Blackstone Code-Chapter 632: Delirium

In the restaurant, a few diners sat scattered around, waiting to enjoy a pleasant lunch.

The third floor of the headquarters of Golden Exchange Bank was not open to ordinary employees, only to mid- and high-level management. Those who could dine here were essentially all in leadership. Without any board members present, Karl was already among the highest in status here.

To show respect to Karl and reinforce the hierarchy embedded in corporate culture, those of lower rank intentionally sat closer to the exit, farther from Karl.

As a result, even though everyone shared the same space, they had no idea what Karl and Lynch were discussing.

What were they talking about?

Karl cleared his throat. The smile on his face was odd—hard to describe—and his voice was slightly lower than usual. “The Federation is going to allow approved companies to issue corporate bonds…”

Lynch’s pupils contracted slightly. Corporate bonds—formally speaking. Put simply, this meant companies would be allowed to raise funds from the public.

Bonds carry interest, but that interest doesn’t always come in the form of money. It could be products, jobs, or even real estate.

Thinking of this, Lynch chuckled. For businesses—especially federal businesses and their capitalists—this could be the start of a new golden age following their rough-and-tumble era of unchecked expansion. A silver age.

The logic was simple: issue bonds, then go bankrupt. As long as you had the guts—and no shame—a million, ten million, could be pocketed in a blink.

Lynch really wanted to know who the hell was smart enough to come up with this. “Was this proposed by the Financial Regulatory Commission?”

Karl leaned back, unfolded his napkin, and nodded. “They wanted the banks to put up the money. But as you’ve seen, we’ve got hundreds of millions in bad debt this year. And that’s after we relaxed our assessment standards. If we’d been stricter, the number would be terrifying.”

“The banks are bleeding. Of course they don’t want to cough up more cash. And then…” Karl grinned. “Word is, during a meeting, someone complained that whenever disasters like Valier happen, tons of investors get stuck.”

“So the Deputy Commissioner of the Financial Regulatory Commission proposed a basic framework—let companies issue bonds to the public. That way, everyone’s at least in the same pot.”

Every time there’s a financial crisis, foreign investors grab their money and run. That’s exactly why the banking higher-ups exploded during the meeting.

If all that money had stayed in the country after the crash, it wouldn’t be so bad. It would still circulate within the monetary system. And as a central pillar, the banks would always get their share.

But the money got taken abroad, and the banks were left holding the bag on all the bad debt. Now they were being asked to fund recovery? Of course they refused.

So, through a mix of coincidence and pressure, this plan was born. Simply put: crowdfund to restart operations, giving those willing to work and fight a chance.

This wasn’t a joke.

“I know you have some companies too. You should start preparing the paperwork. The first round of approvals should be easy to get. Then you can start issuing bonds to the public,” Karl hinted again. Everyone knew the process wouldn’t be truly fair or transparent.

Just like now—the news wasn’t even public yet, but Lynch and a few others had already heard and were getting their documents ready.

As soon as the policy was officially announced, the first round of applications—under the loosest standards—would be approved. By the time the general public tried to get in, the approval process would be tightened.

That’s the nature of the Federation’s information-driven society.

“Thanks,” Lynch nodded. He was already thinking about how to write Karl an anonymous thank-you letter. This guy was a good person—good people deserve praise.

Karl burst out laughing, his voice returning to normal. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Soon, a sixty-something chef, followed by a few junior chefs, rolled in carts with food and portable stoves. They set up at a distance and began cooking on the spot.

This elderly immigrant chef clearly had skills. Even a simple pan-seared fish fillet became a showpiece under his hands. It was bound to be a delicious meal.

Pan-seared fish fillet is a common dish, but today’s was different. In federal cuisine, fish fillets were always made with sea fish.

Sea fish have fewer bones and more meat—perfect for the Federation’s culinary preferences. Different fish behave differently when seared. Some become flaky.

That’s a texture thing. Fish muscle lacks fatty membranes, so when cooked, the fibers fall apart. That was the case with today’s fish.

But this chef cleverly used egg whites to bind the meat, preserving a firm texture while still achieving the crispy pan-fried result.

A satisfying lunch.

On the way back, Lynch kept thinking about the idea of companies raising funds—or rather, issuing bonds. Essentially the same thing.

His thoughts wandered. Though disconnected on the surface, they were all linked by an underlying thread.

First, he thought of the President. Launching an economic stimulus plan now meant the President was almost certain of reelection.

Otherwise, it would be too risky. If it failed, he’d just be warming up the field for someone else—who could then claim the success as their own during their term. Not technically lying—just letting people draw their own (misleading) conclusions.

The fact that it was being launched now meant confidence in victory, and also a move to win more votes.

So what should have been a post-election stimulus plan was being rolled out early.

Next, Lynch thought about Mr. Truman’s stance on capitalists. From Karl’s words, it was clear Truman had gone head-to-head with the big capitalists—and it was a mixed outcome.

Managing to push the greedy financial groups out of small and medium-sized projects was, in itself, a win for Truman.

Then Lynch thought of his own factories. Could he… get his workers to subscribe to bonds?

That made him laugh out loud—like watching the best comedic actor in the Federation perform an absurd routine.

Think about it: when capitalists need to raise money to enrich themselves, who’s the first group they turn to?

Other broke capitalists?

Cunning speculators?

Financial vultures from Eminence?

Or… the unemployed workers hoping for a job?

Definitely the latter. Whether those workers get a job will depend on how much money they can contribute to the factory.

I’m paying to help the capitalist exploit me—this was no longer a drunken fantasy of the elite. It was about to become reality.

After a short stroll, Lynch got in his car and returned home. He wasn’t who he used to be. Nowadays, every time he went out, crowds followed.

Some people might think it looked impressive. Some even gathered entourages just to appear powerful.

Lynch was past that phase. After a brief walk—feeling people’s wary stares—he got into the car and went home.

Just outside the villa compound, as the motorcade was about to enter, the security guard walked up to the window.

“Mr. Lynch, there’s a man who says he knows you, but I…” The guard pressed his lips together. Lynch understood what he meant and looked over toward the guard booth.

Next to the booth stood a middle-aged man, disheveled and visibly uneasy. When Lynch looked at him, the man suddenly strode toward Lynch’s car.

The bodyguard sitting beside Lynch immediately grabbed the man by the neck, slammed him under the seat, and pulled out her gun from its holster…

Two minutes later, Lynch was rubbing his neck while still praising the bodyguard for doing a good job, reassuring her not to take it to heart, and even offering her a small reward.

He knew it was the right thing to do—but it still left him a bit annoyed.

He recognized the man who had approached the car. A year ago, at that expo, Lynch had invested ten thousand Sol in him—for that radio reconnaissance array.

This world was a strange one. Perhaps it had something to do with the absence of certain key scientists.

That’s why Lynch didn’t mind occasionally investing in small-time projects—one of them might turn out to be a real scientist someday.

At Lynch’s invitation, the radio scientist—let’s call him that for now—came into his villa.

Sitting on the sofa, he seemed a bit emotional. To a self-taught scientist, perhaps in his own mind he was far greater than Lynch—yet Lynch had the money.

People often say knowledge is priceless. That’s true—most of the time because it’s worth very little. Only a small portion of knowledge is actually profitable.

“Mr. Lynch, the money’s run out.” The radio scientist set down his coffee cup, pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened to the first page, and handed it over.

“I’ve written down exactly how every bit of your investment was used. Every penny is accounted for in here…”

Lynch took the notebook and casually flipped through it. Aluminum tubes, copper wire, coffee beans showing up repeatedly—too many items. After a few pages, he tossed it back on the table.

“So how far along is your research?”

“In other words, has my investment in you started to show any value?”