Blackstone Code

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"You have ten minutes," the Deputy Foreign Minister said, glancing at his assistant. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off the other man's immaculate shoulder. "Ten minutes to fix this mess before seven o'clock. I want those streets outside cleaned up like your hairless house cat by then. Got it?"

The Deputy Minister was seething with rage, and the fact that he didn't hesitate to hurl insults laced with profanity in front of his assistant spoke volumes about how close he was to losing control.

There was no doubt that this incident would ripple through his political career. People were already talking about what was happening outside, and as the official primarily responsible for hosting the reception, he bore undeniable—and unavoidable—responsibility. Any negative fallout from this could become a permanent stain on his political record.

Just moments ago, he had been brimming with ambition, plotting his rise in the political arena. He'd even secretly drafted an inaugural speech in preparation for the day he would replace the current Foreign Minister as the head of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But now, all those aspirations felt distant and insubstantial, thanks to the chaos unfolding outside.

Standing still for a moment, he adjusted his appearance with exaggerated gestures, forcing a strained smile before stepping back into the banquet hall. Many guests noticed his sour expression despite his attempts to appear cheerful. His demeanor came across as stiff, angry, and unapproachable.

Meanwhile, after leaving the hotel, the Deputy Minister's assistant found reinforcements had arrived—investigators from the Bureau and police officers standing guard around the building. Yet, they remained passive, forming only a human barrier to protect the premises.

In just those few minutes, however, the number of demonstrators swelled further. Some passersby paused briefly before joining the protest.

But this? This small gathering could start anytime, anywhere.

As more people converged, the scene grew louder and drew even greater attention. Watching the crowd grow, the assistant realized waiting wasn't going to solve anything. He needed to act. Perhaps he could negotiate with the leader of the protestors.

However, after listening for just two minutes from the edge of the crowd, he understood that reasoning with this person would be impossible…

"…We are starving! I heard unemployment rates hit historic lows this year, and countless people remain jobless, forced to survive on relief food that's barely edible."

"We endure poverty, we face hardships head-on because we believe our government can change things—that it can revitalize us, bring new opportunities, new jobs."

"But look at what those bastards inside are doing! They'd rather take money scraped from our taxes and hand it over to those barbarians. They're building factories for them, giving them contracts, boosting their employment rates—all while ignoring us completely!"

"They do it because it makes their performance reports look good. Let me tell you, it's all bullshit."

"Send those barbarians back to their own countries! Keep the money here, create jobs, give people security!"

The journalists were thrilled, cameras trained intently on Martin. His face flushed red, spittle flying everywhere. Reporters in the front row wiped their faces repeatedly but didn't seem disgusted—only exhilarated.

This was big news. Undoubtedly, this was huge.

For every supporter of the Progressive Party's policies and the President's agenda, there was bound to be someone who opposed them. That was politics. When trying to cater to one side, you inevitably angered another. If they could ignite public sentiment here, next week—or even next month's—headline was secured.

Listening carefully, the assistant began piecing together the truth: this was no spontaneous demonstration. It was meticulously planned. Negotiating with the ringleader seemed increasingly futile.

Just as he considered alternative solutions, the man being interviewed suddenly raised his arms and shouted something jaw-dropping.

"A corrupt government is harvesting the lives of ordinary citizens! Last winter, many died; this summer, many more will perish—but they don't care!"

"The ugly rule of bureaucrats will drag the federation down, sinking its past glory and honor into oblivion. We cannot stay silent anymore! We must rise—we are the true masters of this nation!"

These words were bolder—and far more dangerous—than his earlier complaints. While his previous grievances targeted specific policies, like the establishment of diplomatic ties with Nagalier, they remained within acceptable bounds. They criticized individuals representing authority but did not challenge the system itself.

Now, though, the criticism aimed directly at the very structure of the federal government. Even the reporters were momentarily stunned into silence.

Though the government occasionally made questionable decisions (some joked that voters elected comedians instead of presidents), the country prided itself on its liberal system. No one went to jail for speaking out of turn, nor lost their life for reading forbidden books. You could criticize politicians freely—but attacking the system crossed a line everyone implicitly understood.

This man, carried away by excitement, had crossed that line.

And just as realization dawned on both him and the audience, several police cars screeched to a halt nearby.

The mayor frowned slightly at the police chief beside him. "Did you call for backup?" His tone was icy. "Do you think too few people know about this already?"

A heavy police presence naturally created tension among the public. Despite recent improvements domestically, tensions still simmered beneath the surface. A show of force like this risked sparking unrest—or worse.

The police chief wanted to shake his head and deny involvement, but he knew the mayor wouldn't believe him. After all, every officer in the city answered to him. Instead, he wiped sweat from his brow and moved toward the roadside, intending to disperse the growing throng of officers.

But before he could act, the newly arrived policemen leapt from their vehicles, brandishing batons and charging into the crowd of protesters.

In an instant, chaos erupted. Curses and screams filled the air as blood mingled with shattered glass.

"What's happening outside?"

Nagalier United Kingdom's Foreign Minister, Masu, had been discussing the prospects of his visit with the acting president when the commotion startled him. Turning to the Deputy Foreign Minister—the main organizer of the event—he sought answers.

The latter looked bewildered. "I'll check. This is downtown; maybe there's been an accident…"

His expression darkened. Whatever was happening outside, it wasn't good.

The acting president nodded curtly, his face grim. In contrast, Masu maintained a polite smile.

Then, louder shouts echoed from beyond the doors. Several protesters burst into the hotel lobby, shattering glass doors and screaming in pain. The thick wooden doors of the banquet hall couldn't muffle the sounds. The acting president shot a sidelong glance at the Deputy Minister before striding to the entrance and flinging the doors open.

What greeted them was a scene that left everyone speechless.

Protesters lay bleeding amidst shards of glass, while uniformed officers brutally beat and kicked them. Their ferocious expressions terrified onlookers.

The warm, convivial atmosphere inside vanished instantly.

When a bloodied protester screamed in perfect Common Tongue, "Barbaric natives, get out of civilized society!" every face in the room changed.

It was over.

That was the Deputy Foreign Minister's sole thought. Everything was ruined. His mind went blank; he had no idea how to salvage the situation because, frankly, he didn't know where to begin.

Over the past decade, the Baylor Federation's diplomatic workload had largely consisted of interpreting written documents and exchanging sparse telegrams with neighboring nations. Under isolationist policies, diplomats essentially took extended vacations—punching in and out without responsibilities or tasks.

This lack of experience rendered the current crop of diplomats woefully inadequate in handling crises. Though they might not admit it themselves, their skills were sorely lacking.

Faced with this sudden crisis, the once-promising Deputy Foreign Minister could only stand frozen, watching helplessly as everything unraveled before his eyes.

And there was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing.

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