So things are hard to let go—like hatred.
Invaders, butchers, executioners, demons…
All of these words fit the Gephrans—at least from the perspective of the locals.
For anyone to work for the Gephrans despite public condemnation was already a feat. But most people, still harboring resentnt, chose silence.
They might no longer resist Gephraan rule, but to expect them to willingly work for the Gephrans anyti soon? That was unrealistic. You can’t stab soone and then expect them to help you make money while still bleeding.
No workers ant no production. More importantly, the market here wasn’t exclusive to the Gephrans. The Federals could also participate. And so, an unexpected dynamic erged:
Competition.
Both Gephraan officials and even the Emperor himself were paying close attention. A rumor had circulated that, after suffering repeated diplomatic defeats to the Federals, the Emperor hoped Gephraan capitalists could help him reclaim so ground—by beating Federal rchants in a fair business environnt.
As the highest authority in the empire, the Emperor’s wishes quickly beca those of the nobility. Many rchants were soon inford by their backers: results were needed—fast.
Upon hearing the chamber president say this, everyone’s face darkened further.
After a long pause, the president sighed again. “Raise the wages. The old tricks won’t work anymore. The Federals are watching, waiting for us to slip up. We can only compete within the rules now.”
“We’ve lost the edge to the Federals this round, but we’re not going down alone.” His tone was calm—he had already anticipated the worst.
When the Federals handed over those criminals to the Gephrans instead of dealing with them themselves, sothing had felt off. But that unease was buried under the overwhelming desire for revenge.
They had smiled watching rows of locals marched to the firing squads. Gunshots ended what they saw as evil, disgraceful lives.
Now, haunted by dreams of corpses stacked like mountains, karma had co.
The president licked his lips and looked around. “Yes, raising wages will temporarily raise our labor costs, but it’s still cheaper than what we’d pay for local workers.”
“We can shift so semi-finished products from the holand to ease the labor shortage. After a cooldown, people will start joining us again.”
“Life must go on, gentlen. As long as we hire enough workers, Lynch and the Federal rchants will have to raise their own wages.”
“Three to five Gael per day, paid daily, versus seventy cents a day—gentlen, which would you choose?”
The rchants finally caught on. Smiles broke out across the room. “You’re absolutely right, President. If we survive this period, Lynch’s labor costs will rise. We might even poach so of his workers…”
The atmosphere turned lively. Everyone had their own ideas—many shaless—but undeniably grounded in reality.
Yes, hatred runs deep. But when hunger, family, livelihood—and sheer survival—co into play, hatred steps aside.
Soon, the wage board at the Gephraan recruitnt site was updated: 3 Gael per day, roughly 5 Federal sols—over three tis Lynch’s wages.
The increase attracted a few more applicants. A small relief.
The chamber president proposed, “I’ll speak to the Governor about asures to calm public sentint. We may organize so charity events—you’ll all need to participate.”
Everyone nodded. Using charity to court the lower class wasn’t just a Federal tactic—Gephrans knew it well, too.
But the relief didn’t last. A breathless ssenger rushed in. “President… I just ca from the Federals. They raised their wages too…”
The president handed him a glass of water. After a grateful thank you, the man gulped it down in five huge swigs.
The president’s expression didn’t change. He asked quietly, “What’s their new wage?”
“1.8 sols per day!”
He turned to his assistant. “That’s…?”
“About 1 Gael,” the assistant replied.
“So we’re still paying three tis as much?” The president remained calm. “Do they have a lot of applicants?”
“Plenty—packed with people!”
After all, the Federals hadn’t carried out massacres in front of everyone. Emotionally, that made a big difference—and provided alternative outlets for anger.
It was like being forced to choose between the man who killed your father and a stranger. Even if the stranger offers less, most people will still choose the stranger.
But none of that mattered now. From the start, they’d been played by Lynch.
The tension remained even after everyone left. It was silent—heavier than before.
The Federals were spending less and attracting more. The Gephrans were paying triple and only recruiting old n. They knew the gap would shrink eventually—but it still stung.
These rchants lacked real experience in a free market. They were still a bit green.
That night, the president had a light al and so wine, planning to sleep early. But his butler knocked at the study door.
“Sir, Mr. Lynch would like to speak with you.”
“Tell him I’m—wait, who?” The president suddenly sat upright, peering at the butler through the gap between his glasses and forehead.
“Mr. Lynch, sir.”
His first instinct was to refuse. But he suppressed it. After a mont’s thought, he removed his glasses and stood up. “Take him to the parlor. I’ll change and join him.”
Within minutes, he returned in casual attire. He still didn’t know why Lynch had co. To mock him? Sothing else?
But as he descended the stairs, the stern look on his face softened into a warm, springlike smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Lynch. You should’ve called first—I would’ve dressed properly!”
He stepped forward to greet him.
Unlike the stiff Gephraan nobility, sofas had thoroughly corrupted the average citizen and capitalist alike. Especially the latter. Most of them owned sofas—and had grown fond of them.
“Apologies for dropping by unannounced—I hope you don’t mind.”
The two n exchanged a perfunctory handshake and sat down.
After a few empty pleasantries about the weather and other aningless topics, Lynch got straight to the point.
“I heard today that you haven’t managed to recruit many workers?”
A textbook example of how to offend a Gephraan rchant in one sentence.
The president’s eyelid twitched uncontrollably. He looked down, masking the frustration welling up in his eyes. “Embarrassing, isn’t it?”
“Embarrassing?” Lynch slightly raised his tone. “No, of course not. I have no intention of mocking you or your colleagues, and I’m certainly not here to brag.”
“I’m simply doing what any competent businessman would do. I saw a market need, and I happen to have the supply. That’s why I’m here.”
Lynch spoke slowly and clearly, but the president still seed confused. “I’m not quite following you, Mr. Lynch.”
At that mont, the butler brought in tea and snacks. After he left, Lynch casually picked up an exquisitely made pastry.
The Gephrans always seed to focus their attention on the least important things—what they liked to call lifestyle.
“You can’t find workers, but I have plenty. We can find a way for my people to work for you.”
“This solves my issue of having to feed them, and helps you fill your labor shortage. It’s a win-win situation for both of us.”
The president thought for a mont before frowning. “So what you’re suggesting is: your people work for , and I pay you—or them—the wages? Is that it?”
Lynch’s smile brightened. “Exactly. But not to them—to . Then I’ll pay them.”
“You know, making money isn’t easy.”
The president laughed. “So why wouldn’t I just pay them directly and hire them myself?”
Lynch answered without hesitation. “Because you can’t hire them.”
The president looked at Lynch with a strange expression. “But eventually, we’ll get enough workers.”
“And by then, you’ll have lost the entire market.” Lynch’s reply was so quick it left the president montarily stunned.
The president frowned, clearly intrigued. “How much per worker?”
Lynch’s smile returned. “I saw your recruitnt sign—three Gael, paid daily. I’ll offer a slightly better rate: two-point-eight. Paynt in either Gael or sols is fine.”
The president was still quietly irritated. With a forced smile, he said, “We need a lot of workers. Do you have that many?”
Lynch grinned wide, nearly showing his back teeth. “As many as you need.”
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