Chapter 821 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 821: The Burning Sails Nightfall slowly descended upon the southern seas, gradually deepening in hue. Meanwhile, faraway at West Sail Port, the evening was just beginning, with the scorching crimson of the setting sun seemingly poised to dry up the ocean. In regions close to the equator, there is no concept of winter. As they watched the relentless sun sink into the sea, the laborers on the docks finally breathed a sigh of relief. The sun had finally set! After recent busy days, the docks had been deserted for several days without a single ship in sight. Everyone was without work, finally understanding the saying "one prospers, all prosper; one suffers, all suffer." If West Sail Port truly faced bankruptcy, everyone would end up selling themselves back into noble plantations. Although the province of Borro has one advantage—people could survive by eating dirt—no one could survive on that indefinitely. Eating that wouldn't help one's body grow and drained energy instead, leading to a vicious cycle where eventually an entire family might end up buried in the ground. Eating it two to three days a week was safe; four days was acceptable, but five or six days in a row posed difficulties. Unless there was a famine, no one would resort to that. Fortunately, recent shipping activities had resumed slightly, giving those who had been idle something to do once more. Remembering Lord Naj's promise of a wage increase, everyone poured their strength into their work. Their thoughts were simple, even "naive". The employer gave them money, and they couldn't let him down by working slower than those slacking slaves. However— Not everyone benefited. For instance, those who carried Orisa’s body to confront Naj on behalf of his family, or those who clamored for the wage to increase to ten dinars a day. All of those people ended up blacklisted, noted down in Lord Naj’s little book. First, at the labor registry, it was a principle to only recommend work to law-abiding workers, while the disobedient troublemakers got no introductions—or were given the lowest-paying jobs. Returning to the docks was out of the question. As for going to work in the steel or cement plants, that was a pipe dream. After all, the profitable industries were backed by the same group—either Velanters or the Empire's nobility. In their intertwined interests, these people were unbreakably united. And those blacklisted freemen were either left to wait for notices at home, or ended up cleaning sewage or doing other sanitation work. Their vacancies, as they opened up, were slowly filled by slaves promoted to freemen. After all, Borro Province had plenty of slaves. It was like a self-renewing mechanism forming a perfect closed loop. In this aspect, West Sail Port was much like the former Galleon Port. Typically, these menial jobs were done by slaves—they didn’t care if slaves slacked. But as freemen, if they only did these jobs, supporting a family was simply impossible. Some tried to seek help from those benefiting laborers, hoping to unite again for their shared interests in another non-violent strike, but they were avoided like the plague by those who had gotten what they wanted. Eight dinars a day were enough for them to get by; they hadn't asked for much more. As for those left behind... They had only themselves to blame for not being obedient. Moreover, these folks who shifted filth, swept streets, or had no work at all, weren't considered “one of us.” Earning two dinars a day, how dare they call themselves kin? Presumptuous! Initially, they felt awkward rejecting help, as they knew deep down where their dinars came from. But later rumors spread that the troublemakers were under the influence of the Silver Moon Sect, having received treatment at the Silver Moon Chapel after getting injured. Then came whispers that Priest Melgio sympathized with the Moonfolk. The Moonfolk! The empire's persistent thorn! All clues seemed to "clarify"—those troublemakers were instigated by the Moon Bandits, possibly even paid by the Rashians, which justified their exclusion. From revered heroes to despised figures, Iseel sat morosely in the chapel, bandaged head aching. It was his sole refuge of peace. Naj’s baton-wielding squad dared not antagonize this place for now, perhaps waiting for the right moment, or seeking orders from the masters. Meanwhile, those who spat at the Silver Moon insignia refrained from approaching, fearing association with the Moon Bandits. It was ten days ago when he confronted Naj carrying Orisa’s corpse. At that time, his blood ran hot, and he felt it couldn’t continue like this, hence stepping forward bravely. He had never even met Rasi; the thought was ludicrous, given that the fiend was thousands of kilometers away, not to mention battling General Arayang, the war god at the front lines. Yet people were convinced he secretly met with Rasi one night, even claiming they talked intimately for hours. The scar on his forehead pulsed with pain, likely inflamed. Dressed in robe, Melgio approached, assisting by an elder nun who unwrapped the bandages and disinfected the wound with alcohol before applying fresh ones. The intense pain tormented Iseel’s mind. More agonizing than physical pain was the torment deep inside. “…I don’t understand why they don’t get it… What happened to me today will one day happen to them, or their children. Obviously, it’s Naj’s ploy to divide us, using unseen figures to incite self-destruction.” Such classic ploys appeared in "The Awakener Pol", where city aristocrats tried to buy off Pol with black cards, and when spurned, they bared their fangs, trying to smear this hero with salacious rumors to estrange Boulder City residents from him… Except in that story, Boulder City’s residents saw through the inner-city ruse, instead of trampling underfoot, they rallied around him, becoming the sparks to chase away long nights. That novel’s climax stood right there. Recalling the story kept him excited, unable to sleep that night. “You’re too anxious,” Melgio said while treating his wounds, sighing. “What seems obvious to you is new to everyone else here.” Iseel frowned, trying to argue. “But Pol…” Melgio quickly interrupted him. “It’s just a novel, an article by a canning factory worker named Sperger in the ‘Survivor’s Monthly’. It’s not true history… How can you demand real people act exactly like they do in a story?” “But Boulder City isn’t just from that book,” Iseel retorted solemnly. “I heard Pol is based on someone real.” Melgio fell silent, pondering whether he himself was too hasty. He established the “Silver Gospel Journal” initially to teach people literacy, believing that those able to write would naturally pen their own stories. Much like Sperger, once illiterate, who ultimately penned that sensational piece. Before his time came, Hal, who founded the “Survivor’s Daily”, merely serialized silly limericks besides writing news. But reflecting now… Perhaps he had worsened matters. He unwaveringly believed himself treading the goddess of the Silver Moon's path, yet urged himself impatiently. “I’ve been there, and you guys… aren’t the same as them.” Iseel raised his head, puzzled, asking. “Not the same?” Melgio nodded. “Yes, they know Pol is fiction, but most believe he could be real, and sincerely hope he exists. So, every one of them became Pol. As for ‘Ken’, they were the minority.” “You guys are actually smarter, misapplying it though. Knowing Pol is fiction, you end up blaming why the fictitious figure isn’t real. Like trying to scoop the moon from the water—proving it fake since you couldn’t fish the moon out.” “I believe he exists! I’ve never thought he was fake!” Iseel interrupted, leaping from his seat, filled with fervor. “Moreover, I’m willing to become him!” "You are courageous, but it holds no meaning… Nobody standing with you truly believes. Darkness is destined to surround you, filled with opportunists. If you continue, you will either become a fleeting flame, burning out before dawn, or blaze brilliantly yet briefly… Regardless, your end will not be favorable, nor will it change the people here." Melgio, filled with compassion, continued in a gentler tone, "I don’t want you to be discouraged. You are a good person, but I can only advise that the time is not yet ripe. West Sail Port has not even existed for a year; you… only became freemen in the past couple of months, and most people here are still slaves." "In Boulder City, slavery was never mainstream; it only appeared on outskirts farms. Numerous sanctuaries opened to bring them the prosperity era’s technology and ideas, yet they wallowed for over a century… Even before they saw victory’s dawn, they indirectly spawned monsters like the Torch." He loathed the Legion, or rather, no one liked those big-nosed invaders. Especially for people from the Sunset Province, they were akin to demons, doing all sorts of evil deeds. However, his thoughts had slightly shifted after spending some time in West Sail Port. Solving any issue cannot be divorced from its era's context—locking people in a cage is undoubtedly unjust, but if it’s a slightly bigger cage, one can still consider it progress. Even if this bigger cage remains worth criticizing, the progress itself deserves praise. Iseel lowered his head, remaining silent. He was grateful for the priest’s generous help; someone as poor as him couldn’t afford alcohol for his wounds. But clearly, Mr. Melgio couldn’t fully grasp their suffering. Life on the plantations wasn’t worse than at West Sail Port. Although they were private property there too, at least the master wouldn’t, just for enjoyment, break a piece of furniture every day. And one master, no matter how evil, was just one person; most wouldn’t even see their master their entire lives, let alone know how lavishly he lived, resulting in a peculiar peace. But West Sail Port was entirely different; those masters collaborated with the Velanters to bleed them dry. Now, they weren’t satisfied with that and secretly formed an alliance, ensuring "troublemakers" like him couldn’t find work, constantly ostracized. Without a doubt, they wanted him dead! A spark of hatred flickered in Iseel’s eyes. He had no retreat. Others might sell themselves as slaves, but he was certain that if he did, Naj would mercilessly buy him and his family, torturing them for amusement, and using his life as a gruesome lesson. He had to do something! This wasn’t only his thought; others in the chapel felt the same. Unlike the busy dockworkers, their shared belief had united them. Daring to voice for Orisa, they were ready to fight once more for their comrades’ fate! "…Thank you, Mr. Melgio. Thank you for bringing the teachings of the Silver Moon Goddess to us, teaching us to read, and tending to our wounds." Melgio was taken aback, detecting something unusual in Iseel’s eyes. That gaze, clouded with hostility, made him uneasy. "What do you intend to do?" Iseel spoke in a hushed tone, "Reclaim what’s rightfully ours, before Naj and his enforcers act. We must strike first… This is also for you and your church; we are running out of time." His vague words betrayed his lack of confidence in the plan, worried about implicating the church. He needed another place to discuss with those of like minds. Melgio watched in astonishment as the man stood and walked to the door, followed silently by others in the chapel. In no time, only a few old men and Melgio with the elder nun remained in the vast chapel. "I worry about them…" The elder nun's eyes brimmed with concern as she looked at Melgio, hoping he'd dissuade them. Melgio's face mirrored anxiety and deep worry. "I worry too… But what can I say? Would holding him back truly work? They won’t even tell me their plans. I just hope he realizes the danger." The true fault lay in those driving them to a desperate corner. Could he just advise them to resign to fate? Sighing deeply, Melgio bowed his head, tracing a circle over his chest in silent prayer. May the Silver Moon Goddess’s light protect them, guiding the lost lambs back to the right path... It was all he, as a priest, could do. … Twilight dipped below the sea, and the night in West Sail Port was soon upon them; finally, it was shift change time. A long queue formed outside the labor registry, as workers lined up to receive their wages. Everyone collected wages weekly, regardless of when their pay was due. At last, his turn came, and Gowinda approached quickly, flashing a pleasing smile to the young Lionfolk man behind the counter, respectfully presenting his hands. Although this gesture wouldn’t increase his wages, it was instinctive. The staff here saw thousands like him every day. The young man, uninterested in wasting time, counted out four ten-denar coins and two one-denar coins, tossing them on the counter, then continued snacking on sunflower seeds. Gowinda hurriedly scooped up the coins, counting them again, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Wait a minute, how is it only 42 coins!? I worked non-stop for a week, it should be 56 denars. You're missing 14!" Behind the counter, the young man glanced contemptuously at this pauper, answering impatiently, "Who cares about those few denars? That’s your pay. Any issues? Take it up with Naj." Fuming, Gowinda clenched the coins tightly, pointing angrily at the window. "You can’t do this! We agreed on eight denars a day!" Ignoring the rant, the young man called for his terminal chief. The chief seemed notably adept at handling such issues, already shouting as he approached. “What’s all this noise? You know there weren’t many ships these days! Getting six denars is decent; not every day can be as busy as two weeks ago!" Gowinda panicked; after all, these wages were hard-fought, yet they reneged now! Though six denars a day was high compared to before, it felt like a slap after working tirelessly for a week. "But… two weeks ago, you paid eight denars even for half a day’s work!" Impatient, the chief retorted, "If you’re unhappy, don’t come tomorrow… What’s this guy’s name, circle it." At those words, Gowinda's defiance vanished, his face turning ashen. "No, no! I’ll come! I have to work tomorrow!" The chief signaled the young man behind the counter, who obligingly put down his pen, seemingly magnanimous. "Work properly and stop whining, collect your pay and leave, there are people waiting." The chief waved dismissively, shooing like chasing flies. Around him, laborers stood in silent anger, fearful to be the nail that sticks out. They had seen what became of the Moon Bandits; they were declared untouchables after brutal beatings. Gowinda left the registry dejectedly, glancing at his shrunken pay, then back at the plaque, spitting angrily on the ground. “Damn it…” He should’ve listened to Iseel earlier. He dared not voice such thoughts but figured it safe to think them. Dragging his tired body home, he pondered how to spend the sizable sum left in his pocket. In truth, six denars a day wasn’t bad; it could still cover family expenses and maybe even leave some savings. Just as Gowinda was lost in these thoughts, a sudden explosion echoed behind him. The sound stunned him momentarily. Instinctively, he turned his head to see thick smoke billowing from the direction of the port area warehouses. The explosion seemed to have originated from there. He knew that place too well, as he spent most of his days there. The warehouses were filled with tea, sugar, cotton, textiles, and possibly cement and steel. While cement was nonflammable, sugar was dangerous, especially with flammable materials like cotton nearby. From a distance, Gowinda could hear shouts and the chaotic rush of footsteps. “Fire! It’s the warehouse district!” “It’s burning!” “Hurry! Get the fire under control!” It's burning... Seeing the day’s hard work engulfed in flames, Gowinda's expression bore no panic; instead, a smug smile appeared. Good riddance! It wasn’t his stuff anyway, so better burn it all down—let the entire port light up! With that thought, his steps home were much lighter... Meanwhile, having just exited the chapel, Iseel and the other congregants also heard the explosion, momentarily stunned. Quickly someone realized and whispered under their breath. “It’s the warehouse district!” “Could it be on fire?” Recognizing what might be happening, a satisfied expression crossed everyone’s face. However, Iseel frowned, a troubled look creasing his brow. “Don’t rush to gloat. No matter who set the fire, Naj will blame it on us.” He had thought about setting fire to the warehouse himself—several times—but ultimately decided against it. Though he knew the layout well enough for such an act to be feasible, the aftermath would be problematic. The Velanters wouldn’t listen to reason, and it would only end with them on the gallows. The right approach was to organize the laborers, much like Pol and his comrades had done. This task, though tough, wasn’t impossible, especially since foolish Naj seemed to forget his past troubles, cutting dock workers' wages again. If they could unite firmly enough, they would have the leverage to negotiate with the nobles. After all, the Velanters were here to make money, not create problems for themselves. Everyone realized this incident might implicate them, a worried expression spreading across their faces. “What do we do now?” Facing their distressed gazes, Iseel couldn’t come up with a solution, gritting his teeth and saying, “Let’s watch and see first…” … At the same time, Márgaret, perusing through the bustling port market, paused when she heard the explosion, looking towards the source. The vendor craned his neck, gazing at the rising black smoke with surprise. “It’s the warehouse district…” Such a loud noise, could it be that a cannon shell has ignited? He vaguely recalled hearing that West Sail Port stored some cannon shells transported from the western part of Sunset Province, intended for General Arayang. Market-goers exchanged glances, whispering amongst themselves, unease etched on their faces. “Madam…” whispered the dark-skinned maid beside Márgaret, “The port hasn't been safe lately. We should head back quickly.” She had heard rumors that the port acquired a new batch of slaves from nearby estates, replacing previous troublemakers. Though unrelated to their family, more idle paupers had visibly populated the port area. The ravenous eyes they cast upon them were wolf-like. There were reports of petty theft, with the local jail nearly full. In just two weeks, West Sail Port’s situation had visibly deteriorated. Though tensions had been simmering for some time... “Yes, let's head back early…” Márgaret nodded, handing her chosen trinkets to the maid to pack, then paid the vendor, taking her daughter Ruby's small hand to head home. As Arman’s wife, Márgaret hailed from a merchant family, once a citizen of Triumphant City. She shared her husband’s keen intuition. Hence, the explosion immediately struck her as a harbinger of something unusual. She had a premonition. Something major was brewing… Their group quickly returned to their residence near the port, perhaps the safest spot in the entire port. Yet recently, as the year-end approached, even it seemed less secure. Márgaret noted several families were absent, likely returning to Triumphant City. Or, like her husband, venturing east for a lucrative trade. Removing her boots at the entryway, an idea struck her. She bent down and addressed her daughter Ruby gently. “By the way, Ruby, didn’t you want to visit Earl Salma’s youngest daughter?” Ruby’s eyes gleamed, nodding vigorously. “Yes! I promised Ansuya we’d play hide and seek next time.” Márgaret affectionately tousled her fluffy hair. “Mom will take you there.” Ruby leapt up excitedly. “Really?! How long will we stay?” Márgaret pondered briefly, smiling. “Two weeks, perhaps. By then, your father should be back.” … As the explosion sounded, unrest swept across West Sail Port. The fire had spread rapidly, engulfing several warehouses within ten minutes. Thick smoke blotted the sky, even obscuring the sun setting over the sea. Naj’s face was filled with terror, his complexion pale, lips blue and trembling. Seeing his similarly bewildered lackeys, he screamed hoarsely. “What are you all standing around for! Get the fire under control!” Holding long sticks, the lackeys exchanged reluctant glances, grimacing. “Sir… The fire is too big. With these few men, we can’t get in there.” Without thinking, Naj shouted. “Then get more people over here! Do I have to teach you everything?” With Naj’s outburst, no one dared linger, rushing forth with their sticks, coercing gawkers through a mix of threats and promises to assist in firefighting. Most onlookers were freemen living nearby the port. Not all were short-lived dock laborers; some held respectable jobs. Technically, Naj had no jurisdiction over these people, but urgency overrode protocol. Intimidated by the “long sticks,” they reluctantly joined the firefighting efforts, carrying bucket after bucket of water to the blazing inferno. And with the initial group’s help, the rest came more easily. People unused to such large fires joined curiously, not for money but for excitement, though hoping for competent results was wishful thinking. Fortunately, with the warehouses by the sea, water wasn’t far, and their frantic efforts bore some fruit. Watching the fire suppression efforts, Naj gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. These damned arsonists! Absolutely outrageous! Clearly, someone familiar with the area set this up, no fluke! The fires surrounded the sugar warehouses, even causing explosions at the scene. He swore! He would apprehend the arsonist! No doubt— If he couldn’t explain this to the Velanters, his master would surely sacrifice him as a scapegoat! Sweat poured down his forehead as Naj’s mind swirled with suspicion, convinced the Silver Moon churchgoers were responsible! Unquestionably, only they had the motive for such an act! About five to six minutes later, the port’s fire brigade finally arrived. Like the postal service, the Velanters had brought the brigade from Triumphant City. They rolled in with water carts, dousing the flaming warehouses, rapidly controlling the blaze. Unfortunately, the fine sugar and tea were ruined in the process. Observing the scattered tea leaves and cotton fabric, along with partially melted sugar sand across the ground, the residents engaged in firefighting couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy, especially the paupers who had come to gawk. These were luxuries they could never afford in a lifetime! Though mud-splattered and drenched in sewage, it mattered little to those accustomed to consuming dirt. Initially, only a few ventured to loot, but soon the chaotic crowd swarmed like mice to grain, assailing the goods. Water buckets became the most coveted items, as people shoved whatever they desired into them. At first, they salvaged the goods dispersed by the water hoses; later, even those untouched suffered the same fate. Unemployed laborers rushed in, unable to curb their urge to seize cheap goods. They knew where the most valuable cargo was stored and how best to access it. Clever ones followed them, fleeing with boxes and bundles of fabric. The warehouse district fell into complete disarray, as if half of West Sail Port had arrived. By the time Naj realized the situation had spiraled out of control, it was far too late. He shouldn't have mobilized the masses. If allowed to burn, the flames might have consumed only a few warehouses before the fire brigade arrived, without resulting in such a massive loss. Compared to the sudden blaze, these supposedly helpful folks were the real locusts! "Stop! Halt immediately! Those are Velanter goods, you value your lives, don't you?" Naj yelled helplessly, directing his stick-wielding thugs forward. Yet, those stick-bearing slaves glanced at each other, unwilling to budge. There's a crowd of at least several thousand here, while they number just a hundred or so. Without guns, relying solely on sticks, engaging would be a quick demise for their side. The fire brigade, having contained the blaze, tried using water hoses to disperse the looters, inadvertently provoking them. In the ensuing chaos, someone shouted, and a group rushed up, toppling the water truck. The Velanter driver inside the truck huddled, trembling as he radioed for reinforcements. At this moment, the port's guard force finally arrived, albeit belatedly. Roughly fifty of them stood at the warehouse district entrance, the entirety of the nearby police force! They had likely not anticipated their involvement in what seemed a simple fire incident. The captain, shouldering a breechloader rifle, stomped toward Naj, seizing his collar, spitting furiously as he shouted. “What the hell happened here!” Two weeks, two uprisings—never had he encountered such an incompetent agent—or foreman. Naj, of course, couldn't admit that he had called these folks to extinguish the fire, only for them to loot afterward. Instead, he swiftly responded. “S-sir, these rioters seized the opportunity to loot, I couldn’t restrain them…” It certainly appeared that way on the scene. The captain’s face turned cold, swiftly unshouldering his rifle, aiming at a robber fleeing with a sack of sugar, firing with a crack. The bullet struck the man's neck, blood spurting out. The unfortunate man fell silent, collapsing into a puddle. He likely died bewildered, wondering why among all looters, only he was shot. Nearby looters froze, shocked by the Velanters’ lethal response. Standing awkwardly in the warehouse district, fleeing or staying seemed impossible. “Drop the stolen goods!” The captain shouted, brandishing his rifle, signaling his comrades to chamber their rounds. “Everyone, stand still with hands up, or I’ll—” Before the threat finished, a gunshot rang from afar. Matching the breechloader's sound, a bullet lodged into his chest. The captain paused, a sharp pain spreading as blood surged from the wound and his mouth. Time slowed, his eyes wide open as he fell into a comrade's embrace. Where did these guys get guns?! Could it be— Blood clogged his throat, words lost as he managed to order a counterattack. Regaining those weapons was imperative! At any cost! Witnessing the captain’s collapse, the incensed guards erupted. These scoundrels! They dared kill their captain! Fiery hatred glinted in their eyes, now distinguishing no civilians from rioters. To them— Everyone was an enemy! “Enemy attack!” “Prepare for battle!” With fierce shouts, they first dragged the fallen captain to cover. Following the deputy captain’s orders, they assumed combat stances, unleashing indiscriminate fire toward the bullet’s source. Bullets flew erratically through the warehouse area, swiftly causing numerous casualties. The lad with the rifled musket huddled behind a warehouse, face pallid. He had acquired it amidst the laborers from an armory warehouse. Those audacious enough had knocked out the guards, tying them up. These rifles were worth more than sugar—they fetched a good price on the black market. He initially intended to scare those big-nose tyrants, showing them the rodents' might, never imagining killing someone with a single shot. The chaos escalated; bodies thronged the warehouse district... Seeing the encroaching guards, his instinct was to flee, but the staccato of gunfire sounded nearby. Bullets zipped past, pinning the guard squad down behind cover, unable to lift their heads. The young man glanced toward the gunfire, spotting a lanky man reloading. Grasped in his hands was an advanced "Blade" assault rifle! Far deadlier than the breechloader, capable of firing a full burst! Driven by fury, perhaps having lost kin, the man spat on the ground, furiously yelling. “Damn it, why run?! Our firepower is way superior to these big noses!” His shout summoned enthusiastic responses. Those contemplating escape reconsidered, glancing at their firearms. Where would they escape to, anyway? In Borro Province, the Velanters would hunt them down no matter how far they fled. Better to emulate Rasi, carving out a piece of sky with the gun's muzzle! Once the dread demon they scorned, now he offered some solace. Faces that trembled with anxiety hardened under gunfire. They weren’t truly timid—beastly natures merely repressed by discipline. Now, the cage had opened, and liberated beasts roamed free. “Damn Velanters!” “Kill them all!” “Annihilate!” “Rahhh!” Gunfire intensified, both sides locked in an indeterminate struggle. While the Velanter guards had suppression experience, never had they encountered such a dire situation. Too many rioters guarded the armory, new entrants continually bolstering ranks. Some sought vengeance for family, others spurred by the rioters’ fervor, while more opportunists hoped for gain. Everyone received a gun, even the children got pistols. Despite three casualties, the Velanter guards couldn't breach the warehouse entrance. Crouching behind cover, the deputy captain barked into his radio. “Warehouse district requesting reinforcements! Repeat, warehouse district needs reinforcements!” As he spoke, a trailed artillery piece emerged from the warehouse entrance. West Sail Port, as the largest leasehold port on the western coast, drew a diverse crowd. Freemen there included not only ransomed slaves but battle-scarred veterans. Many had served in the Gray Wolf Army, retreating here after defeats at Galleon Port. Formerly trained by the legion, they naturally knew how to operate such a piece. He couldn't understand why these people would assist the rioters. Seeing them loading the cannon, the deputy captain's expression shifted dramatically. "Damn it—" He barely swore a curse before an orange-red tracer shot forward, exploding roughly ten meters in front of him. The explosive force launched him and his cover into the air, resulting in heavy losses among the nearby guards. Meanwhile, the rioters stationed at the warehouse entrance erupted in gleeful shouts. "Nice shot!" "Blast those bastards to hell!" "Reload! Quick, reload! Let’s give the port a taste too!" "Damn it! Don’t waste time; we've got to finish off these guards first!" The group clumsily ejected the shell casing, quickly loading another high-explosive round into the cannon. In the distance, a police armored vehicle, gathering dust inside the warehouse, finally ventured out but quickly retreated in fear when the leveled 100mm cannon aimed their way. Realizing the growing chaos exceeded what their numbers could handle, the Velanter guards began withdrawing from the warehouse district, seemingly regrouping to defend the port area. A shell chased them as they retreated; it not only felled a few unlucky guards but also collapsed a nearby building as several people scrambled out, frantic and disheveled. Shrieks and wails rose and fell in the air—these people were now fully engulfed in bloodlust. Amidst the chaos, they quickly chose a "lead wolf," rallying their armed companions to prepare for an assault on the port. Though unwilling, many swept into the fray instinctively grouped around them. The world had changed. No matter what form it would take, they had no choice but to stick close to those with power. At least they wouldn’t immediately become prey. Nobody could have predicted how a minor fire would escalate to this. Both Velanters and Lionfolk nobles, along with the freemen of West Sail Port, were left utterly stunned. Perhaps too many coincidences had aligned, turning this powder keg into an explosive waiting for a spark. The chaos had spiraled completely out of control… Crouching near the warehouse district with fellow congregants, Iseel swallowed hard, the courage once shining in his eyes now shadowed by a hint of fear. He still couldn't wrap his head around the recent upheaval, but one thing was excrystal clear to him. Without a doubt, these people had made a mess of things. Although it wasn't entirely their fault—those who ignited the warehouses, Naj forcing onlookers to fight the fire, and the Velanters who fired first all shared blame—discussing it now was meaningless. Iseel's Adam's apple moved. "This is bad..." To be continued.