Chapter 10: A Single Nail

Night fell, and a burst of gunfire came from the direction of the harbor; half-asleep, Lans sat up abruptly and rushed to the shop window, gazing toward the harbor.

The dim yellow lights along the dark road illuminated little; scattered rats occasionally poked their heads out of the sewers.

The gunfire lasted about seven or eight minutes, then numerous police sirens blared, all heading toward the harbor.

Something major must have happened at the harbor—the midnight gunfight left him uneasy.

It wasn’t until the second half of the night that he finally drifted into a drowsy sleep.

At seven in the morning, the alarm jolted him awake; he couldn’t help but marvel at how good young bodies were.

He’d slept only three hours after a sleepless night, yet still felt full of energy.

After rising from the floor, he packed up the blanket lying on the ground and walked to the sink outside the bakery.

Overnight, the apprentice had also stayed; he filled a cup with water from the boiler and began brushing his teeth.

Federals were contradictory.

Everyone knew the importance of dental care, but not everyone truly invested in it.

He scrubbed a few times; no foam came out of the toothpaste—he just rinsed his mouth and called it done.

Even on the market were mouthwashes designed for those who pretended to care about dental health but didn’t want to brush at all.

They claimed swishing one mouthful was more effective than brushing.

Whether it was true or not? Each to their own.

Morning customers at the bakery were all discussing the intense gunfire from last night—The Today’s Jingang had published an account of what happened:

“Smuggler Ship Engages in Fierce Firefight with Coast Patrol, Multiple Officers Injured or Killed.”

Front-page headline, bold and blackened.

The photo showed a smuggler ship dragged ashore, riddled with bullet holes; since it was a black-and-white newspaper, some spots might have been blood—or might not have been.

It looked as if the ship had been hit by a storm of bullets.

“...Received intelligence that a smuggler ship from the Eastern Ocean planned to approach the harbor at midnight; the Coast Patrol immediately launched a capture operation.”

“During the operation, the smugglers and their operators resisted fiercely with firearms, resulting in multiple officers injured and killed...”

Other customers in the bakery gasped; even the fat owner and his daughter exclaimed, “Oh my God!”

The man reading the paper wore a delighted smile—those who crave attention are like that; no one’s death matters to them as long as it doesn’t block their moment in the spotlight.

He continued reading: “After more than ten minutes of fierce combat, the United City Police, together with the Coast Patrol, eliminated this vicious gang of smugglers.”

“But this also resulted in four officers dead so far, with many others still in critical condition.”

The man finished reading and tapped the paper with his finger: “Their firepower must have been devastating. I hope the officers still in rescue receive the Lord’s mercy.”

“These smuggler ships are truly vile—they bring us rats, fleas, cockroaches, and a whole horde of illegal immigrants.”

“In my opinion, Congress should pass a law: death penalty for these people.”

Many supported these remarks—all locals.

Locals enjoyed the labor these undocumented immigrants provided for the city’s development, yet lay atop the pile of bones that built this economic miracle, denouncing those who contributed.

It was just like the middle- and upper-class’s judgment of the lower class—a bunch of lazy maggots content to rot in the mud!

Some undocumented workers quickly left the bakery; they disliked this atmosphere.

The fat owner also cursed a few times, staring at Lans as if he were the target.

In the afternoon, rumors spread: eleven officers had died in total, nine from the Coast Patrol, two from local police.

The people on the smuggler ship weren’t ordinary migrants—they came from the Empire and were heavily armed, likely part of a small armed faction.

Without doubt, once these dangerous individuals entered the Federation, they’d do nothing good—becoming gangsters or hardened bandits were their only options.

Fortunately, the city’s guardian had eliminated these smugglers, preserving the city’s peace and protecting the people’s lives and property.

But Lans felt this matter wouldn’t end here.

In the afternoon, he went to see Elvin; he didn’t care at all about the fat owner’s plan to dock him another dollar.

“Be careful in the coming days, and stick together when you move.”

Thanks to the boasts of Ethan, Elvin, and other young men from the Empire, their small group—and Lans’s help to Ethan—had begun spreading in limited circles.

Some other young men from the Empire, who hadn’t arrived on the same ship or group, now wanted to join.

With Lans’s approval, they had been accepted.

Now there were about twenty people; Lans memorized each of their faces.

Elvin had become the core of the group, standing at Lans’s left hand: “What does this have to do with us?”

Lans didn’t know how to explain it right away: “The presidential election is coming soon; the President plans to gain votes by courting illegal immigrants, but locals aren’t friendly toward us.”

“With over a dozen officers dead, this is likely the most serious case in years—it’s inevitable someone will exploit it to stir public opinion.”

“Once an anti-foreigner wave forms, we’ll be in grave danger.”

“You all know: even if someone attacks us first, if we dare to fight back—even in self-defense—the police will still harass us.”

“The docks are complicated; stick together, and you’ll be safer.”

Many didn’t understand how terrifying a “movement” could be—it could suddenly make a closed society accept new things, or twist something right into something wrong.

History had seen many cases where “movements” manipulated circumstances; the outcomes could be debated later, but the process was always drenched in blood.

The players at the chessboard always looked polished and pristine; people rarely realized the bloodshed on the board.

Elvin looked puzzled: “Isn’t this overreacting?”

“I don’t think it’s overreacting—anything tied to our lives, anything at all, deserves vigilance!”

After giving these warnings, Lans left; as he walked away, he already saw crowds gathered around the grounded, bullet-riddled wreck.

Several young men waved their fists, shouting loudly.

The next day, even The Federal Daily reported the incident—its impact was far from minor.

As the Federation’s economic engine, anything happening in Jingang City would spread nationwide.

Such a violent case had alarmed the Presidential Palace and Congress; though these powerful figures hadn’t yet begun maneuvering over it, signs were already emerging.

Even more incomprehensible: the Emperor of the Empire had spoken out—he claimed the Federals’ killing of Imperial citizens was an act of provocation, and demanded the Federation hand over the killers and bear all losses.

Otherwise, the Emperor would declare war on the Federation.

When this news spread, most people treated it as a joke.

The Emperor had been driven out of the Imperial Capital by rebels; without his remaining troops and a few noble supporters, he could’ve formed an exile government already.

Yet under these conditions, he dared threaten the Federation with war—how could he even say that?

Almost all Federals thought the Emperor was mentally unstable, possibly deranged, and grew to dislike him intensely.

Lans, too, was stunned, almost laughing in disbelief—but quickly realized this was the Emperor’s way of shifting blame.

If he truly declared war on the Federation, the Empire’s civil war might halt under external pressure.

The rebel army, once backed by public support, if it didn’t stop, could be easily branded “Federation puppets” through minor manipulation, turning them into objects of hatred among patriotic Imperial citizens.

Overnight, the righteous rebels would become traitors, losing legitimacy and popular support—allowing the royal house to swiftly regain control.

If they ceased fighting, the royal house, as the Empire’s legitimate rulers, could again consolidate power through war.

To Federals, this might seem a joke—but to the royal house, the Emperor himself, and the world’s top politicians, it was a cunning plot!

Lans’s original lack of urgency about settling down finally shifted.

He hadn’t been in a hurry at all; he’d planned to leave when the right opportunity came—it was just a thought.

But now, it wasn’t about whether the right opportunity existed—it was that he had to change his status as soon as possible.

What had begun as a minor incident was now advancing, pushed by multiple forces, toward a direction unimaginable and unpredictable for the lower classes.

By the third day, crowds had begun marching along the harbor, holding signs like “Go Back to the Empire”; outside the Coast Patrol’s duty station stood nine empty coffins, each bearing black-and-white photos of the nine fallen Coast Patrol officers.

Around them piled flowers and small gifts; no one had stirred them—yet an emotional frenzy had already erupted from public opinion.

This was a very dangerous signal!