Chapter 974: As You Wished and the Beginning of Chaos

With a clang, the visiting room door swung open, and Mr. Walter walked in, handcuffed.

His face held little smile when he saw the lawyer representative.

The police shoved him forward, “Don’t play tricks—I’m watching you both!”

Mr. Walter glanced at him, then pulled a long face and sat down in his assigned seat; the officer unlocked his handcuffs but used other restraints to control his movements.

For instance, the front ends of the chair arms were chained and locked, making it nearly impossible for him to stand and leave.

Then the officer stepped outside the door and said, “You have ten minutes,” before closing it.

Mr. Walter signaled the lawyer for a cigarette.

Cigarettes could be obtained in prison, but their price was outrageous.

A pack that cost five cents outside sold for two dollars here.

And if you bought cigarettes, you didn’t smoke them alone—others would soon gather, and you had to share a puff, or trouble would follow.

He had not yet been sent to the federal prison but remained in the court’s holding cell, as other states were applying for his extradition, so the court had no intention of sending him to prison yet.

Yet every day he spent detained here counted as official sentence time.

He took a deep drag of the fine cigarette—he had never felt premium tobacco taste so good; his whole body relaxed slightly.

Now, if only he had some liquor, he’d be content!

After a dozen seconds, he opened his eyes, his gaze filled with resentment: “They sentenced me to three years!”

The lawyer representative maintained his professional fake smile: “Mr. Walter, attempted rape in Licaile State is a serious crime; the sentence is only two to three years lighter than completed rape.”

“Securing a three-year sentence for you is already the best possible outcome in this case.”

Mr. Walter slammed his fist on the table, the room echoing with a thud; the door instantly opened and the police peered inside.

The lawyer representative pulled out his wallet, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, and placed it on the table’s corner, weighing it down with a pen.

This money was for the bailiff, to keep him from interfering.

The bailiff glanced at the two men, then closed the door again and stood guard outside.

“This is Lans’s territory. Whether you’re guilty or not isn’t up to us. Three years is the absolute limit we could achieve. Complaining won’t help.”

“But there is good news—we’ve reached an agreement with Lans… that state will extradite you to investigate another case.”

“A case of assault. In the end, you won’t be convicted—the victim will withdraw the charges and forgive you.”

“Then we’ll apply for supervised release, so you can leave prison.”

Though the charge was serious, the sentence wasn’t severe; with the right maneuvers, supervised release was indeed possible.

For example, if his leg were broken and required treatment.

Fracture recovery often takes months—even half a year or a full year—and then with some money and effort, he could apply for early parole and walk free.

The lawyer representative explained all this in detail; Mr. Walter listened carefully and occasionally asked questions.

Soon the ten minutes passed. Thanks to the twenty dollars, the police delayed entering by two minutes and even remembered to knock.

“Time’s up.”

Mr. Walter slipped the cigarette from the table into his pocket; the bailiff pretended not to notice.

He walked over, swiftly re-cuffed Mr. Walter, then neatly slid the twenty-dollar bill from the table corner into his own pocket.

Then he led him away.

After coordinating with multiple parties and questioning Mr. Walter about the details of the assault case, the prosecutor signed the application form, and he was put on a train bound for another state.

It took little time—only two days—before he arrived at another location and was locked in the local prosecutor’s detention cell.

The next day, he met Vice Chairman Robert in a private room.

For the Free Party, the Social Party, and the Federal Party, this was an unpredictable swing state.

But for the Labor Union, this was their stronghold—they planned to complete the founding of the Workers’ Party here in February 1025.

The governor had already agreed to a series of cooperative arrangements; the entire state was controlled by local political interest groups. After the Workers’ Party was established, it would not interfere with their local control and would instead collaborate with them.

It might even help them secure more seats in Congress!

In short, their cooperation ran deep.

After splitting from the Free Party, the Social Party had become the Federal Union’s largest party—so why couldn’t the Workers’ Party, backed by twenty million worker brothers, become the next era’s largest party?

It was entirely possible!

Sitting in the separate visiting room, the two sat at opposite ends of the table, smoking. Vice Chairman Robert looked at him and suddenly chuckled twice.

The laugh irritated Mr. Walter: “What are you laughing at?”

Vice Chairman Robert raised his free hand in a half-surrender gesture: “I didn’t mean it. I just thought… you know, fate’s magic lies in its unpredictability.”

“A year ago we were discussing what duties the Workers’ Party Representative Committee chair should perform—look at you now!”

A smile spread across his face, making Mr. Walter even angrier: “You’re just here to mock me?”

Vice Chairman Robert kept smiling, but after a while, his smile faded.

“I’m not that idle. I just came to see you.”

“Do you remember the great strike?”

Mr. Walter nodded, his expression filled with nostalgia.

They had both personally participated in that great strike, when they were young, just entering society.

Even now, recalling it filled them with strength!

Arm in arm, they stood on the streets, facing off against police and fire hoses, shouting “Long live the working class!” as they pressed forward against capital and corrupt officials.

In the end, they won an unprecedented victory!

And the working class rose.

Talking about the past, they had endless words—until suddenly, silence fell.

Vice Chairman Robert crushed his cigarette in the ashtray: “All these years later, what’s your dream?”

Mr. Walter squinted slightly: “At first, I wanted to become rich—and I’ve achieved that.”

“Now, perhaps… becoming an official is my ideal?”

“I don’t know. People are complex—ideals change with time.”

Vice Chairman Robert pressed: “And now?”

“What is your ideal now?”

Mr. Walter looked puzzled: “Does it matter?”

But seeing the other’s serious expression, he leaned back and raised his hands: “Alright, alright, let me think.”

“My ideal now is to get out as soon as possible.”

Vice Chairman Robert paused, then smiled: “You’ll be out tomorrow.”

Mr. Walter thought he was joking: “Haha, if that’s true, that’d be great!”

A few minutes later, Vice Chairman Robert sighed and stepped out of the visiting room. He pulled on his thick coat but still felt cold.

Mr. Walter couldn’t be allowed to live—he was among the first members of the Labor Union, rising from a minor role to vice chairman, and he knew too many secrets and deals.

Like the Labor Union’s secret deals with capitalists, with the federal government, helping them exploit and oppress the working class.

Think about it: we’re all working class—why do real workers still toil for thirty or forty dollars a month?

While we enjoy the same lifestyle as the upper class?

Is it because we work hard?

Is it because we’re diligent?

Definitely not!

We’ve simply sold our working-class brothers over and over at high prices!

No one could guarantee Mr. Walter wouldn’t expose these things, especially since he had no hope of holding any position within the party or government.

Would he harbor resentment?

He’d served the Labor Union for years, made great contributions, started fighting alongside them since his teens.

Now everyone reaps the rewards of decades of effort—he’s become an outsider. Won’t he feel bitter?

Might he vent these emotions in hostile ways—like striking a deal with our enemies?

So at this critical moment, silence is most important.

He shook his shoulders, ran back to the car, but didn’t drive far—soon an ambulance arrived, and they placed Mr. Walter, his face already purple, on a stretcher.

From his condition, revival seemed impossible.

Of course, he followed him to the hospital; soon the hospital confirmed resuscitation failed and declared him dead.

Only after watching Mr. Walter covered in a white sheet and placed in the morgue did he step onto the street and call the chairman.

“He’s free.”

“Did he hate us?” the chairman asked.

Vice Chairman Robert whispered: “It was his wish.”

Though no one understood why someone’s wish was to destroy themselves, the chairman still praised Vice Chairman Robert’s competence and reminded him:

“Don’t wander around these days. Notify me immediately if anything happens.”

Mr. Walter’s death drew no attention—suicide out of guilt became the final note of his life.

Vice Chairman Robert had fulfilled his promise: from the moment he left until Mr. Walter left the prosecutor’s office, less than fifteen minutes passed.

He felt no guilt toward this old friend.

Vice Chairman Robert and the Labor Union chairman assumed the federal government would watch this closely, waiting to find fault—but they didn’t know the federal government’s attention wasn’t here at all, but in Lapa.

Because Lapa had begun “cornering.”

When Pedro returned home, he already sensed the unfriendly atmosphere—people on the streets carried sacks of grain.

The Lapans have no habit of storing food; the temperature in Lapa is always humid and hot. Though this is a vast landmass, sea breezes still carry damp air across the entire continent.

Only the central region fares somewhat better—Lapa has always been humid and hot.

Humidity and heat mean food items that easily absorb moisture spoil quickly. Combined with temperatures perpetually ideal for bacterial growth, hoarding too much food at home leads easily to mold and rot.

Most families buy food only for three days to a week at a time.

Once the food is gone, they go buy more—this has always been the way.

But in recent weeks, a granary on the outskirts caught fire, and much of the grain was burned.

If the destruction of one granary alone wasn’t enough to trigger a “food run,” rumors now spread that the Lapan government had sold over a million tons of grain—originally meant for domestic sale—to federal merchants at inflated prices.

The moment this news broke, all of Lapa was stunned.

This was food—food that kept people alive!

And they just sold it all so easily?

The Lapans had long resented the government’s vast farmlands; though they complained, at least most of that grain was consumed domestically.

Government grain prices were slightly higher than those at grocery stores or grain shops—five to fifteen percent more—and people would grumble, but only grumble.

As long as the food was still available, it could be taken at any time, and a little extra cost was acceptable!

“We still have food, it’s just a bit more expensive” and “We have no food left” are two entirely different things!

Panicked people began hoarding food.

Those with quick wits immediately grabbed bags and rushed to nearby grain stations or grocery stores to buy every scrap of food they could find—including tree wheat flour.

A shortage of over a million tons of grain—even with tree wheat’s high yield—could not be made up!

As Lans had predicted, a family only needed to buy one or two weeks’ worth of food to weather the current crisis.

But some people felt far greater panic than others—they bought a month’s worth, even two months’ worth, at once.

When others noticed these people buying massive quantities, their fears exploded, and they too began hoarding food—until grain stations and grocery shops were stripped bare.

Hundreds of people carrying empty food bags now walked toward nearby state-run grain stations—but how could those stations magically produce food to sell?

A terrible situation, still unrecognized by most, was rapidly brewing!

Pedro returned home. His wife, seeing him, whispered, “Thank God,” then threw herself into his arms.

“We have no food left!”

“I’ve been to every grocery store and grain station nearby—they’re all empty. Only imported foreign snacks remain, and those won’t fill a stomach.”

Pedro’s expression was grim. He refused to believe that, mere moments after their “training,” a crisis capable of shaking the very foundations of rule had erupted.

Though a quiet anticipation stirred within him for this crisis, he also grew wary—of Lans, of the Federals.

This was not their country. They recklessly manufactured political chaos here, without a shred of guilt—even if more people died.

“I’m going out. Stay home and watch the children.”

Pedro had barely arrived home when he took out a food bag—a deep brown, double-layered cotton sack. After emptying its contents, he picked up the empty bag and stepped outside.

The streets were filled with people just like him. He wanted to gauge the situation before deciding where to go.

Many grocery stores and grain stations surrounded him—but before he could choose a direction, gunfire suddenly rang out down the street!

He flinched, his body trembling with fear, and bolted into an alley.

It was the gangsters!

He crouched in the alley, peering out cautiously. Soon he saw, about thirty to forty meters away, several Lapans snatching a food bag from a civilian.

From his vantage point, the bag clearly held a substantial amount of food.

The owner had been kicked to the ground, clutching the bag as if begging.

Too far to hear his words, but his expression made it clear—he was pleading.

His leg seemed injured, moving unnaturally—but still, he refused to let go of the food.

Three or four gang members wrestled with him for the sack. As time slipped away, one young man pulled out his pistol again and fired several shots at the man on the ground.

In an instant, the victim’s hands released the bag.

The four men slung the food bags over their shoulders and vanished into a nearby alley.

People hiding along the street emerged—including Pedro.

Without thinking, he walked over to the man’s body. He stared at the corpse—shot once in the forehead, once in the cheekbone, twice in the chest—beyond any hope of rescue. His heart grew heavy.

People had already begun killing for food. And this was only the beginning.

He knew it well.

This was only the beginning!

As an educated man, a scholar who loved books and worked as a teacher, his first thought was: if we can just hold out until February, everything will improve.

Currently, wheat yields only two bushels per acre—that’s fifty-five kilograms.

But potatoes now yield one hundred fifty to two hundred kilograms per acre—potatoes that could solve the problem of hunger.

Yet he immediately realized: those potatoes would never be harvested. They’d be dug up and eaten raw by starving people.

Worse still, this would inevitably ruin next year’s spring planting.

People might even eat the seed potatoes.

Dig them from the soil, wash them off, and eat them!

(End of Chapter)