"I remember," Allen muttered, squinting through the hazy air, "those miners seemed to have something at their waists."
Due to the perpetual smog of Coal-Iron City, the soldiers on the high walls wore thick dust masks, making their vision somewhat blurry and their voices muffled.
Allen rubbed his eyes.
He didn't really recognize the leading miners who were approaching the gate.
It seemed like he had seen them before—maybe as supervisors from the steel factory?—yet also hadn't.
Their posture was different. Straighter. Harder.
At this time of day, Coal-Iron City would normally be a cacophony of chaotic noises.
There would be the crack of whips, the wails of miners, the clanking of carts, and the clamor of a thousand miserable souls.
But today was strangely different.
After those "overseers" entered the main gate, the city seemed as if its sounds had been muffled by a heavy blanket.
The environment was eerily quiet. Too quiet.
"I say, Violet," Allen whispered, clutching his spear. "Are we... are we really not going to face any trouble?"
Allen was extremely frightened.
He wasn't brave, but he had a unique talent—an instinct for danger that far surpassed others.
When his comrades were oblivious, Allen would always feel the chill on his neck before the knife fell.
"What could those lowly commoners possibly do?" Violet glanced sideways at Allen, her voice dripping with mockery.
"Don't tell me you believe those rumors about a 'rebel army'?" She laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet air. "Even if those dirt-eaters really started an uprising, so what? We have rifles. We have cannons. They have mining picks."
"We hold the high ground. We hold the walls. And remember," she added smugly, "the World Government has stationed many Marine forces nearby. The last uprising ten years ago was crushed in a week. Such a trivial matter isn't worth worrying about."
Others around Allen, hearing their discussion, also began to ridicule him.
"Look at Allen! Scared of a bunch of starved rats!"
Many of them were young soldiers who had never experienced the uprising ten years ago.
They knew nothing of the fury of desperate men. The education they received taught them that miners were sub-human, cattle to be used and discarded.
Hearing their mockery, Allen felt both alarmed and ashamed.
Puffing up with defensive anger, he stammered, "The... the noble lords said that it never hurts to be more cautious!"
Upon hearing this, the soldiers burst into uproarious laughter.
Violet didn't continue mocking him.
Instead, she leaned in, patted his shoulder condescendingly, and said.
"Allen, you might be under too much stress. Why don't you go back to the barracks and rest? We can handle the watch. Go have some soup."
After hearing Violet's words, Allen thought it over.
Maybe he was indeed imagining things.
An uprising? Here? Under the nose of the Marines? Impossible.
Realizing he might have made a fool of himself, Allen hurriedly found his squad leader, excused himself, and practically ran toward the barracks.
He didn't know it, but his cowardice just saved his life.
Not long after Allen left, the group of "overseers" who had entered the interior of Coal-Iron City emerged again.
This time, however, most of them wore smiles—tight, predatory smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
"Tara! Hey!"
A squad leader of the King's Guard, a fat man named Soy, called out from the wall, recognizing the tall, burly overseer leading the group.
"What goodies did you get in there?"
"Oh, it's Sir Soy!" The overseer, Tara, called back, acting subservient. "Nothing much, hehe."
He patted a bulge in his coat. "Just found an old man hiding something precious. We... persuaded him to hand over his family heirloom."
Soy immediately grew very interested.
He was notoriously greedy, which was precisely why he had stagnated at the rank of squad leader.
Whenever he seized valuable contraband, he hoarded it for himself.
"Tara," Soy said, licking his lips. "It's been a while since we last met. How about we grab a drink in my command room? Private stock."
Tara replied with feigned trepidation.
"Lord Soy, the steel factory has strict schedules. Returning late will get us marked on the list. My pay..."
Soy's greasy hand was already gripping Tara's arm as he said enthusiastically.
"Tara, don't worry about that! I'll send someone to inform the factory. Come on!"
Seeing that Soy had taken the bait, Tara stopped resisting.
He put on a reluctant act and followed Soy into the guardhouse.
The other "overseers" who had come with Tara didn't follow.
They casually wandered along the city wall, spreading out.
Most of them gathered near the unsuspecting guards, chatting about the weather.
The moment they entered the command room and the door clicked shut, Soy couldn't wait.
"Tara! Come on! What did you get? Gold? Gems?"
Seeing Soy's impatient expression, Tara reached into his coat.
He moved slowly, deliberately.
Soy nearly reached out to grab it himself, but Tara was too tall.
Finally, when Soy was nearly frantic, Tara pulled out a parchment-wrapped object.
It was heavy and oddly shaped.
"What's this?" Soy asked, puzzled. "Why does it look like... a firearm?"
Before Tara revealed it, Soy had imagined gold bars or antique vases.
But a gun? He genuinely hadn't seen a firearm this high-quality before.
It was sleek, metallic, and smelled of oil.
"Hurry up, unwrap it!" Soy urged, his greed overriding his common sense.
Tara flipped his hand.
The parchment fell away.
Resting in his palm was a brand-new, double-barreled flintlock pistol, stamped with the Donquixote crest.
Soy gasped. "My God... it really is a firearm! An exquisite one!"
"I suspected it might be a gun," Soy babbled, reaching for it, "but I thought, 'what use would a miner have with this?' Hand it over, Tara. It's contraband."
Soy's hand reached for the grip. He never cared about the danger, only the value.
Tara stared at him, utterly bewildered by the man's stupidity.
He had expected Soy to reach for his sword, to shout an alarm.
Instead, this pig-brained officer just wanted to steal the murder weapon.
Tara shook his head. He stepped back and calmly cocked the hammers.
Click-click.
"Tara?" Soy blinked. "Why are you loading it? Be careful! Accidental discharge is dangerous!"
"You really are hopelessly stupid, Soy," Tara said softly.
"What do you mean? Don't tell me you—"
BOOM!
The double-barreled pistol roared in the confined space.
Soy's chest burst open with two bloody holes.
He stumbled back, his face filled with utter disbelief as he stared at the "subservient" worker.
"Why...?" He collapsed, dead before he hit the floor.
Tara picked up the heavy brass key ring from Soy's belt.
He straightened his clothes, blew the smoke from the barrel, and declared to the corpse.
"Because the will of the people has awakened. And the nobles who oppressed us will face their reckoning."
With resolute steps, Tara walked out of the command room.
He glanced at the other overseers on the high wall.
They were watching him.
Tara raised his right hand in a fist.
"What is Tara doing?" a guard soldier asked, confused.
"Heh, maybe he's stretching," an overseer beside him said with a smile.
Then, the overseer pulled a sharp dagger from his sleeve and plunged it into the guard's neck.
"Urgh..." The ambushed soldier barely made a sound.
He struggled briefly before going limp.
All along the wall, the scene repeated.
Thud. Slash. Gasp.
Within a minute, the entire section of the wall was silent.
Tara climbed onto the highest rampart.
He pulled a flare gun from his chest—another gift from the Donquixote deal—and fired it skyward.
FSSSSSHHHHHH!
A red streak tore through the smog, exploding high above the city.
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