Chapter 815: Parent-Teacher Conference

Bullying in federal schools was an unavoidable issue. Lynch had experienced it during both middle and high school.

Because of his good looks—especially when he was younger and often mistaken for a girl—he was harassed in middle school.

Luckily, he wasn’t just a bookish pushover. After showing someone he wasn’t to be messed with using a sharpened pencil, he successfully transferred schools.

Those stories followed him to the new school, but things were relatively peaceful after that, especially in high school.

Not every kid has the guts to stab a pencil into someone’s shoulder, which is why parents play such a crucial role.

A scholarly-looking father could hardly intimidate the bullies. But a strong, imposing father? That made them think twice before causing trouble.

The Federation did have juvenile protection laws, but those didn’t exist to shield delinquents—they were meant to protect good kids’ legal rights.

Once someone became a criminal, age, gender, or beliefs no longer mattered. Federal justice was impartial.

In other words, bad kids who crossed the line would be treated like adults. Getting beaten up by angry victims’ families was not uncommon.

Especially in the lower districts, workers with wrenches, carpenters with saws, and butchers with cleavers were every troublemaker’s worst nightmare.

In the upper districts, bullying still happened. But the rules shifted from I don’t like you and you can’t beat me to I don’t like you and your dad isn’t as powerful as mine.

When the fathers’ status was evenly matched, the deciding factor became which one looked more intimidating.

The children at elite private schools in the upper district were much better at picking out the soft tomatoes they could crush with ease.

This was the boy’s first year in school—and the first time the father’s presence was required.

Single-parent households could inform the school and send the mother instead, but doing so would reveal the family situation, and the child might quickly become a target.

Vera looked at Lynch. He frowned. “What are you thinking?”

Vera’s expression suddenly shifted, and she burst into laughter. “You didn’t think I wanted you to play the role, did you?”

She laughed loudly. Truthfully, Lynch had been thinking exactly that. When she saw it in his face, she laughed even harder.

“Come on, look in the mirror. Sure, you’re handsome—but you’re nowhere near mature enough.”

“You could maybe pass as his older brother, but no one would believe you’re his father.”

“And more importantly, you’re too famous.”

That last part was probably the real issue. Lynch was too well known—someone was bound to recognize him. His life had become a fixture in daily news.

A rich young man with a bold personality was always a magnet for media attention. People could laugh about him blowing a working family’s decade-long savings on strippers in a single night.

But they would never tolerate him crossing society’s moral boundaries in any way—directly or indirectly.

Lynch didn’t laugh. “So what are you suggesting?”

Vera stopped laughing. “Didn’t you used to have that… bodyguard with you?” She glanced around. “The really strong one?”

“You mean the Sergeant?”

“Sergeant?” Vera nodded. “Is that his nickname? Fits him perfectly.”

Everyone thought so.

People assumed that high-ranking officers were either fat or scrawny. Even those who looked balanced usually lacked muscle.

Only lower-ranking soldiers went through the kind of daily training that built real strength. The nickname “Sergeant” made it clear why he looked the way he did.

“Whether as a father or uncle, he’s old enough, looks tough, and when he wears sunglasses, the kids at school will stay in line.”

Sergeant had a fierce look, which made him the perfect candidate in Vera’s eyes.

“He’s in a desk job now, but that’s fine. I’ll call him. When’s the meeting?”

“The day after tomorrow…”

Lynch nodded, looked up at the sky, and casually said, “Still early…”

After dark, Lynch left—not because he had plans, but simply because the tutor had arrived.

Many people thought public and private schools were about the same, but they were not. What they saw was the happy upgrade version.

Spend more money, let your kid enjoy the process, and get into a top university just because they know how to properly use a cloth. People weren’t the same.

Besides those joy-focused tracks, there were also normal classes—the elite tracks. Homework started from first grade.

Some private schools didn’t require homework in lower grades, but they did expect parents to hire private tutors for after-school lessons.

People were not the same—no matter who you compared them to.

Vera wasn’t rich in the strict sense. Even if Lynch wanted to help her son someday—with a job or a future—he’d still need to prove himself.

So Vera hired two tutors early on to help the boy with his studies.

He’d grow up in a strict environment, becoming the type of child other parents envied—well-behaved and diligent.

He would get into a top private high school, then use Lynch’s recommendation to enter a university affiliated with the Saint Harmony Society.

Along the way, he’d meet children of other Sanctum members, find his place, and build bonds with alumni.

If he was good enough, after graduation Lynch—or a senior or teacher—would bring him into the Saint Harmony Society. His brilliant future would begin from there.

People, after all, are never truly the same.

After the tutor arrived, Lynch took the initiative to leave—after all, the tutor was still considered an outsider.

Lynch’s presence didn’t make things difficult for her; on the contrary, she became more patient and even more engaging while tutoring the boy.

Two days later, the Sergeant sat awkwardly in the front passenger seat, while Lynch and the boy sat in the back.

Having just been reassigned to a desk job, the Sergeant felt completely out of place. He was used to walking around with two modified pistols tucked under his arms, not sitting in an office sipping coffee and reading reports.

He was even less comfortable in the lightweight clothes he now wore—nothing like the familiar bulk of a bulletproof vest.

But that was life. For his wife, for his child, compromises had to be made.

When Lynch brought up the matter, the Sergeant agreed without hesitation. Yet for some reason, he was now feeling nervous.

More nervous than he ever felt on the battlefield. He needed to use the bathroom. Badly.

The car slowly pulled into the school parking lot, and the Sergeant grew more tense. His palms were slick with sweat.

The stern-looking parents and the teachers at the entrance were suffocating him.

“You look nervous,” Lynch said gently, as always.

The Sergeant shook his head. “No, boss. Not nervous at all. This isn’t war.”

Lynch pointed to his temples and behind his ears. “Then why are you sweating so much?”

“The heat’s on too high in the car!”

Lynch chuckled. He understood the feeling. A lot of people did.

At parent-teacher conferences, it was often the parents—not the students—who got the most emotional.

Lynch looked out the window at the other parents walking toward the school gate and smiled. “They’re probably even more nervous than you. Go on, don’t be late. That would be rude.”

He patted the boy’s head. The boy got out, bowed politely in thanks, and then took the Sergeant’s hand as they walked toward the school entrance.

Even though Lynch wasn’t playing the role of his father, the strong uncle beside him gave the boy a deep sense of security.

Walking tall across the campus, he noticed some classmates looking at him with a touch of awe in their eyes.

Children’s social dynamics weren’t too complicated. If a student didn’t have the strongest family background, then the power of their parents became the deciding factor in how others treated them.

The conference lasted over an hour. It was partly to assure the fathers that their kids wouldn’t be bullied at school, and partly to get a sense of each child’s family background.

When the teachers and other parents learned that the boy’s uncle was a mid-level manager in black-market security and had long been providing protection for Lynch, their expressions shifted noticeably.

Blackstone Capital, Blackstone Security, and the recently consolidating Blackstone Transport—a vast empire was slowly taking shape.

Even just a supervisor, especially one close to Lynch, was no ordinary figure.

A hair from a flea and a hair from a mammoth are not the same.

Not even close.

An hour later, the Sergeant came out alone. The students remained for a class meeting without parents.

“Whew, finally over.” He got in the car with a much more relaxed expression.

He slapped his cheeks a couple times. “I was a nervous wreck…”

Lynch found it amusing. “What are you going to do when you attend parent meetings for your own kid in the future? Think of this as… a trial run.”

“A trial run to help you face your kid’s teachers more confidently. There’ll be two or three of these each semester. I’ll call you when needed.”

Though still not quite used to it, the Sergeant agreed. Things like this might seem trivial, but they helped him stay close to the boss.

He couldn’t be by Lynch’s side all the time anymore—so he relied on these small things to keep the relationship strong.