Chapter 978

Lans stood in the suite on the hotel’s rooftop, watching police cars and horse-drawn carriages scream past the city below, along with running officers, barely sensing a thread of tension in the air.

“A portion of refugees have already gathered outside the city; the few roads leading in have been sealed off by police—only exits are allowed, no entries.”

Ma Duoer stood behind Lans, reporting the situation outside.

Though he was Lans’s personal bodyguard, he also took on part of the responsibility for directing operations.

Lans brought so many people here partly to ensure his own safety.

And partly to make the situation even more chaotic.

“Has the army joined in?” Lans asked without turning around.

“Not yet.”

Lans said nothing, continuing to stare at the distant horizon—the boundary between city and wilderness.

His eyes couldn’t reach that far, only catching blurred shapes; he couldn’t distinguish the crowds waiting to enter, nor even make out the houses clearly.

But he could imagine the dire conditions beyond the city’s edge.

“Chaos” had taken hold; the only thing that could save this nation now was President Diego—these ruling elites must step forward and arrange food shipments from elsewhere to calm the people.

But they did nothing.

The problem isn’t that people can’t afford food—though some truly can’t—it’s that food simply isn’t available; money is useless.

Lans heard grain prices had already climbed to over two pala per pound—not because they rose too fast, but because there was simply no supply.

What characterizes a seller’s market?

Buyers keep raising their bids just to secure a transaction.

You offer one pala, I offer one point one, then someone else offers one point two.

Whenever supply and demand are unequal, it always manifests in extreme price fluctuations.

Just as capital drives prices down in a price war to monopolize the market—because supply exceeds demand, prices hover near cost, sometimes even below it.

The reverse is equally true: when many people want a commodity and only higher bids secure it, like an auction.

From one point three to two pala, it took less than three days—and still, no one could buy grain.

Those who held grain—those hoarding far more than they could consume—fantasized prices would rise further; selling now clearly wasn’t the right time.

Those without food could only come to Zolan and hope for luck.

Lans watched from the window for a moment. “Get the men moving. If the refugees don’t storm the city, how will the conflict between ruling and ruled classes take root so quickly?”

After speaking, he turned and sat back on the sofa beside him, fixing his gaze on Ma Duoer.

Ma Duoer walked to the phone by the wall and dialed a number.

Though Lapa was poor and backward, telephones still existed here.

Ordinary people used public phone booths—hundreds of households on one street shared one or two.

Only the middle class, the privileged, the ruling elite, had the right to install telephones in their homes.

The call was quickly answered; Ma Duoer relayed Lans’s message and hung up immediately.

He returned to the corner, lifted his water cup, and took a sip; his emotions had shifted in a way he couldn’t explain.

He had once been a soldier, accustomed to life and death, convinced he’d never again be moved by such matters.

Yet in this moment, he realized he wasn’t as strong as he’d imagined.

At the city’s edge, some of Lans’s men had donned clothes only locals wore—each wearing a peaked cap, brim pulled low. Though their faces were still visible, if you didn’t pay attention, you wouldn’t remember them.

You’d only remember the different peaked caps.

Outside the city gates, many refugees had gathered, families in tow, each looking worse than the last.

Anyone who’d gone days without food looked shriveled, hollowed out.

A few police cars and horses stood on the road, their barricades raised, barring entry into the city.

Facing the desperate pleas of ordinary people, the police remained unmoved, standing at the front, clubs in hand.

Police represented the most basic violent tool of the ruling class; in Lapa’s people’s minds, they still carried some deterrent power.

“Please, let us in!”

“My son hasn’t eaten in two days—if we don’t get food, we’ll starve to death!”

A woman stepped forward from the crowd, stopping about a meter from the police barricade.

She needed food—her child was too weak to walk, and might starve tomorrow, or the day after.

Her husband had died in a mine accident; the mine owner paid them three thousand pala for his life.

As a woman, she tried to claim more compensation, but soon others urged her to drop it.

Some respected figures, even her own family.

They said her husband had collapsed the mine shaft, costing the owner a fortune; if not for their family losing its breadwinner, they wouldn’t have given her three thousand at all—they’d have demanded compensation from her.

In the end, she buried her husband’s ashes beside the road, bought with those three thousand pala.

Now she was about to lose her child too—she couldn’t lose her child again!

She pleaded desperately, hoping only for her child’s chance to live—but her only answer was police indifference.

Seeing her too close, one officer barked, “Fall back! Stay away from the barricade!”

His hand clenched tight around his club, yet the woman still begged, “Please, let us in to buy food—we’ll leave right away.”

The officer felt his face burn; when his colleagues glanced his way, he felt his cheeks flush with shame.

He grew furious—a disobedient commoner, a commoner defying his order!

He swung his club hard, smashing it into the woman’s forehead. Though wrapped in rubber, the blow split her temple open.

A contusion, not a laceration.

Such wounds heal poorly—the edges are jagged.

With a scream, the woman collapsed. She stared at the officer in disbelief—she hadn’t crossed the line; she only wanted to buy food.

She sat on the ground, mind blank—whether from the hopelessness of her future or the blow that had shattered her thoughts, she couldn’t tell.

The officer glared at her, venomous. “Last warning—get back to the crowd!”

The woman was too terrified to react.

To the officer, this silence was silent defiance—an insult!

He couldn’t bear it.

For years, Lapa’s people had lived like animals without rebellion, perfectly tamed—or perhaps just accustomed to this oppressive rule.

Even now, facing death, though they’d begun to change, before the traditional power of the ruling class, they reverted to who they’d always been.

All they could do was protest.

They watched from a distance as the officer bent over the barricade, club in hand, approaching the woman.

A tragedy was about to unfold, yet the crowd stood numb, as if none of it concerned them.

The officer raised his club high—just as the woman braced for the blow, Pedro pushed through the crowd.

He’d come to Zolan with his family; his city had no food left. Originally, there’d been a river outside, full of fish.

But within two days of the famine, the river was emptied.

Think about it: once rumors spread that river fish could fill stomachs, thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—rushed to the banks with homemade tools.

In a short time, every fish was wiped out.

Hunger’s force is destructive; people don’t just want to eat one meal—they plan for the next, and the one after.

The catastrophic overfishing left the river barren, even the fry gone.

Worse still, what Pedro feared most had happened.

The potatoes in the fields outside the city—planted from seed tubers—had all been dug up.

People knew sprouted potatoes were poisonous, but they knew how to process them.

In just one week, everything had changed drastically.

They had no choice but to come to Zolan with the rest, hoping for luck—staying in the city was meaningless now.

Along the way, nearly every edible thing had been devoured; with nothing left, they’d begun chewing bark, eating leaves.

Seeing the officer about to beat the poor woman again, Pedro’s sense of justice could no longer hold him back—he stepped forward.

“She only wants to buy food for her family!”

The officer turned his gaze to Pedro, his face flushed crimson.

Another one dared oppose him—humiliating him in front of his men; he didn’t need to look back to imagine their mocking stares.

He clenched his lips and strode toward Pedro; Pedro stepped back nervously, raising a hand in protest. “I only ask you not to harm an ordinary woman!”

But the officer no longer listened—he felt his dignity insulted; only by crushing these people could he stand tall again.

He swung his club full-force at Pedro. As a teacher—not a physical education teacher—he couldn’t dodge; he could only cover his head and take the blow.

Piercing pain flooded his body—he felt as if a club had bitten him.

The pain forced a scream from him—Ahh!!

The numb crowd watched, as if none of this had anything to do with them.

The officer raised his club again. Pedro refused to endure more passive beating—he shoved the officer hard, glanced at the woman slumped on the ground, sighed, and turned to run.

The people had no spirit; he couldn’t force it.

Perhaps it wasn’t the right time yet.

He thought to himself.

The officer, staggered by the shove, felt his honor crushed—he charged after Pedro again.

But this time, his luck ran out.

Several young men surged from the side and beat him.

As they moved, they shouted loudly, “Since we’re doomed anyway, let’s fight these officials!”

Some of their words were incoherent—police weren’t officials—but they had shouted out enough.

These words stirred some in the crowd; their dull eyes flickered with change.

Pedro stood there, turning to watch the young people charging out, studying their appearance and attire, and a quiet stir rose within him.

The police behind the cordon froze for a moment, then lifted the barrier and charged forward with batons; the second wave of youths rushed in and clashed with them.

The numb crowd began to stir; there had never been many police here to set up roadblocks—only about twenty.

Now half of them were tied up, and some in the crowd began to think.

They weren’t planning to join the youths in fighting the police—they intended to slip in amid the chaos.

The police behind also noticed the disturbance; they blew whistles and drew their batons, rushing toward this spot.

Before a dozen police officers, at least hundreds were restrained, not daring to move.

At that moment, Pedro suddenly raised his arm. “Go into the city, eat your fill, and fight them!”

He charged forward first. He didn’t hear footsteps behind him, and he felt a pang of disappointment.

Soon he collided with the police; two officers swung their batons hard at him.

He had never trained in combat; he could only react instinctively, then strike back.

More than twenty people surrounded a dozen, beating them—including Pedro.

But gradually, the atmosphere began to shift.

Some in the numb crowd, watching them get beaten, no longer looked indifferent or gleeful—their eyes now held a spark.

Emotional waves triggered impulsive decisions; several youths ran toward the police locked in struggle.

One officer noticed this and pointed his baton at the youths. “Fall back!”

The tactic that had always worked now failed utterly.

The youths didn’t retreat—they swung their fists and struck him hard!

Pedro turned and saw this scene; a faint smile appeared on his face. He suddenly realized—this might be what Lans meant by “awakening.”

From numbness… to resistance.

(End of Chapter)