liquor and tobacco stores stayed open confidently.

More surprisingly, they didn’t fear robbery, as everyone passing by behaved politely.

After buying the wine, Ferrell drove Lynch to a somewhat remote neighborhood. He knew this was Lynch’s parents’ home. The mayor had investigated Lynch, and Ferrell, as a close aide, was aware.

“Need me to pick you up later? This place looks unsafe.” After Lynch got out, Ferrell asked.

During their stop, two or three men slowly approached from a distance, appearing aimless, but Lynch and Ferrell knew better.

Lynch shook his head. “I don’t know when this will be settled. Maybe I’ll stay here overnight.”

Ferrell nodded. “Alright, call me if anything.” He rolled up the window, started the car, and quickly left.

Lynch glanced at the men watching him, then walked directly into the apartment building’s entrance. They stopped disappointed and continued watching the street.

Relying on fading memories mixed with instinct, he found the door he could never forget.

Carved words scratched with a knife, some faded childhood doodles, and a cracked spot—a mark left when his father punched the door after Lynch refused his arrangements.

He knocked. After about half a minute, a cautious voice inside asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Serra.”

Serra was Lynch’s mother’s name. In most families, children call their parents mom or dad only when young. When older and living alone, using names became normal.

This excluded wealthy upper-middle-class families, where nicknames and formal names mix freely.

The door opened quickly. A woman, surprised and joyful, looked at Lynch, instinctively wiping her hands on her apron. “My God, I didn’t know it was you. You know what’s happening now…” She stepped aside. “Come in, quickly!”

Serra was thirty-nine, having Lynch at nineteen while his father was twenty-one.

By federal law, one can marry at sixteen but only becomes an adult at twenty; pregnancy after eighteen avoids investigations—such were the strange federal laws.

Serra now looked somewhat aged, around forty-two or forty-three. Her dull eyes brightened upon seeing Lynch, ignoring the small gift in his hand until he placed the wine on the table.

“You shouldn’t have bought this. It looks expensive!” The woman treated it as a normal matter, seeming to forget Lynch’s good fortune.

She took the wine to the kitchen. “Rest a bit. Your father will be back in about half an hour.”

The room was small, just as he remembered. Apartments weren’t usually large.

Sitting in the living room, he smelled food from the kitchen. At the kitchen door, he saw a yellowed stove with a tall pot simmering something unknown, bubbling thickly.

The kitchen felt cramped, barely suited for one person to work in—any more would make it hard to move.

After checking the other two rooms, Lynch reached the innermost one. A nameplate reading Lynch hung on the door. Unexpectedly, a flicker of unease washed over him.

He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. With the precision of countless rehearsals, he flipped on the light switch.

The dim light brightened the room instantly. Faded posters of actresses on the walls seemed to greet him. Nothing had changed since the last time he left.

He approached the bed and touched the sheets—spotless. The table was just as clean. Even though he hadn’t lived here recently, it was clear the couple kept this room well cared for.

After sitting on the bed for a while, the sound of the front door opening pulled him from deep memories. He blinked rapidly, stood up, and walked to the living room to face the person who once tried to control his fate.