Chapter 880: Communication Is One of the Effective Ways to Solve Problems

A life had just ended before everyone’s eyes, and finally, the pirates had managed to put some pressure on the wealthy passengers aboard the ship.

One life?

Yes. In the eyes of these capitalists, people like them had long ceased to be considered human—or at least not in the purest sense of the word. They were a new, superior species in society.

The death of lower-class people meant nothing to them. Human life was a cheap commodity, abundant across the world.

To them, the poor were disposable.

Only when capitalists themselves were harmed would other capitalists feel fear.

“I think I’ve seen this gentleman in the papers,” The man in the beret said, pointing his gun at a familiar-looking guest.

Two armed pirates dragged the man onto the stage. The same game as before.

Beret reached into a box filled with bullets and grabbed a handful. “Guess how many I’ve got this time?”

Having witnessed the first round, the man didn’t resist. He quietly signed a check for three million.

“I guess you’ve got thirty bullets…”

Beret was satisfied with the price. He began counting the bullets one by one. When he reached the twenty-sixth, the last one, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

But some tension remained. The first round had twenty-one bullets. This time it was twenty-six. Would there be even more next time?

No one could be sure. Maybe next time Beret would use both hands. That realization sparked a new thought among the crowd: getting called up earlier might actually save money.

Saving money is making money.

“Seems like this gentleman and lady got lucky. You’ve passed,” Beret said, taking the check and handing it off to one of his men.

“You may go. Now, next—”

“I’ll donate!”

Someone stepped forward on their own. Beret froze, then burst into wild laughter.

He had thought these rich people were unshakably calm. But it turned out, they just needed the right kind of motivation.

These people only valued their own lives. Once they knew you had the courage to kill them, they bowed their heads.

Like now.

“I’ll donate three million!”

“I’ll donate too—three point two million!”

More and more of them, especially the younger ones, couldn’t keep calm. Their fear of death was far greater than that of the middle-aged or older elites.

Their lives were just beginning. They had decades ahead to enjoy everything their money could buy. They weren’t ready to bow out.

What was a few million, really? Their lives were worth far more than that.

Beret laughed as he collected check after check. He found these people adorable—and it filled him with dangerous thoughts.

If it worked this time, why not do it again?

It was too profitable.

These Federation tycoons were unimaginably wealthy. In just a short time, he’d pulled in tens of millions of sols. If he’d tried to earn that honestly, he wouldn’t even make a fraction of it in a lifetime.

But here, it was easy.

His eyes grew greedier.

Then he noticed someone smoking off to the side—a young, handsome man, standing alone, not donating a single cent.

His curiosity sparked, and so did the cruelty he could no longer suppress. He shoved through the crowd and pointed his gun at the young man. “You! Come here. Everyone else has donated—why haven’t you?”

There was mockery in his tone, like a cat toying with a mouse—or so he believed.

Lynch strolled forward. He wasn’t the least bit afraid of Beret. He looked him in the eye, calm and steady. “You want a check?”

He pulled out a checkbook and a pen. “I could write you one that fills the whole page with digits. But what’s the point?”

“You want it?”

The cigarette dangled from Lynch’s mouth. He bit the tip as he idly spun circles—zeroes—on the check with his pen.

Beret froze. He looked around, then back at Lynch. “What do you mean?”

Lynch tore the check out, stuffed the book and pen back into his pocket, and held out the paper. “One trillion. Is that enough? If not, you can always add more zeroes.”

Beret stepped forward, pressing the barrel of his gun to Lynch’s forehead. His breath reeked, but his teeth were surprisingly white. “What the hell do you mean?”

He glared up at Lynch—but Lynch was taller. That imbalance made Beret look like the weaker one.

Lynch calmly slid the check into the rim of Beret’s hat. “Exactly what I said. You take those checks to the bank, and you won’t get a single cent.”

Beret jerked his gun back and stormed over to his assistant, grabbing the pile of checks. He flipped through them, one by one. Nothing seemed wrong.

They looked exactly like the ones he’d seen before. Dated, signed, the amounts filled in. He’d even studied real Federation checks before this operation.

They were identical—as far as he could tell.

“You lying bastard!” He stormed back, gun to Lynch’s head again, ready to pull the trigger.

Lynch scoffed, shaking his head. He raised his hand and gently pushed the gun aside with two fingers.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do something stupid. I might be the only person here actually willing to cooperate with you.”

“I imagine you’d rather leave here with something and spend the rest of your life on the run, than leave with nothing and die in a ditch. Right?”

“At least this way, you get something—even if it’s temporary.”

Beret stared intently at Lynch, unable to see through this young man.

His instincts screamed at him not to believe a word coming out of Lynch’s mouth, but his rational mind told him to listen.

“What’s your name?”

Beret lowered his gun again, now seemingly ready to speak with Lynch as an equal.

“Lynch. You might’ve heard of me.”

Recognition flashed across Beret’s face. “The youngest billionaire. The papers say you’re worth ten billion—is that true?”

Someone in the crowd scoffed—maybe annoyed by what Lynch had said, or perhaps jealous of the way the pirate was showing Lynch respect and equality.

Beret’s gaze immediately shifted toward the source of the laugh.

He didn’t smile, nor did he look angry. That made him seem even more terrifying, the pressure even greater.

“If I hear one more person interrupt me, I’ll fucking kill them!”

He turned back to Lynch, meeting his eyes.

Lynch didn’t look away. The two stared at each other for a moment. In Lynch’s gaze, Beret saw no guilt, no deceit—nothing that would shake his resolve.

Back in Marilo, whenever someone betrayed him, Beret could always tell just by looking into their eyes. They’d crumble quickly, unable to hold his stare.

But not Lynch. He was calm, composed. That made Beret believe him.

“So what did you mean by what you said?”

Lynch glanced sideways at the crowd below the small stage and said quietly, “Someone already interrupted us. Others will too. Why don’t we find a quieter place? Just me and however many men you want. Let’s talk.”

Beret paced a few steps, then nodded. After whispering something to his assistant, he raised his pistol and gestured for Lynch to follow. The two walked toward the nearby bar.

“Clear out!”

Several soldiers were lingering around the open-air bar, reeking of alcohol.

After a fierce battle, it was time to let the soldiers unwind.

Beret had once tried to enforce strict military rules like some other nations. The result? Deserters, and some even went mad and killed their own comrades. He gave up after that.

As long as they could fight, he didn’t care what they did after.

The soldiers left with grins and bottles. Beret grabbed a random one and poured two glasses, handing one to Lynch himself.

As he poured, he asked, “So what did you mean? Why can’t I get the money?”

Lynch gestured for a check. Beret handed one over—a three-million check.

“You know what the biggest problem with this check is?” Lynch said, studying it.

“It’s the date.”

“We disappeared during this period, and signed these transfer checks. No one knows exactly what happened—or everyone does. Either way, if the bank doesn’t get confirmation we’re safe, you can’t use this check.”

“Second, whoever brings this check to the bank becomes a suspect—or more likely, the identified perpetrator.”

“These things you’re holding might as well not exist. That’s why I said, you can name any amount, and I’ll write it—for all the good it’ll do you.”

Beret slammed the butt of his gun on the bar. “Fuck! You capitalists are so goddamn despicable!”

What Lynch had said wasn’t some grand philosophical truth—it was as obvious and simple as saying one plus one equals two. Anyone with a brain could understand it.

And Beret, for all his brutality, wasn’t dumb. He got it.

He’d been played by the rich.

He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and smashed the glass on the floor. Then he stood up and stormed toward the wealthy passengers.

“I’m going to kill them!”