Chapter 212: Dawn

On November 21, negotiations between the mayor of Sabin City and the striking workers’ representatives made no valuable progress. The workers’ demands exceeded the limits of both the mayor and the capitalists involved.

They demanded higher wages, shorter working hours, and better benefits.

If they had negotiated on just one of these points, or made small concessions on each, it wouldn’t have been a big problem—like the water company workers whose modest demands allowed for an agreement.

But these striking workers asked for too much. The most ridiculous was a worker representative demanding the weekly hours be cut from sixty to fifty, with a 5% pay raise, plus daily servings of meat and fresh fruit at lunch.

No capitalist would ever agree to that. Fifteen worker representatives maintained a united front, even though some thought negotiations were possible, but refused to talk for the sake of appearances.

The constant disagreements turned the talks into a farce. The workers and capitalists ended amid accusations and insults.

This made the workers believe the mayor was insincere and sided with the capitalists. Coupled with provocations from a small group and the escalation after the Eminence shooting, unrest in Sabin City and the entire state flared up again.

People openly looted, smashed, and set fires. They even shouted slogans like Shoot me if you dare! as they vented their frustration.

Some knew deep down this was wrong, but dared not speak out—this wasn’t the time for caution.

On November 23, seeing things spiraling out of control, the governor made a public address, urging citizens to return home quickly, lock their doors and windows, and protect their safety and property.

He also called on those rioting to surrender voluntarily and ordered the demonstrations to end immediately.

These words, sounding like those of a dictator, had no effect. People’s will was strong—hungry and weak, they still raised their flags and chanted faint slogans.

At 7:30 PM on November 24, the governor personally signed the year’s first executive order and notified the Defense Department and related agencies that military control would begin statewide at 5:30 AM on November 25.

This executive order could only be issued in special circumstances—when the situation was so severe that waiting for approval from the president’s cabinet and Congress was impossible. The governor temporarily gained supreme military and administrative authority within the state.

After the crisis, the governor would face investigations by federal security agencies and hearings in Congress.

If deemed appropriate, the matter would end there; if not, a case might be opened.

The governor decreed that after the set time, no one was allowed on the streets, no one could approach or attack soldiers on duty, and all rioting must cease—violators would face the harshest consequences.

At 8 PM, this news spread swiftly via television to every household, stirring fear and anger.

It was an insult to human rights and freedom.

It tarnished the precious spirit of the federation.

That same night, the mayor announced a second round of labor negotiations starting November 27, still led by him.

Also that night, the workers’ union held an emergency meeting to plan.

The union had played a vital role in rapidly spreading the strike across the federation.

Workers in one city thousands of kilometers away had no idea about strikes elsewhere, but the union coordinated communication and organized local groups, turning what might have been minor, frequent strikes into a nationwide movement.

Now that the crisis was severe and demands unmet, they were unsure whether to continue.

After the overnight meeting, they decided to gauge the government’s stance before deciding their next move.

And to gauge it, they would test the waters.

On the morning of November 25, at 5:30 AM, Sabin City was still shrouded in darkness. The late autumn sun rose slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of bed.

Soldiers, fully armed, entered the city along main routes.

At that moment, a group of workers with varied expressions blocked their path, linking arms tightly, standing tall and singing Long Live the Federation, facing the soldiers without fear.

The lead military vehicle slowly stopped. A blond, blue-gray eyed officer in his thirties stepped out—a major in the army, judging by his insignia.

His immaculate appearance and uniform gave him a heavy presence.

He leaned on the car door, watching the ordinary people blocking their way. Standing behind the headlights, his face was obscured in shadow, only the bright lights visible.

He looked at the crowd, then checked his wristwatch. “Five minutes until 5:30. Per the governor’s order, everyone must be home and under martial law by then.”

He lowered his wrist and stared coldly at them. “You have four minutes left. If you remain in my sight after that, don’t bother going home.”

Some striking workers began to weaken. Those bold enough to challenge the order—speaking for the union but not directly communicating with it—felt their courage rapidly fading in front of the soldiers’ coldness.

The once bold singing lost its strength, turning timid and lifeless—not the style befitting Long Live the Federation.

The major stood calmly before them, hands clasped behind his back, blue-gray eyes indifferent.

“Three minutes…”

The singing quieted more. If not for their linked arms, some would have fled.

Soldiers and police both carried guns, but the military presence was more intimidating.

“Two minutes…”

“One minute!”

At the one-minute mark, the major checked his watch again. “You have 47 seconds… 43… 42…”

He counted down.

A quiet voice silenced all others. The fading song thickened the tension.

Some broke free, running toward their homes; others believed the soldiers were bluffing and stood firm, insisting the army had no right to attack them.

Watching the crowd thin, a mocking smile appeared on the major’s lips.

“Ten…”

“Nine…”

“Fine, since you don’t seem willing to leave, I won’t count down,” he said, withdrawing his wrist and turning to another soldier behind him. “Was my joke not funny?”

On this late autumn morning, sweat beaded on the soldier’s forehead. Nervously, he chuckled, “Very funny, Major.”

The Major looked at him and only when he saw his unease did he say, “Too exaggerated. Double the basic training when we get back.” He leaned on the car door and got back inside, then ordered the soldiers behind him, “Arrest these rioters. Use lethal force if necessary.”

In an instant, the soldiers surged forward like wild wolves breaking from their pen, unleashing their most professional military skills on defenseless civilians.

Watching from the vehicle as the ordinary people were beaten until bruised and bleeding, pressed to the ground with at least two gun barrels pointed at their heads, Lynch put on his sheepskin gloves with satisfaction.

He knew his actions would be reported to his commanding officers at the military base, even up to the Defense Department—but he didn’t care.

He understood that under pressure, the country would soon shed its harmless façade. The next ten years—at least—would be a golden age for hawks and radicals, the era all soldiers loved most.

The harder and more aggressive he acted now, the better his future chances.

At his rank, he was already privy to some high-level developments. He wanted his performance noticed by the top brass. He aimed to lead troops overseas and show the world the power of the federation’s military.

To make them understand the federation’s isolation was not from fear, but from a desire not to harm others.

In less than a minute, these striking workers—who had rendered the police powerless—were beaten bloody, their wrists bound with ropes as thick as small arms, linked together and dragged behind an armored vehicle.

If they wanted to avoid being dragged, they’d better keep up with a brisk run. Now, sore all over, they no longer complained or cursed—they followed silently.

At 5:30, the eastern sky began to lighten.