Chapter 238: Speechless

To the working class, labor unions are seen as their greatest support.

And in many ways, they are. With the help of these unions, capitalists and politicians have been forced to pass policies and laws that protect workers’ rights and improve their welfare, providing a sense of security in their lives.

On paper, the labor union appears as a heroic figure—smiling bravely into the sun.

But in reality, unions are both protectors of workers and partners of capitalists. The widely publicized cases where they’ve taken the workers’ side and won are often against obscure, local companies.

Try going up against a major conglomerate?

The lengthy lawsuits and massive legal costs alone are enough to make the union surrender and back down. In such moments, they switch sides, taking hush money from corporations under the guise of helping workers.

They negotiate various benefits for the workers, but often these are just cost-saving measures for the companies. And they’re skilled at making workers believe these are just, moral victories.

Of the workers Asel visited, about 30% have died from complications and related illnesses.

Fewer than 10% remain alive with health worse than average. The rest suffer daily from sickness, with no real solutions.

Once they signed agreements in a union office, in front of a mediator and company representative, and pocketed the hush money they thought they’d never receive (but the company had planned to give them anyway), they lost the right to pursue further legal action.

By the time they realized the money wasn’t nearly enough to restore their health—let alone improve their quality of life—it was already too late.

These people are no longer truly alive. Their bodies and souls are numb—already dead.

No hope, no future. Living each day in pain, indistinguishable from death, only surviving due to the human instinct to cling to life.

No one pays attention to them. The media is silent. These stories are buried, becoming not even the foundation of this so-called glorious society—but less than that.

Have they lost their value?

Not entirely. When the union, the local government, or certain individuals need them, they’re brought back into the spotlight—“shocking society and the world.”

They show their suffering to draw tears, sympathy, and power.

But none of it truly benefits them. They might receive symbolic donations or a chance at treatments they can’t afford. Then they fade again, waiting to be needed once more.

Hundreds or thousands of such tragedies make up our society. Beneath the prosperity, there is no prosperity. But this is life. This is the real world.

“They’re in such pain, Mr. Lynch, I…” Asel’s expression was unusually vivid. Perhaps his identity as an immigrant made him empathize more deeply. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but can’t we help them?”

Lynch held his coffee. He preferred its aroma to its taste. After a sip, he set the cup down and looked at Asel with a faint smile, until the latter lowered his head and apologized for speaking out of turn.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lynch. I shouldn’t have let my emotions cloud your judgment.”

Lynch’s expression remained calm. He neither accepted nor rejected the apology. Instead, he asked an unrelated question: “Asel, do you know why the ultimate goal of a businessman is to become a capitalist?”

Asel thought for a while, then shook his head.

Lynch smiled slightly. “It’s simple. A businessman is still human. They still have emotions, and those emotions can cloud their judgment.”

“Only when they become capitalists—when they’ve shed all human instincts and impulses—can they act without being restrained by human feelings.”

He paused. “You don’t need to apologize for your thoughts. I’m not a capitalist. I don’t intend to become one.”

“I’ve always said—to you, to my partners—while making money is important, it’s even more important to take on some social responsibility.”

He looked straight at Asel. No raised voice, no exaggerated expression—just his usual calm. But in Asel’s stirred heart, it was as if he saw a newborn sun, blazing with light.

Lynch raised a hand and pointed vaguely. “Make arrangements. I want to meet these people. I want to see them with my own eyes. And invite some journalists. We’re going to make a big story.”

Though he had achieved his goal, Asel didn’t feel as thrilled as he’d imagined. Instead, he was puzzled. “Mr. Lynch, may I ask why you’re doing this?”

Lynch thought for a moment before smiling. “This is responsibility, Asel. The greater your ability, the greater your responsibility.”

“I’m human. Not a capitalist. I won’t behave like one.”

Perhaps inspired by Lynch’s words, Asel went above and beyond in carrying out his instructions.

Once again, it proved that when people work toward their own beliefs or goals, they often put in more effort than when working for others.

To make the event a success, he spoke with the director of the welfare home. The director agreed without hesitation—he had no fear of exposure.

For public institutions like welfare homes, no exposure means no donations. The director was happy to cooperate.

On the morning of December 30th, Lynch arrived at the welfare home with a group of reporters.

The reporters weren’t told much beforehand, but they came anyway—because it was Lynch who summoned them.

Lynch had strong personal charisma—and a wallet to match. Every time he held a press conference, the reporters would leave with small tokens of appreciation.

Things like pens, notebooks, ink didn’t cost much, but they won hearts. And the vouchers from Interstellar Trading Company allowed them to pick a second-hand item that looked brand new.

But today, from the moment they got off the car, their smiles vanished.

What they saw was deeply disturbing. A young female reporter even fled the building with her hand over her mouth and nose, only returning later, pale and shaken.

Before them were over twenty elderly individuals, grotesquely disfigured. Some were so swollen they looked like giant balls. Their facial features were warped, like burn victims, crumpled together.

Some had cracked skin oozing pus or rot, releasing a foul stench.

Some had limbs bloated on one end, skeletal on the other.

Some were…

This place was like hell. The air carried the stench of decay, making everyone tremble.

“Gentlemen,” Lynch said, looking at each journalist, “this is what I want you to record and report.”

“I don’t need you to flatter me, nor hide anything. Just tell the truth—what you saw, what you heard. Let more people know about these people, and these events.”

Then, Lynch shook hands with each elderly person. Some had lost their hands, their arms half-rotted, exposing white bone and blackened muscle.

Despite the odor and the grotesque appearance, Lynch seemed unfazed. He sat with them, asked them questions.

Behind each disfigured elder was not just one tragedy—but a group tragedy. Most had suffered in various industrial accidents.

Toxic material leaks, radioactive exposure, machinery failures—every accident left more than just one victim behind.

Horrific?

Shocking?

Not nearly enough.

As the visit neared its end, Lynch addressed the journalists, speaking of truths the world and this society would never know.

“There are still many more people enduring this torment. At least they’re alive, still with a chance to see some light from society. But others… they’ve already died, passed away at the darkest moments of their lives.”

In Lynch’s account, the Liston Group became the embodiment of evil. Over ten severely injured workers died slowly in their hospital beds because the company refused to pay for their treatment.

The reason? Their medical expenses exceeded the federal standard for death compensation.

Rather than cover treatment, the company forced families into lawsuits, dragging them down, hoping the workers would die sooner—so they could simply pay a cheaper death benefit.

To cut costs, they outdid demons in their cruelty. And all of this took place during what was once hailed as the golden age of the Federation.

These journalists thought they had seen the world’s darkest sides, yet today’s revelations shattered everything they believed.

On December 31st, most local newspapers shared the same headline, including the influential Sabin Daily:

Hell is Empty; the Devils Walk Among Us!