Chapter 85: Recognizing One’s Mistake in Time and Finding a Solution

“Your auction won’t be able to proceed as scheduled…”

When Lynch heard this, he recalled some TV dramas he’d seen—how the last line of one episode never quite matched the recap at the start of the next, creating a jarring feeling.

It was like a cow with a horse’s face—deeply discordant. This wasn’t in the script.

He didn’t get angry. Instead, he looked calmly at the man across the desk, smiling. “Mr. Ferrell, could you explain why?”

He repeated, “Why can’t my auction be held on time? Maybe we can solve this.”

Ferrell looked somewhat pleased. He had expected Lynch to lose his temper or curse or throw a punch. Instead, Lynch remained composed behind the desk, calmly discussing solutions. Such a person seemed reliable—even if you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t hate him.

Ferrell nodded. “That’s why I’m here. Under state and city laws, any public gathering of more than fifty people requires prior application to the Social Services Bureau. Mr. Lynch, you seem to have forgotten this…” He pursed his lips in a regretful expression, mouth turning down.

Though meant to be unhappy, Lynch and others could see he was actually smiling—showing how strange human nature is.

What people see doesn’t always change their inner feelings—like a lump of chocolate shaped like feces; the eyes can’t alter the mind’s judgment.

Even those who tasted it weren’t swayed by their eyes but by desire, even if it was really feces.

Seeing Ferrell’s smile, Lynch knew this wasn’t as troublesome as it seemed. “I honestly didn’t know this rule existed. I thought only marches and demonstrations required prior approval.”

“Gatherings too!” Ferrell added, glancing at his watch. “The Social Services Bureau closes in under an hour. Such applications require at least a week in advance. Your auction is tomorrow—it’s too late.”

Lynch pursed his lips, thinking, then asked an unrelated question. “Mr. Ferrell, as you’ve seen, my company—and I personally—lack knowledge of some things that might be considered common sense…”

Ferrell nodded. Though not quite common knowledge, it wasn’t obscure either.

The culture in the Baylor Federation is rather free, or at least the federal government claims so. Everyone has the right to organize gatherings; many have done so, but some remain unaware of the rules.

Laws differ greatly by region. For example, in some places, making splashing noises while urinating is illegal; singing in the shower is banned; whistle blowing when urinating outdoors is required to warn others, or else one risks arrest…

Such varied laws confuse most citizens. What’s legal in one area might be grounds for arrest in another after just a short trip.

Some realize this uncertainty and consult the Social Services Bureau, but it’s slow, so many turn to lawyers instead.

“Making money from common sense” means some low-tier law firms handle daily problems but rarely appear in court.

Lynch smiled. “Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Ferrell. This saved me a lot of trouble. I also have a new idea—perhaps you’d be interested.”

Ferrell showed some curiosity. Since entering, the young man had held the initiative firmly.

Ferrell had planned to seize control of the conversation no matter Lynch’s reaction, but Lynch remained calm and in charge, shifting Ferrell’s attitude.

He could look down on a naïve youth because he could crush them anytime—but not on a smart, capable person. Who knew when that person might hand him a stone to scratch his own itch?

“Go ahead,” Ferrell said, straightening up, showing respect.

Lynch smiled again. “Your arrival made me realize I need an advisor—someone who can help me with work, find oversights I might miss, and handle details.”

He spread his hands. “Mr. Ferrell, as you know, my business is just starting. I don’t know many people in Sabin City yet, but God is merciful…”

Ferrell frowned, already guessing where this was going.

Lynch said it: “If you don’t mind, Mr. Ferrell, I’d like to hire you as a consultant during your spare time, with a reasonable salary.”

Lynch pulled out a checkbook, wrote a number with a fine pen, tore off the check, and slid it across. “This is your monthly salary…” He added, “After tax. My accountant will handle the taxes for you.”

Most people, even if they intend to refuse, would glance at the amount out of curiosity—not greed, but to gauge their social value. Later, they might brag, “So-and-so once offered me xxx, and I didn’t even help them,” to boost their worth.

After looking, they’d put the check down to show they weren’t as greedy as expected.

Ferrell casually took the check, frowned deeply—it was five thousand Sol a month, a considerable sum.

His official salary as mayor’s aide was only five hundred Sol a month, with take-home pay barely over a thousand.

He put the check down, troubled. “What do you mean by this?”

Lynch shrugged. “I think I made it clear—I lack some knowledge of laws and government procedures.”

“As far as I know, a personal aide isn’t an official title at Sabin City Hall. Our deal isn’t unethical, and I don’t expect illegal help.”

“Just occasional advice when I don’t understand something or face problems I can’t solve alone. That’s all.”

His tone was sincere. “Can you help me, Mr. Ferrell? I look forward to your assistance.”