Chapter 979: Entering the City

Thud…

Thud!

His heart had never pounded so violently!

A police officer stared in disbelief at the man snatching his baton, his mind momentarily frozen.

It was as if a lamb about to be slaughtered suddenly opened its bloodied jaws—predator and prey had reversed roles; this was utterly unbelievable!

Both the police and the attackers were now experiencing wild, frantic pulses.

“Call for backup!”

Before the officer could react, a curse rang out—and a fist smashed into his nose.

The brutal impact brought an instant sting and a hot rush—he instinctively dropped his baton, and the attacker swung it high before slamming it down hard onto the officer’s skull.

In that instant, he finally understood how those he’d beaten felt.

The world seemed to spin—he couldn’t stand, and instinctively bent his knees, hunched his back, and spread his arms to lower his center of gravity.

But the world still spun; even without anyone touching him, he finally staggered and fell to the ground.

One blow had already disrupted his balance—recovery might take time, but clearly, these people had no intention of giving him that time.

Soon fists, shoes, and other objects rained down on him; the officer could only curl up, shielding his head.

He wanted to scream for help, but the storm of kicks left no chance to speak—and he knew it wouldn’t help anyway.

He could only try to protect himself, but it was useless—someone leapt and stomped hard on his body; he felt his ribs crack.

The searing pain made it hard to breathe, and a wave of nausea rose in him.

The next second, he vomited—spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Yet the crowd showed no mercy; through the gap between his arms, his eyes filled with despair.

And regret.

Maybe he regretted striking others; maybe he regretted coming here today; maybe he regretted many things.

But regret couldn’t change what was coming.

Those attacking him were overwhelmed with disbelief—they looked around at the people, the police they’d once thought invincible, now lying at their feet like a weeping child.

In an instant, strength surged through their bodies—they realized they were far stronger than they’d ever imagined.

Blood boiled over; a young man charged forward and kicked the officer in the abdomen—but the officer gave no reaction; he was already unconscious.

The abusers became the only injured in this clash, while those once oppressed now became the oppressors.

Their roles had been inverted.

Pedro helped the woman to her feet amid the chaos; seeing the crowd now completely out of control, he opened his mouth to speak—but realized this wasn’t the right moment.

The woman, helped up by Pedro, thanked him profusely; Pedro shook his head. “Take care of yourself—you can’t care for your child if you’re dead.”

“If you die, no one else will look after your child like you do.”

“To protect him, you must protect yourself.”

The woman thanked him again and again; Pedro only smiled. “I’ve got to go—I need to find food too. Take care of yourself!”

He turned and walked away with his wife and child toward the city—they too needed to find food inside.

After only a few steps, he stopped.

He noticed some people had quietly approached him.

He tensed, pulling his wife and child behind him; this move instantly halted the group.

One man, around thirty, stepped forward. “We… want to move with you.”

Pedro didn’t fully trust him—he kept his gaze suspicious and wary; the man had to continue. “We’re from the same place. We saw you be the first to stand up—you looked like a hero.”

“And…” the man’s face flushed with awkwardness, “we can’t read. You look…”

He didn’t finish—but Pedro understood.

His clothing made him look like an intellectual; when problems arose, people naturally turned to those with knowledge—they knew more than the illiterate.

With this explanation, the dangerous expressions on their faces softened instantly; though still cautious, Pedro smiled and extended his hand. “Pedro.”

Each of them shook his hand and introduced themselves.

Somehow, Pedro felt—these people were his “core group.”

They began moving together toward the city; some carried women or children. The lead man, Saen, came from a village not far from Pedro’s city—only thirty or forty kilometers away.

In a major city, that distance would mean they were practically neighbors.

Their proximity made Pedro feel closer to them.

“Life in the village is terrible—we’ve had no food for many days.”

Saen’s expression was grim. “They dug up all the potatoes. Some people got poisoned, but to avoid starving, they still forced them down.”

The sprouted tubers had their sprouts cut off, then the rest were boiled in water for hours.

When they turned to mush, they ate them like soup.

Prolonged high heat destroyed some solanine—but not all of it.

Some ate and were fine; others got poisoned—this depended directly on cooking temperature.

But villagers didn’t know this—they just boiled them instinctively, leaving fate to decide.

According to Saen, some even mixed in grass leaves and dirt to reduce potato content and lower poisoning risk.

In short, everything edible near the village had been eaten; they were starving, so they came to Zolan hoping for luck.

Everyone’s situation was the same—if they weren’t starving, who would come to Zolan?

Pedro walked outside with them, keeping the women and children in the center.

As they walked, Saen asked, “Pedro, do you think we’ll find food in Zolan?”

Pedro fell silent. “I don’t know.”

He glanced at the younger people around him—his own eyes held uncertainty. “I don’t know if the president or ministers have noticed these problems—or if they’re even thinking about solving them.”

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“The best solution is to release some grain reserves—get food into people’s hands quickly, then arrest those hoarding.”

“Our reserves may be small, but they should be enough to get through this crisis.”

“If the president and our ministers don’t mess it up.”

He didn’t overpromise—but he conveyed a thought:

The problem can be solved—but whether it will be depends on whether someone wants to solve it.

Saen and the others didn’t fully understand, but they sensed Pedro’s words held some truth.

The roadblocks at the city’s edge were crushed; masses of refugees poured in. The police chief, seeing the situation spiraling beyond control, ordered officers to hold them at the perimeter while calling the presidential palace.

Diego was sipping his favorite chilled juice.

He’d imported a massive ice-making machine from the Federation—serving only him and a few ministers, providing ice year-round.

Even in winter, Diego insisted on ice in his juice.

He was overweight; every movement felt like fire inside him—only chilled juice could quench it.

He’d just finished a glass, the fruit aroma still lingering in his mouth, when the phone rang.

He didn’t answer—it was his butler.

Two minutes later, the butler approached. “Master, the police chief called—refugees are entering the city.”

Diego frowned. “Didn’t I order them kept outside?”

“How did this fool let them in?”

The butler said nothing—it wasn’t his duty. He bowed his head, silent. Diego gestured for the phone; he picked up the receiver and erupted.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t I tell you not to let these refugees into Zolan?”

“They’ll ruin this beautiful city—and what will the Federation think of me?”

“What will the other A-Alliance nations think?”

“Fuck!”

“Fix this!”

“Until you’ve handled it, don’t dare report another damn thing about this!”

The police chief feared Diego would hang up—he rushed to reply. “They’re too numerous, Your Excellency. Our officers are too few to control them.”

“And they’ve already attacked police at the city’s edge—our small force can’t hold them.”

Diego heard the subtext: “Can’t control them, short-staffed”—these were excuses. He sensed deeper intent.

“What are you really saying?”

The police chief lowered his voice. “I request… permission to use firearms.”

The police force had guns—but they were locked in cabinets, issued only with authorization.

Most of the time, a baton was enough.

Many officers carried batons passed down for generations—like how a president’s son becomes president, and a peasant’s son remains a peasant.

A police officer’s son becomes a police officer, inheriting his father’s job—so a fine baton wasn’t just a tool, but a symbol of status.

In Lapa, there were even specialized craftsmen who made batons; with proper care, they lasted generations.

In the past, a baton alone solved every problem—but this time, it won’t work.

So the police chief requested permission to shoot.

Shooting wasn’t trivial—Diego hesitated, refusing to answer immediately.

“Has the situation really deteriorated this badly?”

The police chief took a deep breath. “Your Excellency, over a hundred thousand people may already be entering the city, and more are rushing in from the surrounding areas. Our pressure is immense.”

“Zolan has only three thousand police officers. We must also protect government offices. There simply aren’t enough personnel to handle this.”

“They’ve already attacked the police. If we don’t arm our officers, they won’t stand a chance against these people.”

When Diego heard this, his brow tightened into a deep frown. He pushed himself up from the chair’s armrests and staggered back and forth a few steps.

The butler’s expression remained grim, and the two servants in the distance looked the same.

Someone had once let out a laugh too soon—and Diego found an excuse to have them dealt with.

He hated most of all when people mocked the way he walked; he knew full well how absurd and ridiculous his swaying gait appeared—

Once, a circus director had brought in a few penguins for exhibition. Diego had never seen penguins before, so he ordered the circus invited to the presidential palace to perform just for him.

The penguins appeared as the final act. The moment he saw them wobbling out of their crates, he was certain the circus director was mocking him!

So he fed the Brazilian circus director to his lions, then sent the rest of the animals to Zolan’s zoo.

He cared deeply about how others treated him, yet refused to lose weight.

“How long will it take to move the army into the city?” he asked the butler.

The butler paused, then replied, “About seven to eight hours.”

La Pa’s military district was not in Zolan, but north of it—this arrangement was made to prevent the possibility that some ambitious officer might emerge within the army, leaving Diego without a countermeasure.

But now it gave him a headache. “I recall there’s a military unit stationed in the city.”

The butler nodded. “Only about five hundred men. Five hundred cannot suppress this unrest.”

Diego finally lifted the receiver back to his ear. “Fine. Do it.”

“I grant you authority—but I hope you don’t let me down.”

After hanging up, he dialed the military district. “Bring your men to Zolan. There’s unrest here that needs your intervention.”

He set the phone down, sat back in his chair, stared blankly for a while, then poured himself another glass of chilled fruit juice.

Ice cubes clinked against the golden cup, and the rich, fragrant aroma of fruit filled the entire room.

Diego still hadn’t realized this was more than just unrest.

In cities farther away, those unable to reach Zolan in time, people had already begun streaming into the wilds.

When hunger ran rampant, humans became more locust-like than locusts!

La Pa also had tropical rainforests. Over the years, people knew what was edible and what wasn’t.

Large numbers left the cities, entering the wilds, shoving anything edible into their mouths or hoarding it.

Fear of future starvation drove them to endlessly stockpile food—a vicious cycle.

They still had food to eat now—but what if they found nothing more?

In the end, their only destination would always be one place: Zolan.

In their minds, once they reached Zolan, everything would improve.

The greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. When disappointment reached a certain threshold, they would deny reality.

The influx of outsiders had made the atmosphere in Zolan tense. Fewer people walked the streets; many returned home, locking doors and windows.

The hotel also called Lans. They urged him and his staff to remain inside.

Outside might now be dangerous. The hotel had a security team of about a hundred people.

Though a hundred men seemed useless against the current situation, they still offered some people a sense of safety.

Ma Duoer walked up to Lans from afar. “All police have been deployed. I heard they’re armed now.”

Lans nodded noncommittally. “Don’t let these weapons crush the people’s spirit.”

Ma Duoer understood Lans’s meaning. He nodded and turned away to assign tasks.

The police chief now left the station by car. This time, he would make a real name for himself!

He would prove his worth and importance so that the President and ministers would continue entrusting him with important responsibilities.

He had long wanted to expand the police force.

Zolan, as La Pa’s capital, had hundreds of thousands of people—but only three thousand police. This was clearly far too few.

For the police chief, more police meant more power—and more personal gain.

Every time he raised this issue, superiors had refused, citing “no need.”

La Pa’s people were too docile. They rarely resisted. Even gangs and troublemakers were few.

This was an opportunity—a chance to impress the masters. He already had some plans.

The refugees flooding into the city had grown more aggressive since attacking the police, unlike before.

Pedro had seen people along the way smashing, looting, and burning roadside shops—acting as if they’d lost their minds.

He didn’t quite understand—but he felt a flicker of realization.

Without guidance, these people would become “criminal elements.”