Chapter 925: Do What You Can, and This Is a Choice

Sometimes, rage, shouting, and anger cannot impose pressure or fear.

Rather, a calm demeanor is what makes people truly afraid.

On the way here, Karl had been thinking about how to identify who among them had betrayed him and who had not.

He searched his mind for something that would frighten even himself, and finally he thought of Lans.

Lans never stood up, screamed loudly, or slammed his fists on the table, smashing things onto the floor like those trying to prove they shouldn’t be disrespected.

He wouldn’t do that—he simply watched calmly, like a gentleman, speaking in a gentle tone that sent chills down your spine.

He needed no raised voice, no weapon waved at you—he just sat there, and you felt fear deep in your bones.

He would learn.

And understand it in his own way.

The calm he now displayed was what he had absorbed from his interactions with Lans.

The calmer you are, the more unsettling, fearful, and terrifying you become!

He spoke these words simply, without effort, and the man across from him already showed signs of unease.

He was trying to convince himself.

“Karl, I swear to God, I never betrayed you or anyone else!”

He was panicked, his eyes darting away, and his body language screamed that he was desperately trying to make Karl believe he wasn’t that kind of man.

Karl took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly, glancing down at the cigarette in his hand.

He remembered being a child, falsely accused of stealing two coins from his parents’ pockets.

When he was wronged, he was furious—fire burned in his eyes; he stared at his parents and told them he hadn’t done it!

He wouldn’t panic like this man.

Being wronged brings either bitterness or anger—but never panic.

He scratched his ear, suddenly itched, “You say you didn’t betray anyone, yet you spent more time with them than anyone else.”

The middle-aged man cried out in grievance, “They just talked nonsense with me—nothing about our relationship!”

“They deliberately stayed with me to prolong our time together, to hide their true purpose!”

“This is a setup!”

Karl couldn’t help laughing twice, “What’s so valuable about you that anyone would frame you?”

The middle-aged man froze, his expression locking in place.

He found no way to counter Karl’s words—what value did he even have to be framed for?

He… well, he truly had no value worth framing.

After a moment—seven or eight seconds—Karl took another drag and pulled a tie from his pocket, tossing it onto the man’s lap.

“You want me to believe you? Easy.”

He nodded at the tie, “Prove it to me.”

The man across from him blinked, then picked up the tie, staring at Karl with confusion—as if asking what the hell this tie was supposed to do.

Karl pursed his lips, mimed wrapping the tie around his own neck, then pointed to the window beside them, “Show me.”

The man understood. He turned, looked at the window’s iron bars, and his face twisted into an expression close to tears.

“Karl…”

Karl stared at him without expression, “I don’t like liars.”

“Everyone can be influenced at some point—I’ve been influenced before too.”

As he spoke, Boni’s face flashed in his mind—he had been influenced by Boni for many years.

Now, looking back, he felt no strong emotion toward Boni—only a quiet indifference toward the foolish things he’d once done.

He shook his head, “You can be deceived, you can be influenced—but don’t lie to me!”

“I trusted you. I chose you—that was your own demand—but now you’re trying to harm our friendship.”

“Think of your family. Think of the people outside.”

“They’re still waiting for you. They still dream of a better life.”

“If you want to prove you’re not the bad guy, prove it to me.”

“Either tell me what you told them.”

“Or prove you didn’t betray me.”

Karl spoke without inflection, simply stating facts—but the pressure on the middle-aged man was immense.

He heard the threat: if he didn’t comply, Karl would drag everyone else into it.

A man of his age would risk so much only if he had reasons beyond himself.

He looked at Karl, his eyes filled with despair; Karl remained unmoved, staring back.

Slowly, the middle-aged man unrolled the tie, muttering curses under his breath.

He stood, grabbed the chair, and walked to the window, glancing back at Karl once.

After a moment of eye contact, he cursed again, climbed onto the chair, looped the tie over the window’s iron bars, pulled it back, and tied a tight knot.

Standing on the chair, his body trembled visibly.

Karl watched him closely—he thought this man was suspicious. He’d spent the most time with the lawyers, his eyes constantly avoided contact, he was visibly panicked—but now, Karl wasn’t so sure.

Was this man truly one of the traitors? Karl’s head ached.

He took another drag, watching the middle-aged man coldly.

The man’s whole body shook as he slowly tightened the noose around his neck, looking at Karl, “Don’t forget your promise to me!”

“Fuck!” he cursed again, then kicked the chair out from under him.

Watching the man struggle, Karl’s ass lifted slightly off the chair—but just as he began to rise, his movement froze.

The hope flickering in the man’s eyes dimmed again.

Karl slowly sat back down, smoking slowly, watching the man hang lifelessly against the wall.

He took one final drag and exhaled slowly.

The smoke rose from his mouth, curling upward, blurring his vision.

“Sorry. Don’t hate me,” Karl said, pushing off the table to stand—his legs felt slightly weak.

It wasn’t fear at seeing a man die before him—it was the thought that if he failed at this, someday he might end up like this man, hanging himself. That made his legs weak.

He swore then—he would never let that day, that scene, come to pass.

In truth, he had no idea who had betrayed them—or who hadn’t.

He was bluffing, pressuring, using psychological pressure to force them to slip—he didn’t know if it would work, but he knew that doing something, anything, would have some effect—a warning.

Maybe everyone had betrayed him. Maybe no one had. Like this middle-aged man—he’d hanged himself, but did that mean he was truly innocent?

If he was innocent, letting him down would be fine. But what if he wasn’t?

Then it wouldn’t be this man making the choice—it would be Karl.

He didn’t want to be the one forced to make choices—he wanted to be the one who made others choose. So he had to crush every danger before it could sprout.

He left the room. The police officer outside glanced in, said nothing.

The script was already set: the station chief would resign in two days, taking the blame for mishandling the protests—two failures, one consequence. Clearly, he’d won.

Lans had already arranged a new position for him: head of security for the Imperial Merchants’ Guild. He’d manage fewer people than now, but his earnings would be far greater.

In the chief’s office, Chief Bu sat in the station chief’s chair, speaking to him as if he owned the place.

“They all think I favored you, picked you.”

The station chief showed no negative emotion at losing his post—his face beamed with joy. Even his family believed he’d made the right choice.

He added with a hint of pride, “It’s luck!”

They drew lots to decide who’d take the fall—he won!

Even God wanted him to win—how could he lose?!

Chief Bu sighed lightly, “Have you written your resignation letter?”

The station chief nodded, “It’s in the second drawer on your left. Could you check it over for me?”

Chief Bu didn’t object. He pulled out the letter, read it carefully, and found a few places to revise.

When Karl stepped out of the second room, the officer glanced at the newly hanged suspect, then greeted him.

“Mr. Karl.”

Karl was about to head to the next room. He turned, looked at the officer, “What is it?”

His tone wasn’t hostile, but not friendly either—just impatient.

The officer smiled, explaining why he’d stopped him, “If too many people hang themselves in our station, someone might twist it into a narrative that puts us on the defensive.”

Karl turned fully to face him, eyes sharp with suspicion, “What are you suggesting?”

The officer showed no unease at Karl’s tone or expression—he simply smiled, “While hanging them all certainly intimidates others, it also leaves us with major flaws and complications.”

“My suggestion: if you still want someone dead, don’t do it yourself. I’ll move them to a regular cell. Then a riot breaks out—they die accidentally in the chaos.”

“Same death, but I believe death from a prison riot causes far less trouble—and just as much deterrence.”

Karl thought for a moment, then nodded, “You’ve got a point. What’s your name?”

The officer told him. Karl nodded, “I’ll remember you.”

Later, Karl selected all those he believed had betrayed him and locked them in the same cell.

That night, for reasons unknown, a fight broke out in the cell. Some of them somehow got knives—multiple deaths followed…

Meanwhile, a rumor spread among the detained refugee attackers—

Those who died betrayed Karl, so Karl got revenge on them!

Moreover, after this message came another: Karl would keep watching them.

If any of them tried to betray themselves, they and their families still outside would all be finished.

For a moment, these arrested refugee attackers became cautious, avoiding conversation with others, growing withdrawn—as if only this could prove they weren’t spreading rumors.

Karl didn’t know what had happened after he left; he returned to Lans’s office and recounted everything he had done.

Lans listened quietly until he finished explaining how he identified them and how he dealt with them, then nodded without comment: “Well done!”

Karl still felt uneasy. “Mr. Lans, I can’t guarantee I’ve picked out everyone. There might still be someone hiding among them, undiscovered by me.”

Lans shook his head slightly. “You’ve done the best you could. But you must also prepare for the worst.”

“Our opponent this time won’t slip through so easily. You might run into trouble—but I believe you can handle it, right?”

Before Karl could answer, Lans signaled he could leave. “Don’t wander around during this time. I’ll notify you immediately if anything comes up.”

Lans could sense that Mr. Walter was no fool.

Karl was a good point of breakthrough—if he couldn’t hold up.

Over the next few days, Mr. Walter visited workers injured in the conflict on behalf of the Labor Union, displaying the full demeanor of a politician: wherever he appeared in public, reporters surrounded him.

Reporters filmed his visits and the handing out of “relief funds” to the injured workers, publishing the images in newspapers—making it seem the Labor Union cared for the workers’ health and had provided them financial aid.

In truth, the aid they gave, while not entirely useless to those desperately needing medical funds, was of little practical value.

Take Ogg.

Ogg accepted the “aid”—fifty dollars—but his current bill was over nine hundred fifty dollars. He needed several hundred, not fifty.

Still… better than nothing.

In the morning, the doctor entered and saw Ogg’s wife leave with a faintly angry expression. He didn’t know what had happened between the couple.

The reason was simple: Ogg wanted to take three painkillers, because one did nothing for him, two helped a little—he hoped increasing the dose would ease his discomfort.

He could no longer afford the premium painkillers, costing over three dollars each. Now he used the cheap ones: five cents a pill, fifty pills per bottle.

This painkiller was certainly slower to act and less effective than the injection.

After taking it, it only lessened bodily pain and discomfort—but the unease remained, unlike the premium painkiller, which, with one shot, made the whole body and even the world relax.

The doctor told him to take two pills daily: one in the morning, one at night.

But he took four doses a day, starting with two pills each time—today he planned to take three at once.

Perhaps because reporters were following him, documenting his actions, his machismo seemed to flare up.

He argued with his wife; she stormed off, leaving only Ogg.

To Ogg, this might have been the greatest blessing: now he could do whatever he wanted.

The drug hadn’t yet taken full effect, but under psychological influence, he felt his pain lessening.

He smiled and greeted the doctor: “Checking in again?”

The doctor shook his head. “Mr. Walter, vice-chairman of the Labor Union, spoke with our company. We’ve decided to extend the payment deadline to the first weekend of May.”

“That gives you about six days to raise the medical fees. If you still can’t raise them, we’ll have to follow hospital procedures regretfully.”

He didn’t say what those procedures were, or what the outcome would be—obviously, suing Ogg for payment, and when he couldn’t pay, seizing his assets.

He knew the scam well: if his house fell into the bank’s hands, it would become worthless.

In this less painful state, he felt the urgency again.

In the afternoon, a new patient arrived in the next bed. As soon as he entered, he told everyone about how he’d crushed everyone at the gambling table last night.

“You know how much money I brought with me last night?” he said, puffing himself up to his friend.

His friend played along: “Not sure—hundreds?”

“A hundred bucks. I brought a hundred. Now I’ve got over two thousand. When I get out, I’m going back to give them trouble!”

Karl glanced at the patient in the next bed—he didn’t believe him. A hundred dollars turning into two thousand?

Though he didn’t believe it, the idea of quickly earning money through gambling wasn’t without merit.

People in Jingang City knew gambling well—almost everyone knew how to play a little!

(End of Chapter)