Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Far More Than That

After Lance left, Mr. Jobav’s assistant immediately approached, taking the glass his boss handed over. Observing the visible frustration, the assistant cautiously asked, “No deal?”

Jobav shook his head. “He thought fifteen percent was too little.”

The assistant exclaimed in disbelief, “Fifteen percent isn’t enough?”

“If he knew the total debt was close to two hundred thousand, would he still think it’s not worth it?”

Fifteen percent of two hundred thousand was thirty thousand—a fortune many people couldn’t even dream of, let alone touch. To the assistant, it seemed unimaginable to refuse such an offer.

Jobav shot him a sharp look, his voice tinged with annoyance. “He wanted ninety percent—and only because I’m also from the Empire.”

The assistant was speechless, stunned by the audacity of such a demand.

Jobav’s mood soured further. His bank was facing numerous problems, and the tensions between natives and immigrants—fanned by politicians—were pushing things in a bad direction.

Depositors were withdrawing money as their incomes declined, especially illegal immigrants who had lost their jobs. Though it hadn’t yet triggered a bank run, the steady outflow of cash was painful.

Adding insult to injury, people were still asking him for money—not to borrow, but to take. While they signed contracts, those were little more than empty promises.

For example, Mr. Williams’ youngest son had already taken seventeen thousand five hundred dollars from him.

Mr. Williams, a senior councilman in Jingang City, had served for over twenty years and commanded immense respect—especially among the older Federation citizens. His influence often surpassed even the mayor’s in certain situations.

Jobav had met him at a capitalist networking event. Their exchange had been polite and ordinary: swapping business cards and trading a few pleasantries before parting ways.

Yet the very next day, Mr. Williams’ youngest son came to borrow twenty-five hundred dollars.

Desperate to expand his connections among the city’s elite, and with twenty-five hundred being a relatively modest amount, Jobav agreed—especially since the young man signed for it.

Then came another five thousand. And then ten thousand.

When the young scoundrel asked for ten thousand, Jobav tried to refuse, but Mr. Williams’ son reminded him of rumors about the bank’s alleged involvement in money laundering—rumors that he claimed to have quashed.

If Jobav didn’t want his bank and accounts investigated, he had better “know what to do.”

So Jobav knew what to do. He retrieved ten stacks of ten-dollar bills from his safe, packed them into a paper bag, and handed them over—while forcing a smile of gratitude at the same young man who had just blackmailed him.

This wasn’t an isolated case.

If it were only a few privileged elites demanding money, Jobav might tolerate it. But merchants using these elites’ names as leverage were borrowing thousands, even tens of thousands, and refusing to repay. ℞𝘢Ν𝐎ʙĚꞨ

They’d sign any contract but never honored them. Litigation was the only recourse, but even if he won, recovery was almost impossible.

The money loaned to elites was money he mentally wrote off. But the sums lent under their names by merchants and commoners—amounting to about two hundred and twenty thousand—he still hoped to recover.

Lance’s offer to recover the money for ten percent, equating to twenty-two thousand, was surprisingly stingy. But it might be his only viable option.

Keeping the debts would mean sinking more money into litigation or letting them disappear entirely.

Turning to gangs like the Camille Gang wasn’t ideal either. They demanded enormous upfront fees—ten thousand or more—and didn’t guarantee results. Even if they recovered the money, the net profit would be negligible, if not negative.

Among his options, Lance’s proposal was the least risky. At least it ensured a return of twenty-two thousand.

As Jobav stared at the sky in frustration, his assistant’s jaw dropped.

“You’re not seriously considering his terms, are you?”

Jobav shook his head slightly. “You don’t understand.”

“I’ve had a hunch from the beginning that this money would never come back. This effort is my last attempt.”

“What I truly want is to make them realize my money isn’t so easy to take.”

“But his offer caught me off guard. It’s hard to accept.”

If he didn’t show them his strength, they’d keep coming, and he couldn’t keep refusing.

While he was beginning to waver internally, the fear of appearing weak kept him from making a decision.

Unaware of Jobav’s internal struggle, Lance mingled through the crowd and quickly spotted Mr. Bolton.

Standing at the edge of a small circle, Mr. Bolton looked eager to join the conversation but was clearly excluded.

“Mr. Bolton,” Lance called out.

Seeing Lance, Bolton immediately came over.

“Good morning! Lance, good to see you again,” Bolton greeted enthusiastically. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing quite well lately?”

Bolton’s warmth wasn’t surprising—he always welcomed wealthy compatriots.

"Not bad!" Lance replied, shaking Bolton's hand. "I was just chatting with Gerald, hoping he could work for me, but he mentioned he’s under your care for now?"

Bolton immediately nodded. "He doesn’t have a Federation permanent residency yet. He’s staying with us and relying on our connections to hold a temporary residence permit."

"If he leaves us, it could cause some complications, so..."

"What kind of work are you offering? Though he can’t leave, you might consider my son, Rob. He’s a clever young man; everyone who knows him says he’s smart."

Lance found an excuse. "I’m just starting out. I can only afford thirty-five dollars a month, and it involves a lot of manual labor."

The hopeful gleam in Bolton’s eyes quickly faded. "That’s unfortunate. Rob’s not physically strong; he broke his shinbone once. The doctor said he shouldn’t do heavy labor..."

"But at that rate, you’ll easily find willing illegal immigrants."

Changing the subject, Bolton said, "I noticed you were chatting with Mr. Jobav earlier. You two seem quite close, Lance. It’s enviable!"

"Maybe next time you talk, you could include me? I have a few personal insights into finance I’d love to share..."

After parting ways with the persistently oblivious Bolton, the morning gathering wound down. The younger attendees were intrigued by the job opportunities Lance had offered—chances like these didn’t come often.

Most Imperial immigrants worked honest but poorly paid jobs, turning over a portion of their wages to their families. What little remained for personal use was often only a few dollars a month.

If they managed to handle Lance’s tasks well, they might earn a few extra dollars, or even ten or twenty. For young men in their late teens or early twenties, brimming with restless energy, the prospect was deeply enticing. They needed money—and now they had a chance.

Sunday's issue of Jingang Daily ran another article highlighting the dangers of alcohol abuse. It seemed the state government was determined to join the Prohibition Alliance, and the sentiment was already catching on in the city.

Prices for alcoholic beverages in some bars had begun to rise, and the public was abuzz with speculation.

If Jingang City did enforce Prohibition, it would spell trouble for many. However, skeptics believed it wouldn’t happen here. After all, Jingang was one of the world’s largest ports, and the sailors who spent money here were a vital source of the city’s income.

Even Johnny’s bakery wasn’t spared the discussion.

The bakery had reopened.

Johnny had been discharged from the hospital, his medical insurance maxed out. Staying longer would have meant paying out of pocket—a cost he couldn’t afford.

According to an apprentice's testimony, the police had apprehended the robbers responsible for the break-in. Unfortunately, of the thousand-plus dollars stolen, only a few dozen had been recovered.

The officer in charge of the case reported that the gang had been caught amidst a debauchery of strippers, endless liquor, and premium cigars.

Still, something about the situation didn’t sit right with Johnny, though he had no way to act on his suspicions.

Back at the bakery, Johnny’s injuries—shattered arm bones—meant he could no longer bake bread. His daughter tried to help, but the physical demands of the job quickly wore her down.

In the end, the responsibility fell on her boyfriend’s shoulders.

Though Johnny wasn’t thrilled about the arrangement, he taught the recipes and techniques to his daughter’s boyfriend.

When the bakery reopened that Sunday, it quickly drew a crowd.

The community sympathized with Johnny’s plight and admired his bread.

After a busy midday rush, Johnny sat with a longing look in his eyes. His daughter, growing impatient, retrieved a packet of painkillers from his waist pouch.

“You should cut back on these,” she reminded him. “The doctor told you that.”

Johnny’s mood suddenly soured. “What you should do is put it in my mouth, not lecture me!”

Sighing, his daughter placed a pill into his mouth. The irritable Johnny soon calmed down, even apologizing for snapping at her earlier.

“These pills are like devils, Johnny,” she muttered. “With or without them, you’re a completely different person.”

At that moment, the bakery door creaked open, the bell above it jingling.

Johnny’s daughter instinctively called out, “We’re closed for now. We’ll reopen at five.”

But the visitor didn’t leave. Instead, they stood in the doorway, gazing at them.

“I’m not here for bread,” the man said.

It was a police officer.

A wave of unease washed over Johnny. Today was the first week of September...