Oak Manor, South Carolina.
After the autumn harvest, the fields took on a desolate brown hue.
The once snow-white cotton had been picked clean, leaving behind bare stalks.
The air was thick with the smell of burning fields and dry dust.
In the manor's square, a long queue had formed once again in front of the wooden cabin bearing the sign "United Department Store."
But this time, the hope that had been on people's faces a few months ago was gone, replaced by deep confusion and suppressed rage.
It was settlement day.
Old Moses stood before the counter, his back hunched, clutching an account book that had been rubbed Black.
The accountant behind the counter was a different man, but his gaze held the same lofty indifference.
"Moses. According to the records, you and the three able-bodied men in your family picked a total of four thousand pounds of seed cotton this season. At the company's fixed purchase price of 2 cents per pound, your total income is 80 dollars in vouchers."
Old Moses breathed a sigh of relief.
Eighty dollars was a fortune to him.
"However..."
The accountant's tone shifted as he took a red pen and drew a line through the ledger.
"We need to deduct your family's advances."
"First, the flour, bacon, sugar, and coffee your family took from the store over these four months total 45 dollars. This includes 10% interest on the credit."
"Secondly, the rental for that set of Lex steel plows and the two hoes is 15 dollars."
"Then there's the medicine from Umbrella. Your little grandson had a fever and used two bottles of quinine water; that's high-end stuff, totaling 10 dollars."
"Finally..."
The accountant pointed to the bottom line of the ledger.
"That's the 'Management Fee.' That is, the cost for the Security Team to protect you from being harassed by Guerrillas—15 dollars per household."
The slide rule rattled again.
"45 plus 15, plus 10, plus 15... a total deduction of 85 dollars."
The accountant looked up and pushed the ledger toward Old Moses.
"80 minus 85. Moses, your family didn't just fail to make money this season; you owe the company 5 dollars."
Upon hearing this number, Old Moses froze.
His cloudy eyes stared at that red "-5," his lips trembling.
"This... this isn't right, sir," Old Moses said, his voice carrying a sob.
"We worked day and night... our hands are worn raw... how can we still owe money? No one ever said anything about a management fee before."
"That's a supplementary clause in the contract," the accountant said impatiently.
"If you were literate, you should have read it clearly when you signed. As for those farm tools, if you hadn't rented them, do you think you could have dug up this much cotton with just your hands?"
"But..."
"Enough, no buts." The accountant closed the ledger.
"This 5 dollars will be recorded on next season's account with compound interest. If you want to leave, you must pay off the debt first. Otherwise, according to the Southern Labor Law, absconding with debt means going to jail. And there's no pay for working in prison."
"Next!"
Old Moses was shoved away from the counter by the security guards behind him.
He stood in the square, looking at the gray sky, feeling as if a mountain were pressing down on him.
Was this freedom?
He remembered his former master; back then, it was a whip across his back.
Now, these Northerners were using the tip of a pen to suck the marrow from his bones.
A commotion began to stir in the crowd.
"Cheats! You're all cheats!"
A young Black man, Toby—Moses's grandson—shouted out in anger.
"You sell flour for more than the price of gold, but you buy cotton at such a low price. You're trying to starve us to death!"
"Yeah... it's not fair."
"We want to see the man in charge!"
Dozens of angry Black laborers closed in, holding pitchforks and clubs used for work.
The long-suppressed rage finally exploded on this day of debt settlement.
On the second-floor balcony, Silas was dangling a cigarette from his mouth, watching the scene below coldly.
"Boss, they're about to rush the store." Borg cocked the bolt of his Spencer rifle. "Should we move?"
"Don't be in a hurry." Silas exhaled a ring of smoke.
"Just have the boys make sure they don't actually get inside. As for them wanting to make a scene? Let them for a few days; the bigger the better. Only by letting them understand the price of resistance can the rules of this manor be established."
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the crowd, several white men on horseback were watching coldly.
They were local "consultants"—former plantation owners who had lost their land and Southern veterans.
Leading them was Black, the one who had caused trouble at the pier before.
"Look at those darkies," Black said snidely to his companions. "The Yankees have them spinning in circles. But this is perfect... if things get chaotic here, we'll have a chance to muddy the waters."
"How so?" his companion asked.
Black lowered his voice. "Bring torches tonight. Since we can't get our land back, we'll make sure nothing grows on it. We'll burn their warehouse and frame those darkies. Let the Yankees and the darkies kill each other while we reap the rewards."
...As night fell, Oak Manor sank into a deathly silence.
But in the darkness, two undercurrents were surging.
"Are we really going to do this? If we're caught, people will definitely die. You know, the landlord of my old plantation executed slaves for stealing."
In the night, a Black man whose eyes were the only visible feature spoke with worry to the pairs of eyes around him.
"Nuby, we aren't slaves anymore, we're workers. It'll be fine even if we're caught," Toby retorted dismissively.
He was leading several young Black men hiding behind the staff dormitories, discussing how to pry open the store's back door to take back the food that belonged to them.
On the other side of the manor, Black led over a dozen masked white riders, quietly creeping toward the massive warehouse filled with cotton bales.
They held torches soaked in kerosene.
"Light it up. Burn it all," Black ordered in a low voice.
The torches were thrown, landing on the dry piles of cotton.
"Whoosh!"
Flames erupted instantly, quickly turning into a fire dragon with the help of the autumn wind.
The alarm blared shrilly.
"Fire! Put it out!"
Silas leapt from his bed, grabbed his gun, and rushed out of the room.
But what he saw wasn't a chaotic crowd fighting the fire, but a long-premeditated riot.
"Damn it."
Silas looked at the soaring flames, his gaze turning ferocious.
"Borg, blow the whistle! Assemble the whole squad!"
"Catch those people for me first!"
"Find every single one of those bastards who dares to play with fire on my turf."
Gunshots rang out once again on the Southern soil on this late autumn night.
This time, it wasn't for country, nor for freedom.
It was for the account book.
Gunfire lasted for an entire night at Oak Manor.
When the first rays of morning light pierced through the smoke, last night's chaos had turned into a tragic still life.
Half of the cotton warehouse had burned down, and Black ash swirled in the wind. The air was thick with the smell of burning and blood.
In the square at the center of the manor, Silas sat on a chair brought out from the shop, wiping a still-hot Vanguard Model 45 pistol.
His uniform was covered in soot and mud, but his eyes were brighter than a newly unsheathed blade.
Before him, two rows of people knelt.
On the left was a row of five Black men—Toby and his companions. They were bruised and battered, having clearly suffered during their capture.
On the right was a row of seven white men.
Their hands were tied behind their backs with rope, and the white hoods they had used as masks had been torn off, revealing Black's terrified and distorted face.
"How interesting."
Silas stood up and walked between the two rows.
"One group wanted to steal flour, and the other wanted to burn cotton. Was this planned together, or just a coincidence?"
"We didn't collude with them to burn the warehouse; we just came to take back what belongs to us. You cheated us. We worked, but we still ended up in debt."
Toby looked up, shouting defiantly with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth; he didn't want to be associated with the warehouse arson.
Stealing was one thing—at most, he'd get caught and beaten—but arson was a different matter entirely. That was a guaranteed death sentence.
"Shut up, you damn darkie."
Borg walked over and slammed the butt of his rifle into Toby's back, knocking him flat on the ground.
"Toby, is it? That's because you haven't learned how to do math. You should know that debts must be repaid, understand? Besides, just saying you didn't collude doesn't mean a thing."
Silas ignored Toby and turned to look at Black.
"As for you lot..."
Silas crouched down and used his gun barrel to lift Black's chin.
"Mr. Black, I remember warning you before. Stay away from here."
Black roared, "On what grounds? I'm a Southerner; this is our land! You damn Carpetbaggers from the North, you vampires, colluding with the negroes to steal our land."
"No, no, no, Mr. Black. I need to correct you." Silas stood up, his tone cold.
"This land now belongs to Mr. Argyle. Furthermore, we haven't colluded with anyone. In the eyes of Militech, there are no Black or white people—only obedient employees and enemies who destroy company property."
"What are you going to do?"
Black looked at the dark muzzles surrounding him, a chill running down his spine.
"I'm a white man! You can't treat me like a slave. I want to see a judge."
"A judge? Hahaha."
Silas laughed. "It's twenty miles from here to downtown Charleston. The nearest judge is busy handling the asset liquidation of rebels like you. He doesn't have time to care about the lives of a few arsonists."
Silas turned around and waved a hand at Borg.
"According to Article 3 of the 'Southern Public Security Guard Wartime Regulations': For thugs who use weapons to destroy means of production or threaten the safety of company personnel, the field commander is authorized to act at their discretion."
"Take them to the pine forest."
"All of them?" Borg asked.
"All of them." There wasn't a flicker of emotion in Silas's eyes.
"Take them all—Black and white."
"Make the others watch."
Silas pointed to the shivering farmworkers watching from a distance.
"Let them know who the law is in this manor."
The row of people was dragged toward the distant pine forest. Cries, curses, and pleas for mercy merged into a single cacophony.
A few minutes later.
"Bang! Bang! Bang..."
A volley of concentrated gunfire erupted from the woods, startling a flock of crows.
Then, everything fell into a deathly silence.
Only the whistling of the wind through the pines remained, sounding like a dirge for the old souls and new ghosts of this land... The next day, New York.
Felix sat in his study, looking at the urgent telegram Silas had sent back.
The content of the telegram was brief: "Unrest suppressed. Twelve ringleaders executed, including the former landowner, Black. Warehouse losses at thirty percent, minor personnel injuries. Order has been restored, and autumn sowing is proceeding normally."
Expressionless, Felix held the telegram over a candle flame and watched it turn to ash.
Frost stood to the side, looking somewhat uneasy.
"Boss, killing white men... and former local landowners at that. Won't this blow up? If those Southern newspapers..."
"They won't dare," Felix said calmly.
"What about them being white? Remember, Black's gang were arsonists. They were destroying federal assets; Silas was maintaining public order."
As he spoke, Felix stood up and walked to a large map, pointing his finger at South Carolina.
"Besides, this is also a signal."
"A signal?"
"Yes," Felix said.
"We are telling those Southern diehards who are still watching from the sidelines: no matter who you are or how much power you used to have, the rules in the South have changed."
"Before, white people could execute Black people at will. Now, as long as you touch my things, the outcome will be the same whether you're Black or white."
"It's called 'all are equal before capital'."
Felix gave a disdainful smile.
"Notify Silas. Have him cordon off that pine forest and keep people out. Also, hmm... send a bag of flour to that Black man Toby's family. Call it... a pension."
"As for Black's family..." Felix thought for a moment.
"Since he's dead, that house of his in Charleston should be empty, right?"
"It seems so; he had no heirs."
"Have our people pull some strings to take over that house. Turn it into an orphanage."
"An orphanage?" Frost was stunned.
"Yes." Felix turned around and adjusted his cuffs.
"After all, we are there to build the South, not to kill. So we must show a merciful side."
"Adopt those war orphans—more white ones, fewer Black ones. Feed them, teach them to read, and train them to be qualified workers."
"That is the long-term plan."
Felix walked to the door, where Catherine was holding Finn out in the sun.
He put on a gentle expression and walked over.
"The weather is nice today." Felix teased his son. "Finn looks like he's grown a bit more."
"He has," Catherine said with a smile. "He just smiled at me."
Looking at that pure infant smile, the bloodshed and calculations in Felix's heart were temporarily locked away.
In the distant Southern pine forest, the corpses were rotting, becoming fertilizer for next year's cotton.
While under the New York sun, new life was thriving.
This world is just that cruel and real.