Chapter 962: Observation and a Short Play

Gómez’s gaze at Lans was filled with “This can’t be true,” but beneath that emotion lay a sorrowful “Why is it like this?”

Because he vaguely knew Lans was right.

He was too rich.

“I remember your gold lighter well, Gómez.”

“I know you better than I know Diego, and even though I barely know him, I know that in his eyes, the entire country is his personal wealth.”

“Including you.”

“Do you know why Casia earned his trust and you didn’t?”

“The problem is right here!”

Lans tapped his fingers on the table. “Casia is poor. Even as Deputy Minister of Commerce, wielding great power, he remains poor.”

“I heard him say he and his family still squeeze into a small house because he can’t afford a bigger one.”

“So Diego trusts him, believes he’ll be a useful tool.”

“You own a pack of dogs—you’ll favor the one closest to you, the one who always defends your interests.”

“Not the one that steals your food.”

“Today it steals your meal; tomorrow it might bite you. Disloyalty is your greatest flaw.”

Hearing this, Gómez was drenched in sweat; he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the beads from his forehead.

He had indeed exploited his position as president of the chamber of commerce to amass wealth.

Everyone was stealing; not stealing made you a fool, so he stole too.

After wiping his sweat once, the handkerchief was soaked; he said, unwilling, “But I’ve never harmed Diego’s interests.”

Lans disagreed. “You haven’t harmed his interests—but where did your money come from?”

Gómez’s money came from selling quotas and approval slips.

A federal bread machine imported at three and a half units sold for five; the profit was fully handed over to Diego.

But bread machines were scarce; many wanted to buy but couldn’t. So who got them, who didn’t—that was his decision.

Some paid him a few coins, two or three units, to get priority access.

Or they imported fabric from the Federation; many factories needed it, but only partial shipments arrived each time.

Who got their share, who didn’t—depended on how sincere they were.

Lans understood this game. Gómez understood it. Clearly, Diego understood it too.

“These… aren’t product profits. They’re just gifts to me.” His face paled; he finally understood why Diego sometimes looked at him with such hostility.

Yet he still defended himself, trying to convince Lans—and more urgently, himself.

Lans whispered, “You forgot: the entire country—the mountains, the rivers, the people, even a stone or wild grass by the roadside—belongs to him.”

“The money they bribed you with? Also his!”

In a dictatorship, the ruling elite naturally believe they own everything—even wealth unrelated to them.

Gómez was too rich: his clothes, food, housing—all imported from the Federation. Had he not tried to be discreet, his car fleet wouldn’t have been much worse than Diego’s.

He believed he earned everything he had—but objectively, everything he possessed was granted by Diego.

He slipped Diego’s money into his own pocket. He made a mistake.

His sister still holds favor—but once that woman loses it, her brother will vanish with her.

Gómez’s scalp prickled; he wiped sweat from his head, face, and pores with the handkerchief, bowing, head lowered, voice pleading—

“Mr. Lans!”

Lans sat with one leg crossed, watching him. “Work well for me, for the Federation, and none of this will be a problem.”

“I tell you this only so you understand one thing: you have no retreat left.”

He paused. “Enough for today. I’m tired. Come tomorrow morning—we’ll take a tour.”

Gómez rose quickly to take his leave. Lans shook his head, washed up, and fell asleep.

The next morning, Gómez arrived at the hotel early, waiting until Lans woke before entering the lobby.

He’d sat there all along; Diego had given him tasks the night before—to accompany Lans around town.

La Pa’s breakfast had a local… character. It was a specialty breakfast.

They used corn tortillas as staple food, surely mixed with flour—cornmeal alone couldn’t be rolled.

Then they wrapped various fillings—beef, fish, and more—inside the tortillas, eating them with thick sauces.

Each local “corn wrap” was palm-sized, rolled into a shape like a medium carrot, one bite each.

As the highest-class hotel, service was top-tier; even ordinary food, cooked by skilled chefs, looked anything but base.

Six cut corn wraps sat on six small square plates, each corner paired with a dedicated sauce.

Whether by hand or fork, you could easily lift them, dab in sauce, and pop them in your mouth.

When teeth crushed the tortilla’s outer layer, the filling, crust, and sauce released their flavors—delivering food’s simplest, most direct “surprise!”

Unique tastes bloomed on the tongue like a feast of flavor!

Alongside it came a creamy seafood chowder for appetizers—small in portion, but rich in taste, thick with dairy and bursting with seafood.

The breakfast seemed plain, yet luxury hid within.

As Lans ate, Gómez arrived beside him; Lans made no gesture for him to sit.

Had it been his brothers or family, he’d never have treated them so coldly.

But this was a dog—ambitious, yet foolish.

No matter how well he behaved, no one eats at the same table as a dog.

Though sometimes, he might need to change roles.

Also served: local fruit and vegetable salad, but not with Federation’s sweet dressing—instead, a light, slightly salty-sweet sauce, offering a refreshing twist.

When Lans finished eating, the chef and servants cleared the dining area and left; only then did Lans rise.

Gómez immediately stepped aside to clear the path to the elevator, standing slightly bent beside it.

“Let’s take a walk.”

Gómez hurried to call the elevator, then descended with Lans.

Lans’s men were ready, including their vehicles.

The armored vehicles had not yet been identified—but even if they were, it wouldn’t matter. Federation merchants worry about safety in La Pa; driving civilian-model armored cars can’t violate any law, right?!

Today they visited Zhuolan’s busiest downtown, which bore traces of Federation commercial centers: Federation brand stores everywhere, alongside local ones.

The streets were filled with neatly dressed La Pa natives—at least middle class or above—plus foreigners and their local escorts.

The commercial district buzzed with activity; with the Alliance market fully open, more gold seekers and adventurers would flood this land.

The convoy drew curious glances; people had never seen such ugly vehicles and stared longer than usual.

Today there were no police escorts, so public curiosity far exceeded yesterday’s.

“It seems Zhuolan’s city administrators manage well—look, no vagrants, no beggars, no poor people on the streets.”

“It’s even better than some Federation cities!”

The Federation can’t solve vagrancy and begging—but here, it’s solved.

This has nothing to do with administrative skill—it’s about ruthlessness.

Some say the simplest way to deal with vagrants: find one, eliminate one. Deny them any ground to survive, and vagrants vanish naturally.

But such a thing couldn’t happen in the Federation—public opinion groups would drown anyone proposing it in outcry.

Yet judging by La Pa’s current results, it works well enough.

Gómez explained, “This is Zhuolan—the most prosperous place in the nation. Improperly dressed people aren’t allowed on these streets.”

To enter downtown, you need at least decent clothing.

A decent outfit has become a symbol of class. What a damned awful place.

Cinemas, entertainment, libraries, cafés—they enjoy the same life as in the Federation.

But step outside downtown, and the environment turns squalid.

Though no mountains of trash piled up, shanties stretched endlessly, packed tight; emaciated people sat or lay by the roadside.

Children in shorts, barefoot, chased each other down the street, kicking up clouds of dust with every run.

Poverty revealed itself in glaring, unmistakable form.

“How do they survive?” Lans asked.

Gómez shrugged. “If the women are pretty, they sell their bodies. The cheapest cost three to five Palas. Young, healthy, beautiful ones fetch more—usually around ten. Only the exceptionally young, beautiful, and well-built earn more.”

Less than one unit—more precisely, as little as seven or eight cents. Slightly better ones cost around fifteen cents. Federation Sols were indeed cheap.

No wonder all of Yalan was called “a man’s paradise”—even Federation vagrants could eat meat daily here.

“Men either hunt, clear land for crops, or pull carts, take odd jobs.”

The middle class in La Pa was small overall, but concentrated in Zhuolan, forming a sizable group.

The middle class couldn’t walk everywhere; they couldn’t afford cars, but they could afford human-drawn carts.

One or two units a day earned them ten units total—equivalent to twenty Federation Sols—a decent outcome.

Most earned only three to five units a day.

Though the middle class was numerous, they remained a minority compared to the vast lower class.

Factory work paid slightly more: five or six units, up to seven or eight for heavy labor, even ten.

A month’s earnings of three hundred units? Less than five Federation Sols.

Still, they managed to survive.

After touring the area outside downtown, Lans asked, “Over all these years, has no one ever tried to overthrow La Pa’s ruling elite?”

"A people's uprising, or some ambitious schemer."

Gómez nodded. "It’s happened before, but none of them made any real waves—the army is firmly under Diego’s control. Even if someone resents their rule, what can they do?"

"They can’t even get a single pistol—how are they supposed to overthrow an army equipped with modern weapons?"

"So now, no one seriously considers overthrowing Diego and his crew. These people are far more likely to try to get to Jiede."

"The opportunities in Jiede are much greater, and society there is far better—ordinary people can live well there too."

Lans understood roughly, and then they began inspecting Yalan’s market like ordinary investment merchants.

Meanwhile, Lans’s production company was actively filming several very "short" movies.

These films totaled only about twenty minutes in length, resembling the narrative structure of the era before sound film—ten or twenty minutes, telling just a single fragment.

Since the advent of sound film, movie lengths have continuously increased, because language and sound make stories far more immersive.

Screenwriters, directors, and actors could now fully express an entire story, rather than merely showing a fragment—a tale without beginning or end, as before.

Lans named these films "Awakening of Fate," with no more specific titles—they were more like unrelated story fragments centered around a single theme.

Though they didn’t understand why Lans was making such films and scripts, the company still showed sufficient respect, casting only directors and actors with some name recognition.

Géral also joined voluntarily.

He portrayed a landless peasant, working for the Masters.

This role was a challenge for handsome Géral—he was no longer playing flashy, glamorous parts, or roles that let him look cool and dashing.

He had to convey the essence of society’s lowest stratum, yet he had no personal experience with such life.

Whether in the Federation or the Empire, he was the only person on Lans’s side who had entered the Federation under a legal identity.

So he had no connection to the social underclass.

Fortunately, he still had some talent for acting; after observing the underclass, he had found the right feeling.

Resignation to fate, numbness, and humility.

The director and cinematographer said his performance was excellent—he had portrayed the image of a cowardly, trouble-avoiding underclassman with great success.

This scene was the climax of the short story.

Under the merciless exploitation and oppression of the Masters, he couldn’t even feed his family, yet the Masters still demanded more labor, whipping them to force them to keep working, to keep creating value!

Filled with inner rage, he awoke—and made a decision that defied his ancestors!

He would resist!

He would seize the Master’s whip—and use this very whip, which had inflicted endless suffering upon him, to lash back at the Masters who had once held it!

It was a deeply satisfying moment, and he performed it with great passion; the gloom he’d absorbed through embodying the role was released.

When the director shouted "Cut," he slowly stepped out of the character.

"That had real intensity, Géral—if they saw this performance, they’d never say you’re just good-looking again!"

The director praised him earnestly, for he had truly performed superbly.

Géral smiled. "My teachers taught me well."

During the break, he picked up the script again and read the next scene.

The next scene was simple: he believed he had committed a grave crime, fled in a daze, and then realized the entire world was like this.

Those lofty Masters never regarded people like him as human—they saw them as mines.

When they could dig, they dug hard, jumped to dig, and if they damaged a mine, they simply switched to another.

He met some like-minded friends—all friends who could no longer survive under exploitation and oppression—and they all recognized one reality!

This terrible, cruel, backward society had no soil left for a good life.

Those among them who refused to sink, who refused to let their spirits die in despair, would rise up and fight these evil forces!

He unconsciously read the final lines of dialogue—and a force surged within him, filling him with passion and indignation!

"If happiness is a gift from God, then God must be blind—because the wicked live far better than we do."

"Happiness isn’t given to us by anyone—it’s won by our own hands, by our own resolve, and by this very life!"

"No effort, no reward."

"No sacrifice, no dawn!"

(End of Chapter)