Blackstone Code

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Inside the room, a group of people gathered, their appearances disheveled and weary.

But then again, in times like these, who among the common folk could truly look presentable? Only the elite and influential managed to maintain an air of dignity.

These individuals' eyes gleamed with a peculiar intensity, as if they were preparing for something monumental. Among them, however, two stood out from the rest.

"Martin, I'm not sure this is right…" The speaker was an ordinary man in his forties, dressed in a summer shirt purchased years ago, paired with shorts worn thin after two years of use. His leather sandals bore scuffs, but this ensemble was the best he owned.

The man addressed as Martin leaned against the wall near the window, one arm crossed over his chest while the other held a cigarette. The dim light cast a sickly yellow hue over the room, and the smoke from his cigarette rose straight up before dissipating into chaotic swirls disturbed by unseen currents.

His gaze was fixed on the hotel across the street. He had come with a mission—to disrupt the welcome banquet being hosted by the city tonight.

Martin was a labor union representative affiliated with the Socialist Party, though his loyalties leaned toward the Conservative Party. In the factory where he worked, he was known for organizing workers and leading strikes—a thorn in the side of management. To the workers, he was a champion; to the bosses, a troublemaker.

Politically, Martin aligned himself with the Conservatives, as did many working-class individuals. Their worldview mirrored their approach to work—resistance to change, preferring stability above all else. A life without surprises was ideal.

Recently, Martin had been tasked with creating disturbances during this diplomatic event. Initially, he hesitated. After all, he no longer toiled away in the factory like the lowest-ranking workers. As a semi-official representative, he understood the implications of disrupting such a significant national affair.

Yet, the offer proved irresistible: two bank drafts totaling twenty thousand bucks, issued by six major banks in the Baylor Federation. These checks required no verification—simply presenting them at any legitimate bank would convert them into cash or deposit the funds directly into an account. For someone accustomed to earning 287.35 bucks monthly before the economic downturn, this sum equated to nearly a decade's income. Given the current dire economic climate, the temptation was overwhelming.

When questioned by his colleague, Martin stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. His expression carried a strange undertone. "We're not wrong," he said firmly.

All eyes turned to him. Martin, ever the agitator, began rallying the crowd—not against employers this time, but against the idea of aiding Nagalier United Kingdom.

"Listen carefully," he began. "We are not alone. Behind us stand our families and countless ordinary citizens of the Baylor Federation. At this moment, we are united."

"Have you heard? The federal government plans to send vast amounts of aid to Nagalier and help build factories there. They'd rather give scarce resources to those barbarians than address our needs here."

"If we don't fight back, if we remain silent, who knows what kind of society we'll end up with?"

"This isn't just about us—it's for everyone, for the federation itself."

With these simple yet incendiary words, Martin ignited the crowd's anger. His mockery of Nagalier as "barbarians who eat bloody meat" resonated deeply, despite the irony that rare steaks remained a luxury even in the Baylor Federation. Most people preferred well-cooked meat due to past outbreaks caused by parasites and contamination.

This tactic of portraying themselves as a superior civilization mocking an inferior one struck a chord. The room buzzed with indignation as voices rose in protest.

Martin glanced at his companion, his eyes inscrutable. "Trust me, we're doing nothing wrong."

His friend didn't argue further, retreating to sit silently, worry etched on his face.

At 6:45 PM, distinguished guests began arriving. Martin crushed the remnants of his cigarette underfoot. Dozens of butts littered the floor, and the room reeked of stale smoke. Despite his outward calm, Martin's heart raced.

"Let's move, brothers. Let those elites hear our voices."

Silently, the group sprang into action. No shouting, no roaring—just a quiet, resolute determination.

Across the street, the mayor of the port city greeted important dignitaries. Media crews surrounded the hotel entrance, their flashes turning the area into a blaze of artificial daylight. Promoting ties with Nagalier was a directive from the presidential palace, drawing heavyweight media coverage regardless of political alignment. Such events demanded impartial reporting, even if criticism followed later.

The arrival of the Senate's Acting President elevated the occasion significantly. Normally, hosting a delegation from a minor nation like Nagalier wouldn't warrant such high-level attendance. But his presence underscored the president's resolve.

As reporters clamored around the Acting President, a sudden commotion erupted across the street. A horde of ragged workers surged forward, carrying placards bearing slogans like "We Need Food," "We Need Jobs," and "Politicians Are Giving Our Money Away." Security forces—including police, FBI agents, and a few National Security operatives—sprang into action.

However, this wasn't a remote location. It was downtown, teeming with prominent journalists. Suppressing the demonstrators openly would tarnish the federation's international image. Thus, law enforcement merely contained the protesters, preventing them from storming the hotel while glaring daggers at them.

Reinforcements were en route, but uncertainty loomed. Would more unexpected incidents arise? Tension gripped every officer on site.

Inside the hotel, the deputy minister heard the growing chaos outside. Reporters, eager for drama, swarmed the demonstrators, shouting questions. Through the opening and closing doors, the noise filtered inside.

Moments later, the deputy minister spotted the Acting President and approached him deferentially. "It's an honor to have you here…"

The Baylor Federation's Congress was a unique institution. Before the president's authority peaked, congressional power overshadowed the executive branch, especially in the first four years. Even afterward, the president's dominance forced compromises. Currently, the president remained somewhat vulnerable, making the deputy minister's deference unsurprising.

But the Acting President was visibly displeased. Without masking his irritation, he snapped, "I hope this isn't a regrettable decision. Fix this situation immediately." With a perfunctory handshake, he strode into the hall, leaving the deputy minister bewildered.

Less than a minute later, the deputy minister's assistant returned, whispering urgently in his ear. The deputy minister's demeanor shifted subtly—no snarl, no twitching muscles—but an unmistakable aura of menace radiated from him.

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