Chapter 817: Election Victory

“The situation isn’t quite what we expected…”

In the Conservative Party’s headquarters, not far from the Presidential Palace, members of the committee were watching the vote count unfold.

The Conservative senator, dubbed the dumbest candidate in thirty years, sat quietly in his chair, eyes glued to the TV screen. Despite his composed face, the gleam in his eyes betrayed his excitement.

Politics is often cruel—you know something isn’t good for you, yet you must go through with it, because the interests of higher powers outweigh your own.

Being called the dumbest candidate in thirty years wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was part of the job. Only by playing the clown in front of the media and the public could he secure his seat.

Some say that with ideals and persistence, you can change the country.

But how many independents are there in Congress?

Five. Always five. No more, no less.

They’re not there because ideals became reality, but because the people of the Federation need to see some semblance of fairness.

Their job is to vote no when everyone else votes yes, vote yes when everyone else votes no, and abstain when votes are split down the middle.

That’s their entire job—hardly a free one.

Their existence is meant to show the public that the Federation’s political environment is open and that there are no rigid barriers between social classes.

But everyone knows that securing a seat in Congress requires party backing. The Federation’s two major parties hold the real power. As for the Socialist Party?

Whether they exist or not makes little difference. If they do, people might believe politics is free and fair.

Maybe…

As long as he listened to those in charge, the Conservative Party would continue to back him and keep his seat secure. With that seat came annual dividends ranging from hundreds of thousands to millions.

So what if he was dumb? He was richer than 95% of the Federation.

What he hadn’t expected was that this role—meant to be a token run—might actually put him in the top spot.

He knew it shouldn’t be possible, but still, his heart was racing.

He feigned indifference, pretending not to care.

He sat in the corner, resting his chin on his hand, eyes locked on the vote counters on the screen. A miracle seemed close to unfolding.

The chairman of the Conservative Committee frowned, got up, and left the room for his office.

He picked up the phone, dialed a number, exchanged a few meaningless words, and hung up.

Returning to the meeting room, he sat down again and said calmly, “I asked—there won’t be any surprises. And there’s no room for surprises.”

The room returned to a tense silence, eyes fixed on the small TV screen like it held some rare treasure.

When the vote counters announced that the Progressive Party had won another state, strangely, the Conservatives in the room all sighed in relief.

This outcome was beyond their expectations. They had feared the failure of isolationism would push the Conservative Party into the opposition. Yet surprisingly, things didn’t look too bad.

“The Progressives need just two more states to lock in the win…”

At this point, the Progressive Party finally showed clear signs of victory. The chairman’s tense face relaxed slightly, and his expression softened.

The “dumbest candidate in thirty years” looked disappointed. He glanced at his colleagues, saw the relieved smiles on their faces, and felt a flicker of discontent—but quickly masked it.

He was only ever meant to be a senator. That much he knew. No one would ever fund a serious presidential campaign for him—not the committee, not anyone.

That moment of excitement felt like a dream. He couldn’t recall what happened in the dream—just a lingering trace of melancholy.

The entire country seemed to fall silent as the tight race dragged on.

By now, there was nothing anyone could do.

Not only were the politicians nervously awaiting the final results—the President’s financial backers were too.

They had poured billions into him. If he lost, it would mean all their investments had gone to waste.

The President would be finished in politics. No capitalist would give him another cent.

Every election cycle was a gamble. In years without backdoor agreements, both candidates’ financial backers would throw in hundreds of millions—sometimes billions—on the outcome.

If their side won, four years would be enough to recoup the investment and start profiting. Eight years, and their return would multiply.

If their side lost, all they could do was lick their wounds and wait for another shot.

In the dull and uneasy silence, the Progressives took another state.

Inside the Presidential Palace, the President’s expression eased. He high-fived and embraced his staff like before.

He pressed his palms together under his chin, outwardly the image of a devout believer. Before becoming President, when he was still Vice President, he often appeared in churches.

He frequently shared the stage with priests and bishops, and the public saw him as a model of faith.

But only he knew—he didn’t believe in God at all. It was all an act to secure votes from the religious. He needed their support.

At the same time, the awkward position of the Vice President kept him from staying in the Palace looking like a fool.

Politics in the Federation was quite harmonious—the winner becomes President, and the loser becomes Vice President.

Vice Presidents have never worked out of the Presidential Palace—it’s far too humiliating.

After years of playing the fool, the idiot, the believer—after quietly enduring for so long—it was finally time for his reward.

In that moment, he believed with all his heart that there was a god, and he prayed fervently for that god to stop tormenting him and bring this election to an end.

He had never prayed so sincerely, so spontaneously, never awaited a response from God with such devotion.

Maybe it was his sincerity that moved the divine. Maybe God decided a president who was a believer would better serve His message in this nation. Either way, He answered.

The deadlock didn’t drag on. The Progressive Party’s candidate, Mr. President, secured the election with a narrow lead of just three votes.

The vote count continued, but across the country, Progressive Party officials began to celebrate.

Having a Progressive president was excellent news for everyone in the party structure.

It meant bigger budgets, easier policy approvals, faster promotions, and stronger backing from capitalists.

The President raised his fists in triumph and began hugging every staff member—even the janitors.

A hug and a thank-you—enough to show how overwhelmed he was.

Everyone in the room exhaled in relief, and then the phone rang. The President looked surprised, but not really.

He picked it up, exchanged a few words, and set it down. “Chairman Fitch from the Committee called to congratulate me on the win.”

After that came a flood of calls from across the country—and even the world.

Governors, senators, department heads, even the Emperor of Gephra made a perfunctory call to congratulate the President.

People noticed the Presidential Palace’s phone line was almost impossible to reach that day—always busy. Everyone wanted to make a lasting impression while they still could.

By the time it all wrapped up, it was past six in the evening.

After an exhausting day, everyone could finally relax a bit.

Lynch was standing beside the President. When he voiced his suggestion, the President paused, then smiled.

He patted Lynch on the arm. “You always think things through…” Then he stepped to the front of the room, clapped his hands, and everyone turned to look.

“Mr. Lynch just informed me he’s reserved the third-floor banquet hall at the Eminence Hotel. The chefs have already prepared a lavish dinner, and it’s waiting for us.”

He added, “Of course, this isn’t a celebration—just dinner. Many thanks to Mr. Lynch for his generosity. I’ve accepted on your behalf.”

“Feel free to call your families or join us. The buses are already on their way.”

Mr. Truman glanced at Lynch, who stood quietly by the President’s side. He thought to himself—if this were ancient times, Lynch would be a conniving courtier, a true schemer.

Lynch noticed the look and instinctively met Truman’s eyes.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then smiled and nodded politely.

What they were really thinking—only they knew.

Amid cheers from the staff, the President boarded the bus to the hotel with the rest of the team.

All major networks were broadcasting the election results. Congress was working urgently to confirm the final outcome.

The Conservative Party, usually quick to jump in and criticize the Progressives, accepted the election’s fairness this time. There were no accusations of fraud. Everything seemed unusually harmonious.