Chapter 995: Pedro

As the famine dragged on, all of Lapa had slipped into a “hell countdown,” with people continuously dying of starvation.

The elderly, the children, the sick, those in need of nourishment.

Hunger was a rusted, dull blade, killing humans slowly and cruelly, bit by bit.

In the past, though Lapa was poor, backward, and uncivilized, people walking its city or village roads could still feel the pulse of life, could feel others around them.

But now, it was different.

Pedro and his group had passed through two villages—both were empty.

Only corpses, half-eaten and unrecognizable, lay strewn along the roads.

The air reeked of a thick, foul stench; he had to lift his hem to cover his nose and mouth.

Even so, the odor kept gnawing at his sense of smell.

“Another abandoned village.”

The eyes of those around him were filled with sorrow—a once-good nation, reduced to this hellish state solely because of the greed of its ruling clique.

People already knew, thanks to deliberate spreading—and earlier reports in Lans’s newspaper—

“Thank President Diego for his contributions to world peace!”

“He sold millions of tons of grain, helping countless people in need!”

Yes, he helped people in other countries—while ensuring the people of Lapa were utterly forgotten.

The newspaper also published a photograph taken from a low, looking-up angle.

President Diego shook hands with someone just out of frame, holding a document on grain sales, his face beaming with smiles.

In the photo, he seemed to glow!

Anyone reading the article could feel the radiant light emanating from him as he generously sold grain to help others!

It was absurd.

On one side: Diego, radiant, the new humanitarian icon.

On the other: corpses littering the land, the air thick with the scent of death.

It was absurd!

Pedro’s emotions churned endlessly; before this, he had merely thought he could do this.

Now, at this moment, he knew he must do it.

He would rescue this nation, these people, from the hands of that greedy dictator!

A few steps further, he saw something happening by the roadside and cursed aloud, “That fucking bastard deserves to die!”

By the roadside, seven or eight stray dogs were devouring corpses.

In this humanitarian disaster, humans struggled to survive—but small animals seemed to thrive, even better than before.

Seeing those fat, red-eyed strays staring at them, he felt, for the first time, a surge of murderous desire.

Not far from the dogs lay scattered, chewed-up bones; from the small, round bone, he could tell it belonged to a child.

Around him, the ground bore chaotic marks—he didn’t know if they were signs of struggle.

Perhaps the child had still been alive when dragged out, too weak from hunger to move, and was slowly devoured alive.

Pedro had never truly believed in God—but he had respected Him.

Now, at this moment, he believed only in himself!

And in the weapon in his hand!

He took down his simple bow from his back, drew the string taut, and with a “beng,” shot one stray dog, which yowled and bit at the arrow lodged in its body.

It shook violently, trying to bite through or pull out the arrow—but it couldn’t.

Its mouth wasn’t flexible enough; it could only stare helplessly as the long arrow stuck deep in its flesh.

With its frantic movements, the wound tore wider, and blood shifted from slow drips to a rapid stream.

This sudden change sent the other strays scattering, barking furiously at Pedro and his group.

Pedro kept drawing and shooting, but only managed to hit two strays.

The pack, no longer bold, fled quickly, tails between their legs.

A young man walked toward the two dead strays. Pedro shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

The young man looked at him, confused. “I just thought… we shouldn’t waste it.”

“Fuck, don’t you know what they’ve been eating?”

Silence fell over everyone. Pedro pointed at the young man, said nothing more—but all knew his fierce opposition.

He would feel sick.

He didn’t want to eat it, and he didn’t want anyone else to eat it—this wasn’t food for humans.

The group continued into the village. Perhaps they were growing accustomed to the stench—it no longer seemed as overpowering.

Walking through the village felt like walking through hell. Even though Pedro had witnessed such horror once before, he was still shaken to his core.

His scalp prickled, his skin crawled with goosebumps—fear and rage side by side.

The group moved in silence, scavenging the village for seasonings.

Salt, sugar, and other things.

After about forty to fifty minutes, they left. The village was small—no living souls remained.

Back at the temporary camp, everyone’s mood was grim. Along the way, their group had grown—now nearly twelve to thirteen hundred strong.

The combined populations of the three villages must have exceeded two or three hundred.

What a terrible era.

“How was it?”

As soon as they entered the camp, a colleague approached, others watching them, hoping for good news.

They didn’t truly expect any village to still function normally—they longed only for the last remnants of order to remain intact.

Pedro shook his head, briefly described what he’d seen. Everyone fell silent.

Soon, someone began cursing Diego and the ruling clique—like an infection, more joined in.

Pedro had once cursed Diego and those greedy ministers too—but recently, he’d begun pondering another question.

Why had this happened?

Where was the root of all this disaster?

Others might say it was all Diego and the ruling clique’s fault—but Pedro believed it wasn’t just theirs.

It was also the fault of the Federals.

If the Federals hadn’t wanted to station troops, if they hadn’t been greedy for Yalan’s resources, life might have been hard—but not this horrific!

This was the darkest moment in Lapa’s history!

All because of the Federals’ presence!

As he pondered this inevitable connection, another scouting team returned—their leader was also Pedro’s colleague, a high school gym teacher.

His face was grim. The village he’d checked hadn’t been fully evacuated—but only twenty or so people remained.

From them, he had obtained something that unsettled him.

“I need to speak with you alone,” he told Pedro.

Pedro rose, puzzled, and walked with him to the edge of the camp. His colleague pulled out a poster and handed it over.

At his colleague’s urging, Pedro slowly unfolded it—and there, in second place, was his own photo.

His expression turned serious. The poster included nearly everyone who had attended Lans’s seminar, plus some he didn’t recognize.

“Diego is hunting you—and these others. They’ve labeled you ‘anti-government criminals’ and accused you of stealing grain.”

Pedro stared at the wanted poster in silence for a long time.

From a high school teacher to a wanted anti-government leader—he suddenly felt like laughing.

Real life was more surreal than any fantasy novel he’d ever read.

“What are you going to do?” his colleague asked, his expression grave.

If everyone had merely crossed moral or legal lines to survive, he could still accept it. But this wanted poster—he could no longer accept it.

He only wanted to live—not to overthrow the government!

Pedro, however, was calm. “Do we have a choice?”

He shook his head, walked outside with the poster, gathered the crowd, and held it up.

“Diego has branded me the leader of an anti-government force—and put a bounty on my head.”

“Let’s see how much I’m worth…” He hadn’t noticed the number beneath his photo until now. He glanced at it, then gave a wry smile. “Fifty thousand Palas.”

“To be honest, I think they’re underestimating me.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, easing the earlier tension.

“We now face two problems.”

“First: I know some want to leave. If you do, tell me—I’ll let you go.”

“Second: Do we pretend this wanted poster doesn’t exist—or do we accept this identity?”

“Of course, the second question only applies to those who stay. Let’s handle the first.”

“Is anyone here ready to leave? We’re in grave danger now—I’m the leader of an anti-government force. Staying with me makes you a member of that force.”

“If the government army catches you, you’ll be killed.”

“Leave now—maybe you can still clear your name.”

No sooner had he finished than someone stepped away. Then more followed.

Not everyone had the resolve or courage—nor had all been truly pushed to this desperate edge.

For some people, they simply don’t want to starve—they don’t necessarily have to rebel against the government!

At that moment, someone in the crowd said, “If we leave here, how much food will they give us?”

The people turned to look at the speaker—he was one who had joined only recently.

Pedro adjusted his glasses. “What right do you have to take this food?”

“Have you lifted a finger for this food?”

“Or did you bring this food here yourself?”

“You’ve done nothing—you have no right to share in this food!”

The man grew frantic upon hearing this. Without food, and now cast out from the group, it was no different from seeking death. He shouted immediately, “This is unfair!”

“Food should be divided equally among everyone! I demand my fair share!”

All eyes turned to Pedro. He pointed at the man. “Throw him out of our camp!”

Young men immediately rushed forward to shove him. He tried to resist, but was quickly beaten down.

Those who wanted to leave Pedro were the timid; those who stayed were the bold, with their own ideas.

Soon the man lay motionless, then was tossed outside the camp. Pedro looked around at the others. “Anyone else planning to leave?”

“Once we move on, you won’t get another chance to leave!”

Some more people left the group and stepped aside. After triple-checking that no one else wished to depart, Pedro nodded toward them. “You may go.”

They looked at each other, then slowly filed out of the camp.

Only then did Pedro raise the second issue. “Now let’s address what comes next.”

“Do you think it’s better for us to become the ‘anti-government force’ in Diego’s eyes—or to remain a band of refugees, scavenging for survival?”

“This matters to us—it will determine the path we take and the fate we face.”

“You all know me. I’ve always admired the Federal social system, and I despise dictatorship. So every choice we make must be democratic.”

“I’ll lay out the options, and then you choose.”

“If you choose to embrace this identity, I’ll contact those willing to fund us—they’ll supply us with food, intelligence, all the resources we need, even weapons!”

“If we don’t embrace it, we’ll remain on the run—because the government army will soon target us!”

“With bounties on our heads, people will keep betraying us until we’re caught.”

Someone asked at that moment, “Who will help us?”

Pedro thought of the Federal “International Human Rights Investigator,” Mr. Andy.

But in his mind surfaced the face of Lans.

These two men were likely allies.

“Federal people,” he said. “The Federals are greedily obsessed with Yalan. The Yalan Alliance is merely...”

He meant to explain further, but seeing the blank stares around him, he suddenly realized—perhaps this was precisely the strength of the Federals, of Lans and his kind.

Because people want to live!

They merely stitched together a few factors, forcing the government to harass them—and forcing these people, to survive, to keep fighting the government.

He recalled a key point the Yalan Alliance had raised during negotiations with the Federal government.

As a middle-school teacher with some education, he cared about politics, much like Federal voters—but with a difference.

Federal voters cared about politics because they felt they had a voice.

Pedro cared about politics only to know what the future would hold.

During negotiations, the Yalan Alliance demanded that the Federal government respect internal governance within the Alliance and guarantee the political independence of its member states.

The Federals had spoken beautifully then: they promised to respect the political sovereignty of Yalan’s nations and not interfere in their internal affairs!

Yes, they didn’t interfere—they merely used subtle tactics to plunge Rapa into civil chaos!

He didn’t yet know what other nations were enduring, but it surely wasn’t better.

He had intended to explain all this—but now he realized it was unnecessary.

They wouldn’t try to understand. They only wanted to live—even if it meant picking up weapons.

His guess was right: no one asked, “Why would the Federals help us?” They only asked how the Federals would help, and how the supplies would reach their hands.

Pedro himself didn’t know the answer—but he knew one thing: the Federals would send the supplies, because they needed these rebels active across the land.

After brief discussion, they quickly agreed: embrace the identity of an anti-government force, and strive to rebuild a better Rapa!

This outcome didn’t surprise Pedro. The constant turmoil and hunger had already weeded out most of the elderly; those left were young and strong—the very age most prone to fervor.

Their hatred for Diego, their inner drive to realize their own ideals, and the raw power within them—all forbade them from begging for survival on their knees.

The outcome was predictable. What followed would be simple.

He had planned to find a way to contact Mr. Andy, to discuss supply lines and further aid.

But that evening, gunshots from afar forced them to move again.

“Probably those who left during the day.”

Others speculated too. Everyone was uneasy now, no longer buoyed by the excitement they’d felt when deciding to oppose Diego and his government.

Pedro said nothing—only urged everyone to pack quickly and leave.

Though they hadn’t seen what happened, each felt a premonition: those who left during the day had been discovered.

And this only strengthened their resolve to oppose Diego’s rule!

Days passed. Bargas had transferred to him ownership of the Mabashan Silver Mine and an active iron mine.

And Pedro had paid Bargas the promised sum—in cash.

Lans had smuggled vast amounts of cash into this region—and barring accidents, this flow would continue.

He even considered entering a similar business. After all, money laundering had always been a high-profit industry in the Federation.

The Federation had long been awash in illicit money, invisible to the law. In the past, this was somewhat easier—most people didn’t pay taxes anyway.

But now, with tax reform, ordinary citizens must pay. The terrifying Federal State Tax Bureau is poised to rise onto the historical stage in a new form.

(End of Chapter)