Wasn’t This a Night Game

Straight as an Arrow

Karl Renaro and the Labor Theorists silently gazed at the scenery outside the city.

They looked upon a scene filled with the aroma of roasting meat and where the sick received free treatment. Even the most quick-tempered and radical of the Labor Theorists didn’t utter a single word in that moment.

“Thank you. Thank you! Holy One!!”

“May you find peace.”

The Saint was frantically tending to the afflicted.

The clerics of the Order of Grace, quite familiar with such circumstances, took the lightly wounded to heal themselves, leaving only the severely injured or those with genetic ailments, incurable by ordinary miracles or divine power, to the Saint.

Thanks to an unbelievably efficient field hospital system, countless souls were being healed in real time, tears of joy streaming down their faces as they exited the hospital.

“I wish to believe in Lady Lilia. Father.”

“Grant me a bible, just one.”

“I wish to follow the Saint’s teachings from now on. A bible for me as well!”

The Order of Grace engaged in no proselytizing, yet their near-sacrificial healing efforts, foregoing even food and sleep, were creating a vast number of new converts.

“Religion is the opiate of the masses,”

a Labor Theorist muttered, prompting Karl Renaro to chuckle softly.

“But when reality is so agonizing, wouldn’t one need a little something sometimes?”

“I concur.”

“Of course. We can’t allow them to remain dependent on opiates forever, naturally. Ultimately, the laborers must stand on their own two feet.”

“Certainly, Comrade Renaro.”

Karl Renaro rose from his seat.

“Comrades. As the Saint instructs, we lay down our guns and bombs. Instead, we will continue the war in our most familiar way. The general strike is not over. The Empire’s laws and powers have turned in our favor for the first time. If we don’t act now, when will we?”

The Labor Theorists smiled.

“Propaganda prepared, ready for distribution.”

“We’ve selected and mobilized the comrades with the loudest voices, the ones the authorities are after.”

“Pickets and banners are already complete.”

Karl Renaro nodded at the report.

But a bitter smile also touched his lips.

“If only our comrades in the prison camps were here.”

Most of the Labor Theorists remaining here were of the cadre class.

The field operatives, those who knew the workers’ faces, the ones who were active in the streets, were mostly locked away in the camps.

If they were here, organizing the protests would be much easier, but what could be done? They were not present.

Nor did anyone know when they might be freed.

“But what can we do? We must proceed without them…”

“Comrade Renaro!! Come outside for a moment!!”

“Comrades! The comrades who were in the prison camps, they’re being released!!”

At the urgent voice from outside, the expressions on the cadre’s faces brightened dramatically.

Turning with a jerk towards the scrapyard, one could see a clutch of jumpsuit-clad prisoners emerging, flanked by grim Black Fortress Inquisitors and white-robed Ketra’tharus troopers of the Order of Grace.

Their faces were drawn, their skin weathered – a testament to their recent hardships. Yet their eyes burned with a fierce light, sharper than before.

“Lev!! Molotov!! Rosa!! You’re still alive, then!”

“Comrade Renarro!”

Two groups of Labor Theorists embraced at the scrapyard’s entrance. A Black Fortress Inquisitor, observing their reunion, stepped forward to address them.

“The Labor Theorists held in the facility have been cleared of suspected demon worship. You are released. However, be warned: should you violate the law, resort to violence, or engage in terrorism, you will be immediately re-incarcerated. Terror and violence are categorically forbidden.”

“Understood.”

Once the Inquisitors and Ketra’tharus had departed, the Labor Theorists gathered for an immediate council.

“We will continue the General Strike initiated by the Sainted One.”

“Include us, we beg you!”

“We cannot let this chance pass. We’ll join you.”

“But… you’ve all suffered much in the facility. You’re unwell.”

“We’ll get treatment. Or…we’ll strike until we die, if necessary!”

A collective grinding of teeth filled the air.

“I must see with my own eyes the capitalist swine of this city squeal.”

“Even death during the strike is a worthy price. We must participate.”

Kahl Renarro smiled, a grim satisfaction in his eyes.

“Go, seek treatment from the Sainted One. He can restore your bodies anew. And the moment you are healed… we strike. Remember this, comrades.”

Kahl Renarro slammed his fist on the table.

“The downfall of this city’s capitalists must be accomplished by the hands of the workers! We must be the protagonists. The Black Fortress, the Order of Grace, the Pantheon—none of them must steal our moment. Raise your voices! We may lack guns and blades… but we wield ideology!! The will of united comrades shall prevail!!”

Kahl retrieved a crimson cloth from a corner and slowly draped it across his forehead and chest. On the cloth, a pickaxe and hammer were emblazoned in stark relief.

The two tools, symbols of the workers in Scrap Yard, the city of mines and forges, were also the emblem of the Labor Theorists.

Until now, the ever-present police had prevented them from displaying this emblem in public. But no longer.

“Let us go! Let us seize victory in a manner befitting our own!!”

It was a proclamation that would echo, recorded in Imperial history as the starting point of the first large-scale strike.

*

The Labor Theorists’ craftsmanship verged on artistry.

At the command of Kahl Renarro and his lieutenants, each organization began to function with the sleek precision of a well-oiled machine.

“3rd Sector Chief, distribute these placards and cloths to your comrades!”

“3rd Sector Chief relays to all local union leaders! Gather your members immediately! Weaponry and violence are prohibited! This is Comrade Renarro’s order!!”

“Wrap this cloth around your brow and chest!!”

“Wash yourselves, don your finest clothes, and emerge!! This is a moment to be etched in the Empire’s history!! Let us demonstrate to all that laborers are not merely base and wretched losers!!”

“Round up the reporters! Pay them if you must! Tell them to come armed with cameras!! We must capture these very moments! The entire Empire must be made aware!!”

They drew in the press, succinctly organizing their position and the contradictions and wrongdoings of the capitalists.

And after explicitly deciding how to specifically improve the treatment of the laborers.

They began their demonstration in earnest.

And the demonstration, orchestrated by the hands of experts, swiftly.

Swelled to an immense scale.

The workers of the Scrap Yard were diligent and earnest people.

In an era where one starved without work, they had no choice but to be diligent.

And yet, these people, who had been diligent their entire lives, could suddenly eat without any exchange, sleep in warm, comfortable beds, their ailing bodies mending, and their families prospering.

Free from worry and concern, possessing leisure time for the very first time, they needed something to occupy them, and, at that opportune moment, Karl Renaro provided them with a fitting task.

Moreover.

“Let us go forth! Comrades!! Let us reject a life as mere cogs in the factory machine and fight for a life as human beings!!”

“Workers of every city!! Unite!!”

“We have nothing to lose but our chains and shackles!! We have freedom and rights to gain!! Let us go forth for human dignity!!”

“Let us make the pigs of this city tremble before our demonstration!!”

How could the manipulative skills of well-trained labor theorists be anything but extraordinary?

And so, in an instant.

Hundreds of thousands of laborers filled the Scrap Yard’s central plaza and the ＜Iron Road＞, a major thoroughfare leading to the plaza, waving signs and banners.

An unprecedented scene, the likes of which the Empire had never witnessed.

“A scoop!! Capture it!! Capture it all!!!”

“A stenographer!! Where’s a stenographer!! Record every single word they speak, leave nothing out!!”

The reporters flocked to the empty windows and rooftops of the workers’ dormitories, frantically capturing the scene.

The media’s attention.

The complete absence of police forces to quell the massive demonstration.

An opportunity to broadcast their position throughout the Empire.

It was a stage for the labor theorists, and upon that stage, they began to wield the weapons they had honed for more than a decade.

Tongues, that if not for their speakers’ restraint, would have cleaved the Empire in two, began to lash out with terrifying ferocity.

“A three-year-old child went blind while cleaning a chimney!! It was due to the capitalists’ decision to keep the factory running, spewing toxic fumes, knowing the child was inside! There were no humans in that factory! Only parts! Just parts!!”

“Only those whose lives had been denied and beasts who had cast aside morality, ethics, and rejected the dignity of humankind remained in this city!”

“Therefore, we solemnly declare from this very spot!! We proclaim the founding of the Imperial Workers’ Association, which shall henceforth continue to fight against the greed of the capitalists!! And strive for the advancement of workers’ rights!!”

With a stirring, grandiloquent speech igniting flames within, they announced the Association’s inception, and then they began to chant slogans.

Hundreds of thousands of workers, directed by well-trained labor organizers, roared in unison, their cries wielding a frightful power.

“Give us wages that allow us to maintain human dignity!!”

“Guarantee rest periods and meal times!!”

“We are not machines!! We have the right to labor only for a set time and rest during all other hours!!”

Their cries, choked with fury, reverberated throughout the entire city.

“Punish the capitalists who exploit humans, who do not treat people like people, and who ultimately summoned Mammon!!”

“Show us that law and justice still live within the Empire!!”

“The Imperial Family and the Pantheon, answer our demands!! Answer!!”

These desperate, wailing cries were faithfully recorded by reporters, and the very next day…

They were printed on the front page of newspapers across the Empire in simultaneous release.

“Send this article throughout the Empire, you say? That will be difficult. We’d have to use magical communication, and that’s extraordinarily expensive.”

“I will pay for it all.”

“Sending pictures, let alone text, requires a lot of equipment. And a number of skilled mages and witches are needed…”

“We can help you with that.”

It was possible with the help of Jonathan Karma, Erpa, and the mages and witches belonging to the Magic Tower Temple of the capital.

And the newspaper article published in that manner became a tremendous shock, sweeping across the Empire.

“It seems Mammon’s followers arose from the exploitation of workers.”

“A three-year-old child was laboring to the point of bending their fingers… It would be stranger if it hadn’t happened.”

“The Pantheon has been warning about such events for a long time. There were simply no ears to listen.”

Voices of self-reflection began to emerge in earnest from aristocratic society.

This was because the noble ladies and daughters of the nobility, who had neither reason nor need to know about the dire situation of the workers, began to speak out.

And leading the public opinion of the women in that aristocratic society was none other than…

Jonathan Karma’s daughter.

Cecilia Karma.

“Before meeting the Saint, I once lived in an old house near the slums. When I think of the scenes I saw then, I am not surprised by the current situation.”

In salons.

At balls.

At poetry readings.

At various concerts.

Cecilia spoke of her experiences in the slums – experiences unknown to other noblewomen – and these tales invariably provoked a tremendous response.

“My heavens! Your skin actually rotted and festered?”

“That a mother couldn’t bear to abandon her dead infant, clinging to it even in death…”

“Ah, by the Grace… what have we been doing?”

And that evening.

The daughters and wives, and the grandmothers and mothers, returned to their ancestral manor homes and unleashed their fury upon their sons and husbands and fathers.

“Husband. Surely, our family’s enterprise is not operated in such a manner? Please, tell me it is not so.”

“Wife, fret not. I know what I am about…”

“A Mammonite has emerged! A Mammonite!! Exploiting the resentments of the laborers, a Mammonite has appeared, I say!! Will you allow our family to be subjected to the Inquisition? Nay! Even before that, as beings possessing ethical fortitude can you be so?!”

“Father. If your orders have led our house to treat its workers as was reported in the newspapers… I fear I may never view you in the same light again.”

The fathers, husbands, and sons found it impossible to ignore the formidable tide of feminine opinion.

Consequently, within noble society, public sentiment began to shift, slowly but surely,

towards the improvement and advancement of workers’ rights.

And Cecilia, ever quick to discern such shifts, promptly informed Princess Almene of this development.

While Iomene oversaw operations at the scrapyard, Almene, back in the capital, was diligently working on enacting laws. Upon receiving Cecilia’s information, she immediately sought out the Emperor.

“Would you care to attempt it?”

“Pardon?”

“To solidify your position in the succession, wouldn’t it benefit you to have some notable accomplishments? Take responsibility for enacting labor laws. Persuade the slippery eels of the Senate, who handle legislation. Fortunately, the prevailing winds are in your favor, so maneuvering shouldn’t prove too difficult.”

Almene beamed.

“I shall undertake it, Father!”

Almene dedicated every waking hour to meeting with the nobles of the Senate.

The Pantheon’s subtle assistance in her persuasion was a bonus.

“Lord Albion, to continue operating your enterprise as is would be tantamount to breeding more demon worshippers and followers of false gods. I know you to be a loyal servant of the Empire. I implore you, cast your vote in favor of this labor legislation.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Your Highness. It must be done… Might I ask those standing behind you to step back somewhat? Or perhaps, at least conceal the pistols and blades at their hips…”

“To lay down one’s arms would be a violation of the Codex Prolilirum, Lord Albion.”

Kettrautus, alongside elite paladins and war priests from various Orders, accompanied Almene.

They spoke no words, yet their mere presence at Almene’s back was enough to apply considerable pressure to many a noble.

In but three days, Almene succeeded in persuading the majority of the Senate’s nobility.

Then, as if they’d been waiting for it.

“I’m considering a new Labour Law. What are your thoughts, esteemed sirs?”

“The Senate will follow His Imperial Majesty’s will.”

“Very well, summon Karl Renaro and Jonathan Karma to the Senate. A capitalist and a labourer. Have them appropriately coordinate the positions of both sides, create a Labour Law, and pass it. This matter will be handled not by me, but by Almene. Move according to her orders.”

The Emperor moved, definitively establishing the Labour Law’s creation.

And that news, this time too, spread across the Empire in a single day, by Jonathan Karma and Erpah.

“Comrades!! His Imperial Majesty has heard our cries!! I and my comrades will go to the Senate tomorrow!!”

“Long live His Imperial Majesty!! Long live the Arcal Empire!!”

Fifth day of the protests.

The protesting workers wept, embracing each other.

The emotion of the Empire’s laws and power moving for them, for the first time.

The joy that the Emperor had not yet abandoned them.

And the hope that their lives could improve in the future.

“Long live the Imperial Labourers’ Association!!”

“Long live Comrade Karl Renaro!”

“Long live His Imperial Majesty!!”

“Long live the Saint!!”

The entire city was filled with the labourers’ shouts.

In this moment.

There seemed to be no unhappy person in Scrap Yard.

“You, you, you son of a b*tch!! You, you blew the whistle? How could you do this to me!! You should have taken it to your grave!!”

“I was about to be branded a heretic and spend the rest of my life in the Silence Order’s dungeons!! I had to save myself, didn’t I?”

“You ungrateful b*stard!! You don’t know gratitude!!”

As the situation turned unfavourable, the factory owners were caught in a chaotic brawl, ignoring the restarting of their factories and everything else.

“I, I really did nothing wrong!! It was all Mayor Bias!! That son of a b*tch told me to do it…”

“Officer.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever had soup… through your nose? The soup holds the answer.”

That is, except for the police officers, hanging upside down with interrogators from the Black Fortress, participating in a ‘drink hot soup through your nose’ challenge.