Chapter 477: 416. Chapter 410: Sailing the Brave

416. Chapter 410: Sailing the Brave's Dream and Sinking It to the Bottom of the Sea

More often than not, we struggle in dissatisfaction and search for direction after losing our way.

Only when we see the light again do we realize that the happiness we wanted was already ours long ago.

We simply lost it along the way, amid struggle and confusion.

But some things must be chosen—personal choices, human choices.

Perhaps many years later, they will recall the words spoken that day, the story that made Alberto burst into tears.

But no one knows what mood they'll carry by then.

"Should I help you with Ciscos grandfathers and uncles?" Lans asked.

Alberto understood his meaning—Lans was asking whether he needed help eliminating these old-timers.

Their existence was an obstacle to Francisco's control of the family; they would do everything to block his acquisition of real power. Killing them would simplify everything.

Alberto shook his head. "I want to leave them to him—as his coming-of-age gift."

"And…" Alberto's lips curled, but the expression was no smile. "I am not a Pasreto by blood. Only Ciscos can decide their fate."

Lans sneered. "That's classic ignorance. I thought you were as young as I am—your thinking would be more progressive."

Alberto laughed loudly. "It's tradition…"

"Tradition isn't always good. If tradition were always right, why would science progress?"

"Isn't that the very definition of 'untraditional'?"

Alberto shook his head and dropped the subject—he knew he couldn't win against Lans.

"I've said what needed saying. I'm going back. You must prepare too."

Lans stood. Alberto rose and embraced him, then they parted, walking in opposite directions.

Back in the car, Lans shook his head slightly. Sometimes Alberto looked stylish, but on certain issues, he was stubbornly old-fashioned.

In his view, the simplest path was to quickly build Francisco's prestige, then use these events to crush family opposition and unify their strength swiftly.

Whether for self-defense or expansion, it would give them a solid foundation.

As for the Four Great Families of Sumuli Island fighting Sumuli Island?

Let's hope he lives long enough to fulfill the dream he once had.

In September, with only about twenty days left until the municipal council election results were announced, election-related activities in Jincheng grew slightly more frequent—but only slightly.

The outcome of municipal council elections had essentially been decided from the start.

Most politicians did basic research before running—they never contested in districts where no one knew them. They only ran where victory was most likely.

Like William—he lived in Prislin, but ran in the Imperial District, not because it was easier, but because his chances of winning were highest.

He had locked in victory from the beginning—that's why he came.

Even the lowest-tier municipal council elections required substantial funding. If candidates couldn't secure victory in advance, their backers or party members wouldn't allocate resources to them.

Lately, William had been racing across the Imperial District, promoting his theories. If people didn't know he was only running for municipal council, they'd think his proposals belonged in a presidential campaign—like solving education issues.

His odds of winning were extremely high. By contrast, Mr. Joba was already out of the race—his campaign office had shut down due to lack of funds.

He relied entirely on his own money. No supporters. No investors. Once his funds ran dry, the campaign collapsed instantly.

The bank loopholes kept widening. Other banks were closing in on him, leaving him exhausted. He was barely holding on—how could he afford to launch another campaign offensive?

William would win the Imperial District council seat by an overwhelming margin. But there was another matter Lans needed to handle: "distributing money."

Amid children chasing and running, Arvin laughed and tossed a handful of coins into the air.

The children shrieked, scrambling after the coins, carefully prying them from cracks between bricks or the ground, clutching them tightly, and thanking Lans and Arvin for their generosity.

Every time Lans saw this, he felt at ease. Small gains brought them genuine smiles—pure, unspoiled smiles that could infect others.

A homeless man gathered courage and walked toward Lans. Before he reached Lans's car, he was stopped.

"I need to say a few words to Mr. Lans," he told the others.

Lans studied the man—he looked vaguely familiar. He nodded. The man was allowed to approach.

"Keep your hands in our sight at all times. Otherwise, we might misjudge you!" they warned. He didn't dare move—hands hanging at his sides.

"I think I've seen you before," Lans said from inside the car, watching the clean-looking homeless man.

The man smiled. "Mr. Lans, last winter, I accidentally splashed water on myself. You kindly gave me money to get through the cold season."

Lans remembered instantly. "You!"

His face softened. He pulled out a cigarette and offered one. "Smoke?"

The man accepted it with both hands, stunned. "Of course, of course…"

He carefully placed the cigarette between his lips, fished out a match—and suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

He slowed his movements, pulling his hand out of his pocket bit by bit. It was indeed a box of matches.

He hadn't seen them, but he knew—dozens of weapons were aimed at him.

Yet he felt no resentment. After all, Mr. Lans was a great benefactor—he must guard his safety.

He struck the match, hesitating. Lans reached out and held the tip of the cigarette. The man hurried forward, bowing to light it for Lans, then lit his own.

"Mr. Lans, I don't know how to say this—but your kindness gave me the strength to face life again."

"I'm ready to move forward. I'm going to fight life once more!" He smiled slightly, exhaling smoke to the side.

"I've always wanted to thank you in person. You gave me courage and purpose. I won't waste away anymore."

"After speaking with you, I'll leave soon—to find opportunity."

Lans found the man intriguing. "What do you plan to do?"

The man thought. "I'll start by finding work as a sailor—travel, see the wider world, save some money, then find my own path."

"I don't know who I'll become. But no matter what—I won't stop."

"I'll carry the courage you gave me, and carve out my own life and world!"

Lans inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. He nodded, calm and easy. "You have a heart of gold. I wish you success."

He signaled Arvin to bring two hundred dollars and handed them over. "Don't refuse. I don't know what lies ahead for you—but since I inspired you, accept this small help."

"It won't change your future. It will only sail your dream faster than we imagined."

The man hesitated, then accepted. "I take it, Mr. Lans. I don't know… how to say it."

"You're the best person in this world to me. I'm about to cry!"

Lans smiled and raised his hand. "This is an exciting moment. I bless you. May I ask your name?"

"Perhaps one day I'll need your help—and I won't even know your name."

"Marf, Marf Adams."

Lans stepped out of the car and extended his hand. "Marf, I have a feeling—you'll become a successful man."

Marf placed the cigarette on the ground and gripped Lans's hand with both hands, bowing low.

"Stand up. Straighten your back!" Lans said. "You're a man now. Face the future with your head high—that's the bearing of a man."

Marf was too moved to speak. He nodded repeatedly, tears falling onto Lans's hand. Lans released his grip, patted his shoulder. "Everything will be fine. I believe it."

He had fulfilled his final wish—not only thanking Lans in person for restoring his courage to face life, but also exceeding expectations by receiving Lans's encouragement.

His emotions took a while to settle. "Mr. Lans, thank you, thank you—I don't know what else to say to express how I feel."

"My time is short. I leave this afternoon, so…"

Lans nodded. "Go. Embrace your new life—your rebirth."

Before leaving, he lowered his voice slightly. "One last thing—I noticed something odd. There's a homeless man who doesn't talk to anyone or beg."

"I've seen him watching you and this place constantly. And his limp? It's fake. I don't know… if he means harm."

"He's over there."

He turned to look. Lans grabbed his arm. "Don't turn. Don't look at him. I'll handle it."

Lans didn't even glance. Looking now would only make the man suspicious.

Seeing Lans take his warning so seriously, Marf felt nothing but gratitude.

He had to say goodbye—his ship left that afternoon. If he hadn't left now, he might have waited months before speaking up.

He'd assumed Lans wouldn't speak to him so simply. Yet it all felt like a dream!

The weather was hot. His heart burned hotter.

He would carry the courage and blessing Lans had given him—and face the world again!

Lans ordered a car to take Marf away. He didn't even glance toward the homeless man before entering the company.

"That homeless man, Marf, told me there's a cripple watching us. Arrest him. Find out what he wants."

Hiram's cold had improved greatly—only a slight nasal tone remained. He no longer made those disgusting noises.

He nodded and led a few men out the front gate.

At the gate, someone was handing out money to the homeless—one dollar each, enough for a week's needs.

Of course, it wasn't daily. Once a week or every two weeks.

Too frequent handouts would make them less willing to work. If they wanted to work, Lans could arrange jobs for them.

But most homeless men had lost the habit of labor. They were used to surviving without effort.

Asking them to endure capitalist exploitation was unrealistic.

The cripple stood in line for money. If everyone else took it and he didn't, it would look suspicious.

So he shuffled slowly in line.

When Hiram and his men emerged, the cripple glanced once—then ignored them.

The company gate often had groups of homeless men standing around smoking or chatting. Not every day had fights or tasks. Most days, they were just idle.

They watched the homeless. As the line moved forward, Hiram's group spotted their target and approached the cripple.

The cripple watched these people walking toward him; he felt a faint unease, but he didn't think he'd been exposed.

He kept his head down, lined up, pretending nothing had happened.

Only when Hiram raised his hand did he realize—they had truly come for him!

The next instant he bolted, and Hiram and his men chased after him.

The cripple's limp vanished—he ran faster than ever, the distance between them slowly widening—but this was the Imperial District.

Some people on the street did step aside, but young men suddenly lunged at the cripple.

The cripple lost his balance and crashed hard to the ground; he struggled to reach into his chest, but Hiram drew his pistol.

The man who tackled him rolled aside, then came the gunshot—and shards sprayed across his body, searing with pain!

The cripple became a dead cripple, but Lans now knew who he was—the young gunner of the assassin duo.

The older one had been eliminated; this younger one had escaped and had been searching for an opportunity to kill Lans—not just for the mayor's bounty, but for revenge.

But killing Lans was no simple matter; after multiple attacks, his security had been upgraded by more than one level.

Most of the time, when he moved about, measures were already in place; any slight disturbance could trigger a shot from snipers on the rooftops.

Many of these marksmen were professional soldiers—their shooting skills were far beyond what ordinary gang members could match.

He wanted revenge for his family, but he hadn't yet made peace with the idea of sacrificing his own life.

He never imagined his plan had been exposed before he even acted.

This incident didn't spark much discussion, but the homeless population outside the company was cleared out, and several new high-ground positions were added.

A few days later, Lans called McCork to meet him; Alberto had obtained the smuggling route used by the Cassia family.

The last time he met McCork, he was just an ordinary Coast Patrol captain, nothing special.

But this meeting, his demeanor was utterly different from before.

A confidence, ease, and casualness radiated from within—he was almost a different person, save for a slight tension when facing Lans.

"I heard your son has enrolled in university?"

McCork's expression turned slightly uneasy, but Lans offered no explanation, only smiled.

He nodded, removed his sunglasses, "Yes, he's enrolled."

The money Lans gave him solved all his life's problems.

Yet he kept a low profile—he didn't splurge, only upgraded to a slightly better used car and rented a better apartment, all within his means.

He also applied for a student loan, ensuring his son's tuition had a legitimate, verifiable source.

It seemed these funds hadn't changed his life—but in truth, they had changed everything.

When a man always has thirty or fifty dollars—or even a hundred—in his pocket, that's a change.

When he and his family no longer dread the suffocating burden of student loans, that's a change.

He was planning to move his family elsewhere, so the money could be spent openly, bit by bit.

Isn't it normal for a Coast Patrol captain to have slightly higher spending power than an ordinary person?!

Confidence can blind a man; Lans didn't want him to be blind, so he gave a small reminder—everything was still under control!

"I envy students who go to university—they have a better social foundation after graduation, unlike us, who must fight for survival to rise."

He sipped his coffee, "I need your help—there's a smuggling vessel coming; they'll take this route…"

Lans handed him a route marked with coordinates—he couldn't read it, but he knew McCork could.

McCork glanced at it, "You want me to arrest them?"

Lans shook his head, "I want you to sink them into the sea…"