036 The burning capital? (2) p.2

Prev Page | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Next Page

It was unusual for people return home from work. What purpose is there for construction labourers to bring their pickaxes back home? And the sailors who should only need their poles for transporting goods around the harbour? And the firewood sellers, why would they need a knife on their waists?

Of course, there were a few who might prefer to have the tools of their trade wherever they went. Or perhaps, cautious people who wanted to have a weapon for self defence if, by some rare occurrence, a fight breaks out at the tavern.

Such individuals numbered a handful at most. And right now, the number of men parading around with their ‘weapons’ numbered more than all his fingers and toes. If an incident were to occur now, bloodshed seemed possible.

“To be safe, I am going to report to the guardhou―”

He stopped right before finishing his sentence. With a thud, his fellow patrol fell to the ground.


He looked towards his fellow patrol who fell flat on the ground suddenly. He was moaning in pain as his helmet was knocked off from the back. As soon as he understood what had happened to him, he felt a shock from behind.


His vision flickered as though fire was spilling from his eyes and his head kissed the ground. I must have been hit, he thought. He felt a throbbing pain and a burning sensation.

Unable to lift himself up, he sluggishly turned to look. He saw a familiar unshaven man looking down on them while holding a wood block.

“You bastard...rebel scum...”

The madman who had been going around the city giving a fiery speech. The authorities decided that he was a person of small significance and let him go repeatedly after being arrested. If he could remember, his name was Gaston Justeau, a person with a really shady appearance. He was leading a bunch of other labourers who had the same ambitions as he did.

Gaston rubbed his foot against the two guards.

“Dogs of our oppressors. Kill them...”


The poor guards had no time to even blink before a rain of blows fell upon them. Punched, smashed and stabbed. Their bodies were entirely destroyed by the wooden pole, sledgehammers and pitchforks. Perhaps because they were trained soldiers while the rioters were just impoverished commoners, it took some time for them to land a finishing blow.

Right before one of the guards died, he muttered.

“Im-Impossible. This is...a riot...”

The guard was probably trying to say how out of place it was for a riot to happen in the capital. Gaston bellowed in laughter.

“Riot? No,no… this is a revolution.”

In his excitement, Gaston did not realise the person he was trying to correct had already breathed his last.

Shortly after, a fellow comrade sprinted to Gaston.

“Comrade Gaston, we have wiped out the patrols in this area. We are victorious. We did it!”

At their great success, Gaston patted the shoulders of his comrade and smiled widely.

“Good job. Then we shall proceed as planned. I shall head towards our ‘true goal’ from here on.”

“Affirmative! I shall put my life on the line! For freedom and equality!”

“For freedom and equality.”

They saluted each other before splitting.

They were the suicide squad. Their morale was high and spared no thoughts for their own lives. They had perfect coordination and were unified in their goals. Surely they would fight to the death on Gaston’s orders.

Nothing greater than to die a martyr for their great cause! In contrast, there was not a single soldier who would offer their lives for their oppressors, the nobles.

Gaston thought to himself and he turned directions. The actions they took here was just a distraction. The root of the revolution was not here.

Behind Gaston, there were his subordinates in charge of rallying the other members.

“My fellow comrades undertaking this noble deed. My fellow warriors who share our ideals! Now is the time we purify the core of the Kingdom’s corruption, the capital! Let us begin with the greedy people who run rampant in the city ― the merchants!”


They raised their weapons in the air and yelled.

“That’s right! Kill the merchants!”

“The noose for the thieves who steal our sweat and blood!”

“I-I will never forgive the slave merchant who bought my daughter for peanuts!”

Resentment against the merchants filled the air.

Naturally. Gaston concealed his laughter. Merchants were also commoners and yet, they indulged in using deception and tricks to sap away the people’s gains. They were wicked people who fawned on the nobles and might even put nobles for sale in their slave collection. Well, not that it was anything noteworthy for the daughter of a noble to be sold as a slave.

Purging the corrupt merchants was once again, a righteous undertaking.

“All who lust over extravagance and monopolise daily necessities should die! Now that it has come to this, do whatever you can to accomplish this! Take back the people’s wealth!”


Gaston took his final glance at the leaders and the boisterous crowd. There was nothing here for him now. His calling laid elsewhere.

On an autumn evening, the centre street of Broussonne descended into chaos. The rioters, who proclaimed themselves as righteous freedom fighters, attacked whichever merchant or shopkeeper they came across. They started with their most hated money lenders and the slave traders, and then moved on to the grocers who sold fruits and meat, clothing stores and pharmacies. Even the vendors who sold goods on mats were not spared.

The mob had already associated anybody who engage in trade with money to be their enemies.

At a certain butcher shop…

“Die!! Oppressors!!”

“P-Please stop! W-What did I...”

“Shut up! Fucking miser who wouldn’t even feed a starving kid!”

The shopkeeper put in life on the front to defend his shop. After being hit by a rock on his head and fainting, he was beaten by poles and perished. The mob only had this to say after killing him.

“An evil person who got his fortune from obtaining the livestock of a farm at a bargain. Comrades! Let us hang his shameful corpse for all to see on the streets! Just like how he butchers the meat he sells, let’s chop him up!”


After justifying their barbaric acts with whatever excuse they could make, the mob moved to the next merchant.

“W-What are you bastards doing! What do you plan to do with my daughter!?”

A piercing yell came from a clothing shop that should have closed at nighttime. His daughter was pinned down by two men who attacked the store out of nowhere. For a healthy child her age, she should have a bright and healthy complexion, but she now appeared ghastly pale from fright.

“H-Help me, father...”

The two perpetrators snorted at the young girl’s pitiful attempt to get help from her father.

“You father and daughter are evil people who demand money for a basic human right to ‘wear clothes’. Now you shall pay for your crimes.”

“Nonsense! What crime is it to deal with clothes? Where and what law have we brok―”


The leader of the two twitched his brows.

“The laws of the Kingdom were made to control the people! For us, the righteous, who seek the return of our human rights, there is no need to follow those laws!”

Since they were not nobles, they would not recognise the legitimacy of laws created by nobles. He tried to argue with such a childish explanation.

The tailor muttered feebly, while forgetting that the assailants were armed and his daughter was still a hostage.


And those became his last words.

“Fucker! You dare disrespect us!”


Not reacting to his daughter’s warning, the tailor had his head knocked to the floor. The person with the sledgehammer had hit him on an impulse. Blood pooled on the floor from the tailor’s head. He died instantly. There were still some movements in his body, but they were probably just muscle spasms.

Prev Page | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Next Page
© yAmi Translations
Maira Gall