was already past midnight, and the dark sky was devoid of any starlight. The lonely red moon hung high in a corner of the sky, listlessly witnessing the struggles of mortals.
At the Waves Church, a group of neatly uniformed taxi drivers held torches, illuminating the area as bright as day.
Along both sides of the church located on the edge of Bayam, the Rune taxi soldiers lowered their guns, and the battle formation went from tight to loose. They stepped through ankle-deep blood and mud pieced together from severed limbs, checking one by one the countless corpses lying face up. Occasionally, sporadic gunshots and faint sobs could be heard at the same time.
The flickering torchlight cast a yellowish glow on the soldiers' faces. Though they were living people, the victors of the conflict, the Ruen garrison now resembled corpses more than the gradually cooling native mob on the ground. A gloomy chill lingered above their heads, refusing to dissipate.
After two hours of fighting, from warnings to firing, the Rosd resistance ultimately failed, leaving behind a trail of corpses. Only a small number escaped back into the jungle under the protection of the "Sea God" priest. The defeat was inevitable.
"Sir...did we go too far...what should we do now?"
The company commander of the Governor's Guard Company wiped the sweat from his face and asked a neatly dressed official in a military overcoat in a low voice.
"As you can see, those natives never had such audacity before. They wouldn't even dare to challenge the police, let alone charge at armed troops..."
The guard company commander's worried and fearful gaze swept over the brown-skinned, mutilated bodies on the ground, some dressed in shabby clothes, others in runner-style police uniforms. He slowly raised his gun and fired another bullet at a shadow writhing in the darkness.
"Although the local police are all natives... they are, after all, citizens of the kingdom in name only..."
The indigenous uprising initially attracted the local police, a group of Rothschilds who had gained "legal status," and then a company of guards from the governor's palace who were urgently dispatched.
When the regular army arrived, high barricades had already been erected in the streets and alleys in the southeast corner of Bayam. Police and mobs were mixed together, tearing at each other's clothes, and only one or two gunshots could be heard every long interval.
In the chaos, the police lost their hats and, unarmed, became the first victims of Lord Rune's indiscriminate attack.
"Worried about the hassle of carrying it?"
Charles Brown, the officer in the overcoat, glanced sideways at the worried guard company commander and asked quickly.
"No, I am..."
"No explanation needed." Charles Brown raised a hand, not wanting to hear his subordinate's feeble explanation. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
A young official with neatly combed blond hair snatched a gun from his subordinate with his white-gloved hands, expertly loaded it, aimed, and deftly pulled the trigger.
puff.
Another red splash erupted on the blood-soaked street. The guard company commander watched as a local policeman, who had finally managed to turn over and call for help from the nearby Ruen garrison, died before he could utter a second word, under the astonished and terrified gazes of the garrison.
The entire street fell silent instantly, the stillness terrifying.
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
Charles Brown reiterated that gloom was the dominant tone of his otherwise unremarkable face, and the contempt in his blue eyes was something no local police officer would believe was the look of the "good guy" Brown they knew.
After taking aim and killing two more targets, Charles raised his right hand, which was gripping the gun barrel, and loudly announced this to his subordinates.
"You all saw it, I did the same thing as you."
"Sir..."
The guard company commander was stunned. He had never expected this rich kid from a good family to do such a thing. He was still in shock when Charles Brown shoved the gun into his arms.
"Take it."
Another command was given, and this time it was even louder than before.
The guard company commander's wooden eyes suddenly twitched, his thoughts returning. He took the pistol with both hands and bowed respectfully.
"This is not ten years ago. In the future, there will only be fewer and fewer legally recognized natives on the islands," Charles said in a low voice. "The Governor's Office has not approved the official proclamation, but everyone knows that the Governor and the Archbishop have tacitly approved the use of force to suppress the mob."
"Captain, we are not facing servants who obey the kingdom's every command, but rebels with knives."
"Rebellion, do you understand?"
"I... understand." The company commander nodded reluctantly.
"You've served for six years now, haven't you? Don't you want to be addressed as Major before you receive your pension and are kicked out of the 'City of Generosity'?"
Charles's direct question left the company commander speechless, unsure how to answer.
He certainly wanted to advance further, but it was clear from the fact that he was only a captain after six years of service that he had no connections. If there were any opportunities for promotion in the next four years, it was obviously not his turn.
Charles Brown's words, in a way, opened a new door for him, pointing him to a path he had never imagined, and an unprecedented opportunity.
This is a gamble... The guard company commander knew it very well, but he still gave the answer.
"Thank you, Mr. Brown."
After saying that, the guard company commander put a bayonet on his rifle, stepped into the disgusting mud, and repeatedly bent down and stood up, inserting and pulling out the bayonet, the cold steel gleaming black and red.
This ruthlessness infected the surrounding taxi drivers, and more and more of them joined the "hunt," searching for local police officers lingering before the underworld, sending their nominal colleagues to the underworld to keep company with Death as soon as possible.
Charles Brown watched with great interest the figures rising and falling in the darkness, as if observing the busy farming season on the plantation every summer.
He watched, listened intently, then sighed and turned his head toward the side with better air.
There were a few idlers with runic faces watching the commotion, standing behind the windows on the second floor of the bar, peeking out through the gaps in the curtains, clearly not taking the army underground seriously.
Charles squinted, a rare hint of wariness creeping into his eyes.
It's one thing for him not to be afraid of taking responsibility for the local police for silencing someone, but it's another thing if someone sees it and keeps reporting it.
So Charles Brown carefully scanned the faces of every idler behind the curtains, trying to remember what they looked like.
When he shifted his gaze to the third window, he noticed that the curtains were not drawn, and a young man with black hair and black eyes was holding up a monocle, giving him a strange expression, and clapping softly.
After staring at the young man for a few seconds, Charles Brown suddenly stopped wasting time with the idlers and burst out laughing.
Seriously, they're incredibly stupid. So what if they saw it?
Without reporters, how could a poor wretch who only affords a house on the outskirts of Bayam sue himself?
Stop joking.
...
Passing by rows of dark-skinned, thin, and withered natives, Klein and Alger, disguised, stood under the eaves of a general store, gazing at the square in the distance.
The square wasn't large, but it was packed with locals who gathered around the central pool, some prostrating, some kneeling, some murmuring to themselves, and some singing softly.
Compared to Klein's last visit to the indigenous reservation, the residents' pious expressions no longer showed much apathy, and the seeds of hope had already sprouted.
Before long, the noisy crowd of worshippers quieted down, and an elderly man with gray hair, wearing a clergyman's soft cap, walked through the crowd that was silently divided into two distinct factions and into the center of the square.
He was followed by several relatively tall locals with bright red sea snake tattoos, all of whom were armed.
"God's servants, my foolish and weak fellow countrymen."
The old man's opening remarks were unlike any other orthodox church, regardless of whether it was in the North or South of the continent.
Even the Church of the God of War, where clergy hold the highest positions, would not communicate with ordinary believers in a tone that clearly carries a derogatory connotation.
"The day of rebellion in the revelation has arrived. Yesterday, your relatives and brothers, a group of brave young people, under the leadership of the servants of God, launched an attack on the outsiders, the city built by those false believers of God, a city that is stained with the blood and tears of the people of Rosd."
"They are holy warriors, the embodiment of the spirits of the sea, and their courage is witnessed by God..."
"But...they still failed."
The old man's words stirred up layers of sorrowful weeping and anger in the crowd. His voice, compared to the chorus of the crowd, was like dry dust, but it was this dry dust that covered up the gathering of the crowd.
"Do not be angry, do not grieve, servants of God."
The old man stretched out his arms wide, and an invisible spirit flew out from his broken teeth, soaring through the air above the square, chanting ethereal songs that gradually eroded the rationality and emotions of the believers.
"Their deaths do not signify the defeat of the holy war; their fallen heads are merely the beginning of the holy war."
"This failure is God's punishment for us, a gift from Him, and a wise man's guidance to the foolish."
Why did it fail?
The question was relayed outwards layer by layer as the old man's voice suddenly rose in pitch. The crowd prostrate below tried to think, but no one dared to answer. Or perhaps they simply lacked the ability to come up with an answer, which was why no one responded.
Why did it fail... Klein, who had been silently observing, raised his chin slightly, tilted his head slightly, and gave Alger a meaningful look.
"Just as Colonel Franz said, it's an absolute gap in strength."
Alger stared coldly at a thin little boy on the outer edge of the square, which reminded him of a dusty past.
After his mother died, if that damned priest hadn't taken him in, he probably would have ended up like this child, worshipping a faith whose background he didn't understand, unknowingly expressing his instinct to survive.
"At sea, Yann Courtman is a god. He can unleash storms and tsunamis tens of meters high, and he can detonate underground magma, destroying the life on an entire island and the island itself in a short time."
"Even without considering him, the powerful fleet and part of the army stationed by Rune near the archipelago are a force to be reckoned with. With the help of the Storm Church, the power of modern weapons can be maximized."
"Intis and Fussac, pirates and adventurers, the rebels have a mixed bag of allies and have not been able to establish stable connections. If a conflict really breaks out with Rune, these allies will just rush to distance themselves from them."
Alger shook his head and said with a sigh.
There are too many reasons for failure.
"Besides, what happened last night wasn't even a battle, just a riot."
Just as Taylor Franz never believed that Rothschild's resistance deserved to be called an army, Alger also did not believe that organizing a group of young people who could not even afford guns to storm the police and parishes could be considered a resistance against the Rune government.
"Perhaps."
Klein neither refuted nor agreed, his deep brown eyes filled with sorrow. He echoed her in a low voice before turning his attention back to the elderly "Sea God" priest in the center of the square.
After waiting for a while, as expected, no one gave an answer. The old man, who had everything going as planned, opened his arms again, his thin, withered face twisted into a terrifying angry expression, and rebuked everyone.
"It's because we're not devout enough to God!"
"It's because some of us once wanted to betray God and join the heretical sects of false gods!"
"It's because we once abandoned our dignity and were willing to live like animals!"
"You beast! God will not protect beasts!"
The immense guilt fell equally on the heads of all the Rosd people, including the priest himself. Whether it was the kneeling old people and children below or the young and strong men behind the priest, they were all plunged into endless fear. They frantically worshipped the priest in the center of the square, who represented the will of God, and the only water source in the area, hoping to appease God's displeasure with the most primitive actions.
Strength flowed through his limbs and bones, and the old man looked down at the believers who were limp on the ground, his expression relaxing slightly.
"But God is merciful."
"He is the sea, and like the sea, He is capricious, but ultimately benevolent, willing to give us the very things we need to survive."
The old man stepped down from the center of the square, his withered arm reaching into his robe, and when he stretched it out again, he was holding a long sword made of white bone.
The sword was only the length of a forearm, not sharp, and quite simple in design, but everyone who approached and gazed at it could hear the roar of the waves and the lament of whales in the deep sea from its pale blade.
"Disaster has struck, and the day of rebellion in the revelation is now. God chose to respond to us in our most critical moment and listened to the voice of every Rosdite. This is the greatest blessing."
"In order to win the holy war and to reclaim our dignity and homeland, we need more of this kind of favor."
"to this end..."
The elderly priest walked up to a boy who still looked a bit fleshy and was much healthier than the other boys his age.
He stroked the boy's face with his withered, wrinkled hands, his cloudy eyes reflecting a calm and affectionate gaze, which also revealed the child's innocent ignorance.
"Therefore... we must offer more sacrifices."
The old man suddenly tightened his grip, his left hand gripping the boy's neck tightly, while his right hand raised the longsword made of white bone. The dull blade, resisting the immense resistance, cruelly tormented the boy's nerves, carving a gash beneath the boy's collarbone.
The tender heart was ripped out, and the old man held up the offering, almost screaming.
"The purest spirits among us will return to the sea, and their lives will become ships, carrying the Holy Spirit."
"Great sea god, great holy spirit, He will surely cleanse the filth and tears of blood!"
Long live Poseidon!
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