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Chapter 71 - Chapter 71: One Accord!

Whoosh!

Whoosh, whoosh!

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

Every night above the four annexed districts of the capital, the air filled with the hum of ODM gear. Unlike the leisurely buzz you heard in the daytime when the Military Police swept for gangs, this sound wasn't relaxed at all—it was tight and staccato, like a hare under chase, sneaking and slipping away with everything it had.

As sheets of paper rustled through the air, the sleepless in every home, fearful yet curious, peered out through half-open windows.

Outside, it looked like snowfall—someone was scattering leaflets while running ODM gear.

By the time people stepped out to look, the hum had already faded. Whoever had flown by was long gone, their face impossible to make out.

Inside a home in the Stohess District, a family was gathered around the table.

Just as the steaming food was set down, an urgent pounding rattled the door.

Thump, thump, thump!

Thump, thump, thump!

Bang!

The lock shattered under a bullet and fell to the floor.

The man about to open the door froze, then collapsed to his knees, drenched in cold sweat.

"Miyuko… if they take me—please… make sure the children are looked after."

As soon as he said it, the woman behind him broke into sobs and clutched the four kids close.

The children didn't understand. They peered through their mother's fingers to see what was happening.

The door was kicked in. A squad with yellow armbands stormed inside. They matched faces to a sketch, grabbed the kneeling man, and dragged him into the corridor.

He struggled and took several hard slaps. His cheeks swelled red; blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

"Murderer Harrison Hill—that's your name, isn't it?"

"…Yes—no, no, I didn't kill anyone! I only—"

"Take him."

Together they hauled the slapped-raw man to his feet.

He fought with everything he had, shouting in panic, "I didn't kill anyone! I only stole something, I swear! Where are you taking me?! Hey!"

"Not our business. If you've got grievances, tell the jail. We just follow orders."

After that stock line to dodge responsibility, they hoisted him up and took him away.

But the man knew something was wrong. Lately, too many people had been railroaded to death by careless MPs. Once he went inside a jail, there'd be no getting back out. Judges now worked like an assembly line; hundreds or thousands of "criminals" waited for their cases every day. True fairness was impossible. Wrongful deaths were common. And the Crown wouldn't pay an extra copper to compensate a mistaken execution.

The Royal Capital was under lockdown. Food came only when the Crown opened its granaries, and even then, it barely filled a tooth gap. Every person, every meal, got a fist-sized hunk of bread at most. His four kids never ate their fill. Every night they woke in hunger, shaking him and whispering, "Dad, I'm so hungry."

So he'd taken the risk. The crackdown on gangs had gotten brutal. His wife feared he'd be seized, but he figured a dozen days in detention was worth it if it meant a full meal for the children.

He just didn't understand…

How had he become a murderer?

"I'm begging you, check again! Don't report me as a killer, please! I confess—I only stole a few loaves of bread! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please! I'm begging you!!"

He tore free, dropped to his knees, and kowtowed to them until a patch of floor was smeared red.

Their leader's patience snapped at the sight.

They're all like this. Every last one. So damned annoying.

"We're just following orders. Keep spewing crap and I'll have your head rolling right here, got it?"

"Boss, hurry up. We've got a bunch more to bag. Dragging our feet will only spook the rest."

"Yeah, yeah. Quit rushing me." The leader glanced down his list and scratched his head, irritated. "Damn it, royal money's the hardest to earn. This many names?"

"Don't think about it, boss. Word is the MPs are even busier. Hey, hey—hit the quota and a few of us get proper posts. That's steady coin each month, heh heh."

"Damn right—and don't forget who found you this gig."

They snickered and yanked the kneeling man back up.

Whether he was being framed or not, none of them cared. They were temps hired out of the Underground City with pocket change—yellow armband stand-ins, doing the dirty work for the MPs.

Gangs kept multiplying no matter how hard they were hit. For some reason, the capital had been calm enough—until the lockdown and the purges began. Then gangs exploded in number, more and more by the day, an endless slaughter. In the end, anybody with a gun got shot on sight and executed for "threats to public order."

The man's screams faded down the hall. His wife had thought he'd only be detained—but once she heard him cry out, she rushed into the street.

"Harrison!" she shouted, tears streaking her face, reaching toward him.

The children burst into wails and clung to their mother.

Inside, the food went stone-cold.

Harrison Hill was delivered to the Military Police. The escorts, handling several prisoners, filed into MP headquarters in small squads with their fellows.

They pushed open a half-latched door and called in to the men inside—shoes off, feet propped on the table, smoking and playing cards—that the arrests had been made. With a curt, impatient nod, they were told to take the prisoners to the cells, only to be chased back out by a guard with, "We're full to bursting," and redirected to the stables for temporary holding.

The next day, through the judge's bloodshot eyes, Harrison's file was stamped mid-yawn.

His case was skimmed like an assembly line. His hoarse shouts went ignored. Execution scheduled in the coming days.

"How can this be… I only committed theft…"

Under the bleak moonlight, Harrison sobbed beside a reeking pile of manure in the stables. Prisoners nearby, annoyed by the noise, beat him until several teeth cracked.

But the night before the execution, the Commander of the Military Police, Nile Dawk, finally rotated off palace-guard duty in Mitras and found time to inspect the completely unraveled MP headquarters and its branches. He urgently corrected the wrongful charges that had piled up.

It turned out their charges had been entered on the wrong line by slapdash clerks. The "murderer" charge pinned to Harrison belonged to another, mean-faced man—who had been given only seven days for theft. In the "jail" (the stables), that man had stolen food from Harrison and the others and had sexually assaulted them with perverse cruelty.

After nearly being killed, once his detention term ended, Harrison was finally released.

That night, the moonlight felt cold.

He trudged down the street, hollow-eyed, a walking corpse.

Then the whine of ODM gear passed over his head. A few white leaflets fluttered into his hands. On them:

"Three days from now, rise up against authority—those with the will, gather for an uprising! —Scorpio."

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