Crucible of Solitude (11)
The mass destruction plan I laid out so calmly gifted the listener with a calculated dose of fear. This meticulously built image was the negotiator's greatest asset. The communist noble's eyes couldn't meet mine directly; they wandered the empty air for a long while. His forehead soon glistened with sweat, and he finally mustered an excuse to oppose my proposal.
"That won't do. If the factories all blow up, what about the factory owners?"
"Are they on your side?"
"......Not now, but until recently, they were all showing me their respects."
"Do those friends who turned their backs in your time of need deserve such consideration? Overflowing with virtue is fine and all, but Comrade Gao, it seems prioritizing your own regrets comes first."
"It's not...... ahem. It's not that simple. They're insolent for turning away from me, but those bastards have their own connections too."
Up to here, Gao Xusen seemed to convince himself with his own words, gaining confidence.
"Just one or two bridges away, and they're connected to me too. For the sake of those ties, we should preserve the factories as much as possible. And when I finally get the proper treatment I deserve, won't fitting shows of respect and apologies follow? It'd be indirect profit for you too, Vice President."
This man had no idea what he was even saying.
'He doesn't seem to realize that this mess started because of that very custom of exchanging 'respects.''
Those shows of respect were the driving force behind factory owners brazenly withholding workers' wages. Skimp on 100 in pay, bribe with just 10, and it all gets sorted—who among profit-chasing businessmen wouldn't get greedy? In a world of one-eyed men, the two-eyed are the freaks. Even if someone wanted to keep their conscience, failing to 'save' on labor costs meant falling behind in price competition and taking losses. Those who didn't want to go under had no choice but to follow the trend.
The communist noble, oblivious that he himself was the root cause, stubbornly kept opposing with the same arguments. If he'd at least varied his reasoning with some effort, it might've been worth hearing out—but repeating the same crocodile tears was blistering my ears.
"If that's how it is, then no choice."
Though it was my intention from the start, I played it off like a concession and offered an alternative.
"We'll adjust the explosion scale."
"You mean kill fewer?"
"No. We'll use fear. Once flames erupt from the explosives factories and blasts echo, those who know what's stockpiled there will panic and flee on the spot. In the pitch-black night, panic spreads like wildfire. Humans are herd animals—when others start running, you run first and think later."
"Oh......"
"Cut the power then too. Assuming you can exercise that authority, of course. Your competitors will be smashed soon anyway, so seizing control afterward won't be hard. From their perspective, you're no different."
It was amusing to see Gao Xusen relax at that. His expression eased, and he nodded deeper than ever.
"Good. Much better. Factory damage and casualties will drop sharply. Can't have zero deaths in a mess like this. But I'm worried it might make things harder. Adjusting blast size doesn't sound easy."
"Of course it's hard. It'll take longer, increasing exposure to the enemy...... But since you're in such a bind, Comrade, I'm shouldering that burden."
"Indeed. I won't forget your kindness, Vice President. That's my sincere promise."
Thus, the communist noble and I reached agreement. Sure, the chaos would crush truckloads of those bastards, but compared to vaporizing them all, it was downright merciful.
Events unfolded as predicted. Duped by Gao Xusen's feigned outrage, protests, and forward deployment of his forces, the other nobles blocked the Patrol Police Detachment's front with militias, then thrust forward their privately hired ability-user mercenaries.
The hunters, geared in suppression equipment, advanced on the industrial zone in ragged formation. Each had a mana field spanning over ten meters—primitive magic users. Many lacked substance relative to their field size, but overall, they were decently curated.
The peasant workers countered by putting their own ability users up front. But they were hopelessly outmatched in numbers and quality; ability users could gauge superiority just by sensing each other's mana fields. The nobles' mercenaries were buoyed before the clash even began.
In the tense standoff, peasant workers atop the watchtowers sandwiched between the lines unfurled banners scrawled in blood-red letters.
"The people's government cannot suppress the people!"
"A government that suppresses the people is not the people's government!"
Of course, no one paid them any mind. With ironclad control, no cameras were present except those from Public Security and pro-government media. The workers were filming away, but what good was that after suppression?
All commercial comms in the area were under real-time censorship. The noble hunters closed the remaining gap to the zone with confident strides—more like hired thugs than a proper suppression unit. Untrained, they relied on individual prowess beyond numbers. When the power gap is overwhelming, big fights rarely erupt.
From distant tents, the idle communist nobles watched leisurely, chatting and chuckling. They figured this would nab the ringleaders and uncover backers—a pivotal achievement for the political landscape.
Gao Xusen, meanwhile, gripped his fists sweaty, eyes glued to the imminent clash. Anxious lest the mercenaries succeed.
As the distance shrank to ten meters, static-filled melody and singing rose from the workers' ranks. China's national anthem, the March of the Volunteers.
"Arise! All who refuse to be slaves!"
Gao Xusen gaped in disbelief at the song.
"Hah."
After perfunctory surrender demands, the pro-government thugs charged the starving, ragged workers with roars. Suppression batons and spears clashed in staccato bursts amid agonized choruses from beaten laborers. Deep harmonies of pain from split foreheads, shattered collarbones, slumped shoulders.
The workers' shaky line crumbled instantly. Some routed inward as the superhumans opted to beat and drag captives rather than press deeper—prioritizing ability-user takedowns.
"Loyal! To! Party! State! Loyal! To! Party! State!"
Be loyal to the Party, love the country. Victory chants from emboldened hunters waving unit flags. Unhurried, they secured the zone's outskirts and manpower-demolished eyesore watchtowers.
Thud! Boom! Kicking and ramming frames like a game of who topples it. As towers shook, workers atop clung to pillars, wailing.
"Please, spare us!"
Beneath the tilting spires swarmed carnivores; fallers' fates were sealed. Banners shredded first, borne off by cold north winds.
Finally, the tallest tower lurched.
"It's going down!"
Superhumans scattered from their showboating spot; the tower crashed with a roar. They swarmed back, pummeling fallen prey. Captives, bloodied like prior comrades, dragged off like trash.
"The Chinese nation faces its greatest peril..."
"From each oppressed soul, a final cry erupts!"
The anthem's lyrics rang hollow on loop. By Party interpretation, 'those refusing slavery' meant peasants and workers—making this scene a tragic farce. This spectacle embodied fake communists' true nature.
"This won't just end like this, will it?"
Gao Xusen vented anxiety. No objective proof yet workers had prepped bombs—Zhang Tailong, sent to check power usage, hadn't returned.
If I didn't know their prep, I'd be gripping sweaty palms too. I shook off idle thoughts.
"Watch a bit longer. Rear rabble hasn't broken yet. Untrained order signals something to lean on."
"Damn......"
The fidgety noble muttered curses at his subordinate's sloth. But it was more his influence and faction's limits.
Soon, his face twisted differently.
"Those rebel scum?"
Against mercenaries gearing for final suppression, workers unveiled canvas-covered weapons: drum barrels on mounts, one end open. Packed with black powder propellant, pouches of metal bolts, nuts, ball bearings—Flying Thunder Cannon, improvised artillery.
Symbolic of CCP and PLA's anti-Japanese war. Used in civil war, Korean War (their 'Resist America, Aid Korea'). Aiming it at the Party? Insult to history-proud cadres.
'Black Sea Party's biker charge uses Anti-Japanese Great Swords, huh...... Quite the experiences since arriving here.'
As I mused, the background anthem cut abruptly. Amid shaken super-mercenaries, a furious declaration—peasant worker or ally—blared from all zone speakers.
The 'don't move' warning voided at 'death sentence.' Mercenaries bolted. Superhuman physiques or not, they couldn't escape improvised artillery range mid-speech. Charging head-on might've fared better.
"Fire!"
Over a hundred Flying Thunder Cannons roared.
Kwa-kwa-kwa-boom! Boom! Kwa-kwa-boom! Uncontrolled blasts scattered wildly. But power was real. Subsonic shotgun sprays of metal bits swept wide areas. Individually weak against thick armor, their overwhelming mass totaled lethal energy.
Many pierced gaps. Misses scraped concrete in sparks. Fire, smoke, death overflowed.
Gao Xusen clutched his forehead, groaning.
"My god......"
I observed results intrigued. Common in Third World, basic knowledge aside—first live view.
'Bleeding from seven orifices isn't exaggeration.'
Seven orifices: eyes, nose, mouth, ears. Chinese records on Flying Thunder Cannon noted unscathed bodies bleeding from orifices—internal liquefaction from blunt trauma.
Fallen hunters died similarly, weeping blood. None dared rescue. Black powder smoke blanketed like perfect screen—impossible to gauge reloads.
These were top ability users selected by record and fame from a metro area of ten million+. Business climate just improved dramatically.