Chapter 975: Lans: The Best Friend of the People of Lapan

Suddenly, at this very moment, Pedro had so much he wanted to say to Lans—and even wanted to punch him in the chin!

He felt his hairs stand on end, overwhelming fear dominating his body, making him tremble and shiver!

Just imagining that terrible scene made him instinctively want to flee!

It wasn’t that he was too weak—it was that the scene was too horrifying!

In fact… many people have no accurate understanding of hunger; many think hunger simply means being hungry.

But in reality, hunger can change a person’s soul!

Under hunger, people do countless unbelievable things—their morals, ethics, all the postnatal restraints imposed upon them, are undone by hunger.

It is like a key that eventually unlocks one Pandora’s box after another.

No one knows whether what escapes is an angel or a demon.

Perhaps there are more demons—when people submit to desire and instinct, that is the demon!

Someone bumped into him from behind; he snapped out of his trembling, glanced around, clenched his food bag, shoved through the crowd, and ran toward the nearest grocery store.

Before he left last week, he had seen the grocery store owner, who told him someone had come to buy grain.

At the time, he hadn’t connected it to anything complex—but now, he suddenly realized everything had already been arranged.

The script wasn’t written today—it was written long ago—and each of them was merely a part of that script.

Some played the background; others played the lead.

His mind was a mess, filled with chaotic thoughts.

The grocery store door was open; the owner stood behind the counter.

“Give me some food!” he walked to the counter and placed his food bag on it.

There were other people in the store; they all glanced toward him, half-heartedly.

The grocery store owner shook his head, hands resting on the counter. “Sorry, sold out. But I’ve contacted the warehouse—they’ll bring more next week.”

Pedro stared into the grocer’s eyes; after a moment of eye contact, the grocer deliberately looked away.

They knew each other—they’d lived on the same street for years. As a high school teacher, clearly the highest-status person on the block, Pedro still held some respect among neighbors.

Unable to bear Pedro’s gaze, the grocer gave a slight shake of his head and whispered, “I have none left.”

He did have some—about twenty to thirty pounds of wheat berries, and over twenty pounds of flour.

The store was run only by him and his wife; his children lived elsewhere. These supplies were enough for them to last a month.

But he worried whether his children had food—so he hadn’t planned to sell any of the rest.

Pedro looked at him twice, then at the food bag on the counter. He muttered “Fuck,” grabbed his bag, and ran out.

As he ran out, he saw four or five tense young men entering the store.

As they passed him, one young man was sweating profusely!

It was winter—temperatures around ten degrees—and he was sweating!

But now wasn’t the time to meddle—he needed to get food.

Outside the store, the street was filled with panicked crowds; the gunshots and robberies had set a terrible precedent.

He saw a few people at a distant corner fighting over another man’s food bag; one kept kicking the man’s head.

The city had only two hundred police officers to manage two hundred thousand people—they couldn’t possibly cover everything!

Pedro glanced twice, then looked away, turning to run farther away. He hadn’t run far when he heard the grocer’s cries for help from inside the store!

He stopped dead, suddenly experiencing ringing in his ears, even a sensation of dizziness.

His blood pressure had risen—he didn’t know it—but he stood there, staring at the store’s entrance, his mind already picturing what lay inside.

“Help!”

Someone, please help me... ah, help!

People were walking toward the store—but they stopped at the doorway, not entering.

Seconds later, the grocer suddenly burst out!

He was covered in blood; visible wounds gaped open, even flipped outward, across his black hair, gushing blood.

His arms and body were also wounded, bleeding.

He stared in terror at the people outside—he didn’t understand why no one came to save him!

In his panic, he stumbled and fell with a thud, face-down on the ground.

Then his body began slowly dragging itself back toward the store; his face twisted in terror as he clawed at the ground, trying to escape!

Blood-stained handprints marked the pavement—whether from his own blood or from his fingers scraping raw on the ground, no one could tell.

As if realizing this wouldn’t free him, he rolled onto his back and thrashed violently, as if kicking his legs?

But soon, in agonized screams, he gave up resistance. From the expressions of the onlookers outside, it was clear he was being tortured, then dragged back inside.

The man who always seemed so tough soon couldn’t even cry out for help.

Within twenty seconds, all sound ceased.

Two minutes later, several young men burst out carrying three bulging food bags; they waved knives, and the crowd instantly scattered.

Then they vanished into the street.

This should have been an outrage—but what did Pedro hear?

“Serves him right. I knew he was hoarding food—he wanted to keep it all for himself. Now look!”

“Greedy people never get a good end!”

They were condemning someone who hadn’t done anything wrong—and yet, absurdly, Pedro even felt… a tiny bit of truth in it!

The remaining crowd suddenly surged into the store—he could imagine what they were there to do.

Though not food, at least it might bring them some comfort.

Everything was collapsing—and collapsing fast.

The poorer the place, the worse its food reserves. He could hardly imagine what would come next.

Pedro, having witnessed the entire scene, shuddered again, cursed, and turned to run toward the school—he feared for the students.

The school was still in decent shape, as it gathered children from the city’s middle-class families, and security had been prioritized.

Parents had paid to hire four guards to ensure the school’s safety—and now, those guards were proving useful.

Pedro greeted the guards and entered the school; seeing the normal order inside, he exhaled in relief.

The school had a cafeteria—he’d feared people might storm it, but it seemed they didn’t want to provoke the city’s middle class.

But the question remained: where would he and his family get food?

The entire city’s food reserves had been consumed in an instant—most hoarded by a few.

Angry, irrational people, terrified masses running wild, and opportunists, conspirators, and ambitious men smiling at the chaos…

This peaceful city was falling!

About to plunge into hell!

In Zolan, food shortages hadn’t reached here yet; to avoid triggering unnecessary trouble, Zolan’s food supply remained ample.

“What’s wrong?”

Diego turned to the official beside him; the phone had just rung—he’d been speaking with Lans about cooperation, so the official had taken the call.

Diego wasn’t an easy man to get along with. He acted relatively normal around Lans and the others—not because he was normal, but because he couldn’t handle these foreigners.

If he could control these foreigners, Lans wouldn’t be sitting nearby—he’d be locked in a basement, being tortured until he revealed his bank accounts and credentials.

Thinking of how Diego treated his own people when angry, the official immediately forced a smile. “Nothing serious. Some cities may be short on food—they’re worried something might happen.”

Diego frowned at the news. “There’s plenty to eat in the wild—why don’t they just find it themselves?”

He dismissed the official who brought bad news and turned to Lans. “A reasonable plan.”

“It seems the Lianbangzheng Prefecture truly has its own unique way of governing!”

He stood up, gripping the armrest—his movement looked ridiculous, but no one laughed.

“Let’s eat first!”

“It’s late—I’m hungry. We’ll discuss the rest after dinner.”

Lans brought two things: first, increased investment—build more factories, hire more workers.

Ore, rubber, precious metals, timber, furs—anything that could make money, he wanted!

He offered Diego fifteen percent equity—Diego didn’t have to do a thing, yet he’d earn a fortune every year!

Diego was satisfied—because this money went to him personally, not to the Lianbangzheng Prefecture or any other ruling group.

Second, he brought Diego a tax plan.

Anyone earning over one thousand Pala per month—currently thirteen Lianbang Sol at the exchange rate—must pay taxes.

The tax rate starts at twenty percent and rises with income.

How would they track it?

It was simple: high-income earners all worked in Lans’s factories; Lans could directly transfer their taxes into Zolan’s National Bank’s designated account.

Thus, even if Diego and others did nothing, they’d gain tens of thousands—or even hundreds of thousands—of Lianbang Sol in monthly tax revenue.

How could he not be delighted?

So he would host a grand banquet to express his “gratitude” to Lans and the Lianbang people!

Diego stood beside Lans, golden cup in hand, face flushed with joy, raising his glass. “Lans, you are the best friend of the people of Lapan!”

The reporters around them frantically captured this historic moment!

(End of Chapter)