Empire of Shadows

Police in the concession mobilized constantly, driving out the desperate refugees who had flooded in from the outside.

Conflicts broke out. Some refused to leave. With the anti-government forces threatening to attack Zhuolan at any moment, the city was growing increasingly dangerous. They didn’t know for sure if the concession could guarantee their safety, but it was the only option they had left.

Ships continuously departed from Zhuolan’s harbor, but tickets were scarce. Out of options, the displaced masses turned their sights to the concession.

Now, the police—their own compatriots—were evicting them. How could they accept that?

And so, clashes erupted.

It started when a few ordinary Rapas citizens refused to abandon the empty lots they were temporarily ”occupying,” refusing to leave the concession. A skirmish with the police quickly followed.

They assumed the police wouldn’t dare seriously hurt them. The Federation’s cultural export in Rapa had been highly effective, feeding them the illusion that inside the concession, things operated just like in the Federation itself: prioritizing human rights, freedom, and personal will.

Instead, the police drew their batons and beat them mercilessly. When the refugees couldn’t take the beating and began to resist, an officer drew his pistol and fired, abruptly ending the farce.

When that first shot was fired and the officer faced no disciplinary action, the message was clear: the police department, Lance, and the concession administration actively encouraged such brutality.

People can be foolish, but sometimes they catch on quickly.The riots and chaos within the concession were swiftly quelled. Massive crowds were purged from the area, and the district returned to its pristine, orderly state.

Those walking the concession streets with official resident IDs held their chins high, acting like minor lords. In their minds, they had transcended the bottom rungs of society. They viewed themselves as occupying a space somewhere between the lower and middle classes—perhaps not fully middle class, but certainly no longer at the bottom.

This psychological shift sparked a fanatical devotion to the concession, to Lance, and to the Federation itself.

It was a twisted psychological shift—victims fiercely aligning with their oppressors. Yet, this was the reality. These residents took pride in being ”colonized,” feeling superior to their uncolonized countrymen outside the borders. It was bizarre, yet entirely predictable.

Water flows downward, but humans instinctively climb upward.

It was a profound tragedy. The tragedy of Rapa, and the tragedy of its people.

Droves of Rapa’s middle and privileged classes now queued at the ”New Federation Center Resident Registration Office,” desperate to secure concession residency.

Previously, they had mocked the lower classes who registered here, calling them ”cattle stamped with steel.” They viewed registration as a shackle, a total surrender of personal freedom.

But now, driven by the looming war, they were actively begging to wear those shackles.

Over several days, Lance absorbed many of these people into the concession. However, they were treated differently from the ordinary residents.

They had to contribute. These elites weren’t going to do manual labor in the factories, so they were required to invest. Whether opening shops or factories, they had to hire workers and stimulate the economy; otherwise, they would be kicked out.

With its improving environment, abundant job opportunities, and guaranteed security, the concession was rapidly becoming a promised land.

Early in the morning of February 3rd or 4th, a thick fog blanketed Zhuolan.

Two men hurried from the city center toward the concession. They had been waiting in line for approval for days. With the massive influx of applicants, Lance had set strict rules: you either had useful skills for the concession’s development, or you had hard cash to invest. Everyone else was left languishing on a waitlist.

No one knew when the rebel army outside the city would strike. Anyone with a modicum of capability was waiting anxiously for news.

These two neighbors, both considered middle class with some savings, had teamed up early that morning to attend their interviews. Passing meant they could move into the concession.

Weighed down by anxiety, they walked mostly in silence. Their sparse conversation revolved around whether Zhuolan could hold its ground and the potential devastation the rebels might bring.

They also talked about Diego.

”No one’s seen Diego in a while, you know?”

”Some say he fled!”

The speaker shoved his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. The damp, bone-chilling wind bit at his neck, clinging to him like a freezing mist he couldn’t shake off.

His companion grunted. ”I heard that too, but I don’t buy it.”

”You think the Federation and the big shots would let Diego just run away?”

”He’s an ideal tool. The way I see it, he’s the designated pause button for this war. He’ll definitely show up when they need him.”

”Honestly, I’m more worried about today’s interview. I only have about a thousand Federation Sols. If they expect me to invest, I have no idea what that kind of money can actually do.”

A thousand Federation Sols was a small fortune here, but just as he feared, it was likely insufficient for a serious concession investment. He could only pray his professional skills would win the interviewers over.

As they spoke, the rapid thud of approaching boots caught their attention. They turned and saw a squad of government soldiers running toward them through the fog.

The two men froze, instinctively standing still. They assumed the soldiers were just passing through.

They quickly realized they were wrong.

The soldiers surrounded them, raising their weapons. ”Empty your pockets! Hand over your valuables!”

A weathered veteran in his mid-thirties grabbed their coats and aggressively rifled through their pockets.

Unable to process the sudden mugging, the two men stood paralyzed as the soldiers stripped them of their belongings and stuffed the loot into their own pockets.

”That’s mine...” one of the men finally stammered.

The soldiers hadn’t just taken his loose change; they had taken the identity documents he desperately needed to apply for concession residency. He didn’t care about the money, but he couldn’t lose those papers.

He reached out, trying to explain. ”You can keep the money, but please give me back those documents...”

In response, the veteran took a step back, drew his pistol, and shot the man twice in the stomach.

The companion stood petrified, his arms raised high. He stared at the government soldiers, his mind entirely blank, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Having stripped them clean, the soldiers quickly bolted toward the city center.

As more and more soldiers materialized from the fog, sprinting past them, the surviving man finally understood the horrifying truth.

His jaw dropped. His eyes filled with absolute terror.

The government army had been defeated!

Massive waves of routed soldiers were flooding the outskirts of Zhuolan, and many were already surging into the city.

Scouts immediately notified Lance. Through phone calls and telegrams, Lance confirmed the intel: the Lavella family’s military forces had suffered a total collapse.

Unable to halt the anti-government forces’ advance, the army broke and fled. Their only viable escape route was Zhuolan.

Lance immediately ordered his men to lock down the main avenues leading into the concession while actively monitoring the movements of both the routed soldiers and the advancing anti-government forces.

Actually, they were no longer ”anti-government forces.” Everyone had started calling them the ”Rebel Army.”

Against the Rebel Army, the government troops were a disorganized, cowardly mess. But here in the city, facing unarmed civilians, they mutated into starving wolves.

Gunfire had echoed intermittently since 6 AM, and the reports pouring in were grim.

The deserters had raided the city center, looting stores and slaughtering civilians. They were completely out of control, sweeping through the city like a plague of locusts, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake.

Storefronts were ransacked. Anyone dressed decently was stripped of their possessions. Those who resisted were gunned down on the spot. Some soldiers didn’t even bother asking for compliance; they simply shot people dead and looted the corpses.

By 8 AM, new intel arrived. Deserters had seized the harbor and were commandeering every docked ship in a frantic bid to flee.

They harbored a visceral, biological terror of the Rebel Army. Ships groaned under the weight of fleeing government troops, desperate to escape the doomed city.

Zhuolan descended into total anarchy. Gunfire rang out everywhere.

Inevitably, some deserters set their sights on Lance’s territory, lured by its reputation for immense wealth. Federal propaganda over the past two years hadn’t just shifted cultural allegiances; it had deeply ingrained the notion that Federation citizens were incredibly rich.

The fact that the average Federation worker earned nearly sixty Sols a month was mind-boggling to the locals. A Rapa citizen could work for two or three years without spending a dime and still not save that much. ”Filthy rich” was the permanent label attached to anyone from the Federation.

Having lost all discipline, the deserters just wanted to grab a massive payout and buy their way onto a departing ship. Naturally, the affluent city center and the concession were their prime targets.

When a mob of armed deserters charged the bridge leading to the concession, they abruptly halted, stunned by the sight of three armored vehicles blocking their path.

Just as they realized they had made a fatal mistake, the heavy machine guns mounted on the armored vehicles roared to life.

A storm of high-caliber bullets shredded the mob in an instant. Screaming and crying, the survivors turned and ran.

But flesh and bone cannot outrun a bullet.

In seconds, the street was blanketed with corpses and thick with gunsmoke.

The three armored vehicles rolled forward, stopping beside the carnage. Hiram stepped out, rifle in hand. He glanced down at a soldier who was still twitching, aimed at the man’s head, and fired a quick burst.

The bullets obliterated the soldier’s skull. It was a nauseating sight, but for Hiram, it was just another day at the office.

He scanned the street. After confirming there were no survivors, he issued a cold order.

”String them up. Hang them from the streetlights and buildings on both sides.”

Soon, the bridge was lined with the suspended corpses of the deserters, swaying in the chilling wind and thumping against the concrete walls.

Similar scenes played out at other checkpoints. The armored vehicles Lance had brought proved their worth. They might have limited utility on a sprawling, open battlefield, but in the narrow confines of urban street combat, they were absolute killing machines.

The routed soldiers quickly learned that the concession was a death trap. They actively avoided it, creeping by with extreme caution if they had to pass near its borders.

This ruthless display provided the concession residents with a profound, unshakable sense of security.

By 11 AM, after allowing their routed army to ravage the city for roughly five hours, the Lavella family returned to Zhuolan with whatever troops they could rally. They scrambled to erect defensive fortifications while desperately searching for Diego.

Unfortunately, Diego was nowhere to be found.

By 1 PM, the Rebel Army finally ”surrounded” Zhuolan.

To say they surrounded it wasn’t entirely accurate—they didn’t form a perfect perimeter, but they seized control of every land-based exit from the city.

The atmosphere in Zhuolan instantly plummeted into the abyss.

More and more people, clutching their families and whatever wealth they had left, made desperate runs toward the concession. Right now, it was the only place left on earth that offered them a shred of safety.