The temporary cabinet meeting ended positively. The President agreed to Truman’s request and gave him full authority over the matter.
This highlighted where Gephra fell short compared to the Federation. The Federation, a young nation, might lack deep historical roots.
But it didn’t have the dullness found in older nations. From top to bottom, everyone seemed full of energy.
Like young people in their teens or twenties—at the slightest idea, they’d rush forward with eager enthusiasm.
Such vitality promised a future for the nation.
Gephra was different. It felt like a man in his sixties, not sparking inspiration but desperate to befriend everyone of the opposite sex.
One full of vigor, the other only left with twilight.
Soon, both sides quickly reached an agreement, as if… they just clicked instantly.
The Emperor of Gephra immediately announced the news to stabilize the domestic economy. At the same time, the Finance Minister publicly resigned and accepted responsibility.
The news hit fast, so fast many seemed half-asleep.
Gephra was a monarchy. The Emperor held nominal supreme power; ministers and officials were appointed, not elected.
Who became a minister was the Emperor’s decision.
Of course, nobles’ opinions mattered. The Emperor sometimes needed to heed their wishes to avoid conflict.
Sometimes.
This meant if the Emperor favored a minister, the appointments rarely changed during his reign—sometimes lasting decades or even a lifetime.
It was rare for a Finance Minister to resign like this. People hadn’t expected the crisis to reach this point; an apology would have sufficed.
The surprise of such a huge gap stirred excitement—a victory for public opinion, for the balance between people’s rights and imperial authority.
Today’s small step was a giant leap for the future.
The Finance Minister’s departure, combined with Federation financial aid, quickly stabilized the market.
This was also helped by secret police arresting speculators. The period was dramatic—many wealthy and influential figures fell.
Not because their wealth was confiscated to relieve the money shortage, but because they profited from national disaster.
Some were key short sellers who, while following nobles like Lynch, spread rumors to manipulate the market. Now, they faced severe consequences.
“The banking order is restoring,” Lynch said, looking out from an upper floor near the Royal Exchange.
Outside, fewer than ten people waited in line at the bank, while special police patrolled. A middle-aged man quietly left the queue under pressure.
These police differed from ordinary officers. Their wide-brimmed hats were blue, unlike the black-gray of regular police or dark cyan of armed police. The colors marked their roles.
Lynch didn’t know much about them, but locals did.
“They’re scared,” the young Count said coldly, an emotion unusual for his age.
His gaze was like looking at a harmless little animal—neither fond nor respectful.
But when he looked at Lynch, his eyes filled with undisguised admiration.
“These are secret police from the Seventh Police Department. Everyone fears them.”
He explained their traits and rumored deeds, and Lynch understood better.
A ruthless force without reason left ordinary people defenseless and fearful.
“Mr. Lynch, what’s our next move?” the young Count’s eyes sparkled.
Lynch returned his gaze, sat down, and said calmly, “Do nothing. Just wait to count the money when it’s over.”
This was the Count’s house, no one else invited, only the two of them.
Nobles liked their lavish mansions, but older nobles didn’t represent the whole class.
Young nobles like the Count were more progressive—not so rigid. For example, he rarely wore wigs or frills, unlike old nobles who never missed a chance.
The Count sat beside Lynch, bit into a fruit, and said, “Mr. Lynch, I’m worried. Now that the market is stable, won’t they try to push the financial index higher?”
Lynch shook his head decisively. “No, you don’t need to worry.”
“Stability means just that—stable. People just lived through a bank run. Whether bankers, ministers, or even His Majesty admit it or not, we all saw the country’s financial fragility.”
He crossed his legs, exuding mature confidence and natural ease.
The Count had tried to imitate Lynch’s demeanor but felt awkward, which made him admire Lynch more.
Under the unwavering gaze of admiration, Lynch spoke steadily.
“People experienced this disaster firsthand. They couldn’t withdraw money from banks—that’s an undeniable fact.”
“Even with cooperation between the Empire and Federation and economic aid arriving, until people feel the effects, they’ll remain skeptical.”
“They won’t put money back in banks. After a financial disaster, businesses have far less liquidity.”
“They can’t get loans from banks or private financing. The Harmony Capital case hasn’t ended.”
“No capital flowing into the market means they can’t lift the indexes. Stable means no further deterioration, but no recovery either…”
As he spoke, the door opened. A noblewoman carrying a tray entered.
Lynch stood up. The woman, around thirty-seven or thirty-eight, was the Count’s mother.
Though servants usually handled this, her personal involvement sent a message.
“I made these myself. Not sure if you’ll like them—I heard Federation people prefer milder flavors,” the Countess said with a smile, placing the tray of nicely made pastries on the table.
Lynch would never believe that these delicate pastries were made by her, but he didn’t let that stop him from playing along.
“They smell amazing!” Lynch said, picking one up and sniffing it. Then he looked at her, as if asking for approval.
The Countess nodded expectantly. Lynch carefully held the pastry to avoid crumbs falling, then took a small bite.
Still overly sweet and rich. Gephra people often joked that Federation folks put sugar and milk in their coffee, but at least they didn’t eat pastries this cloying.
He showed genuine surprise. “Very good, sweet and fragrant—I like it.”
The Countess patted her chest, relieved. “Glad you like them. I made plenty.”
The topic ran its course, and after a pause, she asked, “What were you two just talking about?”
The young Count hurried to answer, smiling and shaking his head. “Some political stuff… You know, we nobles are good at that.”
The Countess chuckled softly, flicked the Count’s dust-free shoulder. “No need to tell me—I understand.” She glanced at Lynch, then back at the Count. “I remember you had some salon this afternoon?”
The Count paused, then nodded. “Almost forgot! Yes, there is one.”
He looked at Lynch with some hope. “It’s a salon about racing—mostly young people…”
Part explanation, part invitation. But Lynch wasn’t interested.
Whether in this world or another, he wasn’t keen on entrusting his life to luck. He could bet on which car would win, but never drive himself, and had no interest in it.
After he clearly declined, the Count looked disappointed—briefly.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Lynch alone. You can go do your things,” the Countess said, looking at her son. He paused for two seconds, then nodded and left.
Only Lynch and the Countess remained. The atmosphere turned quietly awkward.
