Chapter 329: The Protest at the Welcome Banquet

In the room, a group of downtrodden-looking people had gathered.

But then again, at a time like this, who besides the elites wouldn’t look downtrodden?

Their eyes shone with a peculiar light—they were preparing for something big. Among them, one or rather two stood apart.

“Martin, I don’t know if what we’re doing is right…” said an ordinary man in his forties, wearing a summer short-sleeve shirt bought years ago, shorts worn for two years, and worn leather sandals. This was his best outfit.

Martin leaned against the wall by the window, one arm crossed over his chest with his palm tucked under the other arm’s armpit, the other hand holding a cigarette.

In the dim room, the bluish smoke turned a dull yellow, rising straight before trembling erratically due to drafts, then vanishing.

He glanced toward the hotel across the street. He had a mission—to cause a disruption at the welcome banquet held in the city hall.

Martin was a workers’ representative leaning toward the conservative party—more precisely, a union representative known for organizing workers. Factory owners saw him as a troublemaker, stirring strikes and disputes.

Besides that, his activism made him a formal member of the Social Party, mainly because being a workers’ rep gave him a low-level official title and some power—easier to hold than in the Progressive or Conservative parties.

Politically, he leaned conservative. Workers generally do—preferring no unexpected changes, wanting stability day after day.

Recently, he received an order: to cause trouble at this diplomatic event.

He opposed it. He was no longer a low-level worker covered in grime—he was a semi-official representative. He knew what causing trouble at such a state affair meant.

But the offer was irresistible: two bank drafts worth ten thousand each, issued by one of the top six banks in the Baylor Federation. No proof needed—just cash them or deposit into any legitimate bank account.

This was money he couldn’t refuse. Before the recession, he earned about 287.35 per month from the factory—this was worth seven or eight years of income, especially now.

When his colleague asked, Martin stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill, wearing a strange expression. “We are not wrong!”

Everyone looked at him. He did what he always did—stirred the workers’ emotions.

Before, he stirred conflicts between labor and management. Now, he fueled resentment of the Baylor Federation against the Kingdom of Nagaryll—and he was good at it.

“Listen, first I must tell you—we are not alone. Behind us are our families and countless ordinary people of the Baylor Federation. At this moment, we stand together.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the federal government plans to send massive aid to Nagaryll and help them build factories.”

“They’d rather give their money to those barbarians feasting on bloody meat, build their factories, create jobs for them, than look down and help us!”

“If we don’t fight back and raise our voices now, who knows what our society will become!”

“This isn’t just about fighting for our own rights—it’s for all of us, for the Federation!”

With simple words, Martin stirred the crowd. His phrase feasting on bloody meat mocked the Nagaryll people as barbarians—though, in reality, most Federation citizens eat fully cooked steak due to parasite and contamination issues.

This kind of high-civilization mockery of lower cultures resonated deeply. The crowd grew enraged, shouting and cursing.

Martin’s gaze was deep. “Trust me, we are not wrong!”

His companions stopped arguing and sat back, worried.

At 6:45 p.m., distinguished guests began arriving. Martin crushed the cigarette he had smoked halfway and dropped it on the floor.

Dozens of cigarette butts littered the ground by his feet. The room was thick with smoke, but inside, he was far from relaxed.

“Let’s begin, brothers. Let those old men hear our voice!”

The crowd silently moved. No shouting or roaring, but their presence was powerful.

Across the street, the mayor of the port city welcomed important guests. Media swarmed the hotel entrance, flashbulbs turning the area bright as day.

The push to establish relations with Nagaryll came from the president’s office. Heavyweight media had come—whether supporting the president or not, they had to report accurately.

The media’s stance didn’t matter much here. They could criticize the president’s politics later, but for now, some things required unity.

When the temporary Senate Speaker arrived, the event’s status rose by two levels. Usually, a visit by a small country like Nagaryll wouldn’t warrant his presence.

His arrival signaled the president’s determination.

As photographers focused on the Speaker, sudden shouts from across the street froze the bustling hotel entrance into brief silence.

A group of ragged workers rushed forward, holding signs reading We Need Food, We Need Jobs, Politicians Generously Give Our Money Away, and other direct slogans.

Security police, FBI agents, and a few National Security Council operatives immediately sprang into action.

But this was no private place or remote forest—it was downtown, surrounded by top media from across the nation.

The Senate Speaker quickly left his post and headed into the hotel.

The mayor followed with apologies, only to receive the Speaker’s cold reply: “Handle this quickly.”

But since the protest had started, it wouldn’t end easily. With so many media watching, the Federation could not openly suppress the demonstrators.

Police, agents, and operatives only kept them from storming the hotel, glaring fiercely otherwise.

The FBI and local police mobilized more forces to maintain order, nerves running high, unsure if more surprises awaited.

Inside the hotel, the deputy minister heard the noise. The reporters weren’t afraid of escalation—they feared it not being big enough. They shouted questions around the protesters, their voices carrying inside with the opening and closing of the hotel doors.

Then he saw the Senate Speaker approaching and greeted him: “It is an honor to have you here…”

The Baylor Federation’s Congress was a special institution. Before the president’s power peaked, Congress held more authority, especially in the first four years. After that, the president’s authority grew to the point even Congress would defer to him.

The president was still dangerous — clearly, Congress held more power, so the deputy minister’s humble attitude was understandable.

But the temporary Speaker was visibly displeased, showing no attempt to hide it. “I hope this isn’t a decision you’ll regret. Get the situation outside under control immediately!”

He shook the deputy minister’s hand casually, then entered the hall with a cold expression, leaving the deputy minister confused.

Less than a minute later, his assistant returned looking worried and whispered something in his ear. Instantly, his expression turned terrifying.

He didn’t show a grimace or twitch a muscle, and outwardly appeared no different than usual—but everyone could sense something terrifying beneath his calm façade.