Blackstone Code

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It only took a single day for Lynch to miraculously unite the majority of the federation's populace. In a society plagued by severe economic recession, scarce job opportunities, and most people struggling just to make ends meet, what they needed was a wake-up call—a slap in the face to shake them out of their lethargy.

Lynch's words served that purpose perfectly. When material needs couldn't be met, fulfilling spiritual desires became an effective alternative. People craved distraction, while rulers sought to redirect discontent.

"I watched that young man's impromptu speech," the President of the Baylor Federation remarked from his office, a rare smile spreading across his weathered face. He fiddled absently with a small figurine on his desk. "The military has been flooding into the Ministry of Defense since this morning, and they've already submitted several documents to me."

He gestured toward the stack of folders cluttering his desk. "Especially the navy—they've taken the initiative to request authorization for an operation to eradicate the pirates roaming the Eastern Ocean. Some conglomerates have even volunteered to fund the mission."

In theory, no matter how brazen capitalists might be, they shouldn't have the power to interfere with military operations. But the Baylor Federation wasn't like other nations. Here, such anomalies were commonplace. After all, this was a country where someone had once sued the president simply because their young son picked up a swear word during one of his speeches and started using it everywhere. When scolded, the boy retorted that the phrase came straight from the president himself. Frustrated, the father took the matter to court.

There were only two venues in the federation capable of trying a politician of presidential stature: the Supreme Court, presided over by at least three lifetime-appointed justices, or Congress, led by the President of Senate. Eventually, the embattled president appeared on camera, apologizing to the public and promising never to swear again—"I fucking swear I won't curse anymore. I mean it."

Ironically, this half-hearted apology backfired in the best way possible. His use of profanity made him seem more relatable, authentic, and charismatic, earning him newfound admiration among certain segments of the population. It was a masterclass in personal branding—though ordinary citizens neither knew nor cared about the intricacies behind it.

Almost overnight, several major corporations claimed to have suffered pirate attacks. Through perfectly legal channels, they funneled funds into designated military accounts under the guise of "defense contributions." Regardless of whether the naval operation succeeded or failed, the money would eventually find its way into the navy's coffers. This was a quintessential example of the Baylor Federation's unique brand of civil-military cooperation.

The President didn't betray any negative emotions as he recounted these developments. Instead, he found them amusing. "Even the Minister of Defense personally sought my guidance on how to handle provocations from foreign powers. It seems they've reached a consensus."

Truman, ever perceptive, noticed the faint glimmer of satisfaction in the president's eyes when he mentioned the "Minister of Defense." "His attitude?"

"Attitude?" The president glanced up at Truman before catching himself. "Ah yes, his demeanor was impeccable. He spoke like a docile lamb. Perhaps I've finally found a solution."

He sighed wistfully. "You were right, Truman. I should have listened to you sooner."

The president's biggest challenge had always been the military's reluctance to align with him. Instead, they favored a far more radical and aggressive candidate—the internal contender within the Progressive Party. According to the Chairman of the Committee, this candidate was supposed to serve merely as a foil to bolster the president's image and secure his reelection. Yet history had shown time and again that these so-called "supporting actors" often turned against their benefactors.

Politicians who swore they wouldn't run until the very end frequently undermined their rivals quietly, only to reluctantly accept victory when thrust into the spotlight. This scenario felt eerily familiar. The military adored the radical candidate's promises of expansion and modernization, which resonated deeply with arms manufacturers and corporate elites. Such proposals meant endless contracts, skyrocketing stock prices, and obscene profits.

Money fueled support.

Was the president truly indifferent to all of this?

Of course not. He had appointed Truman as the head of the Office of International Policy and Affairs to signal his stance. However, political positions, once established, were difficult to shift without alienating those who had stood by him in the past. Even if he desperately wanted to tell the Ministry of Defense that he too supported military expansion and modernization, he couldn't afford to show it openly.

Now, circumstances had shifted. The problem that had long plagued him resolved itself almost magically. Any military strike required approval from the Ministry of Defense, which in turn needed the president's blessing—or at least his non-opposition. If the president opposed the action, the operation would grind to a halt. But if he remained neutral, responsibility would fall squarely on the shoulders of the defense officials, leaving the president free of both blame and credit.

If, however, the president gave his explicit approval, he would shoulder both the risks and rewards.

To ensure the president's neutrality, the Minister of Defense adopted an unusually soft tone during their conversation, devoid of any militaristic bluster. This subtle shift opened a window of opportunity for the president to win the military's favor. While the rival candidate might ascend to the presidency in two years' time, the current occupant still held the reins of power—and with them, a distinct advantage.

"It's not too late, Mr. President," Truman interjected smoothly.

"No, it's not," the president agreed, turning to face Truman. "But I have one question: Are we really as strong and invincible as Lynch claims?"

As the hidden representative of the military's radical faction within the moderate president's administration—and a leading advocate for military reform—Truman was unequivocal in his response. With unwavering conviction and a touch of fervor, he delivered his verdict: "We are invincible."

While the president and Truman discussed upcoming strategies, shifts in the geopolitical landscape, and adjustments to negotiations with Nagalier, their supposed adversary—the man they had scapegoated, though not entirely without reason—was engaged in a quiet conversation with an old friend.

"… Did you receive the items I sent you last time?" Pretton asked, speaking not in the universal tongue but in Gevra's official language. On the other end of the line was the Admiral of the Gevran Navy, who also served as the Naval Minister.

Pretton had once served in the military as a naval officer before transitioning to trade due to unforeseen circumstances. Despite this career change, his ties to the Gevran Navy remained strong. Many of his mentors and comrades now occupied high-ranking positions following the war, having risen significantly after surviving the global conflict. This network ensured Pretton's continued influence within Gevran naval circles.

At Pretton's query, the Naval Minister chuckled softly. "They arrived safely. My wife loves them. What brings you calling today?"

The question was direct, reflecting the straightforward nature of their relationship. Military men rarely wasted time on pleasantries.

Pretton hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Sensing his hesitation, the Naval Minister pressed further. "This isn't like you. Out with it. What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?"

"The Baylor Federation plans to target my operations in the Eastern Ocean," Pretton admitted with a sigh. "I'm worried I may not survive this. No individual or organization can stand against a rising superpower."

"The Baylor Federation?" The Naval Minister sounded skeptical. "Tell me what happened between you and them."

Pretton recounted the events succinctly, maintaining a neutral tone throughout. He understood that the powerful figure on the other end of the line would verify every detail through multiple channels once the call ended. Lying now would only harm his cause—and Pretton was anything but foolish.

After listening intently, the Naval Minister fell silent for a moment before delivering the answer Pretton had hoped for.

"We all despise the Baylor Federation. They sat idly by during the war, only stepping in to snatch the spoils once victory was assured."

"Domestically and internationally, many harbor resentment toward them. Perhaps this is an opportunity."

"I can't offer guarantees, but I can provide assistance—indirectly, of course. And I'm not alone. Many have long wished to test the military prowess of this so-called technologically advanced free nation."

"Protect yourself. Once there's progress, I'll send word."

After hanging up, Pretton wore neither a triumphant grin nor a look of despair. Everything unfolded precisely as he had anticipated.

As an international merchant, Pretton supplied countless pieces of intelligence to Gevra annually, not to mention the private favors he extended to influential figures within the government. He possessed an acute understanding of international politics. Though the Baylor Federation had joined the victorious coalition and claimed its share of post-war spoils, resentment simmered beneath the surface. Nations that had endured the crucible of war viewed the federation's sudden rise with disdain. How could a nation untouched by conflict immediately demand a slice of global interests?

Beneath the veneer of camaraderie, everyone schemed against one another. This diplomatic incident presented a golden opportunity for Gevra to clash with the Baylor Federation's navy, testing the waters for ongoing negotiations.

Yet Pretton understood one critical truth: if the Gevran navy emerged victorious, he would escape unscathed, his position secure, and reap additional benefits. If they lost, however, his life would be forfeit—someone had to pay the price.

Could the Gevran navy lose?

He scoffed silently, shaking his head as he stepped onto the balcony. Below, the streets teemed with carefree citizens who had never known the horrors of war.

How could they possibly lose?

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