Chapter 295: Footprints of History

If Lynch had said six months ago that Nail’s coworkers were thieves, the honest man would likely have become angry. He would have slammed the table, pointed at Lynch’s nose, and called his words ridiculous.

Those people weren’t thieves, just desperate and hopeless. They were merely struggling to survive. If they were thieves, they were stealing hope.

But now, Nail felt no anger at the word thief. At most, he was uneasy and displeased with Lynch’s statement.

His change in status had made him ready to say goodbye to his past life. A new big house, his own car, even a walk-in closet with decent clothes and accessories he never dreamed of before.

These changes severed his past from his present like a sharp dagger.

He nodded. “Yes, I know about that. Luckily, I didn’t join them. Is the case closed?”

Nail knew what Lynch had done—using lawsuits to reclaim houses the factory owner might sell, then returning them to those uncles by other means.

Nail thought Lynch was stingy and distant. Lynch could have simply given those houses to the workers without loss.

The case was complex—a group of workers, a factory, an owner—involving three lawsuits and issues of priority and authority.

Who had precedence required time and process. Fortunately, Lynch performed well, and the judge gave him the highest priority based on solid evidence and paperwork.

Because Lynch signed sales contracts and responsibility agreements with the workers, everything was complete and undisputed, so that lawsuit was tried and enforced first.

Lynch confirmed, “The enforcement process will start soon, but you know, I intended to help those uncles…”

Nail couldn’t hold back. “Exploitation isn’t help. If you think exploitation is help, they’d rather not have it!”

Nail couldn’t treat longtime coworkers with the coldness he showed ordinary workers. He was learning indifference but wasn’t there yet.

Lynch smiled and looked at Nail. “If I don’t help them, the police and banks will drive them onto the streets.”

“Accept my help, and they still have a home. Refuse it, and they lose everything. Do you know what losing everything means?”

Patiently, Lynch explained to his less-educated father, “They’ll be miserable. Older kids might go astray, join gangs as enforcers, or become dancers in strip clubs, showing their bodies to uncles or even family.”

“Their wives might divorce them—or maybe not—but you know, homeless people don’t have love. Their private lives get ruined. Some will seek warmth in winter by crawling into strangers’ sleeping bags.”

“In the end, they’ll have nothing, sick and broke, unable to afford medical care, only…” Lynch glanced at the plate Serra brought—beef ribs.

His bright smile contrasted sharply with his words. He paused and sniffed. “Smells good. May I taste some before we start?”

Serra, a typical housewife worn down by life, was easily pleased.

She smiled happily at her son’s request, “Of course. I hope it suits your taste!”

Lynch picked up a beef rib about the size of his palm and ate heartily, savoring the thick sauce. Home cooking emphasized salt, oil, and sauce because they lacked advanced culinary skills for complex flavors.

“Delicious. I’m looking forward to the rest!” Lynch’s praise pleased Serra, who leaned over and gently pressed her cheek against his forehead, careful not to touch his expensive clothes.

“Of course, all your favorites. Wait a moment!”

After she left, Lynch refocused. “Where were we?”

Nail didn’t know whether to act indifferent or normal. He tightened his lips and said mockingly, “You just explained what losing everything means.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Lynch replied smoothly, though he already knew. He asked deliberately to deepen Nail’s impression of the term and what he had said.

A deep impression becomes a subconscious acceptance.

Lynch wiped his sticky fingers with a napkin and continued, “And all this has costs—the lawsuits, gathering evidence, building connections. You only see the results; you don’t know the effort and price I paid. So I don’t think I acted improperly.”

“Compared to letting them become homeless, I’ve been merciful!”

Nail sneered, “You’re very merciful!” His mood stemmed from two things: first, people reminisce when they’re well-off, so he sided with his old coworkers; second, the relationship with Lynch felt reversed, making Nail feel lectured by a child, which was hard for him.

Still, he was convinced. He asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Lynch put down the napkin; his fingers were no longer sticky. He shrugged, “The court will auction their houses soon. Convince the workers not to cause trouble. We need to keep things under control. Understand?”

Nail nodded seriously. It concerned the future lives of his former coworkers. Even if they no longer kept in touch, he didn’t want things done too harshly.

After business, they talked about Nail’s new life. Nail spoke more, his mood livelier, mostly about his hobbies.

He had converted a room into a workshop with various tools and two small desktop lathes.

Some furniture and decorations at home were handmade by him. Sometimes work was just that interesting.

While working hard, he sometimes felt bored, as if work was a source of pain.

But when he could enjoy a better life without working, he realized he still loved those tasks—and the tools.

As they talked, Serra brought all the dishes. The family sat together, drinking and chatting happily.

Until… Lynch left.

The cost of growth was heavy. A family suddenly became relatives. Intimate people grew distant. This was the bitter inevitability of growing up.

With Nail’s help, the workers accepted the verdict quietly. They sent two representatives to negotiate with Lynch.

With Nail as mediator, Lynch wasn’t harsh. Everyone accepted the outcome.

They had broken the law; now they could resolve it without heavy costs. They’d already gained an advantage—few people were as reasonable and understanding as Lynch. People should know when to be satisfied.

Though everything seemed settled, Lynch knew some unexpected changes were bound to happen.

If not now, then in the future, someone would cause trouble—but Lynch didn’t care. That was a matter for later.

In the following weeks, he was busy organizing his business affairs, making everything run smoothly. By mid-March, he boarded a cruise ship to Nagaryll with over fifty bodyguards from Blackstone Security.

Watching the coastline fade and disappear over the horizon, Lynch turned and walked steadily forward, facing the sea breeze with calm confidence.

Traveling by land and sea from Baylor Federation to Nagaryll took about ten days—a fast pace for this era, but Lynch was still somewhat dissatisfied.

However, this outdated mode of transportation had its benefits: information traveled slowly, which was crucial for certain matters.

On April 1st, an ordinary, uneventful day, the cruise docked at an external port in Nagaryll. A polished leather shoe stepped off the gangway onto Nagaryll’s soil.

The hot climate mixed with foul and fishy sea breezes, sending waves of heat. Lynch loosened his shirt collar, smiled at the backward city, and took a deep breath.

That was the smell of wealth.