Chapter 121: Locking the Target, Reaching an Agreement, and the Conversation

The light turned on.

Will rubbed his stinging cheek, some specks of blood still on his fingers.

He looked up coldly at the middle-aged man, who stood helplessly, and at the whip in his hand—a rage more brutal than the man’s own desire for destruction began to rage within him!

It was a very special whip, made of thick leather thongs—

In some leather shops, they tan particularly hard cowhide, used for the bases or stiffening panels of leather goods, much harder than soft cowhide.

Some scraps, barely a centimeter square, were cheap and useless; Enio’s father brought some home, tied them together, and oiled them.

It was easy to swing—each strike left several raised, bleeding welts; every time he used it on Enio, Enio would jump off the ground.

He treasured this whip deeply; in his dark, miserable life, this whip was the only light he had!

The light that could redeem him!

When he swung it, the deep, visceral satisfaction made him forget all his troubles!

But there was one condition: the one being whipped had to be Enio, or his mother—not anyone else.

In this situation now, he felt no relief, no light entering his heart—only fear.

So much fear that he didn’t even notice why a stranger had appeared in his home.

Enio’s father didn’t know what to say.

Sorry?

He didn’t know.

Will stood up, snatched the whip from his hand, and lashed it across his face—the stunned Enio’s father finally snapped back to reality.

He spun around and tried to run outside, but two large men who had entered blocked his path and shut the door behind them.

When he turned back, two more men stood beside Will.

“Hold him down…” Will touched his cheek again, his eyes filled with murderous intent!

After a string of “I didn’t know,” “Sorry,” and “Please spare me,” Will finally vented his rage and handed the whip to his subordinate.

Surprisingly, the whip was exceptionally effective—smooth and satisfying to use; he planned to take it home as a keepsake.

Enio’s father had no connection to Will, so Will struck without restraint, focusing mostly on his head and face.

Enio’s father’s hands were beaten into bloody pulp; he desperately tried to protect himself, sacrificing only his hands.

He lay on the floor, barely alive—but Will had gotten what he wanted.

Enio had disappeared after leaving home recently; someone claimed to have seen him join some street gang, and Will now knew who to seek revenge on.

He didn’t kill Enio’s father—not out of mercy, but simply to avoid further trouble.

Last time he killed Kent’s mistress, Lucal quickly found him; he was forced to have one of his men take the blame.

He paid twelve thousand, turning intentional murder into negligent homicide; his man didn’t bear full responsibility and received only two years in prison—the lawyer convinced the jury that the girl had accidentally fallen off the balcony during a heated argument.

Will’s man cooperated fully with police and compensated aggressively, winning the forgiveness of the girl’s family, who hadn’t spoken to her in years; ultimately, the judge, following the jury’s opinion, ruled it an accident and noted the man’s sincere remorse and compensation.

In the end, only two years.

This made him realize Lucal’s people had been watching him.

Sure enough, less than three minutes after they left, Lucal’s men entered the house, called an ambulance, and took the unconscious Enio’s father to the hospital.

After learning of the incident, Lucal made no further arrangements—just told them to prepare documents and continue pursuing Will’s responsibility.

Let him find someone to take the blame; in the end, it’s his own flesh that will hurt.

But this time, Lucal learned Will’s next target—Enio.

Even more astonishing to Lucal was that the leader of the “Lans Family” Enio had joined was none other than Lans, the boss who had spoken with him a few times at the Labor Affairs Office!

The next morning, Lans drove to the dock; Chairman Scott had already arrived, having barely slept, lost in thought over what Lans had told Vorn.

Especially the line: “People won’t remember who walked across the bridge, but they’ll always remember who built it”—he felt his soul had been baptized!

Yes, no one remembers who walks across the bridge each day, but as long as people walk across it, they’ll remember the one who built it.

This was common in the Federation and elsewhere; he wanted to become a bridge-builder, not just a passerby.

He had the ability to build bridges—he needed people to remember him.

Under Vorn’s introduction, the two shook hands warmly. “You look very young.”

“Thank you!” Lans didn’t mention his age. “You look young too.”

Chairman Scott laughed heartily; for an old man, being called young was the sweetest compliment.

“Please, let’s go to my office to talk,” he told his secretary to bring three coffees and some snacks.

Once all three were seated and the coffee arrived, Chairman Scott raised the issue of illegal immigrants paying union dues.

“After I went home yesterday, I thought about this constantly—it’s highly feasible, but also comes with additional problems.”

“In the Federation’s union system, all benefits and assistance we offer members are based on the premise that they are Federation citizens.”

“For example, we help workers fight capitalists for their rightful, legal rights, or assist them with legal issues they face.”

“Illegal immigrants are not legal citizens or residents; when they encounter these problems, we can hardly represent them.”

“Lans, you should know—in civil litigation, courts can refuse to hear cases because illegal immigrants lack basic rights.”

From a legal standpoint, illegal immigrants are “nonexistent”—no entry records, no identification; though they exist in reality, legally they do not.

Neither the union nor any social security system can make claims on behalf of a void.

The opposing lawyer merely needs to point out their illegal status, and the court terminates the case.

“These are precisely the union’s most important duties—in other words, even if they pay dues, we can’t actually help them.”

Chairman Scott’s stance was honest—he didn’t trick Lans into paying immediately, nor did he refuse; he laid out the real problems.

After listening, Lans nodded in strong agreement. “Yes, Chairman Scott, you’re absolutely right—before they gain legal status, their dues carry far less weight than those of native workers.”

“But, Chairman Scott, perhaps we’ve had a flawed assumption from the start.”

“The purpose of having illegal immigrants pay dues isn’t to grant them all the rights and obligations of native members—it’s that I want at least fair, impartial treatment for them on the docks, in conflicts with native workers.”

He recounted yesterday’s incident: “If we hadn’t intervened, Jamie’s clothes and money would’ve been stolen—and that would’ve been the end of it.”

“No one could help him. But if he paid dues, the union could step in immediately, stop the bullying, and offer him support—then his dues would mean something.”

“Help him recover his stolen money and clothes from Johnny, and protect his basic human rights as a dockworker.”

“That’s what they want!”

“A workplace free from bullying, peaceful and safe.”

Chairman Scott thought carefully—he knew the docks better than anyone; this was his territory, and Lans was right.

He glanced at Vorn, who looked back; the two veteran partners exchanged understanding in a single glance.

Vorn pushed back his hair—a signal he was about to speak. “Lans, tensions between native workers and immigrants aren’t easily resolved, and… you know, we can’t monitor them every second.”

His point: the union wanted money but didn’t want to get overly involved in conflicts between natives and immigrants.

Allowing native workers to bully illegal immigrants was itself a form of management.

Only by shifting pain could people feel less pain themselves.

Like Enio’s father—he transferred society’s injustice and cruelty onto his wife and child through domestic violence; the pleasure he gained from abusing his family helped his own wounds from society heal faster.

The dockworkers were the same—they were exploited and oppressed, but if they could bully someone else, they felt “at least someone’s worse off than me.”

And by adopting the role of “abuser,” they felt better about their own lives and circumstances.

The exploitation and oppression no longer felt unbearable.

Seeing Lans frown, and knowing this money would ultimately come from him, Vorn continued: “Lans, you run dock labor—you know better than anyone how dull and painful this work is.”

“People need an outlet!”

Perhaps this was the saddest truth about immigrants—they elevated the social bottom, becoming the basement floor, beneath the first floor.

Vorn’s words were cruel, but true.

With these scapegoats, the dockworkers’ conditions improved significantly—and management became easier:

“If you won’t work, someone else will. Clean up your arrogance and get back to your post—or pack your things and get out. Choose!”

Then they’d compromise, release their emotions—perfect management system!

It was a vicious cycle, equally effective against illegal immigrants and immigrant workers.

“If you won’t work, someone else will—they can endure humiliation and abuse better than you.”

“This is an unhealthy management system!” Lans emphasized.

Chairman Scott immediately replied: “But it works—and it’s efficient!”

Fact.

Lans thought for a moment. “What if we offered other outlets for emotional release?”

“Like what?” Chairman Scott showed a flicker of interest.

“The Dockworkers’ Club!”

The Dockworkers’ Club opened once every week, offering various foods, affordable goods, and entertainment—a good place to relieve stress and vent emotions.

But it only opened twice a month, and as the union cut funding, the club had grown increasingly dull.

Chairman Scott shook his head. “Every opening costs us a fortune—two or three hundred at minimum, up to four or five hundred.”

“So it’s hard to accommodate your idea, Lans.”

Lans rubbed his temples. “I have a proposal, Chairman Scott.”

“Go ahead…”

“Let me take over the Dockworkers’ Club. I’ll handle the workers’ stress; you ensure my people aren’t bullied. Together, we form a disciplinary patrol to prevent this.”

“Your people?” Chairman Scott caught a detail.

Lans nodded. “Yes, my people—the ones in blue uniforms.”

He no longer demanded fair treatment for all illegal immigrants—it was unrealistic, at least for now—so he wouldn’t bother those not united around him.

Chairman Scott and Vaughn exchanged a glance, then Vaughn asked, “How do you plan to run the workers’ club?”

This was essentially agreeing to Lans’s terms; Lans smiled slightly, “Of course…”

The discussion went smoothly; in the end, they would pay no further bills for the club, nor would they receive any income from it.

Lans guaranteed the club would remain open long-term, operating two hours each evening from seven to nine on weekdays.

On weekends, it would open from two in the afternoon until eleven at night, with no days off—not even on holidays.

They handed full operational control to Lans; to ensure he wouldn’t abuse it and would manage the club well, he had to pay five thousand to the union’s account.

If he failed to fulfill the contract, the five thousand would become the union’s property.

Both sides quickly signed the contract, and Lans, representing the office, paid the union fee.

Payment was made not by work card, but by the registration number assigned to illegal immigrants in the office; Lans would also assign personnel to join the union’s patrol system, conducting constant inspections across the entire port.

If someone stole a uniform and no longer remained registered under the office, and was spotted by the patrol, they would face appropriate punishment.

Ensure not one extra, not one missing.

After all, Lans had paid for these people and their identities; if someone impersonated them, it meant stealing Lans’s money!

After finalizing the deal, he signed a check for Scott and handed it over; Scott accepted it, clearly pleased.

Even if nothing else came of it, simply generating three thousand in profit was a good thing.

The workers’ club was located not far from the union’s office; from its structure, it had once been a large warehouse, converted into a club.

The club’s manager took Lans inside for a tour; the space was vast and well-equipped, though some items were already outdated.

Lans already had some renovation plans in mind; after having the keys left with him, he prepared to leave.

Just as he left the dock, a police car blocked his path.

Through the window, he saw Officer Lu Ka in the opposite vehicle, and smiled to greet him, “Wait a moment—I’ll back up.”

Officer Lu Ka looked at Lans’s smiling face and found it hard to connect him with the name “Lans Family.”

But over the years, he’d encountered all kinds of criminals—even gang leaders—and was no longer easily startled.

Now, observing Lans’s gentle and humble demeanor, he felt something inexplicable.

“No need. I came here specifically for you. Get out and chat?”

Lans paused, then agreed; he parked his car and joined Officer Lu Ka on the dock’s shore.

The wind and waves gently pushed against the rocks and concrete, showing no sign of the sea’s fury; seagulls circled above the harbor, occasionally landing on ship rails.

The busy yet tranquil port, and the endless sea, always gave one a sense of refreshing calm.

“Lans Family?” Officer Lu Ka opened with an odd term.

Lans couldn’t help laughing, “You’ve heard about it too?”

Officer Lu Ka smirked, “I looked into it. You’ve been making quite a splash lately. They say you personally broke a worker’s arm here yesterday morning.”

Lans replied calmly, “That’s slander. A lie.”

Lu Ka smiled too, “Your appearance is very deceptive, Lans.”

“But you needn’t worry too much—I didn’t come here because of what you did yesterday morning, but because you’re about to face a major problem.”

“How much do you know about the Camila Gang?”

Lans had a rough idea of what had happened: “An imperial immigrant gang. They were already somewhat notorious criminal organizations within the Empire, then expanded into the Federation.”

“Unlike other immigrant-based criminal groups in the Federation, the Camila Gang’s main criminal activities involve kidnapping and extorting imperial immigrants…”