The Sarajevo Commotion, Part 3
"I am Mustafić of the Young Bosnia Party! In the name of the Serbian Royal Family and His Imperial Majesty the Russian Tsar, I bring judgment upon you, Stahl! Death to the Habsburgs! Send the Germans to the gas chambers!"
For a bomb-throwing terrorist, he was remarkably forthcoming, laying bare his identity, his organization, and even his financial backers with absolute clarity. Delivering these unimaginably heinous, anti-human slurs in a thoroughly awkward, rehearsed tone, the strange assailant hurled an object that vaguely resembled a bomb.
"H-Hurry up and detonate it!"
"What are you doing?! This looks incredibly suspicious!"
Naturally, the bomb took a bizarrely long eleven seconds to detonate after landing near the carriage. There had been some suspicious whispering coming from the vehicle itself, but then again, didn't hand grenades take a few seconds to go off anyway? Regardless, every single soul gathered in the square heard a tirade so extreme it would have made even the most radical Slavic nationalists blush.
No one present—save for the sole victim of this theatrical assassination attempt—could have known that a mere thirty years later, there would actually be monsters who would turn these horrific threats into reality.
With a deafening roar, a massive cloud of smoke erupted, completely enveloping the carriage and the surrounding area. Oddly enough for a bomb, not a single spark flew, and the air filled with the distinct scent of water vapor rather than gunpowder. But the sheer visual impact was spectacular, so such trivial details hardly mattered.
"Aaaah! A bomb!"
"A bomb went off!"
"It's a terrorist attack! Someone targeted Vice Chairman Stahl!"
Naturally, the crowd descended into utter pandemonium, scattering in all directions. However, with their vision obscured and the square packed shoulder-to-shoulder, they couldn't make a clean escape.
As the thick water vapor—ah, excuse me, the billowing smoke—finally began to clear, a young man emerged through the haze, blood streaming down his forehead.
Ugh, why are razor blades so damn sharp? Ow, that stings!
Stahl, nursing his self-inflicted sting from the "bombing," was now a seasoned politician of several years. He did his absolute best to strike a noble, dignified pose.
Emerging from the smoke, Stahl cradled a young boy in his arms, looking utterly devastated. The child, about fourteen years old, was covered in blood, wearing a small Orthodox cross around his neck and a traditional Serbian cap. Though the boy was dressed in clothes usually reserved for holidays, anyone could tell from a mile away that he was a Slavic Orthodox Christian.
The crowd had been running about in a frenzy, but the sight of Stahl weeping over the body of a young South Slav boy brought the chaos to a grinding halt.
"H-Heuuu... Ahhhhh!"
Stahl's wailing was so raw and agonizing that it began to melt the hatred of the very radicals who had gathered to shoot him. He had been honing his acting skills since the days of the penicillin trials. With his forehead stinging from the razor blade—no, the bomb shrapnel—squeezing out tears was child's play.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Because of me... all because of me...! Quick, get this boy into the carriage! He's still breathing!"
Stahl hurriedly loaded the boy onto the carriage and sent him away. The boy, who had been scraping by as a beggar in Sarajevo, was bound for Vienna. There, he would receive housing courtesy of Stahl, and upon reaching adulthood, a guaranteed job at the chemical company. In other words, he would never be seen in Sarajevo again.
"Ugh... Argh..."
"Aaaah... Ow..."
Nearby, several young men—who, strangely enough, looked an awful lot like regulars at the Social Democratic Workers' Party headquarters—groaned in stiff, robotic agony as they rolled on the ground. Stahl dutifully "rescued" them one by one, loading them into carriages as well.
Only then did the Austrian police snap out of their daze. Mounted officers prepared to charge the crowd, while the onlookers, who had been staring blankly at Stahl, finally scrambled to flee.
But once again, it was Stahl who saved them.
"Stop! Do not draw your blades against the people!"
Stahl threw his entire body in front of the mounted police.
"Does a mere scientist from the majority party dare block the path of the sacred Imperial police?"
"Yes, I do."
"Step aside, Vice Chairman Stahl. Do you not know what kind of place Sarajevo is?"
"I know. I know all too well."
"Sarajevo is a den of thugs who threaten the Kaiser and the Empire!"
"No. You are wrong."
On the surface, Stahl was addressing the mounted police officer. In reality, his words were meant for everyone gathered in the square.
"Sarajevo is a place where fathers, sons, the working class who serve as the very heart and veins of this Empire, and powerless citizens reside. It is no different from Vienna."
"B-But...!"
"Kill me instead. Cut me down first, and run over the members of our Social Democratic Workers' Party before you lay a finger on them."
"...We are withdrawing."
"Inspector!"
"I said withdraw, now!"
The mounted police turned their horses and departed. A terrifying silence fell over the crowd, a stillness so profound it felt as though the Virgin Mary herself had descended upon Sarajevo. Seizing the silence, Stahl ascended the podium where he was scheduled to speak.
"I know the grievances you have suffered at the hands of the Empire. I know them in my very bones. But... there is still hope for this Empire. If you cannot trust the Empire, His Imperial Majesty, or the sacred House of Habsburg, then trust our Social Democratic Workers' Party. And if you cannot even trust the party, then trust me. Trust the blood flowing from my brow. I am prepared to lay down my life for you. Please, I beg of you... do not listen to those who would harm their fellow man under Christ. If you are not a Christian, then I ask you in the name of Muhammad. And if not that, then I plead in the name of historical inevitability, the relations of production, and common humanity."
The crowd stared silently at Stahl, who had just emerged from the smoke, weeping for a child. Then, like the residents of the Vienna slums before them, they began to murmur.
"Saint... Stahl."
"Can we... really trust him?"
"We can... we must. If we have human hearts, we have to believe him."
"Saint Stahl! Saint Stahl! Saint Stahl!"
They began to chant the name "Saint Stahl" in unison. Swept up in a wave of intense emotion, the crowd felt as if a halo were radiating from behind him, as if the Archangel Michael himself were standing at his back.
Even some of those who had come to shoot Stahl out of sheer hatred dropped their weapons and collapsed to the ground.
"W-What have I done...?"
"Forgive me! Forgive me!"
Like the residents of District 16 who had once begged Stahl for confession, they fell to their knees and wept like children. Stahl quietly turned away from the weeping crowd.
And in that exact moment—
Bang!
Another gunshot shattered the air.
"Stahl, you... you goddamn Antichrist!"
"Wh-What?"
"D-Don't believe him! It's all a lie! L-Long live the Slavic nation! Long live Serbia!"
The assassin began to wave a Serbian flag as if he had prepared it beforehand. Stahl couldn't help but let out a dry chuckle; he was genuinely astonished that someone could be stupid enough to advertise their sponsors so blatantly.
The assassin had undoubtedly intended to gun down the nation's enemy, shout for Slavic independence, and spark a massive uprising. But unlike the aftermath of the first bomb, a terrifying, heavy silence fell over the square. The crowd stared at the assassin with trembling, furious eyes.
"Wh-Why? Why are you looking at me like that?! You guys were cheering along in the beer halls just yesterday! Wh-What did I do?! Don't look at me like that!"
The assassin collapsed to the ground as if he had seen a ghost. Conversely, the crowd closed in around him like a horde of vengeful spirits.
Stahl looked down at his shoulder. Strangely, he hadn't felt any pain the moment the bullet struck him, but the sight of the blood soaking through his coat unleashed a wave of agonizing pain.
The Social Democratic Workers' Party members escorting Stahl whispered to one another with grave expressions.
"Th-This wasn't in the script..."
"Ah! To deceive your enemies, you must first deceive your allies! Classic Vice Chairman Stahl."
"Indeed! A level of cunning—no, sheer ruthlessness—that would put Merlin himself to shame."
"But wait, his shoulder is bleeding... and there's a hole in his coat. It looks like he actually got shot."
"Don't be an idiot. Vice Chairman Stahl is a genius chemist. A simple trick like this is child's play to him."
"Ah, is that so? Oh, crap! This is no time to stand around! Start wailing! Oh, the tragedy! The horror...!"
"Vice Chairman Stahl! Noooo...!"
Finally, the shock of the blood loss and the overwhelming pain caught up to Stahl, and he collapsed. Having finally realized what had actually happened, Stahl squeezed out his very last ounce of strength to mutter one final phrase before the world went black.
"K-Kill that son of a bitch..."
"Pardon? Is that the message you want us to convey? I don't think it would be wise to say that publicly..."
"N-No... you idiots, I actually got shot..."
With those final words, Stahl lost consciousness.
To begin with, the assassin who shot Stahl vanished without a trace, much like the young boy who had supposedly fallen victim to the first bomb. Of course, a body was eventually recovered from the crowd, but...
"Ugh, blegh!"
"My God... was this actually a human being?"
"Forget identifying his face, we can't even estimate his height or weight."
Naturally, there was not a shred of evidence to prove that this pile of flesh was the assassin. Thus, for all intents and purposes, the assassin had ascended to the heavens, much like Romulus, the first king of Rome, or Heracles.
A secret society, true to its name, is utterly useless if its secrecy is compromised. During the Japanese colonial period, countless anti-Japanese independence organizations collapsed overnight due to a single informant's tip. Despite the immense effort poured into maintaining their clandestine nature, a single leak was all it took to tear them apart.
And now, the Sarajevo branch of the Imperial State Police was completely paralyzed by an unprecedented deluge of anonymous tips, despite their vast numbers.
"This bastard right here was the one who said we should shoot Saint Stahl!"
"You agreed with me! You said Stahl was a goddamn commie who deserved divine punishment!"
"So what?! Even Peter denied Christ three times! But you're the Judas who wanted to gun Saint Stahl down!"
The Imperial State Police, who had previously been functionally blind within Sarajevo, suddenly possessed a comprehensive map of every single secret society in the city. Of course, it didn't even matter if the police took action or not.
"O-Our brothers tried to shoot Stahl, but ended up blowing up a fellow Slavic boy with a bomb?"
"And then Stahl got shot by another compatriot while trying to save people?"
"...What in God's name!"
"We need to get on a train to Serbia or Russia right now!"
"Damn it! The tickets are all sold out!"
"Even if we had tickets... the station is crawling with Imperial agents. We're finished."
Those attempting to flee to Serbia could at least be considered "patriots." However, the fly-by-night secret societies that had ballooned overnight thanks to sudden injections of Serbian cash possessed no such loyalty.
"From this moment on, Stahl, the Social Democratic Workers' Party, and I are one and the same."
"An attack on Stahl is an attack on me! Long live Socialist Bosnia! Workers of the world, unite!"
Turncoats always transform into the most zealous advocates to avoid having their loyalty questioned. Consequently, secret societies that had once been hotbeds of Slavic nationalism rebranded themselves overnight into socialist workers' organizations. Some even went so far as to masquerade as labor self-governing cooperatives that had supposedly followed the Stahl-Ferdinand Model from the very beginning.
It wasn't a terrible strategy. After all, they were merely amateur revolutionaries who had taken Serbian money; very few of them had actually committed crimes severe enough to warrant the gallows. Pretending they had been Stahl's staunch supporters all along was infinitely easier.
Meanwhile, at a major hospital in Sarajevo.
"Aaargh! I'm dying! Bring me the penicillin! I'm dying here!"
"My dear Stahl! Have you no shame?! It was a mere graze to the shoulder."
"Do you have any idea how terrifying bacterial infections are?! Hurry up and bring it!"
In front of Freud, who had rushed down to Bosnia upon hearing the news of the shooting, Stahl was weeping in a thoroughly pathetic display, hoarding and exhausting every single drop of penicillin available in the entire region.