Chapter 981: Seeds of Fire

Zhuolan was like a giant gambling table, every faction a player at its edge—ordinary people were not.

Whether ordinary residents here or the rioters who sparked this upheaval.

The moment they seized their first weapon and pulled the trigger, they became rioters.

The game’s pace suddenly accelerated; the gentlemen at the table could no longer see its future—except for one person, or rather, several.

They were the dealers, the players at the table, and the judges deciding victory or defeat.

They manipulated the game; the outcome would be no surprise.

Lans stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, wine glass in hand, overlooking the increasingly chaotic city.

From his vantage point, he could now see refugees running through the streets.

They smashed shop windows with whatever they held, or pried open doors and stormed inside.

Soon after, they burst out carrying stolen goods; the entire city sank into chaotic disorder.

After fleeing back to the police station, the chief reorganized a group—but this time, instead of confronting the refugees entering the city, they vanished from public view under the pretext of “protecting vital urban infrastructure.”

He had hoped to leverage this turmoil to gain more power; now it seemed he wouldn’t get any further chance—and might even lose his job.

For Diego at this moment, the police chief’s incompetence had already tightened a noose around his own neck.

His stupidity wasn’t in failing to stop the refugees from entering the city, but in firing shots and losing some weapons.

He turned harmless refugees into a threat.

As Lans was pondering how the situation would unfold, Ma Duoer stepped beside him and whispered, “Mr. Smith is here.”

Mr. Smith was Albert, the leader of the federal government’s later-arrived visiting delegation.

“Let him in.”

Soon Albert entered with a smile, walking to Lans’s side and standing slightly behind him, gazing down at the city rising with smoke.

Under their gaze, a burst of flame erupted on a nearby street; moments later, the building ignited.

The building was only four stories tall—a common local structure—with the fire starting on the second floor, spreading visibly.

The two watched as tiny figures fled from inside, while others screamed for help from windows on the third and fourth floors.

The entire city had ground to a halt; Zhuolan had only ten fire trucks, utterly insufficient for so many blazes.

Soon, people leapt from the third and fourth floors of the burning building, like a matchbox; others climbed to the roof and hid inside water tanks.

Seeing this, Lans shook his head slightly. “A human tragedy.”

Lans’s voice broke the silence of the room; the atmosphere softened slightly.

Albert smiled in agreement. “Jumping down may break a leg, but at least you live.”

“But hiding in a water tank? You’ll end up as soup.”

Lans turned to him. “Want a drink?”

Albert hesitated, then said, “Whiskey.”

Ma Duoer poured a glass of whiskey over ice and brought it over; Albert thanked him again.

Zhuolan’s air was damp; though the weather wasn’t hot, it felt like a film clung to the skin, creating a stifling sensation.

That was why Diego sweated constantly, even when temperatures were low—though perhaps that was only part of the reason.

“Mr. Lans, shall we begin contacting some of these people now?”

Albert and Andy came to Lapa to provide operational funding and supplies to anti-government factions, under the guise of “humanitarian aid.”

This model was Lans’s idea: if you’re going to give, give openly—it’s not a bad thing.

Assisting those in need showcases the noble character of the federal government and its people; local governments refusing such aid become villains in the international eye.

Senator Cleveland admired this plan—it delivered tangible benefits without losing face.

Lans shook his head. “Wait a little longer.”

“Wait?” Albert sipped his whiskey, his gaze returning to the chaotic city.

In his view, now was the perfect moment to reach out to them.

Lans nodded. “Yes. Wait a little longer.”

“They’re too scattered, without purpose, and no one’s stepping forward to stop them.”

“They’re even less organized than labor unions or worker strikes—those workers at least knew how to unite.”

“Look at what these people are doing.”

Albert’s gaze fell to the street below—they had no clear objective. Logically, they should be gathering outside the Presidential Palace.

There, with their sheer numbers, they could pressure the president into meeting their demands.

In the Federation, that’s exactly what would happen—thanks to labor unions and worker organizations.

But here, these people were participating in such an event for the first time.

Their desires for destruction, greed, and every other impulse were unleashed; they drowned in bottomless pits of insatiable cravings, utterly forgetting what they should be doing now.

They were just scattered sand—no intimidating effect, no value at all.

“After this riot is crushed, then contact some of them.”

“After enduring this painful failure, they’ll realize: whether they want to demand change from the government or overthrow this rotten society, they must unite, organize, and discipline themselves.”

“Now is not the time to invest in them. Wait.”

Albert nodded in agreement, his smile unwavering, his emotions unreadable—impossible to gauge his inner thoughts from his exterior.

Such people were far harder to deal with than Andy, who wore his emotions on his sleeve.

“Mr. Lans, do you have any candidates in mind?”

He swirled his glass. “I heard that before our arrival, you held a seminar at the library and invited some people.”

“I’m certain those you invited are extraordinary individuals.”

Lans made no denial. “I’ll have someone send you a list. You may find it useful.”

“These people… I call them ‘seeds of fire.’ They are the first awakened, the sparks that can ignite all of Lapa!”

“As for whether some of these ‘seeds’ can survive their first trial…”

Lans shook his head, sipped his drink, then smiled and spread his hands toward Albert. “Who knows?”

The city was already this ruined; both Lans and Albert knew the next phase would be Lapa’s government crushing the rebellion without mercy.

A significant portion of those flooding into the city may never return home.

Yet they felt no regret or sorrow—this was how the world progressed.

Whether society or the people who composed it, all played the role of “fuel”—burning themselves to advance the world.

Only those who broke through the storm had the right to access federal funding, resources, everything.

This money wasn’t blown in by the wind—it was painstakingly accumulated from taxpayers’ pockets.

In the past, ordinary federals might not have had the right to begin with “our taxpayers’ money”—the federal government didn’t want to tax ordinary social classes.

But now they had that right—even if their income was a single cent, they still had to file taxes at year’s end.

As a responsible young member of society, even if the federal government refused to be accountable to these taxpayers, he intended to be accountable for their money.

Their conversation ended as both saw a crowd of two or three hundred heading toward the Lapa Grand Hotel.

Clearly, this group had begun to form a “gang.” Their actions differed from the aimless mobs Lans had seen earlier—no longer driven purely by instinct.

Their destination seemed to be this hotel.

“The Lapa Grand Hotel must have plenty of food—and lots of foreigners!”

A burly man led the group—he was one of the “seeds,” a factory worker.

Being a “seed” wasn’t reserved for the highly educated; anyone could become one, but they all needed something unique, something different.

Put more mystically, Lans needed to see leadership potential or a special aura of leadership in them.

Otherwise, they couldn’t become “seeds.”

This worker below possessed a distinct aura; Lans had heard he frequently negotiated with factory owners on behalf of workers, and was well-respected.

He had been given an opportunity—but whether it would ignite a flame that stained the sky remained unknown.

Yet now, his chances of thriving had diminished.

He chose the wrong place.

He chose the Lapa Grand Hotel—the only foreign-facing hotel.

Lans didn’t mind if federals here were harmed; it could serve as a pretext for federal pressure against the Asian Alliance—

“We promoted cultural, economic, and trade exchanges with the Asian Alliance, sending people there—only for them to suffer accidents.”

“Aren’t you obligated to explain?”

A nation’s “explanation” was entirely different from an individual’s.

But opportunity wasn’t entirely lost—if he didn’t act recklessly, he might still survive.

If this man survived to the end despite choosing a hellish starting point, his probability of ultimate victory would rise to its peak.

At the hotel entrance, several guards stood watch, holding steel pipes and similar items—but no firearms.

The people of Lapa had always been docile; they seemed to have accepted their numb existence, with no thought of resistance.

Always so—except for rare gang conflicts involving weapons, overall, the populace remained safe.

Of course, the head of security and several deputies carried weapons—but they wouldn’t draw them unless it was the final moment.

When the guards saw the crowd approaching, they immediately reported it; more guards emerged from the ninth floor to reinforce, including the head and deputies.

One bolder deputy stepped forward toward the group; they halted at the hotel entrance.

Behind them, more people had begun to follow—aware the group’s target was the Lapa Grand Hotel, they grew excited.

As Lapa natives, they knew the hotel’s significance and luxury; they wanted to tag along for scraps.

So it looked like one crowd—but many more trailed at the edges.

[101] “You cannot enter here,” the deputy security chief raised his hand to stop them. “If you want money or food, I can arrange to send some to you—but you cannot enter here.”

“There are many foreign guests resting inside; if you disturb or harm them, it will be a huge trouble!”

“We hope you can understand.”

The worker spark chosen by Lans stepped forward from the crowd—he was strong, with a rugged, determined face and deep-set eyes, giving off a positive, trustworthy aura.

And he was powerfully built; beneath his thin shirt, his muscles bulged, radiating explosive strength.

Standing before the deputy captain, he smiled slightly, “I heard the Lapah Hotel doesn’t welcome the lower classes, is that right?”

He still vividly remembered Lans’s first incident—he had originally planned to arrange lodging and research discussions for them at the Lapah Hotel.

But the Lapah Hotel refused, because they didn’t welcome the lower classes.

Though the worker spark, naturally branded as a lower class, was smiling, everyone could sense his displeasure.

The deputy captain was momentarily speechless; he found it hard to justify the hotel’s rule barring the poor, and facing these already transformed rioters, he felt fear.

One could clearly read the turmoil in his face—the worker spark took a deep breath, “Is that true?”

Pressed to the brink, the deputy captain could only shake his head and say, “We welcome every guest.”

The worker spark smirked, “Good. Now we’re going inside to spend money.”

He moved to step forward, but the deputy captain blocked him again, “We’re not receiving guests right now.”

The worker spark shoved him aside and strode toward the hotel; farther away, people onlookers smiled—these people ate meat, and they drank the broth.

The deputy captain tried to say more, but was immediately knocked to the ground by several men—he fell silent.

Seeing this, the hotel’s guards grew tense; as the mob advanced, they could only retreat step by step.

Until there was nowhere left to retreat.

The captain knew these people would not be stopped—he watched them draw nearer, and had no choice but to decide—

Hit hard. Kill them. If they die, it’s on me!

His voice carried a ruthless edge—if he survived this, he would surely be promoted!

One guard could no longer bear the mounting pressure—he charged out swinging his steel pipe, and others followed him immediately.

Two torrents crashed together at the hotel’s entrance!

Shouts drowned out the sounds of fighting; many foreign tourists sat in the lobby, accompanied by young, beautiful companions. They watched without much fear.

Some foreign tourists even smiled, pulling out cameras to photograph the scene outside the lobby.

They believed the guards would protect them—or that these people wouldn’t dare harm them.

During this time, these foreigners had felt something unprecedented here—privilege.

It was unlike in the Federation or their own countries, where even if they were rich, they were never part of the privileged class.

If they were truly wealthy, they wouldn’t be here—they were merchants, merely richer than ordinary people, with no ties to officials, and their limited wealth granted them no privilege.

But here, they felt it.

Whether from the Lapah government, the local merchants’ association, or every ordinary citizen, they were met with reverence and fear.

Sometimes they went too far, but with help from the hotel manager or others like him, they negotiated with the victims—and always walked away unscathed.

One foreigner forcibly had sex with a girl who didn’t offer bed services; she reported it to the police, but the case vanished.

This was the sweet taste of privilege!

They still believed those people outside the hotel wouldn’t dare touch them!

The fight erupted fiercely—these guards weren’t mere decorations; when they went all out, they were truly brutal.

Perhaps because they were fighting lower classes—lower classes had no rights in Lapah—so they could be so merciless.

The two sides fought evenly, but it was clear the guards were being crushed!

Because they were outnumbered.

Brawls and mob fights are decided by sheer numbers.

Seeing his men about to break, the guard captain drew his pistol and fired at the nearest lower class.

In an instant, the piercing gunshot shattered the lobby’s calm—the foreign tourists grew uneasy, thinking of fleeing.

But now, escape seemed too late.

The worker spark also drew his weapon and fired at the guard captain; the brief exchange lasted less than twenty seconds before ending.

The guard squad collapsed completely…

(End of Chapter)