Chapter 989: Different Emphases and Aid Targeted at Civilians

From December to early January, the unrest near Zolan was thoroughly stabilized.

Those Lapans who could no longer bear their hunger realized the likelihood of the president saving them was nearly zero.

Some who still had strength or stored food began relocating to surrounding nations.

Those who had not left began, like their ancestors, gathering around certain individuals to form new “tribes.”

It was impossible to remain in the city—only the privileged class had adequate food reserves.

The middle class, lacking any resilience against this food crisis, also began joining these tribes and leaving the cities.

City after city, nearly empty, evoked a strong sense of unease.

Diego sat on his thickened sofa to ease the discomfort in his buttocks.

He picked up the newspaper beside him and began reading.

This was a newspaper printed by Lans’s federals—clearer in text and sharper in images than the local papers.

The printing equipment was clearly more advanced than Lapas’s, and the ink was superior, so the paper didn’t smear black grease onto one’s hands.

Diego’s photograph, enlarged and printed on the front page, showed him in excellent condition—majestic and imposing.

The photographer had shot from a low angle, making Diego appear towering.

He wore proper attire, holding a golden goblet; though the newspaper was black-and-white, readers could still sense the goblet was extraordinary.

Either gold or silver.

He was pleased with the photo—it made him look extraordinary.

He then read the article, which detailed a series of collaborations between the Federation and Lapa, including mining resource extraction and recruiting at least twenty to thirty thousand miners.

They offered miners twenty-five federal sols per month—roughly equivalent to two thousand palas—undoubtedly high income in a region where average earnings were only a few hundred.

Federal investors would also open factories and establish economic projects like rubber plantations, requiring large numbers of workers.

The entire plan would employ approximately one hundred thousand workers, with further increases expected in subsequent expansions.

The newspaper mentioned many things about Diego and included photographs—each one showed him smiling.

Luxury, solemnity, a sense of historical weight—this was what true journalism should be!

“Ask Lans if we can get the negatives of these photos—I want to hang one in my study.”

Such a flattering image—he even wanted to print it on currency!

The butler bowed slightly. “I will contact him shortly.”

Diego glanced back at the butler. “The unrest has fully stopped, then?”

The butler nodded. “The military has begun clearing the refugee clusters gathering nearby. They are returning to their homes, awaiting aid.”

It wasn’t that they truly believed the government’s words—they simply weren’t a match for weapons or soldiers. Otherwise, they would still have tried entering Zolan for any chance of survival.

For these refugees now, the concept of “food” had been drastically lowered.

They plucked leaves from roadside trees, boiled them in water, and ate them as meals—though some leaves were bitter, scratching throats and hard to swallow.

Some plants contained various toxins, and many had suffered accidents during experimentation.

Tropical jungles always held unexpected dangers.

With Zolan no longer viable, they had no choice but to move elsewhere.

Many cities had become empty and stinking.

Empty because nearly everyone had fled to the wilderness—there was nothing left to eat in the cities; staying meant certain death.

It wasn’t just the lower classes—small numbers of the middle class faced the same fate.

Only the privileged and ruling classes could avoid starvation.

Once people left, they rarely returned; nearly every city and village stood empty, with only a few holding out who still had food.

Why did they stink?

Because corpses, starved to death, littered roadsides and homes.

Though it was winter, temperatures hadn’t dropped to zero or below—they remained around ten to fifteen degrees.

Though not high, the warmth was enough for bacteria to multiply inside human bodies—microbial metabolism generated heat, turning each corpse into a heat source.

If someone bold enough touched the bloated corpses and stuck a finger inside, they’d find most still warm—even after days dead.

A sticky, fermenting warmth!

Combined with the relatively enclosed environment, the stench quickly spread through the cities.

The odor was strongest in areas with concentrated elderly populations; with no one left to clean, every city now stood empty and reeking.

Some could no longer endure it and began moving toward Zolan—though by “some,” we mean the wealthy or privileged.

Once they left, cities would become true havens for wildlife and plants.

All this occurred beyond Zolan; local officials dared not report it to Diego.

If everyone else stayed silent and only you reported it, it meant only your area had problems.

Whose fault was that?

First, eliminate the correct answer—it certainly wasn’t Diego’s government’s fault.

Clearly, it was the local officials’ fault.

So if a problem arises, don’t report it—it’s as if no problem exists.

This principle applied everywhere—here, in the Federation, or anywhere else!

If people don’t report, there’s no problem—the butler naturally bowed his head. “No disturbances have been reported anywhere else.”

“Master, your public speech has had an effect—it halted further deterioration.”

“What your army could not achieve, you accomplished with a single speech—you are an extraordinary man!”

Diego’s face showed a smile he was trying to suppress—but he failed; the curve of his grin widened until he burst into loud laughter.

“Do you know why I like you?” he asked.

Before the butler could answer, he gave the answer himself: “Because you’re smarter than others—and you know how to speak!”

“Do well. Your family has served me, my father, and my grandfather for generations. I hope your children will serve mine.”

Though he had no children—possibly due to his own obesity.

But that didn’t stop him from making the promise.

The butler naturally expressed endless gratitude; to some, he was merely a servant.

But to others—and to most—he was Master, a person of importance.

Diego casually tossed the newspaper onto the table; he wasn’t interested in the later news or comic strips and stopped reading.

In his view, Lapa was perfect right now!

Meanwhile, Pedro held the free newspaper in his hand, reading the articles; he wasn’t surprised by the federals’ plans for large-scale investment.

Capital always seeks profit—the federals weren’t here to do charity; they invested only because they saw opportunity.

But what caught his attention were the enlarged photographs: mountains of food piled everywhere, and scenes of food being dumped—also published.

For Diego, this posed no problem; they’d skillfully composited the images so food dumping appeared only in the corners, unnoticed.

But readers—especially hungry ones—would inevitably notice.

Beyond this article, the rest of the paper contained a few relatively professional news pieces, but mostly comic strips.

The comics were very amusing; Pedro even recognized figures within them, subtly reflecting Lapa’s current social conditions.

One particular comic strip struck him as especially interesting.

A group of pig-headed men in suits and bow ties sat at a table, greedily devouring food. Dog-headed servants, dressed as waiters, continuously brought them more.

The scene shifted: inside a factory, humans labored exhaustedly to produce food for the pig-headed men—until raw materials ran out.

At that moment, the factory manager—a slimmer pig-headed man—directly tossed humans onto the conveyor belt, using their bodies as raw ingredients.

Dishes of bloody food were served to the pig-headed men, who chewed and swallowed them voraciously.

The factory workers, unable to endure becoming food, began to resist.

Using their wit, they overthrew the factory owner and the dog-headed servants, storming into the dining hall.

Wielding sharp weapons, they easily slaughtered every pig-headed man.

From then on, all workers lived happily ever after.

The comic had no words—but Pedro fully understood its meaning, and sensed even deeper, unspoken implications.

As a high school teacher and scholar, he infused his own understanding of the world into this comic, expanding his thoughts further.

He imagined another possible development—

After the workers killed the pig-headed men, might they themselves sit at the table?

Might new dog-headed servants arrive, feeding them until they grew fat and white, eventually becoming new pig-headed men?

Power is the most terrifying poison—it corrupts souls, not bodies.

Under absolute power, absolute corruption would inevitably arise.

The thought sent a sudden chill through him.

Several other comics carried similar irony and awakening; without careful attention and deep thought, many would overlook them.

But once explained, nearly everyone could understand them.

Pedro couldn’t help but admire Lans and his group—they didn’t care whether the masses understood; they first planted deep impressions.

Then, at some future moment, when people encountered this information, they’d instantly transform those impressions into power!

It was a seed, quietly planted in people’s hearts, without their awareness.

Pedro already had over a thousand people gathered around him, and the number kept growing.

Besides the initial group, many from his own neighborhood had come to join him.

Humans are social creatures, especially in dangerous environments—they prefer to band together.

Compared to groups of three or five people, or even twenty to thirty, Pedro’s group was clearly much larger.

The larger the group, the more it attracts others.

And as more people joined, the group’s size would continue to expand.

This is what’s called “first-mover advantage”—an older brother is always one year older than his younger brother, unless he dies along the way.

Right now, it’s too early to say whether he’ll die or not; at least, he’s doing fairly well.

He put down the newspaper so more people could see it—showing them living at the edge of the jungle, surviving daily on tree bark and nutritionless leaves, many so emaciated they looked like skeletons.

Meanwhile, their president tossed all kinds of food into the trash.

Everyone who saw the photo clenched their teeth in rage—they ate leaf cakes here, while the president wasted food without restraint, and every heart burned with suppressed hatred.

“Time to eat!”

From afar came excited shouts—now, eating was the most important thing in people’s lives.

Pedro was hungry too; he wasn’t full either—not just him, but everyone was hungry.

Many survived on barely enough food to keep alive, so throughout the camp at the jungle’s edge, people lay motionless everywhere.

That’s also why they didn’t return to live in the city—it was too far, and would waste what little strength they had left.

For people now, the best way to live was to eat something, then lie down and just get through the day.

Today’s lunch was still leaf cakes—a food invented by the cooks.

They brought back little food, so every bit had to be stretched thin; the cooks ground all the wheat into flour.

They mixed some flour, some dirt, crushed grass stems, wood shavings, and powder from wild wheat trees they’d found in the wild, pressed it onto a palm-sized leaf.

Then they dried the leaves and stored them.

When it was time to eat, they steamed them; once the leaf and dough absorbed enough water, each leaf cake weighed about two or three hundred grams—enough to dull the hunger slightly.

Elders, children, and women got only half a cake; only the men who ventured into the jungle for food were allowed a full leaf cake.

Though the thing was disgusting and hard to digest, mealtime was still the happiest part of everyone’s day.

As the group’s “Boss,” Pedro had to line up like everyone else to receive his leaf cake, with no special size or privilege.

Just as he received his leaf cake, sat down, and began nibbling the revolting food, another younger teacher ran over, “Someone’s here for you.”

Pedro paused, held the leaf cake in his hand, and stood up. “Who?”

The younger teacher’s face was filled with disbelief. “Federation people!”

Yes—the Federation had come!

Pedro looked toward the distance; a crowd had gathered there—was it Lans?

He handed the leaf cake to his wife, straightened his clothes, and strode over.

When he reached them, he realized the visitor wasn’t Lans, but someone he’d never seen before.

“Pedro?” The man spoke with arrogance, not even using “Mr.,” but addressing him by name outright.

Pedro nodded, adjusted his glasses. “Who are you?”

The arrogant man handed him a business card. “I’m a special investigator for the Federal International Human Rights Survey, here in La Pa to conduct a human rights investigation.”

He glanced around. “Clearly, you’re facing serious problems—and I can help you solve them.”

Pedro studied the card for a moment, not blindly optimistic. “What do you want from me?”

He lowered his eyes, reading the name on the card. “Mr. Andy?”

Andy still wore that damned arrogant expression. “You and your people aren’t yet in a position to offer me anything.”

"So this is free!"

Pedro didn’t believe it. After dealing with Lans, he knew clearly—if someone offered you a huge benefit with nothing in return,

then what they truly wanted was something you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give, which was why they didn’t ask.

Pedro said nothing. Andy didn’t bother trying to outmaneuver him. “If you accept our aid, we’ll provide you with a sum of about twenty thousand Federal Sols.”

“And a batch of medicine, worth roughly five thousand—mostly common drugs.”

“And food.”

The moment the Federation man said “food,” more people nearby turned their attention toward him!

You give them money, give them medicine—they need it, but they won’t react strongly.

Because money now has no use—you can’t buy a full meal with any amount of it, so money isn’t truly essential.

Medicine too—even if some are sick, they won’t die from these illnesses.

But hunger will.

Food is the real currency now.

So when he said “food,” even Pedro was moved.

“How much food can you provide us?”

Andy pursed his lips. “It depends on how much you can carry.”