Chapter 912: Prototype

Lynch had temporarily convinced most of the shareholders, though a few expressed no interest.

That was normal. In this era, most wealthy people made their money through tangible industries. Their distaste for financial maneuvering was understandable—especially with the recent financial disaster still fresh in everyone’s mind. A single failure was enough to instill long-term fear.

For those unwilling to invest, Lynch terminated their agreements and returned their one million.

Thanks to the constant profits from EveryMoment’s short positions, Lynch no longer lacked cash.

After these shareholders left, their released shares were quickly absorbed by those willing to work with Lynch in managing the investment company.

Lynch also released some of his personal shares, reducing his own stake to 40% and offering up 20% to others.

He priced those shares based on a company valuation of 250 million. Some had concerns about the valuation, but Lynch was willing to sign a bet-on agreement:

If the company’s value surpassed 250 million within the year, not only would they have to purchase the shares from Lynch at that price, they’d also have to give him an additional 10% of their own holdings—completely free.

At first glance, this looked like a losing deal for Lynch.

If he had stuck to the original plan and not offered them shares—or if Light of Tomorrow hadn’t acquired 20% of EveryMoment—he could’ve pocketed sixty or seventy million.

With that money plus a little of his own, he could’ve acquired a 20% stake in EveryMoment, which would be worth at least 200 million.

He should have earned 200 million.

But with this move, he walked away with only fifty million in cash and about 100 million in shares—making it look like he’d lost fifty million.

But the math wasn’t that simple.

These shareholders themselves were an unimaginable fortune.

EveryMoment used to pay them a million annually to casually endorse its products—like using Kelefu with the logo in public, or praising its flavor.

Just for that, they were worth at least a million each.

Now add their influence, credibility, and control across vast industries—each one of them could easily be worth several million, even tens of millions.

The rapid incubation park wasn’t meant for vague or unverified startups—it was built to accelerate businesses that could be deliberately ripened.

This entire model could be explained with one phrase: internal circulation. Upstream and downstream cooperation, partial exclusive sales, and coordinated action across industries—this is how real wealth is created.

As more of his future investments succeeded, Lynch would earn far more.

After seeing off those elegant, but essentially predatory capitalist gentlemen, Lynch leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, reflecting on everything that had happened.

To escape a seemingly hopeless situation, he had known from the beginning that he couldn’t develop solely within the Federation.

The rigid social structure left no room for emerging capital forces. Brutal competition offered him no space to grow. So, he sought success externally—then brought it back to the domestic front.

It looked like he was still advancing fast, but in reality, there was little room left to climb.

Any higher, and he would be encroaching on the interests of the old financial cliques and traditional capitalists. The research institute split was the most obvious example.

Military-industrial groups, using capitalist rules, demanded stakes in his company. And he couldn’t refuse. Once his fiercest rivals—who saw him as a threat—held shares in his company, his future would be severely limited.

They wouldn’t need to sabotage him directly. All they had to do was reject every project proposal, deny every application. That alone would paralyze him. And this was the most common tactic of entrenched capital forces.

Conglomerates, capital families, tycoons—they always had the first move in the Federation’s capitalist game. They created the rules to keep themselves in control.

Forced listings and mandatory investments—these were all their tricks.

If you wanted to play this game in the Federation, you had to follow the rules. Even they themselves were bound by them.

The only difference was, when they were rising, they didn’t face nearly as many competitors. Today, every industry is saturated. Rivals are everywhere.

Without breaking the system, one could never rise to the top of the Federation’s capital hierarchy. Lynch chose to blaze a new trail—and accelerate collective consolidation.

Investment was a highly promising field: massive cash flow, high returns, low tax rates—this was how it could flourish so quickly.

According to federal law, capital gains from financial investment weren’t even taxable.

Absurd. Utterly ridiculous.

But it created the perfect launchpad. Surrounded by stakeholders and beneficiaries, a natural interest group formed—with Lynch at its center.

Even if the big conglomerates wanted to stop him, it wouldn’t be easy. First, they’d have to deal with the shareholders. Then, they’d have to deal with him.

As long as the battle stayed within the rules, he believed he couldn’t lose.

As for playing outside the rules?

Maybe no one was ready to go that far.

Lost in these tangled thoughts, a pair of soft hands gently pressed against Lynch’s temples—light but firm, just right.

Without opening his eyes, he could tell from the scent in the air who it was.

He gently took Vera’s wrist, savoring a moment of peace and comfort.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

Lynch smiled without opening his eyes. “People need to find something to do. I’m only twenty-three—way too young to retire. Thinking about retirement now would just make me age faster.”

Vera sighed gently. Many only saw Lynch’s glorious side—like the people earlier, hearing his words, seeing his dominance.

Few understood how exhausted he was. Vera could sense what he needed—warmth, silence, a brief rest.

That’s why she always embraced him like water—gentle, forgiving, and complete.

“You’ve already done more than enough,” she whispered. “Most people your age haven’t even achieved a fraction of what you have.”

Lynch couldn’t help but laugh. “Hearing sweet words from someone you like is always delightful, whether they’re true or not.”

He pulled Vera into his lap, holding her tightly, burying his face in her chest, taking a deep breath. He was still and quiet, as if he had fallen asleep.

While Lynch was enjoying a rare moment of peace, others were discussing him—specifically, Mr. Wadrick and Mr. Patric.

The two were attending a small internal event held by the Saint Harmony Society. Every year, the society hosted various events under different names, inviting members of all levels.

This time, they invited Tier 3 members. It was mid-year—a time to catch up on developments or just chat.

There were also matters to be discussed.

The Emperor of Gephra had designated the Amellia region as a “special zone,” fully opening it to a free market economy. Nobles were no longer allowed to interfere in commerce.

After an initial adjustment period, Gephra’s domestic capitalists quickly adapted to the competitive system. Federal businessmen no longer had a clear advantage.

Especially as a wave of nouveau riche nobles from Gephra flooded into Amellia with enormous wealth—so much money, in fact, that it made them irrational.

Some nobles would even childishly try to one-up Federal merchants by spending more on the same goal.

It was foolish—but it created unprecedented obstacles for Federal capital.

Some lower-tier members of the Saint Harmony Society were also expanding in that region. Lynch’s rise abroad before returning home had inspired many.

Trying to grow within a confined, controlled space was a dead end. Only by venturing out could one find real opportunities.

This kept the flow of information between Gephra and the Federation quick and frequent.

Now that Gephran capitalists had tasted the sweetness of free-market competition, they weren’t content with just Amellia. They had started expanding to surrounding regions. Rumor had it they were planning to enter the Federation in groups to seek development opportunities.

The main purpose of this gathering of senior society members was to warn the consortiums, financial groups, and major capitalists to stay alert—Gephra’s capital and capitalists were coming.

But no one seemed too worried. Mr. Patric and Mr. Wadrick even drifted into another topic.

“Lynch is planning to form his own consortium. He’s growing too fast…” Mr. Patric’s odd tone made the comment sound strange, though oddly appreciated in some circles.

After all, that kind of tone was often associated with nobility.

Mr. Wadrick nodded. “I wonder if he’ll pull it off again—developing in some way we didn’t foresee.”

He glanced around the room, pulled a jeweled cigarette case and lighter from his vest, and lit a cigarette. “It’s always the same old faces here. I’m starting to grow tired of it.”

Mr. Patric wasn’t really paying attention. He picked up the lighter from the table and named its brand and model.

Mr. Wadrick laughed. “I’ve always said—if these people had any sense, they’d give Lynch some money. Better yet, shares.”

“That would at least help their businesses grow, and they’d earn some respect, too.”

Mr. Patric nodded seriously. “Absolutely. If they’ve gained from him, they should give something back.”

At a charity auction hosted by the First Lady, Lynch had paid one million for his own lighter. That immediately sparked interest in it.

With media coverage, the lighter Lynch used was revealed. In no time, the high-end but relatively obscure lighter manufacturer nearly sold out.

Prices kept climbing. The latest models were going for 120,000 apiece—unbelievable.