Chapter 932: A Tough Opponent and the Storm

Mr. Walter had met many people.

As the rotating vice-chair of the Labor Union, he constantly interacted with figures from all walks of life, so he had met many people.

Big capitalists—the kind who were worth over a billion twenty years ago!

Politicians, even ones who could be called statesmen—the first leader of the Social Party, chairman of the committee, and founder of the Social Party.

He had met the leaders of major crime syndicates, heads of one of the Federation’s Five Great Families.

He had met the Federation’s greatest opera emperor and opera empress, its most fiery magician, its most miraculous animal tamer, he had met…

He had met many people, but no one had ever given him the feeling of quiet arrogance that Lans did.

These two words on their own posed no problem, but when fused together, they felt discordant, almost contradictory.

It was like the phrase “thick thin slice”—conflicting, yet Lans gave him exactly that sensation.

He held the newspaper, on which Lans wore his signature felt hat, its red silk band adorned with printed patterns.

His face was not turned toward the camera, but toward the courtroom exit, smiling.

Karl followed closely behind him, also smiling.

Around them were their people, all wearing identical armbands on their left arms, and for some reason, it gave people a faint prickling sensation on their scalp.

They had lost the case, yet they smiled with arrogance—as if using this to tell Mr. Walter that this was his kingdom, or perhaps to mock him bitterly!

Mr. Walter tossed the newspaper back onto the desk and glanced at his legal representative. “What can we do to intervene in the investigation against Karl?”

The legal representative shook his head slightly. “We have no authority to interfere with the prosecutor’s work. Besides, I heard something from a friend.”

“The Chief Prosecutor of the Licaile State Prosecutor’s Office, Terry, has an excellent relationship with Lans. The Secretary of State does too.”

Mr. Walter’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk, like playing piano—soft, steady, patterned taps, making no sound.

“So you’re saying we have absolutely no way to touch Karl?”

The legal representative nodded. “If the Chief Prosecutor won’t side with us—or even remain neutral—in this matter, then there’s no question of having a way or not having one.”

The legal representative spread his hands. They can withhold progress updates from us and indefinitely delay proceedings. As long as they’re unafraid of public backlash, they can do nothing at all—and prevent us from doing anything either.

In the current Federation system, prosecutors hold superior authority over law enforcement investigations.

Once they take over a case, other enforcement agencies find it nearly impossible to continue investigating, unless the matter involves national security—then possibly the Defense Force might intervene.

But… a damn refugee gang leader has nothing to do with national security, and Mr. Walter didn’t know anyone in the Defense Force, nor could he ever get them to act on his behalf.

He sat there thinking for a moment. “Could the thing we mentioned last time still be possible?”

The legal representative didn’t hesitate. “We can try, but whether we can pull it off—I can’t guarantee.”

The plan was to fabricate a case in another state linking Karl to criminal activity, have the local prosecutor apply for his arrest, then secretly abduct him.

As long as the Licaile State Prosecutor hasn’t yet processed Karl’s detention, any other state’s prosecutor who captures him can prioritize their own case.

In simple terms—it’s kidnapping.

It’s definitely illegal—forging documents, abducting Karl—none of it complies with Federation law.

But sometimes, with certain cases, if you don’t play outside the rules, there’s simply no way to make progress—just like now!

If we don’t act against Karl, this case will never move forward.

Even within the Labor Union, opinions on this matter have split. Some believe it’s unnecessary to directly confront Lans, who represents congressional power.

The Labor Union’s most critical task right now is establishing the Workers’ Party. The Federation’s economy is improving, workers’ incomes are rising, meaning they’ll have greater participation in societal operations!

This greatly helps the Workers’ Party’s formation and influence.

But others argue that if we fail to handle the Lans family, and let them undermine the foundations of the Labor Union and the unions, we’re giving Congress a blueprint on how to deal with us.

Even if we form the Workers’ Party, we’ll still gradually lose the workers and our influence.

The lack of unity between these two factions has frustrated the chairman. Now, legality is no longer the issue—we must deal with Karl first, then decide whether to negotiate or confront directly.

Mr. Walter considered this, pressed his lips together, and nodded. “Do it. Waiting longer will only make things worse.”

The legal representative didn’t object—he worked for the union, for Mr. Walter. “Regarding costs…”

Mr. Walter asked, “How much?”

The legal representative did a quick calculation. “About eight hundred thousand to pay the state prosecutor’s office and judicial departments, plus two hundred thousand as my personal fee—total one million five thousand.”

Mr. Walter agreed with a smile. As vice-chair, he had the authority—and the chairman knew about this.

They weren’t short on money; in fact, they were very rich. How could such a massive, politically distorted organization as the Labor Union lack funds?

But their money had become just like the capitalists’—never given freely to the people, never to the workers.

Mr. Walter’s agreement brought a smile to the legal representative’s face. He was delighted to pocket that two hundred thousand—though he’d pay taxes on it. Officially labeled as consulting fees, after legal tax avoidance, he’d net around one hundred thirty thousand, maybe a bit over one hundred forty thousand.

Relationships have value—and can be sold. That’s why the Federation’s elites constantly cultivate their networks to gain more opportunities.

After the legal representative left, the Licaile State branch chairman entered Mr. Walter’s office. He looked at Mr. Walter but said nothing immediately.

Mr. Walter felt uneasy under his gaze, placing both hands flat on the desk. “If you came here just to watch me work, you’ve done it.”

He meant: if there’s nothing else, leave now.

Only then did the chairman continue. “Debbie has contacted some people injured in the protests these past two days.”

At this, Mr. Walter instantly grew alert. “What is she planning?”

He knew well enough: these injured protesters were a problem. He had immediately deployed PR measures to handle them.

Including pinning blame on “perpetrators,” reinforcing the idea that “all problems must be traced to perpetrators, not others,” helping them communicate with hospitals, assisting them in seeking bank mortgage loans, and organizing legal teams to represent them in court.

These actions served both to show the Labor Union’s concern for the protesters and to shift some responsibility away.

Otherwise, if we did nothing, they’d come straight to us—and now, precisely, is a critical time for the Labor Union.

Everyone, including Mr. Walter, knew the simplest, most effective solution: pay these people a sum upfront to cover their losses and medical costs, then let them pursue recovery later.

But everyone also knew this was impossible—or rather, they couldn’t do it.

The strike was their sharpest dagger—capable of taking away the most precious thing: life.

Yet the dagger itself was worthless—a single dagger cost mere cents.

When the dagger dulled, they wouldn’t seek a sharpener, paying far more than the dagger’s price to restore its edge.

They’d simply toss it into the trash and pick up another.

They could never allow “sharpening the dagger” to become a managed process, nor risk injuring themselves over a worthless blade.

So everyone knew the right thing to do—but everyone also knew that right and wrong meant nothing in such matters, because what mattered was position.

When he heard that Debbie, a former Labor Union member, was contacting the injured workers, he knew trouble was coming.

“What does she want?” Mr. Walter asked.

The local branch chairman pursed his lips. “She may have misunderstood our actions.”

Mr. Walter shook his head and smiled. “Go talk to her. Clarify things. Your suspension of her duties was always for her protection… Find your own excuse and handle her.”

The chairman sighed. “Understood.”

Then he rose and left.

After everyone had gone, Mr. Walter stood and walked to the window, gazing at the slightly gloomy sky outside, his gaze deep and heavy.

The difficulty of resolving this situation was greater than he’d imagined.

He’d once had some confidence, but recent events—especially the attitudes of locals and state residents—showed they didn’t welcome him.

He’d faced home-field advantage before, but never such overwhelming advantage. These people made it clear: they all stood with Lans.

From players to referees to commentators to organizers—even the stadium itself—everyone belonged to the other side. How could this game even be played?

As Mr. Walter pondered how to break the deadlock, Lans had already begun preparing to leave Jinguang City.

He contacted Senator Cleveland again. The senator said their main targets for the surprise attack on Jinguang’s docks remained the two port terminals and the military base.

Of course, they might retaliate by shelling the city itself—this possibility existed. The Federation fleet had previously bombarded two ports in the Dantela Republic, causing massive civilian casualties—

From the Federation’s and Slard’s perspective, such shelling was justified.

Because those young men, those adult Dantelan citizens, would likely become soldiers on the battlefield.

Solving their most troubling problem now is equivalent to preemptively turning bullets meant for them on the battlefield into shells, and firing them at them now.

If the Federation is shelling Dantelan civilians, Lans didn’t believe the Dantelan navy would miss the chance to shell Federation civilians in return!

In a way, killing each other’s civilians in war is simply a tactic to secure victory—there’s no moral or right/wrong dimension to it.

War only cares about winning or losing.

Summer weather changes on a whim.

One moment the sky was clear, the next, clouds rolled in. A military port in Dantela suddenly erupted into heavy rain. A drenched man burst into a roadside café.

He removed his hat, shook off his clothes to keep them from clinging, and ordered a coffee and pastry from the server.

He chose a window seat. Many around him recognized him—he’d moved here after the New Year, called himself a painter, and indeed possessed considerable artistic skill.

Sometimes he set up his easel on the third-floor balcony to paint nearby scenery; sometimes he sketched passersby on the street.

He was a cheerful man in his thirties, sometimes called an artist.

He had an attractive appearance and a sharp wit, beloved by the girls on this street.

Girls often gathered around him, yet none had truly become his partner—he poured his energy into painting and life instead.

He embodied the ideal of life people dreamed of. Everyone liked him.

The server brought his coffee. “Enjoy, our great painter!”

Other patrons sheltering from the rain laughed warmly—not mockingly, but kindly.

Someone called out, “Great painter, when will you hold your own exhibition?”

Perhaps every painter’s dream—to hold their own exhibition, even an art show!

The painter’s face lit up with a smile as bright as sunshine, utterly unlike the storm outside. His eyes were blue—deep and captivating.

“Soon. Once I’ve saved enough, I’ll rent an art gallery. Maybe not long at all!”

At that moment, a woman’s voice suddenly spoke up: “I can lend you the money!”

People burst into laughter—they loved this scene, the passionate girl, and the charming, artistic, romantic wanderer.

The easel laughed, “Thank you for your kindness, but I still want to earn this money with my own skills.”

His noble character made people like him; they chatted a while longer, then their voices grew quieter.

Because a thunderstorm had descended outside.

Raindrops the size of soybeans pattered violently against the world, as if determined to shatter everything on the earth!

The painter gazed at the blurred world, as if watching a peculiar oil painting.

It was fragmented, piece by piece.

Each raindrop split the world and hid its fragments within itself, thus forming this perfectly natural, breathtaking masterpiece.

Every second was unique; every shift in color held mysteries begging to be explored.

As he stared blankly, he suddenly noticed a streak of gray moving steadily in the distance of this peculiar oil painting.

His pupils contracted slightly.

He was a painter—and also a spy. His job was to monitor Dantela’s naval port; any change in the fleet there had to be reported home.

He graduated from the Lianbang Ailate Art Academy; Ailate was a name—one of the greatest artists in Lianbang history.

Though Lianbang had no real history, the artists were genuine; some of his oil paintings now sold for tens of thousands to over a hundred thousand.

A few with special value and meaning had reached prices of hundreds of thousands—no less than the works of famous artists from other continents centuries ago.

If nothing unexpected happened, he would likely spend his life as nothing more than a painter, an artist.

But something happened in between, forcing him onto this path.

After training, he was dispatched to Dantela to go undercover; his latest assignment was to watch the warships at the port, track their daily departures and returns.

How many warships left—always the same ones—and how many returned—always the same ones—and the intervals between them.

It was dull, but for him, it was precisely the job he loved most.

He didn’t need to worry about infiltration, theft, or assassination; he only needed to choose a suitable spot and set up his easel.

While painting, he observed the harbor—and completed his entire day’s work.

The job was so calm he nearly forgot he was a spy—though of course that was impossible; it was just that the work was too quiet.

Until this moment.

“Damn, I forgot to bring in my clothes!”

The painter stood up; the view here was poor—he needed a better position. “And my balcony door doesn’t seem to be closed.”

Others laughed heartily; by the seaside in summer, rain came suddenly—he wasn’t the first to experience this.

The painter pulled out money, placed it on the table, grabbed the pastry and ate it in a few bites, then downed his coffee in one gulp, bid everyone farewell, and dashed into the rain.

Discussions about the painter ended there.

Back on the third floor, the painter pulled out a telescope and stared at the naval port through the storm—dozens of warships, painted with the markings of Dantela’s navy or some other nation’s, were streaming out of the harbor en masse!

(End of Chapter)