Chapter 213: The Brave Fight the Dragon

“This was resolved much faster than expected!”

Walking down Sabin City’s busiest street, Lynch finally felt the bleak atmosphere that follows a major upheaval.

The streets were nearly empty. Those who were out walked hunched, heads down, afraid to draw the attention of the patrolling soldiers.

In just one morning, city security had been tightly controlled. So far, almost no crimes were visible—at least not where people’s eyes could freely roam.

Some tried to provoke the soldiers, unaware of what had happened that morning. They got exactly what they deserved.

Some were pinned to the ground; others fled home but were still not spared. Their families were forced down too—fulfilling the soldiers’ brutal orders.

Unfortunately, they lacked the courage to shout, Shoot me if you dare! —or someone might have actually done it.

Now it was non-curfew time: 9 to 11 a.m. and 4 to 6 p.m. daily, when people could move about—but only in an orderly fashion.

More than three walking together risked military questioning; groups over five usually ended up lying face down on the ground.

Marches? Protests?

Those were over. Earlier that day, at 8:45 a.m., all channels of Sabin City’s TV simultaneously broadcasted breaking news:

The presidential impeachment proposal had passed the first round and was entering the second. If approved again, the president would face the humiliating prospect of being forced out of office.

This would be only the second time in federation history a president was removed, joining the previous one as a long-standing joke—mocked for decades or even centuries.

The report stated that all current social suffering stemmed from the president and his cabinet’s mistakes in domestic and foreign policy, as well as their mass arrests of political opponents, which had spread panic and triggered the massive strike.

The broadcast seemed to offer the public a way out after irreparable social damage—placing the blame squarely on the president and his cabinet.

Suddenly, people watching TV woke up to the truth: the real culprits were the president and his cabinet. No wonder they felt betrayed.

This revelation gave many a sense of relief and a channel to vent anger about their past month’s suffering—It’s all the president’s fault!

This was exactly why the once-ordinary strike spread so rapidly across the federation: government indulgence demanded unity.

Without such messaging, people would struggle to unite. Now, whether genuinely believing it or seeking excuses, everyone had to side with the apparent majority.

The report successfully shifted attention from labor disputes to presidential impeachment, fueling hopes for the president’s removal—and proving once again he was to blame.

Meanwhile, local governments accelerated labor negotiations and tightened control measures. City halls abruptly reversed their attitudes toward citizens, leaving some confused.

It was like a patient mother finally slapping a misbehaving child hard enough to teach respect—painful but necessary.

“Where did all the homeless go?”

Lynch noticed the streets were clean, not a single homeless person in sight—unusual for the federation, where they were a distinct part of society. Their sudden disappearance felt odd.

The sergeant explained, “They’ve been gathered and placed under unified management. I mean, they’re still relatively free, but now someone supervises them.”

Lynch nodded knowingly. “I understand. You don’t need to explain.”

The sergeant’s silence meant he didn’t want Lynch to see the military as overly cruel or inhumane.

During martial law, homeless people are always the first victims.

They’re driven into designated areas and forced to give up all personal belongings—cardboard, worthless but useful trash, bottles, cans.

Checking these items for safety takes manpower the military lacks, so the easiest solution is to confiscate everything. Do homeless people object?

No—they cooperate. No one dares resist under the cold glare of a gun barrel.

Homeless people are an invisible social group; if some vanish, few notice, and no one protests their disappearance.

The second round of labor negotiations was scheduled for today. With nothing else to do, Lynch decided to observe.

Public auctions were banned; city hall wouldn’t approve them. Large gatherings were forbidden to prevent political incidents. Stability came first.

Without tasks, Lynch attended the negotiations. He was a minor but known capitalist.

When he arrived, he had no reserved seat and sat at the hall’s edge—a good spot.

No one noticed a young man in the corner, but Lynch could see most people under the lights and identify them by their badges.

From the start, the talks were tense. Though the workers no longer rioted, the issues remained unresolved, and the parties’ attitudes were harsh.

To speed resolution, the union sent officials to mediate between workers and capitalists.

They understood the authorities’ stance and aimed to restore the status quo.

The workers’ representatives slightly relaxed their stance from before: agreeing to a full sixty-hour workweek with one day off on weekends and ten-hour workdays.

This was a comparatively moderate schedule; other regions still enforced twelve-hour days, seventy-two hours weekly.

Wages were to rise by 4.5%, an amount acceptable to both sides.

But many welfare issues remained contentious.

This was a positive sign—at least part of the problem was solved. Perhaps next time, after cooling off, further compromises would be made.

Negotiations, after all, are a process of mutual concessions until both sides accept terms.

Lynch was surprised when a non-labor issue was brought up during the talks.

As the mayor prepared to end the session—progress made but no breakthroughs—the union official cleared his throat and drew everyone’s attention.

The official pursed his lips, his expression serious. “Mayor, I have another request—not related to the employers, but concerning you.”

“Me?” The mayor lowered his head, looking over his glasses at the official across from him. He even took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes as he said, “Well, let’s discuss it. This should be quicker than your usual talks.”

The official understood the mayor was mocking their focus on trivial issues just to waste time—a tactic meant to show capitalists that settling unrest wouldn’t be easy.

With that realization, handling problems in normal times would become easier.

He smiled politely. “Sorry to take up so much of your time. This request comes from the majority of ordinary workers.”

“When you were causing trouble, you said the same!” someone interrupted, drawing dismissive, scornful laughter from the capitalists.

The official was unfazed. In truth, he didn’t consider himself working class but a layer above them, so he wasn’t sensitive to the comment or the rude laughter.

Still, he gave a warning before continuing, “Many of our workers cannot work or have lost their jobs. It’s hard for them to support their families. And we all know city hall has stopped issuing food vouchers for some time. We hope the distribution and redemption of food vouchers can be resumed as soon as possible.”

He raised his voice to stress the gravity of the situation: “This concerns whether anyone will starve, and the daily lives of hundreds of thousands of working-class families!”