Chapter 362: The Five O’Clock Eminence

What is an era?

What is the breath of an era?

What is the pulse of an era?

These are complex, difficult questions—no one can sum them up in a sentence or two.

The lives of the wealthy reflect a fragment of the era, and so do the lives of the poor. No one can grasp every detail or every change of an era.

If someone asked Lynch, he’d tell them to take a bus from the busiest street to the poorest district—to witness the era firsthand, to see its true reflection.

Here, it’s the same.

The diversity of people at the exhibition gave Lynch a unique feeling, as if he was detached from the whole world—perhaps because his soul came from another world.

He stood there, watching the varied expressions on everyone’s faces, seeing the cunning in the eyes of swindlers, and the helplessness in the inventors’ gaze.

This is the era!

“Mr. Lynch!” Just as Lynch was reflecting on the era and preparing to take a philosophical step further, a voice interrupted him.

He didn’t get annoyed. Turning around with a smile, he looked at the person calling his name. At that moment, the whole world seemed like his backdrop.

The caller was the stockbroker from before. Not seeing Mr. Truman here, he couldn’t resist coming over.

“Mr. Lynch, you seemed interested earlier in the radio reconnaissance array I mentioned?” The young broker asked enthusiastically.

Lynch sized him up. “Pardon me, but my question might make you uncomfortable. Can you tell me how much you make monthly selling these stocks?” He glanced at the flyers in the young man’s hand.

The broker paused, started calculating.

The inventor was looking for gullible buyers—everyone knew stockbrokers used any legal means to push stocks for maximum profit.

The inventor invested all the money he could spare without impacting his daily life, even using his emergency fund—twelve hundred Sol—handed over to the brokerage.

The company promised to issue sixty thousand shares, raising twelve thousand Sol.

But the inventor naïvely thought each share was worth twenty cents, and his twelve hundred Sol was just the broker’s commission.

It wasn’t so. Once the twelve hundred Sol went to the company, they printed cheap flyers priced not at twenty cents but thirty-five cents each.

Twenty cents went to the inventor, ten cents to the company, and five cents to the salesperson.

If all shares sold, they could raise twenty-one thousand Sol. After paying the inventor twelve thousand, the salesperson would earn three thousand.

Is three thousand a lot?

Only a fool would ask.

Three thousand is a lot—ninety-five percent of people in this country would say so—but not every broker can sell all the flyers they’re given.

Some girls find it easy by ditching phone calls and communicating face-to-face with clients, offloading the hardest stocks—and naturally earning the most.

A broker like the one in front of Lynch likely earned… “Close to a thousand Sol, Mr. Lynch!” he said, a hint of pride in his expression.

But his eyes and a subconscious glance at his toes betrayed him—he wasn’t making that much.

Maybe once, when the market was better—even farmers would invest their feed money. But now, he only made eighty-one Sol and ninety cents this month.

If he didn’t sell those flyers by the end of June, the company would fire him, giving the chance to better-prepared newcomers—young girls.

Faced with Lynch’s question, he lied—some mix of shame and struggle kept him from the truth. He didn’t want Lynch, his peer, to look down on him with scorn and arrogance. So he gave a modest but inflated income.

Lynch nodded without comment. “I have a partner who, since joining my venture, has earned dividends far above what you make.”

He meant Richard. Richard was excellent at extracting money from clients and putting it into Lynch’s and his own pockets.

He maintained relationships with clients—checking in regularly, sending small gifts during holidays, running raffles with cheap prizes or travel packages—methods that kept clients loyal.

Even if he wasn’t always top salesperson, he was the best.

Lynch’s words silenced the broker. Deep inside, he sensed that this so-called young leader of the new era might be…

“Willing to get hired?” Lynch asked directly.

He pointed to an empty seat, and cold drinks were brought over. The broker calmed down but didn’t answer immediately, instead asking, “May I know why, Mr. Lynch? Why would someone like you notice me?”

Lynch smiled, sipping the overly sweet juice. “Have you ever seen Eminence at five in the morning?”

The young man blinked, fragments of memories surfacing.

To survive in this city, he’d seen Eminence not only at five but at three a.m.—those days were close, even his current life.

He could recall the bustling main street at dawn, filled with the tiring smells after the noise, and the slow revival of restlessness.

He nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lynch, I have. But why do you ask?”

Lynch set down his cup, smiling. “Because through effort and courage, fate favors those who are prepared… Sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Lime, sir—Lime McDonald.”

“Lime, look around you. There are at least a dozen stockbrokers nearby, but since I arrived, you’re the only one who’s offered me flyers.”

“You dared to act, to strive for a better outcome. So why should fate be stingy in return?”

“I see potential for success in you, Lime.”

Lynch stirred his juice with a straw. To keep it very cold, the juice wasn’t chilled in a fridge but poured over half a cup of shaved ice.

The shaved ice saved money while slowing the juice’s warming. The overly sweet flavor masked the dilution when the ice melted.

Lynch looked at Lime, seeing the young man’s changes clearly. People hadn’t grown numb yet; they still believed in miracles. That meant this was the best of times.

After a little over a minute, Lynch continued, “From where you started to where you are now, you actually understand Eminence and this business far more than those so-called big shots you think know everything.”

“There are things you’re not qualified to know yet, but once you become my partner, you’ll master them quickly. Combined with your experience at the grassroots level, your growth will outpace anyone else’s.”

Lynch’s words moved Lime. He licked his lips and asked, “If I agree to work for you, Mr. Lynch, what would you have me do?”

“No, that’s not quite right,” Lynch said, raising a finger and shaking it. “Working for me is just a phrase. You wouldn’t truly be working for me—that wouldn’t be fair. Just because I pay you doesn’t mean I can use your talents solely to make money for myself.”

“I believe those with ability should succeed, so we’re partners.”

“As for your question, it’s simple. I plan to buy some trading seats at the exchanges. Now is a good time.”

Seats at the three major exchanges had plunged drastically. What once cost over a million last year was now down to just over three hundred thousand. Lynch intended to buy several in preparation for the future.

His main focus was futures trading. As the federation integrated further into the international community, prices of raw materials and such became harder to predict.

For example, a material’s price might fluctuate wildly due to political changes in a region, seasonal shifts, or shifts in military power.

Lynch couldn’t bring peace to war-torn regions—he didn’t have the clout to make warring nations shake hands. But stirring regional conflicts and fanning hostility to create artificial armed clashes? That was easy.

A good businessman didn’t just bleed foreigners dry—he also bled domestic capitalists. That was the kind of businessman Lynch aspired to be.

Lime already understood Lynch’s plans clearly. If he had enough money now, he’d also buy a trading seat at the bottom, but he didn’t.

He nodded, ready to say he agreed to work for Lynch. Before he could speak, Lynch stopped him.

“Before you give me—and yourself—an answer, think it over. In the meantime, let’s talk about that radio… reconnaissance array!”