Salem Third Prison.
The prison guards had a spring in their step recently.
Not because they'd received a raise from above, but because the man they were responsible for guarding was now the most high-profile criminal in all of Leithanien, the leader of the Workers' Party—Lacey.
"Mr. Lacey, your copy of today's *Salem Echo*."
A guard respectfully placed the newspaper and a steaming cup of black tea on the table by Lacey's bedside.
Lacey was sitting on a soft sofa, flipping through a copy of the Leithanien legal code.
Though he was nominally incarcerated, the prison administration had provided him with a fully-equipped suite.
It had a private bathroom, a comfortable bed, and even a small bookshelf filled with all sorts of books, from history to philosophy.
"Thank you, John," Lacey said, looking up with a slight smile and a nod.
"Of course, of course," replied John the guard, flattered beyond belief, his face breaking into a thousand wrinkles as he beamed.
"Um... Mr. Lacey, my son is a great admirer of yours. He... he was wondering if you could sign an autograph for him?"
With that, he sheepishly pulled a small notebook from his coat.
Lacey chuckled, took the notebook, and wrote a single line: "For a better Leithanien."
Then he signed his name.
John received it like a priceless treasure. After a string of thanks, he backed out of the room with light steps.
For the past three months, Lacey had been living just this kind of "simple and unadorned" prison life.
He even suspected that if he wanted to, he could get the guards to haul in a statue of the Twin Empresses to use as a coat rack.
He knew full well where this above-and-beyond treatment came from.
Someone was likely trying to show him goodwill—perhaps that justice-minded old judge, or one of the nobles present at the trial, or someone even higher up.
He didn't care.
At the very least, such an environment allowed his frayed nerves to relax and gave him ample time to review and reflect.
Initially, in Lacey's plans, armed revolution was the inevitable final option.
Historically, almost without exception, the lowly overthrowing their superiors involved seizing power through force of arms—what was commonly known as an uprising.
But that wouldn't work on Terra.
On the continent of Terra, the power of the individual was magnified countless times.
A powerful Arts user, a top-tier knight, could truly be the equal of an entire city's garrison.
To rely on a few hundred sickles and axes from the slums, along with a group of largely illiterate workers, to confront a nation's war machine and the powerhouses who could command Catastrophes, was no different from throwing an egg against a rock.
That wasn't an uprising; it was a suicide mission.
He closed his eyes, and another path materialized in his mind.
Make more friends and fewer enemies.
Count Leinia was the first target he could try to win over.
She was a typical noblewoman: shrewd and ambitious, but lacking the strength and courage to truly stir the winds and waves.
And he, Lacey, could happen to be the blade in her hand—at least, in her eyes.
But that wasn't enough.
At the apex of Leithanien's pyramid of power were the Twin Empresses and the nine Electors.
The position of Elector was practically hereditary, an insurmountable chasm between the common people and power.
To negotiate directly with the Electors, his current standing was far too insignificant.
"Time to use some of our ancestors' wisdom," Lacey muttered to himself. "Forming vertical and horizontal alliances, winning over one faction while suppressing another."
Those nobles, wealthy merchants, and government officials who were open to cooperation could be brought into a united front, as long as they were promised sufficient benefits.
And the Workers' Party was the biggest bargaining chip in his hand.
Of course, all of this was predicated on the Workers' Party being able to truly establish a firm foothold.
"Education, healthcare, employment..." Lacey wrote these words in his notebook.
He would make every single person in the Salem slums see that what the Workers' Party promised were not empty, ethereal slogans.
It was real, tangible bread that could fill their stomachs, a roof that could shelter them from the wind and rain, and a hope they could see and touch.
He would forge the Salem slums into an indestructible model, a holy land that all the lower-class people of Leithanien would yearn for.
...
While Lacey was in his "secluded cultivation," Serafina was busy converting his reputation into tangible organizational strength.
The Workers' Party headquarters, once a dilapidated warehouse, was now completely revitalized.
On the walls were posted the schedule for the literacy classes and the latest job recruitment notices.
In the courtyard, dozens of children were loudly reciting the alphabet, led by a retired old teacher. Their parents, meanwhile, were sweating away on a nearby construction site, building their own clinic and public canteen.
Taylor the blacksmith, the brawny man who once knew only how to swing a hammer, now wore the crisp uniform of the Action Team. He stood ramrod straight, directing his team members in maintaining order and settling neighborhood disputes.
And Serafina commanded the hub.
In her office, a map was marked with different colored pins, indicating factories, mines, and noble manors in Salem and the surrounding cities.
Her desk was piled high with letters and intelligence reports from various places.
The impact of the public trial was even greater than she had anticipated.
Lacey's name had spread like wildfire to every corner of Leithanien.
Countless commoners and workers saw him as their spokesman. They secretly circulated transcripts of Lacey's trial statement and spontaneously organized small-scale mutual aid groups.
Serafina seized this opportunity. On one hand, she used various channels to spread the organizational model and ideals of the Workers' Party. On the other, she began to selectively contact local powers who had shown goodwill towards the Party after the trial.
There were small factory owners being squeezed out of business by larger corporations, grassroots tax collectors disgusted with the nobility's exploitation, and even some opportunistic merchants hoping to get a piece of the pie from this emerging political force.
The Workers' Party turned no one away.
Serafina could use her Originium Arts to vet these people.
She could see through to the emotions deep in their hearts; whether their offers of cooperation were sincere or a cover for malicious intent, it was all crystal clear to her.
She would make a record of those with ulterior motives, so that Lacey could make arrangements after his release from prison.
This afternoon, a young messenger delivered an unsigned letter.
The envelope was sealed with fine wax, bearing only a family crest—a gray wolf roaring amidst thorns.
Serafina dismissed her attendants and opened the letter alone.
The contents were concise and direct: Miss Gertrude Strollo of Wischeim wished to hold a secret meeting with the leader of the Leithanien Workers' Party to discuss matters of mutual interest.
Wischeim? The Strollo family?
The relevant intelligence quickly surfaced in Serafina's mind.
Wischeim was a small city near the capital, Trullinczentyr. It wasn't too far from Salem, but it wasn't close either.
Its lord, Count Strollo, had been branded a remnant of the Witch King during the recent purges and had died under mysterious circumstances.
Why would the daughter of a fallen noble seek out the Workers' Party?
Serafina didn't make a decision on her own. She brought the letter to a candle flame and watched it slowly turn to ash.
Then, she walked to the window and looked in the direction of the prison.
"Lacey, it seems a new player wants to join the game you've set up," she said softly.
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