Chapter 656: Crimson Sea's Fury (6)

Unlike the few photographs in the newspaper, Hall and his two companions witnessed the massacre site firsthand, standing in silent horror before the bloody and brutal scene.

The drug traffickers' massacre was not worth detailing—they simply stormed into the village, gunning down every living thing, then tossed all the bodies into the sea.

There were no bodies strewn everywhere, no splashes of blood—only an eerily empty village, farming tools abandoned in the middle of the road; bloodstains suggested a farmer, on his way to the fields, had been shot dead mid-path.

Oliver trembled as he picked up a shard of tile from the ground, drenched in blood and bearing a tiny fingerprint.

His eyes red with rage, he turned to look at the football field drawn in the sand—just as the drug traffickers stormed in, these children had finished drawing the field and were about to play, the tile shards still in their hands when they were gunned down.

Arthur picked up the bloodstained soccer ball from the ground, lips pressed tightly together, struggling to suppress his grief and fury.

Hall leapt down from the eaves and said in a low voice, "Let's get out of here—the reporters are coming; we can't be seen."

"No, we have to look for survivors—maybe… maybe…" Oliver clenched his fists, clinging to a final thread of hope, but ultimately obeyed Hall's order and walked toward the edge of the village.

There were no forests here, so there was almost no cover; when the massacre occurred, the chances of escaping were slim, and all of them knew this, so they held out no hope.

But Hall, flying above, had a far superior view—he suddenly noticed a leaf of a poppy plant trembling slightly to the side, and with sharp instinct, he halted.

Hal floated slowly toward that place; as he neared it, he landed on the ground and walked forward, just as he was peeling back a poppy leaf, a figure suddenly swung a cleaver at him.

Hall instinctively activated his green energy shield, but the figure wielding the knife began sobbing uncontrollably upon seeing his glowing green form, crying out in Spanish: "Devil! Devil! Oh God, save me, save us…"

Oliver and Arthur rushed over; Oliver exclaimed excitedly, "A survivor! He must be the only one left from this village! Ask him what happened—quickly…"

Hall gently calmed the man; once he lowered his arm, Hall saw clearly—an emaciated, dark-skinned old man, clutching a machete used for cutting poppy stalks.

Hall asked him in Spanish: "Are you from this village? Did you see who carried out the attack?"

Hearing Spanish, the old man grew slightly calmer, shaking his head nervously: "No, I saw nothing. I don't know…"

"We won't harm you," Hall knelt down and said. "We're here to uncover the truth. Please tell us—who did this?"

"No, I don't know…" the old man repeated, voice choked with tears. "You'll burn my fields, drive me out, drive us all away—you've done this before, years ago…"

Hall paused, then asked again: "Who burned your fields?"

"Who else?" the old man erupted in rage, weeping loudly: "That stupid president! And those damn politicians! They bowed to the Americans and burned everything I grew!"

"But… this crop you grow is harmful. Don't you know that?" Hall said, bewildered, glancing at the towering poppies around them. "It's turned into addictive drugs—drug dealers commit massacres. Your family and friends may have been killed by them…"

The Age of Genes

But Hall's words ignited the old man's fury—he shouted: "Yes!

You all say this stuff is poison! Do you think I don't know that? But it's the only thing that sells for money—it's the only thing that brings in more!"

"If I grow food, no one buys it—they only want this. I have to sell it, or I'll starve!"

"But… why?" Hall asked, utterly confused. "Isn't the Mexican government cracking down hard on drugs? Didn't they launch a war against drugs just a few years ago?"

"What damn drug war!" the old man spat. "They burn plantations, burn my fields—just to make room for foreign companies, to sell the land to those damn American factory owners!"

"Someone pointed a gun at me, told me to grow these flowers, promised to pay me—I grew them. Then the government said they'd crack down on drugs, burned them, and drove me out of my fields to here…"

"But the lunatics from Guadalajara said we betrayed the government, that we were government spies, that we killed their men—and so they came and slaughtered us all…"

"Where can I go? Oh God… where can I go?"

His sobs drifted on the evening wind; red poppies surged like ocean waves. Crime and blood ebbed and flowed across this ancient land without cease—but hearing this mournful cry born from the flower of evil, everyone could not help but wonder: Why?

As they stepped out of the field, Oliver saw the sun rising on the horizon. Standing beside the field ridge, he sighed: "Why… who is to blame?"

"The Mexican government? But they want to end drug trafficking. The farmers? They only want to survive—even though they failed. Us? But we only came to help…"

"If we kill every drug dealer, will that stop this?" Oliver posed a question even Hall couldn't answer—but deep down, he knew the answer was no.

Where there's demand, there's supply; as long as someone wants to sell, they'll find someone to grow it; as long as someone grows it, there will be sellers and buyers—it's an unsolvable loop.

Oliver sat beside the field ridge, lost in deep thought: How could this deadlock be broken?

Killing every drug dealer, overthrowing the current government, saving every farmer—individually, any one of these would be useless, only worsening the situation; all three must be achieved simultaneously, perfectly and flawlessly, to break the cycle.

But Oliver felt lost—he thought it was utterly impossible. How could anyone possibly achieve all three perfectly? Even Hall, with his immense power, couldn't do it.

Or perhaps power isn't the key, nor pure willpower—it's some missing element that matters most.

On their journey south, the three remained silent, each lost in thought, finding no answers—until their boat neared Sinaloa, when they briefly shook off their despair and embarked on the real hunt for the killer.

It wasn't easy—every local here was a drug trafficker's accomplice, vicious and tight-lipped; extracting even a scrap of intelligence was nearly impossible.

The challenge wasn't defeating them—it was finding Galardo's whereabouts amid this tangled web of alliances; sensing danger, the cunning Galardo vanished instantly.

With Hall's Green Lantern powers, Arthur's ability to communicate with fish, and Oliver's tactical brilliance, they tracked him all the way to Guadalajara, finally locating the mastermind in an extremely hidden cellar.

Compared to these super-powered heroes, a normal man achieving this level of success was already remarkable.

Hall and his team were mainly hindered by unfamiliar terrain, lack of knowledge about the drug cartel's structure, and insufficient intelligence—hence the immense effort to capture just one ordinary man.

But this was only the beginning. The captured Galardo felt no guilt whatsoever. In the dim cellar, a thick Spanish-accented English echoed through the room—strong, confident, and utterly convinced.

"I was born here. Guadalajara is my hometown. When I was born, drugs were already everywhere. Running errands and delivering drugs was my daily life."

"My family was poor. I needed money. I just bought a common commodity and resold it—what's wrong with that?"

"I made some money, wanted more. Someone approached me, said he wanted to make money too—we could partner up. I agreed."

"Later I learned he was the deputy mayor of Guadalajara. He had two mistresses and three illegitimate children—he needed money to support them. As long as I made money for him, he protected me."

"That's crucial here—survival matters more than anything," Galardo sat calmly in his chair, utterly fearless, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. "I want to live. Anyone who tries to stop me must die."

"I rented boats to do business. At first, it was rough—but soon, not just the deputy mayor, but the mayor and even the governor backed me. I shared profits with them, and they let me operate."

"But the Americans… oh, you—you greedy bastards—you don't want me to make money. You colluded with Congress to launch this damn drug war and cost me a fortune. You all deserve to die!"

"Do you even know what you're saying?!" Arthur, the most innocent of them, exploded in rage. "Do you know how many people your business has killed?!"

"Then do you know how many people your Americans have killed?" Galardo sneered, lifting his chin. "You don't just kill us—you kill your own. I still hear the screams of your agents as they died."

"You…" Arthur was speechless. "You heartless monster! How could you…"

Galardo studied Arthur. "You're clearly someone who spends a lot of time at sea. You've got a good build. If you joined me, you'd be rich by now."

Galardo shifted his posture, leaning back in his chair. "Do you really think you're righteous? You—yes, you, big guy—answer me: Why did America push Mexico into this drug war?"

"To stop you from massacring innocent people," Oliver replied.

"I didn't ask you—and you're wrong," Galardo stroked his lip. "America wants to crush Mexican industries so your corporations can move in."

"You burn plantations, evict farmers, sink our ships, crush all armed resistance—all to force Mexicans to kneel and work in your factories."

"When every company here is American-owned, you can slash wages, exploit us cheaply, then sell products at high prices—and use those profits to do the same elsewhere, opening more factories, hiring more cheap labor—that's how you conquer the world."

"I will kill every American I see," Galardo raised one finger. "It's what you deserve. When you invaded our country, you should've known this would come."

Oliver opened his mouth, but Galardo's words about America's global domination struck a chord deep within him—yet the feeling of something missing grew even stronger.

"And…" Galardo added, "It's not just Mexican mayors and governors profiting from my business. Those arrogant American CEOs have taken their cut too."

"You think my goods get from the West Coast to every corner of America just because of Mexicans? Let me tell you—Americans are even better at this than we are."

"Big corporations and conglomerates sell us shipping routes and vessels, help us bypass customs, local gangs handle distribution, and government officials smooth over legal issues—my business thrives because of them."

"Even the CIA are our partners. They turn a blind eye to our routes, sometimes even collaborate with us to kill Cubans. During the drug war, if they hadn't given me intel, my losses would've been far worse."

Hall narrowed his eyes: "Who in the United States is working with you?"

"Don't look so skeptical," Galardo shook his head. "Most coastal cities have deals with me."

"In Seaside City, a 'Frenchman' partners with me—he's the biggest shipowner there. In Gotham, the Spencer family are my good allies. Oh, and how could I forget my old friend the Queen family? We've been working together for over a decade…"

"What did you say?!" Oliver's eyes widened in shock. Galardo's English was thick with Spanish accent, and Oliver hadn't caught it clearly—he repeated: "You said… who's been working with you for over a decade?!"

"The Queen family. Q-U-E-E-N."

Oliver froze, as if struck by lightning.