Night gradually descended over the Southern Sea, growing steadily deeper, while far away, West Sail Port had only just welcomed the dusk. The blazing scarlet glare seemed as though it would bake the seawater dry.
Near the equator, there was no such thing as winter. Watching the vicious sun finally sink into the ocean, the laborers on the docks let out a collective sigh of relief.
The sun was finally setting!
After the bustle of previous days, the docks had sat empty for several days without a single ship.
With no work to do, everyone had finally tasted what it meant to "rise and fall together."
If West Sail Port truly went bankrupt, they would all have to sell themselves back into the nobles' plantations.
While Brahma Province had one redeeming quality—a person could survive by eating dirt—nobody could survive on dirt forever.
Eating that stuff didn't put an ounce of meat on your bones. The more you ate it, the weaker you became, and the weaker you were, the less work you could do. In the end, the vicious cycle would simply bury your entire family in the dirt.
Eating it two or three days a week was safe enough, and three or four days was tolerable, but five or six consecutive days spelled trouble. Nobody would eat like that unless there was a famine.
Fortunately, shipping traffic had recovered somewhat recently, and those who had been idle for so long finally had work again.
Thinking of Master Naji's promise of a wage hike, everyone threw their backs into the work.
Their mindset was simple, even rather quaint.
Since the master was paying them, they couldn't let him get cheated or work slower than the slaves who slacked off.
However—
Not everyone had reaped the benefits.
Take, for example, the fellows who had carried Orisa's corpse to demand justice for his family a few days ago.
Or those clamoring to raise daily wages to ten dinars.
Without exception, all of them had been deliberately sabotaged and ended up on Master Naji's blacklist.
First came the Labor Registry, which in principle only referred work to obedient laborers. As for the unruly troublemakers, they avoided giving them referrals if they could, or assigned them only the lowest-paying chores.
Returning to the docks was out of the question.
As for working in the steel mill or the cement plant, that was pure fantasy.
After all, behind every lucrative industry here stood the exact same class of shareholders.
Either Wilante or imperial nobles.
Bound by shared interests, they were extraordinarily united.
Meanwhile, the blacklisted freemen either waited at home for word or took up jobs hauling night soil and other sanitation tasks.
The vacancies they left behind were gradually filled by other slaves promoted to freemen.
In any case, Brahma Province had no shortage of slaves.
Like a metabolic cycle, it formed a perfect closed loop.
In this respect, West Sail Port was remarkably similar to the old Golden Gallon Port.
These menial dregs of labor were usually done by slaves, since there was no concern about them slacking off.
For freemen, however, doing only this kind of work made it impossible to support a family.
Some tried seeking help from the laborers who had gained from the deal, hoping to unite them once more for their common interest and launch another strike of nonviolent non-cooperation. But the latter avoided them like the plague.
They had already gotten what they wanted.
Eight dinars a day was enough to get by, and they had never asked for much to begin with.
As for those left behind...
They had only their own unruly behavior to blame.
Besides, those fellows hauling night soil, sweeping the streets, or sitting idle without work could hardly be considered "one of us."
A guy making two dinars a day dared call himself their compatriot?
Pretentious, wasn't it!
To be fair, at first, they felt embarrassed when refusing.
Deep down, they knew perfectly well how the dinars in their hands had come about.
Later, word spread that the ringleaders were all members of the Silver Moon Sect. When they were beaten and injured earlier, many of them had been bandaged at the Silver Moon Church.
Soon after came rumors that Pastor Melgior sympathized with the Moon Clan.
The Moon Clan!
They were the empire's greatest thorn in the side!
Suddenly, all the threads seemed to "make sense": those troublemakers were taking orders from the Moon Bandits, perhaps even taking money from Laxi! Shunning them became completely justified overnight.
Turned from an admired hero into a despised coward, Isher sat in the church with a bandage wrapped around his forehead, a look of bitter misery on his face.
This was the only place where he could find a moment of peace.
For now, Naji's Stick Squad didn't dare provoke this sanctuary—perhaps biding their time, perhaps waiting for instructions from the master. And those who spat on the emblem of the Silver Moon Sect stayed clear as well, fearing they might be mistaken for Moon Bandits.
Ten days ago, he had been the one carrying Orisa's corpse to confront Naji.
Back then, blood had rushed to his head, and feeling things could no longer go on like this, he had bravely stepped forward.
He had never once met Laxi, and it was obviously impossible that he had—that monster was thousands of kilometers away, not to mention that on the front line, the invincible God of War, General Alaiyang, was grappling with him.
Yet those people were convinced he had met Laxi one night, swearing up and down that he had sat and talked with the fiend for hours.
The scar on his forehead still throbbed with a dull ache, seemingly inflamed.
Robed in his vestments, Melgior walked over and had an elderly nun unwrap the bandage, then applied alcohol to disinfect the wound before putting on a fresh dressing.
The sharp sting tortured Isher's senses.
Yet far worse than the physical pain was the anguish in his heart.
"...I don't understand. Why can't they see it? What happened to me today will happen to them sooner or later, or to their children. It's so obvious—this is Naji's way of dividing us. He's trying to make us tear each other apart using people we've never even laid eyes on."
This classic drama had appeared in *Awakened Pol*. The Inner City nobles had tried bribing Pol with a black card, and when he snapped the card in two, they immediately bared their fangs, smearing the hero, inventing scandalous affairs with prostitutes, and inciting the residents of Boulder City to hate him...
Except the residents of Boulder City had seen through the Inner City's ploy. Far from trampling Pol underfoot, they had rallied around him, becoming the sparks that dispelled the long night.
That was the novel's climax.
He still remembered the night he had heard that chapter; he had been so fired up that he couldn't sleep all night.
"You are too impatient," Melgior said with a sigh as he tended the wound. "What seems obvious to you is still completely foreign to the people here."
Isher furrowed his brow, trying to argue. "But Pol..."
Melgior cut him off. "That is only a novel—a submission to a supplement of *Survivor Daily* by a cannery worker named Sberg. It isn't real history, after all... How can you expect real people to act just like characters in a book?"
"But Boulder City isn't made up," Isher said in a low voice. "I heard Pol was based on a real person."
Melgior fell silent.
Perhaps he was the one who had been impatient.
His original intention in founding the *Silver Gospel* had simply been to teach the people here to read and write. Those who learned to write would naturally pen their own stories.
Just like Sberg, who had once been completely illiterate and yet ultimately produced that world-shaking piece of work.
And before that, Hal, the founder of *Survivor Daily*, had done little besides reporting news and serializing frivolous doggerel in the paper.
Yet looking at it now...
He seemed to have done something terrible.
He had no doubt he was walking the path guided by the Silver Moon Goddess, but he had moved too fast.
"I've been there. You and the people there... are actually different."
Isher looked up, puzzled. "Different?"
Melgior nodded. "Yes. They knew Pol was fictional, but most of them believed he could be real, and genuinely wished him to be real. So every one of them became Pol. As for 'Ken,' such people were a tiny minority among them.
"You are actually cleverer than they were, but your cleverness is misdirected. You know just as well that Pol isn't real, yet you blame a fictional character for not being true. How is that any different from scooping the moon from the water? Because the moon in the water cannot be fished out, you conclude that the moon itself is a lie."
"I believe he exists! I never thought he was fake!" Isher interrupted, rising from his chair in agitation. "More than that, I'm willing to become him!"
"You are brave, but that means nothing... Not a single person standing beside you believes it. Darkness is destined to surround you, and that darkness is destined to be filled with opportunists. If you go on like this, you will either be a fleeting spark consumed before the dawn, or burn brightly for a blazing moment... But either way, your end will not be good, and the people here will not change."
Unable to bear seeing him suffer, Melgior softened his tone and continued: "I don't want you to despair. You are a good man, but I can only tell you the time is not ripe. West Sail Port has existed for less than a year. Even you... only became freemen within the last two months, and the vast majority here are still slaves.
"In Boulder City, slaves were never the mainstream of their society, existing only on a few farms outside the Great Wall. Over the years, countless vaults opened their doors, bringing them technology and ideas from the Era of Prosperity, yet even so, they wallowed in misery for a century... and right before the dawn of victory, they even inadvertently spawned a monster like Torch."
He despised the Legion too—or rather, nobody liked those big-noses.
Especially to the people of Sunset Province, they were like demons who had committed every evil imaginable.
Yet after staying in West Sail Port for a time, his thoughts had shifted slightly.
No issue could be discussed outside of its historical context. Putting people in cages was terrible, of course, but herding them from a cramped cage into a slightly roomier one could still be considered a step forward.
Even if that roomier cage remained open to criticism, progress itself was worthy of praise.
Isher lowered his head and said nothing.
He was grateful for the pastor's selfless aid; a pauper like him could never afford precious things like rubbing alcohol.
However, it was obvious that Mr. Melgior could not fully comprehend their agony.
Life in the plantation estates had not been more miserable than life in West Sail Port.
Back then, they were the master's private property, but even if only for the sake of his purse, the master wouldn't drag out a piece of furniture every day just to smash it.
Besides, no matter how wicked the master was, there was only one of him. Most folks went their whole lives without ever seeing what he looked like, let alone knowing what luxury he enjoyed, and so they lived in relative peace.
West Sail Port was another matter entirely. The masters had joined forces with the Wilante, eager to crack their bones and suck out the marrow.
And now, not content with that, they had formed an under-the-table alliance to ensure "troublemakers" like him couldn't find work, ostracizing him at every turn.
Without question, they wanted him dead!
A gleam of hatred gradually surfaced in Isher's eyes.
He had no way out.
Others could always sell themselves back into slavery if push came to shove, but he was certain that if he did, Naji would buy him and his family without hesitation, reveling in his torment before taking his head to make an example for the rest.
He had to do something!
He was not the only one who felt this way; the other people sitting in the church felt the same.
Unlike the laborers toiling away on the docks, a shared faith had already bound them together.
If they had dared to stand up and speak for Orisa, they would dare to gamble everything once more for the fate of their brethren!
"...Thank you, Mr. Melgior. Thank you for bringing us the teachings of the Silver Moon Goddess, teaching us to read and write, and dressing our wounds."
Melgior stared blankly at Isher, detecting something alarming in his eyes.
The ruthless, sullen glare in those eyes sent a chill of fear through him.
"What do you plan to do?"
Isher lowered his voice. "Take back what rightfully belongs to us, before Naji and his thugs strike. We have to strike first... This is for you and your church as well. We don't have much time left."
His words were vague, hesitant to reveal too much. Clearly, he knew the plan was risky and feared implicating the church.
For that very reason, he needed to find another place to confer with like-minded comrades.
Melgior watched in shock as the man stood and walked toward the door, and as the others in the church rose from the benches, silently following behind him.
In the blink of an eye, the vast church was left with only a few frail, elderly men, along with himself and the old nun standing nearby.
"I'm afraid something terrible will happen to them..." The old nun's eyes were full of worry as she looked at Melgior, seemingly hoping he would go dissuade them.
Melgior's face mirrored her dread, shadowed by deep sorrow.
"I am worried too... But what could I say? Hold him back and tell him not to go? It would be useless. They won't even tell me what they intend to do. I can only pray he comes to his senses on his own."
Of course, the true culprits were those who had driven them into a corner.
Could he really tell these people to accept their fate?
With a soft sigh, Melgior lowered his gaze and silently traced an arc across his chest in prayer.
May the light of the Silver Moon Goddess protect them, and keep these lost lambs from straying onto the path of ruin...
As a pastor, that was the only thing he could do.
...
Dusk sank into the sea, and night would soon fall over West Sail Port. Finally, it was shift change.
A long queue formed outside the Labor Registry as off-duty laborers took turns collecting their wages from the window.
Payday differed from person to person, but was generally settled upon completing a full week's work.
When his turn finally arrived, Govinda hurried forward, offering a fawning smile to the young Lion Clan clerk behind the counter and respectfully extending both hands.
Though it wouldn't add a single coin to his pay, he did it by reflex anyway.
Workers here saw thousands of men like him every day.
The young clerk didn't bother wasting words. Counting out four ten-denomination coins and two one-denomination coins, he tossed them onto the counter and resumed cracking melon seeds.
Govinda hurriedly scooped up the coins. Counting them in his palm, his eyes went wide.
"Wait, why are there only forty-two?! I worked the entire week without taking a single day off! It should be fifty-six dinars! You shorted me fourteen!"
The clerk sneered at the pauper and snapped impatiently, "Who cares about your few measly dinars? That's your pay. Take it up with Naji if you have a problem."
Govinda's face twisted with rage. Clenching the coins tightly, he pointed at the window and barked, "How can you cheat me like this! You agreed to eight dinars a day!"
Refusing to argue, the young clerk shouted directly for the supervisor on duty.
The supervisor seemed well-practiced in dealing with such scenes, barking at the top of his lungs before he even arrived: "What are you shouting about? There haven't been many ships these past few days, as if you didn't know! Getting six dinars is plenty good already! You think every day's as busy as two weeks ago?!"
Govinda panicked. That was wage money he had fought so hard to win, and now they were brazenly going back on their word!
While six dinars a day was still far higher than before, it felt like a slap in the face after busting his back for an entire week.
"B-but... two weeks ago, we only worked half a day and you still paid eight!"
The supervisor growled impatiently, "If it's too little, don't show up tomorrow... What's this fellow's name? Circle it."
Hearing that, Govinda instantly lost all his bluster, his face turning pale as snow.
"No, no! I'll work! I'll come tomorrow!"
The supervisor gave the young clerk a look. Taking the cue, the clerk set down his pen, putting on a show of magnanimity.
"Work hard and quit your damn whining. Take your money and get out. There's a line waiting."
The supervisor waved a hand as if shooing a fly.
The surrounding laborers fell silent, seething with anger yet daring not utter a word, terrified of sticking their necks out.
They had seen what happened to the Moon Bandits—those people had literally been turned into untouchables.
Govinda slunk out of the registry. Glancing at the shrunken sum in his hand, then back at the sign behind him, he spat violently onto the ground.
"Damn it..."
If he had known, he would have listened to Isher.
He dared not say that aloud, of course, but there was no harm in thinking it.
Dragging his exhausted body, he limped homeward, calculating how to spend the relatively tidy sum in his pocket.
Come to think of it, six dinars a day wasn't bad. It covered the family's living expenses easily enough, perhaps even leaving a little to spare.
Just as he was thinking this, a loud bang suddenly echoed from behind him.
The detonation startled him so badly that he instinctively whirled around. Rolling black smoke was rising from the direction of the port warehouses; the explosion had come from there.
He knew that place all too well; after all, he spent most of his days there.
The warehouses were crammed with tea, sugar, cotton, and bolts of cloth.
Other sheds held cement and steel.
Cement wouldn't burn, but sugar was a vicious fuel, not to mention flammable materials like cotton.
In the distance, Govinda could faintly hear shouting and the rush of panicked footsteps.
"Fire! The warehouse district!"
"It's burning!"
"Quick! Put it out!"
Burning...
Seeing the fruits of his daily toil going up in flames, not a trace of panic crossed his face; instead, a malicious smile spread over his lips.
Good riddance!
It wasn't his property anyway. Let it burn brighter, burn down the whole damned port!
With that thought, his steps homeward grew visibly lighter...
On the other side, Isher and the believers had just stepped out of the church when they too heard the blast. Everyone froze.
Soon someone reacted, whispering, "It's the warehouse district!"
"Did a fire break out?"
Realizing what had probably happened, vindicated smiles broke out across their faces.
Isher, however, knitted his brows, a look of worry creeping across his forehead.
"Don't be so quick to gloat. No matter who set the fire, Naji will pin it on us."
It wasn't as though he hadn't considered torching the warehouses—the idea had crossed his mind more than once—but he had discarded it each time.
With his familiarity with the terrain, pulling it off wouldn't be difficult. The hard part was the aftermath.
The Wilante wouldn't listen to reason; it would only end with their whole group sent to the gallows.
The proper course was to organize the laborers first, just as Pol and his fellow workers had done.
Difficult though it might be, the opportunity was there, especially now that the foolish Naji had apparently forgotten the pain once the wound had healed and slashed the dockers' wages again.
As long as they were united enough, they would have the leverage to bargain with the nobles.
After all, the Wilante were here to make money, not to invite trouble.
The others realized this fire might very well burn back onto them, and worried expressions spread across their faces.
"What do we do now?"
Meeting those anxious gazes, Isher had no answer either. Gritting his teeth, he could only say, "Let's see how things play out first..."
...
At the same time, Margery, who was browsing through the bustling market in the port district, also heard the blast. She stopped in her tracks and looked toward the noise.
The stall owner craned his neck in that direction as well, a look of surprise crossing his face as he watched the rising black smoke.
"It's the warehouse district..."
With such a loud boom, could cannon shells have detonated?
He vaguely recalled someone mentioning that West Sail Port stored shells brought in from the west of Sunset Province—ordnance the Eastern Legion had pulled back from the front line, destined for General Alaiyang.
People in the market exchanged glances, muttering among themselves with uneasy looks on their faces.
"Madam..." Standing beside Margery, a dark-skinned maid said in a low voice, "The port hasn't been very safe lately. We should head back quickly."
She had heard that the port had purchased another batch of slaves from nearby estates, seemingly to replace the troublemakers who had stirred up unrest earlier.
Though this had nothing to do with their household, the number of idle paupers lingering near the port had noticeably increased recently.
Those men stared at them with eyes like wolves, and some were resorting to petty theft. Rumor had it that the guard bureau's holding cells were nearly full.
In just two short weeks, the situation in West Sail Port had deteriorated at a visible pace.
Even though the tensions had been building for a long time...
"Yes, let's head home early..."
Margery nodded. Handing the ornament she had selected to the maid to carry, she paid the vendor, took her daughter's little hand, and set off on the walk home.
As Yarman's wife, she had been born into a merchant family and had once been a citizen of Triumph City.
She possessed the same keen intuition as her husband.
Because of that, the moment the explosion sounded, she picked up on an abnormal scent in the air.
She had a premonition.
Something terrible was about to happen here...
The group soon returned to their manor near the port district. This was probably the safest part of the entire harbor, but as the turn of the year drew near, security had grown somewhat lax lately.
Margery noticed that several neighboring households were absent, likely having returned to Triumph City.
Or perhaps, like her husband, they had traveled to the distant east to pursue that massive deal.
Standing in the entryway and slipping off her boots, she paused in thought, then crouched down and spoke softly to her daughter Ruby.
"By the way, Ruby, didn't you want to visit Count Sharma's little daughter?"
Ruby's eyes lit up, and she nodded vigorously. "Yes! Little Sister Ansuya and I promised to play hide-and-seek together next time we met."
Margery stroked her fluffy hair affectionately. "Mommy will take you."
Ruby jumped with excitement. "Really?! How long are we staying?"
Margery pondered for a moment and smiled. "Two weeks or so. Daddy should be back by then."
...
With that explosion, the entire West Sail Port erupted into a restless stir.
The blaze had flared up without warning.
In less than ten minutes, it had swept across several warehouses.
Billowing black smoke blotted out the sky, obscuring even the sun sinking into the sea.
Naji's face was stricken with panic, pale and sickly, his lips turning blue and trembling faintly.
Looking at his equally bewildered lackeys, he screamed at the top of his lungs, "What are you all standing around for?! Put out the fire!"
The henchmen gripping wooden clubs looked at one another with bitter grimaces.
"Master... the blaze is too huge. There are only a few of us; we can't even get close!"
Without hesitation, Naji bellowed, "Then round up more people! Do I have to teach you everything?!"
Seeing Naji's fury, the men dared not delay. Clamping their clubs, they rushed toward the onlookers, using a mix of threats and inducements to force them into fighting the fire.
Most of the spectators gathered nearby were freemen living close to the port district.
They were not all short-lived dock drudges; some were citizens holding respectable jobs.
Ordinarily, Naji had no authority over these people, but in this desperate hour, formalities were thrown out the window.
Intimidated by the heavy, careless blows of the Stick Squad's clubs, the crowd reluctantly joined the firefighting effort, ferrying buckets of water into the blaze one after another.
With that first group lending a hand, things became much easier.
Never having seen such a massive blaze, some clueless bystanders also joined in just for the spectacle.
These people weren't after money; they just wanted to be part of the excitement. Of course, expecting them to do a fine job was out of the question.
Fortunately, the warehouse district bordered the sea and water was close at hand. After a flurry of frantic scrambling, their efforts finally began to show results.
Watching the scrambling crowd, Naji gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.
Those son-of-a-bitch arsonists!
This was too outrageous!
This had clearly been done by someone intimately familiar with the layout; otherwise, the timing wouldn't have been so precise!
Several fires had been set right around the sugar warehouse, sparking a massive explosion on the spot.
He swore to find whichever villain had set this fire!
Make no mistake—if he couldn't produce the culprit to give the Wilante an explanation, his master would hand him over as a scapegoat without a second thought!
Sweat dripped from his brow. A suspect had already formed in Naji's mind: it had to be the Silver Moon cultists!
There was no doubt about it; only those fanatics had the motive!
Five or six minutes later, the port's fire brigade finally arrived.
Like the post office, this institution was something the Wilante had brought over from Triumph City.
They roared in aboard water tankers and unleashed torrential streams onto the burning warehouses, bringing the blaze under control in short order.
What a pity that all that premium sugar and tea were ruined in the process.
Seeing tea leaves and cotton cloth strewn across the ground, along with heaps of undissolved sugar granules, the residents fighting the fire felt their greed stirred, especially the paupers who had rushed in later just to watch the show.
These were fine goods they could never afford in their entire lives!
Though muddied and soaked in filthy runoff, for people who ate dirt to survive, that was hardly a problem.
At first, only one or two dashed forward to loot. Soon, the chaotic crowd surged like rats discovering a grain storehouse, swarming in all at once.
The water buckets became the most coveted tools; whatever people fancied, they stuffed straight into their pails.
Initially, they only gathered goods scattered by the water hoses, but soon undamaged crates suffered the same fate. Then the unemployed laborers rushed in, followed by those who still had jobs, unable to resist the urge to grab free spoils.
They knew where the most valuable containers were stored, and knew exactly how to break inside.
The clever ones followed right behind them, fleeing outside carrying crates and bolts of cloth in their arms.
The warehouse district turned into pandemonium, as if half of West Sail Port had rushed to the scene.
By the time Naji realized the situation had spiraled out of control, it was already far too late.
He shouldn't have mobilized the mob.
If he had let the fire burn, it would at most have consumed a few warehouses before the fire brigade arrived; it never would have caused losses this catastrophic.
Compared to the sudden blaze, these people who had supposedly come to help were the real locusts!
"Stop! Stop it! That belongs to the Wilante! Have you lost your minds?!"
Naji howled in despair, ordering the Stick Squad forward.
Yet the club-wielding slaves merely exchanged terrified glances, refusing to budge an inch.
There were tens of thousands of people gathered here at the very least, while their squad barely numbered over a hundred.
Without firearms, relying solely on clubs, they would be torn to shreds in an instant if a real fight broke out.
Having contained the fire, the fire brigade attempted to disperse the looting crowd with their water hoses, only to infuriate the mob instead.
In the chaos, someone shouted, and a crowd rushed forward, overturning the water tanker on the spot.
The Wilante driver huddled inside the cabin, terrified to step out, trembling as he radioed for reinforcements.
Just then, the port security guards finally arrived.
About fifty men formed a line at the entrance to the warehouse district—virtually all the available police force in the vicinity!
They probably hadn't expected to be deployed for what was supposed to be a mere fire.
Carrying a Ripper rifle on his back, the guard captain strode over to Naji, seized him by the collar, and sprayed spit as he roared, "What the hell is going on here?!"
Two riots in two weeks! He had never seen such a worthless proxy—or rather, such a worthless foreman.
Naji certainly couldn't admit he had summoned these people to fight the fire only for them to turn to looting once it was out. Rolling his eyes, he quickly blurted, "M-Master, these rioters are looting during the fire! I couldn't hold them back..."
Judging by the scene, that certainly appeared to be the case.
The captain's face turned icy cold. Without another word, he raised his rifle, took aim at a rioter running home with a sack of sugar on his back, and fired.
*Crack!*
The bullet struck the man squarely in the neck, blood erupting instantly.
The wretched fellow dropped without a sound, landing face-down in a puddle.
To his dying breath, he likely never understood why out of thousands looting, he was the only one who caught a bullet.
The looting crowd froze, stunned that the Wilante would open fire and kill so casually.
Men stood petrified across the warehouse district, caught between running and staying put.
"Drop the stolen goods!" the guard captain roared, brandishing his rifle while gesturing for the men behind him to chamber their rounds. "Everyone stand where you are and put your hands up! Let's see who dares—"
Before he could finish, another sharp *crack* rang out from the distance.
It was the report of a Ripper rifle as well, and the bullet tore directly into his chest.
The captain froze, feeling a sharp stab of pain before blood surged from both his wound and his mouth.
Time seemed to slow down. His eyes bulged as he collapsed heavily into the arms of the comrade behind him.
Where did these bastards get guns?!
Could it be—
Blood choked his throat, rendering him speechless, but he still managed to make the gesture ordering them to open fire.
No matter what, they had to recover those weapons!
At any cost!
Seeing their captain lose consciousness, the guards behind him erupted in fury.
These scum!
How dare they kill their captain!
Hatred blazed in every pair of eyes. At this moment, they no longer distinguished between civilians and rioters.
Everyone standing here—
Was an enemy!
"Enemy attack!"
"Prepare for battle!"
Amid furious roars, they first dragged the fallen captain behind cover.
Then, under the vice-captain's command, they snapped into firing positions and unleashed indiscriminate volleys toward the origin of the gunfire.
Bullets whined through the warehouse district, leaving scores dead and wounded within moments.
Hiding behind a warehouse, the young man clutching the scavenged rifle turned ghostly pale.
He had snatched this weapon after following a group of laborers into a warehouse storing munitions.
Those daring fellows had knocked out the guards at the entrance and tied them up.
These rifles were worth far more than white sugar; rumor had it they fetched a fortune on the black market.
He had only wanted to scare the big-noses who normally lorded over them, to show them what the Rat Clan was made of. He never imagined he would kill a man with a single shot.
Things had clearly spiraled out of control; corpses littered the warehouse district...
Seeing the guards closing in, his instinct was to flee, but then a rapid chattering burst from nearby.
*Rat-tat-tat-tat!*
Bullets tore through the air, their ferocious firepower pinning a squad of guards behind cover so tightly they couldn't even raise their heads.
Trembling, the young man looked toward the gunfire and saw a tall, gaunt man swapping out a magazine.
Gripped in his hands was a "Blade" assault rifle!
This weapon packed vastly more punch than a Ripper rifle, capable of emptying a full magazine with a single pull of the trigger!
Perhaps someone among the fallen was his kin, for the man's eyes were bloodshot with fury as he spat on the ground.
"Damn it, what the hell are you running for?! We've got more firepower than these big-noses!"
His shout was instantly echoed by others.
Those who had intended to slip away looked at the guns in their hands and abruptly changed their minds.
Where could they run to anyway?
This was Brahma Province. Even if they fled to the ends of the earth, the Wilante would hunt them down.
They might as well follow Laxi's lead and carve out a future of their own with the barrels of their guns!
The fiend they had reviled days ago had now become their source of courage.
Under the stimulation of gunfire, anxious faces twisted into ferocious grimaces.
They weren't truly cowardly; their feral nature had merely been suppressed by endless subjugation.
And now, that cage had been pried open, releasing the beast within.
"Damned Wilante!"
"Screw their ancestors!"
"Kill them all!"
"Aaaaargh!"
The exchange of fire grew increasingly fierce, neither side able to overpower the other.
Though the Wilante guards had ample experience putting down unrest, this was the first time they had faced such a thorny situation.
Too many rioters surrounded the armory, and more were joining by the minute.
Some came to avenge relatives, others were whipped into a frenzy by the rioters' slogans, but most simply dashed in to fish in troubled waters.
Anyone who ran over was handed a weapon!
Even children were handed pistols.
After leaving three bodies behind, the Wilante guards still failed to reach the warehouse entrance.
Prone behind cover, the vice-captain yelled into his radio, "Warehouse district requests reinforcements! Repeat, warehouse district requests reinforcements!"
Just as the words left his mouth, a towed artillery piece was rolled out from the warehouse doors.
As the largest leased port on the west coast, West Sail Port drew all kinds of people.
The freemen here weren't just former slaves who had bought their freedom; there were also veterans discharged due to injuries.
Most had served in the Gray Wolf Army, retreating here after their defeat at Golden Gallon Port.
Having been trained by the Legion, they knew how to operate this ordnance inside out.
As for why these veterans were siding with the rioters, he couldn't begin to fathom.
In any case, the moment he saw them loading a shell into the breech, the vice-captain's face drained of color.
"Damn it—"
Before he could finish cursing, an orange-red tracer screamed toward him, detonating ten meters ahead of his position.
The blast wave flung him and his barricade into the air, instantly maiming and killing the guards crouched around him.
At the same time, the rioters guarding the warehouse entrance erupted in triumphant cheers.
"Beautiful!"
"Blow those bastards to hell!"
"Reload! Quick, reload! Give the docks one too!"
"Damn it, stop wasting time! Wipe out the guards in front of us first!"
The crew clumsily extracted the spent shell casing and shoved another high-explosive round into the breech.
In the distance, the Wilante police armored vehicle that had been gathering dust in a garage finally rolled out, but seeing the leveled 100mm cannon aimed directly at it, it scrambled hastily back into retreat.
Realizing this mess was far beyond their numbers to handle, the Wilante guards began pulling out of the warehouse district, apparently falling back to defend the harbor.
A shell chased their retreat, not only taking down several unlucky guards but also collapsing the adjacent building, sending survivors scrambling out in panic.
Screams and wails rose and fell as the rioters went completely mad with bloodlust.
They quickly picked a lead wolf, rallying around him and shouting for all armed brothers to prepare for an assault on the port.
Those swept up in the chaos had little desire to fight, yet instinctively huddled close to the leaders.
The world had turned upside down.
No matter what became of it, they had no choice but to stay close to the tough guys.
At least that way, they wouldn't end up as meat on the chopping block right away.
Nobody had imagined a small fire would escalate to this.
The Wilante, the Lion Clan nobles, and the freemen of West Sail Port were all caught completely off guard.
Perhaps too many coincidences had collided, causing this fuse-riddled powder keg to blow at the slightest spark.
Whatever the case, this chaos could no longer be stopped...
Crouched near the warehouse district alongside the believers, Isher swallowed hard, a tremor of dread creeping into his previously resolute gaze.
He had yet to wrap his head around the chain of events unfolding before him, but one thing was abundantly clear.
Without question, these people had botched things completely.
Though it wasn't entirely their fault—the meddler who first torched the warehouse, Naji who forced the onlookers inside, and the Wilante who fired the first shot were all to blame—pointing fingers was pointless now.
Isher's throat bobbed.
"We're in deep trouble now..."
Chapter 820