The first stones flew in the Merchants' Quarter, where wealth was oldest and entitlement ran deepest. The air, once filled with the morning calls of vendors and the aroma of fresh bread, had curdled with a rising tide of venom. Murmurs had swelled into shouts, and shouts had ignited into a unified roar of outrage. A portly man in a silk waistcoat, his face a mottled purple, heaved a cobblestone at the newly erected town crier's post, where a copy of the Ordinance was nailed. The crack of splintering wood was the starting pistol for the day's bloody race.
"Thief!" the man shrieked, his voice cracking. "Owen is a thief! He steals our property! Our legacy!"
His cry was a rallying call. A wave of similarly-attired merchants and landowners surged forward, their faces contorted with a fury that brooked no reason. They were men who had built fortunes on the backs of others, and they saw Owen's decree not as an act of liberation, but as a grand theft. Overturned carts laden with produce became makeshift barricades. The windows of shops owned by known abolitionists shattered under a hail of rocks. An effigy of Owen, hastily cobbled from straw and old sacks, was hoisted, doused in oil, and set ablaze, casting a greasy, black smoke against the pristine morning sky.
From the rooftops, lookouts from the Alpine Intelligence Department (AID) relayed coordinates with unnerving calm. "Sector 17, Merchants' Quarter. Hostile numbers estimated at eight hundred and growing. Crowd is armed with improvised weapons: farming tools, masonry, and a few personal sidearms. They are targeting symbols of the state and any former slave individuals in their path. Violence escalating."
The response was a study in brutal efficiency. Four Companies of police number a hundred each, clad in black, impact-resistant armor and visored helmets that hid all traces of humanity, marched into the square from intersecting avenues. They didn't charge or shout. They moved with the disciplined, inexorable rhythm of a machine, their heavy composite riot shields interlocking to form an unbreachable wall.
Battalion Leader Torvin, peering through the polarized visor of his helmet, watched the mob's momentum break against their line like a wave against a cliff. "Hold fast," he commanded over the company's internal mana comms. "Phase one deployment on my mark. Target the instigators."
The rioters, fueled by generations of dominance and expecting a chaotic brawl with cudgel-wielding constables, were met with something alien. From behind the shield line, officers deployed the "Stingers." The handheld devices emitted no sound audible to the human ear, but the air itself became a weapon. A high-frequency, sonic pulse washed over the front ranks of the mob. It was a silent, crushing pressure that vibrated deep within the bones, inducing vertigo and waves of debilitating nausea. The angry roars faltered, turning to choked groans. Men dropped their makeshift weapons to clutch their heads, their coordination dissolving into a drunken stagger.
"Phase two," Torvin ordered. As the mob recoiled in agony, specialized teams moved through precise gaps in the shield wall. They fired grappling hooks attached to high-tensile wires, ensnaring and dragging the most violent agitators back behind the police line with swift, practiced motions, like a master fishermen. There were no clubs, no beatings, just the cold, impersonal neutralization of a threat. The riot's leadership was decapitated in less than a minute.
Across the city, in the newly christened "Liberty Plaza," a different scene unfolded. Here, the news had been met not with rage, but with a stunned, tearful silence that slowly blossomed into a chorus of celebration. Thousands of newly emancipated men, women, and children had gathered, their initial joy now tempered by the distant sounds of violence.
An old man named Samuel, his back stooped from a lifetime of labor in the fields, held the hand of his granddaughter. "You feel that, Elara?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "That air? It's different. It's yours to breathe now."
Their fragile hope was threatened by the approaching sirens, but the vehicles that rumbled into the plaza were not for them. Sleek, gray armored personnel carrier automobiles rolled to a stop, their hatches opening not to disgorge aggressors, but to dispense aid. Soldiers in full combat gear formed a protective cordon around the freed people, their 44 longrifles held in a non-threatening, low-ready position.
Their commander, Captain Eva Rostova, stood atop a vehicle, her amplified voice cutting through the nervous murmurs. "You are citizens of Alpine," she declared, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. "With that you are under the protection of its military. We will hold this ground. We will ensure your safety. Medics are available for any who need them. Rations and water will be distributed." Her soldiers moved with purpose, a medic tending to a woman who had fainted from the emotional strain, another sharing a ration bar with a wide-eyed child. For the first time, for many in the crowd, the sight of a soldier inspired not fear, but a nascent sense of security.
From his command center, Owen watched it all on a series of crystal-clear mana displays. Nathan Owden stood beside him, his expression grim as he watched a screen detailing the arrests.
"We've already identified Lord Marius Valerius's chief foreman among the instigators in the Merchants' Quarter," Nathan said, "along with several prominent guild masters. Their assets are being frozen as we speak. The financial blow will hit them harder than any prison sentence."
The Minister of Defense pointed to a tactical map. "The urban uprisings are being contained. But Owen, the reports from the rural territories are more concerning. The landowners out there command private militias. They won't be quelled by sonic pulses and shield walls."
Owen nodded, his gaze distant. "This is the necessary, violent birth of a new era," he said, more to himself than to his ministers. "Every arrest, every broken window, is a testament to the depth of the sickness we are curing. But the Minister of Defense is right. This is merely the opening skirmish." He felt the immense weight of his choice, a physical pressure in his chest. He was not just tearing down an institution; he was waging war on a way of life, and the blowback was only just beginning.
On a side street bordering the Merchants' Quarter, Kael, who had woken that morning as another man's property, was running. He had dropped his broom in disbelief, his heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated freedom. He ran not towards the chaos but away from the small house that had been his prison. He had to see it for himself. He saw the mob, and in its front rank, he saw the face of the man who had owned him, screaming with rage. A cold dread filled him.
But then he saw the shield wall—impassive, powerful, and defending his newfound liberty. He ducked behind a rain barrel, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a single, hot tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. It wasn't a tear of sorrow, but of a profound, terrifying, and exhilarating hope. He stayed there, hidden, until the sonic waves hit and the mob broke. He watched as his former master, clutching his ears and stumbling, was efficiently netted and dragged away. Kael felt not vengeance, but a quiet, seismic shift deep within his soul. The world had been turned upside down.
As midday passed, a tense calm fell over the cities. But in the opulent, wood-paneled study of an estate miles from the urban chaos, the real war was taking shape. Lord Marius Valerius, a man of sharp features and colder eyes, stared into a fireplace, a glass of expensive brandy in his hand. Around him sat a dozen other powerful landowners, their faces grim.
"Owen's city pets can quell a mob of shopkeepers," Valerius sneered, turning to face them. "But they cannot pacify the heartlands. He has stolen our property, our birthright. He has spat on our heritage. This is not a law; it is a declaration of war."
"Secession?" one of the older men asked, his voice trembling slightly. "That's treason."
"What is treason?" Valerius countered, his voice like ice. "Defending your home? Your way of life? Owen has committed treason against the founding principles of property and order. We will not secede. We will correct it. We will form a New Territory to protect against what is ours. We will pool our militias. We will reach out to our friends across the border who understand the value of tradition. Owen has his new technology. We have the land, the loyalty of its people, and the will to spill blood for what is ours."
Back in the capital, as dusk settled over a wounded but controlled city, a new report was placed on Owen's desk. It wasn't from the police or the military, but from his intelligence Agency (AIA). He read the encrypted intercepts, his knuckles white, and face with an extreme emotion on it,
"…Sir.Valerius…mobilizing private forces...reaching out to neighboring territories..."
The storm had not passed. It had merely changed form. The chaotic, angry mob had been a distraction. The true enemy—organized, wealthy, and utterly implacable—was now gathering its strength in the shadows. The fight for Alpine's soul had only just begun.