Chapter 881: Never Question Your Superior’s Competence

Watching Beret about to unleash his rage, Lynch knew he was safe—truly safe.

A scholar once said:

If you display intelligence beyond that of ordinary people, even your enemies will covet that intelligence and want to claim it for themselves.

In simpler terms, the less intelligent tend to have a natural trust in the smart. Sometimes that trust can transcend sides and ideologies—an odd phenomenon.

Lynch had simply helped Beret realize he was wasting his time. That alone made Beret see Lynch as one of his own.

Even if they weren’t allies, a bond had been formed. When Beret left, he said I’ll kill them, not I’ll kill you, drawing a clear line between Lynch and the others.

What Lynch had said was only part of the truth—just the part Beret could understand. He hadn’t even touched on things like signature encryption.

The signature areas of checkbooks are often covered with intricate background patterns and lines—security features to prevent forgery.

Especially with large transfers, anything over two hundred thousand requires original signature verification.

Bank tellers advise VIP clients how to sign properly so the bank can verify authenticity. Otherwise, anyone could forge a name and cash the check.

Lynch hadn’t lied. Everything he said was true—and precisely because it was true, it was convincing.

Seeing Beret about to do something foolish, Lynch grabbed his wrist. “You don’t need to do that.”

A twitch flickered at the corner of Beret’s eye.

This operation had come at great cost. He risked being hunted by powerful warlords back home, lost several men getting on the ship—and now Lynch was telling him he’d walk away with nothing. He felt thoroughly played.

By fate, by God, by these capitalists—he didn’t care. All he wanted now was to vent.

He looked at Lynch and raised his gun, pointing it straight at him. “You trying to stop me?”

If Lynch said yes, or offered any excuse to block him, he’d shoot without hesitation.

Anyone who didn’t respect his emotions wasn’t one of us.

If he asked one of his own soldiers whether he could kill those rich bastards, no one would stop him—some might even help. Those were his people.

Not the ones trying to get in his way. They weren’t on the same side.

But Lynch gave him an answer he didn’t expect.

“I want to make a deal—with you. One that guarantees you get paid.”

Beret froze. His body relaxed slightly. He slammed his pistol onto the bar and tapped his ear. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I said I want to make a deal with you.” Lynch pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Beret, and the two leaned in, lighting up together before leaning back.

“What kind of deal?” Beret asked, curiosity piqued.

He found Lynch to be one of the most fascinating people he’d ever met—always full of answers he never saw coming.

Now he was genuinely intrigued.

Lynch smoked with elegance. He held the cigarette low between his index and middle fingers, allowing him to curl his hand into a loose fist when not smoking—making him look composed and steady.

When it was time to smoke, a simple flick of the thumb slid the cigarette forward. It was smooth, effortless—unlike the clumsy, face-covering style of amateurs.

Beret, by contrast, held his cigarette like a thug—pinched between thumb and forefinger, often biting the filter, which turned black and filthy.

Lynch flicked off some ash and nodded. “You want money. I want safety. In a way, our goals don’t conflict.”

Beret nodded in return. It made sense. And it was easy to understand.

“But they just played me. Unlike you, they clearly don’t want to cooperate.”

Lynch exhaled a calm puff of smoke, looking relaxed and at ease. “But I can make it happen.”

Before Beret could respond, Lynch asked, “How much were you hoping to take from this operation?”

Beret looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean before you boarded the ship—how much were you hoping to get?”

Beret thought for a moment. “I didn’t have a specific number. I just heard you people were loaded. Things back home are rough. I need money.”

Marilo was always in turmoil. The big warlords held onto their territories tightly. Outside their zones, the smaller factions fought constantly.

In some areas, power changed hands every few months—sometimes even weeks. The constant warfare put immense pressure on the minor warlords.

Mostly financial pressure.

Destruction didn’t generate income. The big warlords were already stable, some even doing international business. Their territories were peaceful and secure, which made them attractive to outsiders.

To change that balance, money was essential—pay your people, buy better weapons, and grow your strength.

But war brought only destruction, not development. That’s why small-time warlords were doomed to vanish.

Some believed the major powers in Marilo were waiting for all the ambitious small-timers to die out—then they’d fight it out among themselves. They didn’t waste energy on meaningless battles.

That’s why the situation in Marilo was so chaotic—no one enforced order. As long as you had a few guns and some men, you could raise a flag and call yourself a warlord.

Lynch saw the troubled expression on Beret’s face—an expression that didn’t quite fit his usual level of intelligence—and helped him focus.

“How much money do you think would actually help your cause?”

“Tens… of millions.”

He stared straight at Lynch and gave his number.

He originally intended to say just a few million. That amount would’ve been enough to keep his armed group running and even help it grow.

In chaotic times, life is cheap.

But just as he was about to speak, he thought of how those rich people tossed around donations worth millions without a second thought. So he changed his figure from millions to tens of millions. Greed flickered in his eyes as he licked his lips. “Tens of millions will do.”

Lynch nodded. “That’s no problem. Here’s how we’ll do this deal.”

“I’ll help you secure that money. And I’ll convince everyone to treat what happened here as nothing more than an unfortunate incident during the trip.”

“Once you leave, no one will hunt you down. No one will even mention what happened here.”

“You take the money, pursue your dream and your cause. We return to the Federation and continue living as the rich. Does that sound fair to you?”

Beret’s breathing grew a little heavy. A hope he thought lost suddenly resurfaced, and he didn’t quite know how to react.

Fortunately, he had some reputation to uphold. He gave a quick nod, then followed up, “But how can you guarantee it?”

Lynch pulled out a checkbook, casually wrote a 30 million transfer check, signed it, and handed it over.

Beret, already disgusted at the sight of checks, didn’t take it. “That trick doesn’t work on me anymore!”

Lynch simply smiled and began explaining how checks worked.

Checks always have a validity period. Especially transfer checks—the date isn’t just a formality, it limits when they can be cashed.

There had been scams in the Federation where people were duped with post-dated checks they couldn’t cash.

But the check Lynch just signed had no date.

“You can fill in the date yourself at any time. Then cash it at any branch of Golden Exchange Bank and have the money wired to any account you choose.”

“There’s no rush. If you don’t trust it, hold onto it. Or sell it to an international banking group. They’ll know how to launder the money clean without leaving a trace.”

Thirty million—guaranteed. That amount already exceeded Beret’s expectations, especially after being lied to.

Seeing his continued hesitation, Lynch added, “This is just my promise. You’re guaranteed to get at least thirty million from my account. But if I negotiate well with the others, you might get even more.”

He spoke sincerely. “I’m one of them. They can’t fool me, but they can fool you.”

“You risked your life getting on this ship. It wasn’t just to meet us or kill a few people.”

“Personal feelings aside—when compared to your ideals—you know what choice to make.”

Beret still hesitated. “I could take this check, and make them sign one without a date too!”

Lynch shrugged. He took one last drag from his cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor, and instinctively ground it under his heel. “Do whatever you want. I’ve done everything I can to show my sincerity. If you choose to ignore that, it’s not my fault.”

He tucked away the cigarette pack, looked at Beret, and asked, “So, can I go now?”

He looked like a man who had failed.

There’s a saying about reverse psychology that Lynch found spot-on:

The less educated and higher their social position, the more susceptible they are to provocation.