Chapter 281: Disarmament, Strategy, Union

The Baylor Federation didn’t recruit soldiers from society every year. Before the world war, they enlisted a batch every four years, while another batch would be discharged.

During the war, though the Federation maintained an isolationist stance and didn’t participate in international affairs, the president and defense department remained vigilant. They started enlisting soldiers every two years, actively expanding the military.

This significantly strengthened each military district to deter neighboring countries and prepare for potential conflict.

War is an unreasonable act of force—if reasoning worked, wars wouldn’t happen. Maintaining a higher-than-usual number of active-duty soldiers was the best way to ensure national security.

But this year wasn’t supposed to be a discharge season. Last year and the next were. The military wouldn’t release soldiers outside these periods. Since they already discharged the eligible ones last year, there shouldn’t be a large-scale release now.

The sergeant’s comment implied a new batch was being discharged.

Faced with Lynch’s confusion, the sergeant explained: the defense ministry believed international relations were stabilizing, so there was no need to maintain such a large standing army this year—they aimed to reduce personnel and ease military expenditures.

After hearing this, Lynch understood. Most wars around the world had come to a halt. Countries had entered a new phase of development. If nations like the Federation, which hadn’t participated in the world war, still maintained a force much larger than prewar levels, it might cause misunderstandings.

To avoid such perceptions and promote an image of goodwill and peace, the Federation’s troop reduction was seen as a sincere gesture. It aligned with the hopes of many other nations and reassured the public.

Domestically, the defense department wouldn’t receive much funding for at least two years. Military budgets were being cut, so an extra group of soldiers was being discharged early.

This also served to calm the public, sending the message: We are not going to war. It helped settle an anxious and uncertain populace.

There was a deeper reason as well. The visiting Prime Minister of Gephra, Chairman of the Progressive Party, and His Majesty the Emperor of Gephra all discussed the Federation’s integration into the international community. The Gephran Emperor clearly demanded a reduction in military size.

The reasoning was simple: over a million active-duty soldiers made people uneasy. Unless the Federation cut that number down to 600,000 or fewer, the Emperor warned that Gephra would not support their international integration—and might even urge others to be wary of the Federation’s intentions.

After multiple rounds of secret talks, the Progressive Party agreed to reduce the number of active soldiers, but with a trick: reducing from over a million to 600,000 couldn’t be done in just one year.

They claimed at least four years were needed. Gephra and other foreign ministers eventually accepted this timeline, believing it showed sincerity.

But the Federation’s political arrogance wouldn’t allow them to fully comply with the Emperor’s demands—someone they once considered feudal, ignorant, and backward.

So the Progressive Party came up with a countermeasure. Most discharged soldiers would be placed into local militias. The defense department and patriotic foundations would fund these militias to ensure they maintained regular military training even after losing their official status.

If war broke out—which was inevitable—these militias could immediately be mobilized to the front lines. The plan ensured their combat ability and morale remained intact.

Besides funding militias, the government also offered preferential policies to private armed security companies. This part, however, remained under wraps—at least until the Gephran Prime Minister left.

His visit was also part of a broader political transaction. The Federation began reducing active-duty numbers, and Gephra’s delegation played along to help portray the Federation as rejoining the international community.

After thinking it all through, Lynch smiled. “How could I? I only ever worry we’re too small, never too big.”

After a while, he added, “Next month or the month after, I’ll likely be investing in some other countries. Things are a mess out there, so you’ll be coming with me.”

The sergeant paused momentarily at this, then resumed walking. He didn’t look excited—just solemn.

Federation citizens were conflicted. Isolationism had cost them much, including courage. They wanted to prove themselves but were still afraid, especially when it came to foreign affairs.

Lynch patted his arm. “Pick twenty or thirty reliable men. They’ll protect me during the trip. More will follow later. This investment matters a lot to me.”

The sergeant’s lips moved. He wanted to ask what kind of missions these soldiers would be performing abroad—but held back.

Following orders was a soldier’s duty. In the military, they were taught: when ordered to act, act—don’t ask why.

That habit hadn’t changed. Though curious, he nodded in agreement.

That afternoon, Lynch went with Connor—the lawyer who had worked with him a few times—to the headquarters of the Workers’ Union in Sabin City to discuss a cooperation deal.

Lynch brought the lawyer because he knew little about labor-related laws. It wasn’t for lack of trying—he had spent a lot of time reading legal documents, case studies, and books.

But labor laws were overwhelming in number and complexity, a reflection of the fierce struggle between labor and capital.

Unable to make sense of it all, he needed legal help.

This was Lynch’s first time visiting the workers’ stronghold. Before even entering the five-story building, its appearance revealed its nature.

Its plain, industrial concrete façade resembled the square blocks common in factories. Rust-colored stains on the edges looked like remnants from its molding process.

Windows and doors had been carved into the concrete shell, and a sign reading Workers’ Union hung out front—perfectly matching the building’s tone.

Inside, the lobby had bare concrete floors. Years of foot traffic had polished parts of it to a dark, mirror-like shine.

A plain wooden reception desk. An average-looking girl. Everything felt unremarkable—so plain it felt like the true home of the workers.

Until Lynch stepped into the fifth-floor conference room and saw the union leadership.

A group of sharply dressed men in tailored suits—each worth at least several hundred Sol.

Their hair was slicked back with gel, shining under the lights. Their faces were so clean they looked like a child’s skin—nothing like the soot-streaked faces of real workers.

When Lynch entered, smiles appeared on their faces. The leader greeted him warmly, shook hands, and introduced the others.

It didn’t feel like he was meeting workers’ representatives. It felt like dealing with capitalists—or politicians. A strange experience.

Once introductions were done, both sides took seats across the long table. Lynch and Connor sat alone on one side—outnumbered.

After the union secretary brought in coffee and snacks, the doors were closed. The discussions ahead weren’t for others to hear—at least not before they gained union leadership’s approval.

The president of Sabin’s Workers’ Union, a gentleman in his fifties with graying hair and a gentle face, flipped through some documents.

After drawing everyone’s attention, he looked up at Lynch and smiled slightly.

“Mr. Lynch, over 100,000 people in Sabin City have lost their jobs. Most families are in dire straits. We need support from all sectors of society. Your presence here today reassures us that our society is committed to addressing these problems…”

A very official tone—making the president and his colleagues seem even less like workers. Real workers wouldn’t speak so ceremoniously.