Chapter 330: The Interrupted Dinner

“Ten minutes.” The deputy foreign minister glanced at his assistant and swept a hand across his clean shoulder. “You have ten minutes to fix this. By seven o’clock, I want the streets outside as spotless as your cat after grooming. Understand?”

His anger was at its limit, swearing openly in front of his assistant. He was close to losing control.

Undoubtedly, this incident would affect his political career. As the main diplomat responsible for the reception, he bore full responsibility.

Any negative fallout could become a permanent stain on his record.

Moments ago, he was ambitious, already planning his agenda as the future foreign minister, even drafting his inauguration speech. Now, all that felt distant—because of the people outside.

He adjusted his appearance with exaggerated movements, forced a smile, and reentered the banquet hall. Many noticed his sour expression; despite his attempt at smiling, he appeared stiff, angry, and unapproachable.

After the deputy’s assistant left the hotel, many agents and police arrived to reinforce the scene but only formed a human barrier, protecting the hotel without further action.

Meanwhile, the protesters outside grew in number as passersby paused and joined.

Freedom of assembly, protest, and parade were fundamental rights granted to every citizen of the Baylor Federation—an expression of their free will. They could hold or join such gatherings anytime.

Large demonstrations affecting traffic required permits, not small ones like this.

The bigger the crowd, the greater the influence, attracting even more people.

Seeing the growing crowd, the assistant decided waiting was futile and planned to speak with the protest leader.

But after listening for two minutes, he realized the leader was unreachable.

“We endure hunger. I heard the federal unemployment rate hit a historic low this year, but countless people are still jobless, surviving on relief that’s as worthless as dog crap.”

“We face poverty and hardship, but we endure because we believe our government can change this, revive us, and bring new opportunities and jobs.”

“But look at what those prostitutes inside are doing—they’d rather give the money scraped from us taxpayers to those barbarians, building factories for them, giving them contracts, raising their employment, yet they never care about us!”

“They do this to make their achievements look better. Let me tell you—that’s all bullshit!”

“Send those barbarians back to their countries, keep the money here, create jobs, and give people some security!”

Reporters eagerly pointed cameras at Martin. His face flushed with anger, spittle flying as he ranted. Front-row journalists wiped their faces but felt excitement, not disgust.

This was big news. No doubt.

For every supporter of the Progressive Party and the president’s agenda, there was opposition.

Politics meant catering to many interests—and more opposition.

This attitude could ignite the group, guaranteeing news stories for weeks.

Hearing these well-crafted words, the assistant suspected a planned protest. Negotiation seemed pointless.

As he prepared to try another approach, the man being interviewed suddenly waved his arms and shouted shocking words.

“The rotten, corrupt government is harvesting the lives of ordinary people. Many died last winter, and many will die this summer—they don’t care.”

“The ugly bureaucratic rule will drag the federation and its past glory to the bottom of the sea. We can no longer stay silent. We must rise. We are the true owners of this country!”

These words were bolder and more dangerous than before.

Earlier complaints targeted cabinet policies and the new diplomatic ties with Nagaryll—mild and harmless.

No matter his tone or mood, his words stayed within the rulers’ limits. He grumbled about those in power but didn’t challenge the system.

Now, he attacked the federal government itself. Even reporters were momentarily speechless.

Though the federal government often made mistakes and some joked they elected comedians as presidents, the system was still quite open.

No one was jailed for speaking out or reading forbidden books.

You could criticize politicians freely—but not the system. That was unspoken.

This man got carried away and crossed the line.

At that moment, as people realized his mistake—and he did too—several police cars rushed onto the street.

The mayor frowned at the police chief beside him. “More reinforcements? Do you think too few people know about this?”

The large police presence naturally pressured the public, stirring fear. Although conditions had somewhat improved recently, tensions remained.

A heavy police gathering risked triggering unrest.

The chief wanted to deny responsibility but knew the mayor wouldn’t believe him. In this city, police answered to the mayor. He wiped sweat and walked toward the roadside.

Too many cops created tension. He wanted them to leave but hadn’t time before they charged into the protesters wielding batons.

Suddenly, a black arrow tore through the crowd. Curses and screams erupted in chaos.

“What’s happening outside?”

Nagaryll’s foreign minister, Masu, chatting with the temporary Speaker about the visit’s prospects, looked startled toward the Speaker. The Speaker in turn glanced at the deputy foreign minister, the event’s main organizer.

The deputy stood confused, unaware of what happened but knowing what to do. “I’ll check it out. This is downtown—maybe an accident or something.”

His face was grim. He didn’t know what was going on but sensed trouble.

The Speaker nodded coldly. Masu maintained a smile.

At that moment, louder chaos erupted outside. Several protesters stormed into the hotel lobby. The shattering glass and their screams pierced through the thick wooden doors of the banquet hall. The temporary Speaker glanced sideways at the deputy foreign minister, then turned and pushed open the main door.

What followed was a scene that left everyone’s expressions conflicted.

Some protesters lay sprawled amid broken glass and pools of blood. Police officers in federal uniforms brutally beat and kicked them, their faces fierce and terrifying.

The once cheerful atmosphere in the room vanished instantly.

When a bloodied man shouted in the common tongue, “Savage natives, get out of civilized society,” everyone’s faces changed.

It was over.

This was all the deputy foreign minister could think—everything was fucked. His mind went blank. He couldn’t find any way to salvage the situation because he had no idea what to do.

For the past decade or so, the Baylor Federation’s diplomatic work had been limited to interpreting documents and rare telegram exchanges with neighboring countries.

Under isolationist policies, domestic diplomats were basically on vacation—just showing up and leaving on time, with no real tasks or responsibilities.

This had left this generation of diplomats severely lacking in skills and crisis management, though they didn’t realize it.

Faced with this emergency, the promising deputy foreign minister—could only stand dumbfounded, watching everything unfold before him.

And he was utterly powerless.