Chapter 7: It Is Not Evil That Forged Darkness, But Light!

“Wealth glimmers with golden light, attracting those lost in the fog of poverty!”

“They may never gain enough to shine themselves, but it can still change their lives somewhat.”

These words were spoken by Lynch. Within just a few days, everyone in Sabin had heard of a man who could quickly turn small change into whole bills—and make a profit doing so.

Large amounts of coins continuously rolled in Lynch’s pockets, turning into bills. It wasn’t only newsstand owners doing this; some bookstores and retail shops joined in as well.

A 3% profit, no effort needed, no risk involved. Though it might seem like just a few cents, when the principal is large enough, it becomes a significant sum—hundreds, thousands. Just hand the money to Lynch and get more back. It’s that simple.

According to various federal and local labor laws, the average worker in Sabin earns about 200 to 300 bucks a month. Hazardous jobs might pay more, but those are rare.

Ten bucks equals roughly a day’s wages, but with Lynch, no labor is required—just hand over the money and get it back with profit.

Some scoffed at this; more people saw its value.

Large sums of coins gathered and orderly appeared at Fox’s laundry shop.

One day, about a week later, when Lynch pushed his cart into Fox’s laundry, two men in black wool coats, formal suits, vests, and white shirts blocked his way.

He then understood why Fox said he didn’t look like a federal agent—he lacked the unmistakable attire and the arrogant look that screamed federal agent.

“Lynch?”

The man blocking the cart casually called his name, then opened his coat to reveal a badge hanging from an inside pocket.

Half the badge was inside the coat pocket to prevent it from falling; the other half with the ID was visible outside. Federal agents did the same—it was their style, inspired by popular movies in recent years.

Actors made it look cool; regular people just looked foolish.

“I’m a federal tax investigator. You need to cooperate…” The tone left no room for negotiation—it was more than firm; it was barbed.

Lynch smiled, “Should I raise my hands?”

He had known from the start he’d deal with these people repeatedly, only surprised it happened so soon.

This game worked like this: wealth’s golden glow attracts not only ordinary people hungry to bask in it but also those sharp bad guys looking for trouble.

His words mocked the investigators, who normally associated raised hands with weapons.

These two had no right to carry firearms. In the federal tax bureau, investigators are the lowest rank, far below agents or special agents, though many wonder why the tax bureau even needs special agents.

One of the men grabbed Lynch’s wrist with one hand and collar with the other, pressing him against the wall roughly. Passersby quickly cleared a space to avoid being caught up.

Some left; others stayed to watch.

After showing his badge again, the investigator dispersed the crowd and pushed Lynch’s cart into a nearby alley with his partner.

Lynch rubbed his cheekbone, bruised from hitting the wall, but he didn’t care.

One investigator rummaged through the cart, dumping old clothes on the ground as if searching for something.

The other asked, “You’ve been close with Fox lately. Working for him?” He pulled out a notebook and pen, ready to take notes.

The federal tax bureau had long been watching Fox. But watching didn’t mean they had to take him down. Where there is light, there is darkness—not darkness’s nature, but light’s.

Without Lynch, this strange yet socially necessary balance might have held longer—until a new local tax director took office or the current one needed achievements and went after Fox.

But now with Lynch involved, their strange actions accelerated things spiraling out of control.

Catching a tax evader involved in massive sums is a huge achievement in the tax system, a ticket to promotion.

But if Fox slipped away, no one would praise the local tax director; suspicions of backdoor deals would arise.

With possible personnel changes in Sabin’s tax bureau, some couldn’t wait.

Once the signs appeared, the bureau acted quickly. After confirming Lynch’s identity and recent actions, they roughly understood his and Fox’s dealings.

Experienced agents saw Lynch as a lucky kid who accidentally found a way to make money. Using Lynch as a breakthrough might help them catch Fox’s group.

First, they needed to understand exactly what Fox and Lynch were up to, leading to this raid.

Facing fierce investigators, Lynch kept smiling. Smiles shorten distances and lower guards.

“May I know your name?”

The investigator sneered, then suddenly stepped forward and punched Lynch’s stomach, sending waves of nausea through him.

“You don’t need to know my name. Just answer questions, got it?” The man grabbed Lynch’s hair, forcing him to look up while bent over.

“Tell me again, what deals do you have with Fox? How does his money get into the bank…”

Lynch’s facial muscles twitched. He slowly straightened, smiling again. Using his right hand as a gun pressed to his chin, he said, “You got a gun? Give me a bullet to try…”

The investigator froze, then flushed with anger. But when he met Lynch’s clear, expectant, and slightly mad gaze, it hit him like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing his rage.

Those bright eyes held a touch of madness that made the investigator’s heart seize.

He swallowed nervously, looked away, then back, staring hard. He shoved Lynch roughly and shouted, “Answer the questions!”

He was scared but hid it by acting tough and keeping distance. He didn’t want to expose his real feelings to a young man barely out of school.

Lynch acted as if nothing happened, tilting his head back slightly, looking up at the narrow sky above the alley, and smiled brilliantly.“May I know your name, sir?”