Chapter 984: Aid and the Failure of the First Popular Movement

Inside the presidential palace, Diego stood by the window, watching the crowds of soldiers in the square; his face showed no improvement despite the unrest having ceased.

Any dictator is inherently a creature that values face.

Because they hold absolute power, no one dares to offend them.

Their threshold for being offended becomes extremely low.

It’s like someone who dislikes jokes—you might just be teasing them, but to them, it’s enough to make them lose their temper completely!

Diego also dislikes being mocked, especially in this way that slaps him in the face.

What will the people think?

What will the other member states of the Alliance think?

No doubt, the entire Alliance now knows, because the President of the Jide Republic just called specifically to ask what had happened and whether he needed assistance.

It made his face burn red!

He was already inferior to the Jide Republic in every way, but at least he could still maintain the dignity of a ruler.

Now he can’t even preserve that dignity—someone dared to riot in Zolan and turned his capital into chaos.

Just imagining how those people were laughing at him made his head throb.

He pressed his temple and swallowed a painkiller.

He didn’t know his headache was caused by high blood pressure.

His physique had given him severe diabetes and high blood pressure, both already at critical levels—just a slight trigger could cause them to explode completely.

“Kill!”

“Kill them mercilessly!”

"Make these commoners regret what they've done!"

He turned to face everyone in the room, his voice dripping with a coldness like winter rain, forced through clenched teeth.

The Minister of National Defense asked softly, “Tens of thousands have flooded into the city—kill them all?”

Diego gritted his teeth, “Kill them all!”

This was clearly not the right choice—massacring rioters now could trigger even more unpredictable consequences.

“Outside the city, there are said to be over a hundred thousand refugees, with more streaming toward us.”

“We must be cautious: killing is simple—just order the soldiers to shoot. But the ripple effects of killing are impossible to control.”

“The refugees outside will sink into utter despair.”

The Minister of National Defense was a man in his sixties, his hair streaked with gray but his demeanor sharp.

With ample food—chicken, fish, meat, eggs—and access to the nation’s best medical care, of course he was sharp.

Wealth and power determine everything, including health and mental state.

His physique stood in stark contrast to Diego’s; Diego’s expression grew darker as his ideas were blocked.

Perhaps sensing Diego’s hostile gaze, the Minister of National Defense smiled and said, “Unless you want to drive the people outside to extremes.”

He placed one hand on the table, twirling his pen, then leaned back—defensive posture.

“Lapa has twelve million people; Zolan has less than one million.”

“They may have hidden some population, and there are always people coming here to try their luck—even if it’s one million, one point one million.”

“We’re facing over ten million people remaining!”

“If they rise up too, Diego, do you think we can kill them all?”

This question prompted several ministers to nod—this struck at the core issue.

Killing is easy; the consequences of killing are not.

Diego’s dark face gave no sign of flushing, but he was certainly furious.

He paced back and forth a few steps, “Then what do you suggest?”

“Let them go?”

The Minister of National Defense knew Diego had conceded—he wasn’t rigid, nor did he demand Diego obey him.

Having worked with Diego for years, they had long understood this short, fat black man's temperament and temper.

As long as they didn’t directly oppose him, their status, power, and ability could still persuade Diego.

“We must kill some, certainly—they caused so many tragedies and turned the city into ruin.”

“But we kill only the ringleaders, those found with food or wealth.”

“We have grounds to execute them—they possess wealth that doesn’t belong to them.”

“But for those found with no food or wealth, we should not touch them.”

“And this group consists mostly of the elderly, women, and children.”

“To some extent, they are the hope of others.”

“Keeping them alive is far better than killing them!”

“If you have a wife and children to feed, and elders to care for, you won’t act recklessly.”

“We’re discussing how to stabilize this country, not make it worse!”

Diego stared at him for a moment, then returned to his seat at the table and muttered grumpily, “Then what do you suggest?”

Several ministers exchanged glances, smiles creeping onto their faces.

To many, Diego was a complete bastard of a president—hot-tempered, foul-tempered—but to these men, he wasn’t truly terrible.

“First, we must publicly execute those ringleaders I just mentioned…”

While they met, the President of the Jide Republic was chatting with two of his ministers.

The Minister of Agriculture and the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

The President of the Jide Republic was a “middle-aged” man in his fifties.

That might sound exaggerated—on this world, even forty-year-olds were considered elderly.

But in politics, fifty-something was precisely the prime of life.

Energy, experience, mental acuity—all at their peak, the height of power.

The President of the Jide Republic had studied abroad in the Federation, educated in their system and having lived there for a time.

He returned to Jide only after being fired from his second job—at age twenty-six—to inherit his family’s business.

Years passed; everything he absorbed in the Federation became the foundation for Jide’s rise. In truth, he bore little resemblance to a traditional ruler of Yalan.

Some said he was digging up his roots—bringing more commoners into government, pushing capital expansion and growth.

Jide’s rise as the strongest nation in Yalan proved he was no reckless president.

Even the creation of the Alliance was his decision.

“...Over a hundred thousand people now linger outside Zolan. No one knows what Diego will do next.”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs briefly summarized events for the Minister of Agriculture, who had only heard fragments and lacked details.

Hearing these details now, his face showed shock—and a touch of...anger.

“Diego is an idiot!” he emphasized, “Food is already scarce—why did he sell it to the Federation?”

“Just because they paid a little more?”

“That stupid pig!”

Under the President’s influence, everyone in Jide’s leadership deeply distrusted excessive contact with the Federation.

But the Federation was too powerful—they couldn’t avoid contact entirely, only manage it carefully.

The Federation government and some private firms had placed orders for their grain.

Yet the President had sold not a single grain of wheat, instead importing more.

This year, Jide wouldn’t face food shortages—it would even have surpluses.

Lapa was the classic counterexample, yet they weren’t surprised—given Diego and his ruling clique’s greed and stupidity, such a decision was inevitable.

Lapa wasn’t alone—other nations were selling too, since the Federation paid so well!

After ranting, the Minister of Agriculture finally asked, “How much grain can we spare?”

“Without affecting our own consumption.”

The Minister of Agriculture realized something—he quickly calculated, “About five million tons of wheat and wheat flour.”

The President nodded, “If we send fifty thousand tons, it won’t impact domestic supply?”

The Minister of Agriculture shook his head, “We have no pressure.” After a two-second pause, he couldn’t help asking, “Do we even need to help them?”

“They might just resell the grain!”

The President smiled and waved his hand, “Don’t worry—it’s not a gift. We’re selling it to them.”

“The Alliance just formed—if it collapses now, that’s bad for us.”

“The Federation’s hand is clearly behind this. I don’t know what they want, or what they hope to gain from Lapa.”

“But I know one thing!”

“Whatever the Federation wants to do, if we stop them, it’s good for us.”

“Don’t let them succeed!”

The President’s tone was firm—he wouldn’t tolerate interference. He turned to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, “You handle the contact with Diego. I can’t stand dealing with that fool.”

“I’m afraid I’ll get dumber just talking to him!”

He chuckled, and both ministers laughed too.

As their laughter faded, he grew serious: “Lapa is in trouble—but for us, it might be an opportunity.”

“Better to have those vital resources and talents handed to us than to the Federation.”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs shook his head, “He won’t agree easily.”

The President didn’t care at all. “Then give them a price they can’t refuse!”

“Even if this grain is only part of it, see how you can negotiate—find out if they have what we need and any valuable talent.”

“If they do, send the grain over and bring back those things in return.”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs naturally didn’t object—he had no complaints. He knew this decision was correct.

Still, he felt compelled to remind his President: “What you’re doing might make the Federals unhappy.”

The President smirked and spread his hands. “Who cares?”

“Only when we grow stronger will they have the capacity to resist risk.”

Very quickly, the three finished their discussion. The two ministers left, but the President didn’t relax much.

He knew well—the Federals had already moved. Time had become more critical, more tense for him!

Those damn Federals!

The next morning, in Zolan’s city square, a large group of rioters were brought here for public execution.

Early that morning, people had ridden through the city announcing it, along with loudspeakers and other devices.

Public execution had long been a key tool for the ruling class to intimidate the lower classes. When people saw their own kind killed before their eyes for wrongdoing, fear took root.

Fear of forbidden acts. Fear of the ruling class.

The propaganda worked well—by early morning, many citizens had gathered to watch.

The Minister of Justice of Lapa read out the crimes of these men through a loudspeaker. The onlookers felt no sympathy for them.

Because during yesterday’s hours of rioting, the worst injured were these commoners and middle-class citizens.

The millionaires, the privileged class, the ruling class—none of them suffered a thing.

This was a failed “protest demonstration,” because it failed to achieve its intended purpose.

Among the crowd, Pedro watched all this and sighed silently.

It could have been a good thing—just a little guidance, and perhaps it might have brought change to this nation.

But these greedy fools, ruled by desire, had turned a perfect opening into utter chaos!

As the Minister of Justice finished reading their crimes, the executions began.

Diego and the ministers had compromised somewhat—he agreed to execute fewer people, but insisted they not be shot or hanged; that would be too merciful.

So today’s executions would use a more primitive method—beheading.

One by one, the rioters were led onto the guillotine; heads rolled across the ground with wet thuds.

Each time the blade fell, the square erupted in synchronized shouts, the stench of blood rising into the air.

Crows and Yalan’s Giant-Winged Birds (a kind of vulture) circled overhead, drawn down by the scent of blood.

On the ground, citizens lost in collective frenzy screamed and thrashed; executioners on the platform swung their whips; above, the birds of ill omen circled—forming a grotesque yet harmonious scene!

Many reporters were present, faithfully recording everything happening here, to send to the Federation—to show the Federals how savage these people were!

(End of Chapter)