Blackstone Code-Chapter 631: Sense of Ceremony
After sorting through the miscellaneous items, it was time for the transfer of ownership documents. With Mr. Herbes deceased, there was no longer any legal challenge to the validity of these transfers—they now held full legal and financial weight.
All that was needed was to submit copies to the relevant authorities in each country where the assets were located for registration and declaration. Once completed, all of it would officially belong to Lynch.
The bank handled these tasks as well. As a premium client of Golden Exchange Bank, Lynch was treated with meticulous care—like a beloved patron whose every need must be satisfied.
The inventory and storage process continued for over an hour. Then came the packing. With Lynch, Karl, and video cameras as witnesses, various items were placed into separate, drawer-style mini vaults that could be removed individually. Each was logged with a unique number and cataloged.
If Lynch ever needed something specific—for instance, that yellow gemstone lion’s head the size of a child’s fist—the bank could deliver the sealed vault directly to him without opening it.
By the time everything was wrapped up, it was already noon. Karl enthusiastically invited Lynch to lunch.
The restaurant was located on the third floor of the Golden Exchange headquarters. Most would be surprised to learn the bank had such a facility—not only was it beautifully designed, but the chef’s skills were also impressive. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎
As they walked in, Karl remarked, “We’re in luck today!” He then explained, “Our current chef used to cook for a royal family in a small country. He came to the Federation to enjoy his retirement and now spends a portion of each year here, preparing meals for our most valued clients.”
He leaned toward Lynch, lowering his voice slightly. “You know… chefs aren’t on our skilled immigration list.”
The Federation’s immigration policies allowed for investors, laborers, and skilled workers. Skilled immigration required proof of specialized abilities—engineers, doctors, scientists. But not chefs.
Permanent residency wasn’t easy to obtain. The working class, fearing competition and limited resources, were the staunchest opponents of open immigration. Protests were common, organized by groups worried about job security.
Politicians needed public support to rise through the ranks—and the working class made up the majority. So, few dared to push for fully open borders.
Thus, each immigration path had to be followed strictly. Investors had to put in real money. Skilled workers had to prove their value. Laborers had to work, and under strict guidelines—specific jobs and minimum hours were mandated.
This meant that some elderly applicants were still doing hard labor while waiting for approval.
The renowned chef clearly didn’t want that kind of scrutiny. Fortunately, a member of the bank’s board had tasted his food and pulled some strings to bring him in as a skilled worker.
In exchange, he cooked at the bank for elite clients during part of the year.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Lynch said, projecting warmth and approachability. Karl’s smile widened.
After sitting down, Lynch pulled out a pair of cufflinks and handed them over. “I noticed your cufflinks don’t quite match your outfit. These might suit you better.”
Sunlight hit the gemstone face of the cufflinks at just the right angle, casting a deep blue halo—pure as the sky, deep as the ocean.
Blue had a calming effect—quietly powerful and magnetic.
Karl touched his own cufflinks, pausing to admire the new pair. He knew their price—around 120,000—not outrageous, but their maker was highly respected in the field. Their true value went beyond cost.
To the right buyer with money and taste, they could be worth much more.
Karl hesitated for only a moment before smiling. “Thank you.” He smoothly swapped his cufflinks and praised how well they suited him.
“You know, for us, work always carries a sense of ceremony. These cufflinks really elevate that. They’re excellent—I love them. Thank you, Lynch!”
“We’re friends. Friends should be generous with each other, and you’ve helped me plenty,” Lynch said, leaning back, elbows resting on the chair, fingers loosely intertwined.
He flipped his wrist. “They suit you better than they do me.”
It was a small gesture, but meaningful—more symbolic than material. To Karl, a bank shareholder and senior partner, cufflinks like these were easily affordable. But receiving them as a gift was different from buying them himself. It wasn’t about money.
This tone made for an easy, pleasant rapport between the two.
Karl then enthusiastically recommended a few dishes and had the chef prepare lunch personally for Lynch.
While waiting, Karl glanced around to ensure no one was sitting too close. He still lowered his voice. “You know, the Monetary Authority is preparing to approve an economic stimulus package.”
Lynch paused while unfolding his napkin, then continued smoothly. “I haven’t heard anything. Do you have details?”
The question was practically rhetorical. But social etiquette mattered in the Federation. These rituals were part of its culture—question and response, building rapport and shared understanding.
Karl nodded. “There’s been a steady stream of good news from Nagaryll, and you’ve reached a series of commercial agreements with Gephra. Many entrepreneurs are gearing up to take action. But as you know, everyone’s struggling right now.”
He said it with a smile—but struggling was an understatement. Not long ago, Eminence experienced a wave of suicides so severe it resembled an apocalyptic event, with people lining up on rooftops, jumping as if possessed.
That disaster had dealt a brutal blow to domestic investors—another heavy hit before they’d even recovered from the last.
Now, even with contracts and favorable policies, not everyone could keep their operations running.
Take the Gephra agreements—Federation businesses secured equal status with Gephra merchants. But tenders still required capital to get started.
Export and trade contracts? A deposit was paid, but production had to be restarted—requiring money.
This was the biggest problem. Ambitions were grand, but reality was harsh as hell.
The government’s plans weren’t meant to further empower the elite monopolies. In fact, Mr. Truman had strongly pushed to reduce the role of large conglomerates in these deals during a closed-door meeting.
It was rumored that he’d clashed with certain corporate lobbyists afterward—some wanted to devour the bulk of the contracts before they were even issued.
Regardless, the message now was clear: big corporations would step aside. Only large-scale international cooperation projects would be reserved for them—everything else would be distributed across society, giving average citizens more opportunity.
It was a smart move—curbing the unchecked expansion of top-tier capital and spreading benefits to the lower and middle classes. But it wasn’t without challenges.
Of all the issues, the biggest one was simple: no money.
There were still only a few people in the private sector who actually had money. Two financial crises and one economic meltdown had wiped out the savings of the Federation’s lower class. Countless factories had gone bankrupt, and a large portion of the middle class had plunged into ruin overnight.
Now, there were orders, but no means to start production. After discussions across multiple federal departments, the six major banks and the Financial Regulatory Commission jointly proposed a solution—a way for aspiring entrepreneurs without capital to obtain funding.
Seeing Karl’s somewhat secretive expression, Lynch grew a bit interested. “You’re planning to loosen up lending?”
At present, if anyone still had enough capital to support the country and society’s recovery, it was undoubtedly the Federation’s six major banks.
But Karl shook his head. “No, the banks don’t have money either. The government forced us to roll out unsecured credit loans, and now we can’t recover many of the bad debts. We don’t have the money.”
“We may not have money—but society does.”
