At that moment, the entrances and exits of the courtroom were completely surrounded by police, layer upon layer, like an inescapable cage, trapping everyone inside this vast, empty birdcage.
“Everyone, hands up!”
A sharp shout exploded like a clap of thunder.
In an instant, dark muzzles were aimed directly at everyone’s heads. The cold, metallic feel seemed to pierce through skin and touch the very soul.
Many people’s faces turned pale with fright, and their hands shot up high in an instant, afraid that if they were even a second too slow, the bullets in the chambers would mercilessly tear through their skulls.
Antina was so nervous that her hands were clenched tightly around the scroll Renith had given her, her knuckles white from the strain. She was ready at a moment’s notice; if things went wrong, she would tear the scroll and flee this place of trouble.
Vista stood firmly about a foot in front of Antina, his body crouched low, muscles tensed, ready to pounce forward at any second.
“Are you the ones spreading this kind of vile ideology here?”
The lead officer was tall, well over one meter ninety, his burly frame like a small mountain. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he strode menacingly toward Antina.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Vista stepped forward, shielding Antina firmly behind him, and said loudly:
“Teacher, leave this to me!”
“How touching… Then I’ll start with you!”
Just as he was about to make his move, a hand reached out, like a barrier, steadily separating the officer and Vista.
Everyone looked closely and saw it was a man in a gray-blue suit. He also had a strange, roughly made leather pouch hanging at his waist, which seemed somewhat out of place in this tense atmosphere.
“Who the hell are you? How dare you interfere with police business?”
The lead officer demanded angrily, his face full of rage.
“Uh… I am, I am…”
The man stammered, fumbling around frantically in his bag, searching for something.
But the officers in front of him didn’t want to waste words. In their view, this guy was clearly just stalling for time and showing them no respect at all.
The lead officer could no longer contain his fury. He thrust a punch forward with force, landing a heavy blow on the chest of the man in front of him.
A dull “clang” echoed, as if he had struck a solid steel plate. However, the officer pulled his hand back without changing his expression, rubbing it gently behind his back. Clearly, the punch had hurt him more than it hurt his target.
The man in the gray-blue suit, on the other hand, didn’t seem to feel any pain at all. He continued talking to himself, unhurriedly pulling a well-preserved ID card from his bag.
“Oh, here it is, here it is!”
He said excitedly, then handed the card to the officer.
The officer took the card suspiciously, glanced at it, and the anger in his eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a flicker of fear and respect.
He bellowed at his subordinates behind him, who were busy beating anyone they could grab:
“Everyone, stop right now!”
“So it’s an adult from the ‘Scholars’! My sincere apologies.”
The officer’s attitude did an immediate one-eighty. Although the number of ‘Scholars’ in Mobius City was pitifully small, he was still just a lowly police squad leader, no match for one.
He immediately led his subordinates in bowing deeply, their heads practically touching the ground.
“Greetings, sir! What are your instructions, sir?”
This sudden change left Antina and the others utterly bewildered. They were filled with doubt – since when did these thuggish, tyrannical police, who usually acted like they were skinning people alive, become so easy to deal with?
“What, do I need to spell it out?”
The man in the gray-blue suit said coldly.
“Yes, yes, yes… You’re absolutely right!”
The police squad leader nodded frantically, then immediately waved his hand. The officers behind him holstered their guns and quickly began to fall into formation, preparing to leave the courtroom.
“This was just a simple court hearing. Nothing happened. We were never here, and we know nothing.”
The squad leader looked fawningly at the man in the gray-blue suit and said cautiously.
“Well, you do know, don’t you? Fine. Good job.”
And so, this tall, unshaven police officer, well over one meter ninety, knelt down, thanked the man profusely, and then led his subordinates away in disgrace, tails between their legs.
The scene was truly comical, so much so that Antina and Vista could hardly bear to watch. However, what concerned them more was the identity and intentions of this man before them.
‘Scholars’?
He must be from the Transmigrator organization. But why did he save Antina?… Could it be he wants to take matters into his own hands?
Antina’s heart was in her throat. If it were dealing with those police, she was confident she could use a scroll to send them all to meet their maker. But now, facing this man who seemed unassuming yet was mysteriously powerful, she couldn’t help but feel intimidated.
The man tucked his card back into his bag, gently patted the rough leather pouch, and then turned to look at the crowd still gripped by fear.
Suddenly, he spoke, his expression serious, completely devoid of his earlier comical demeanor. His voice was steady and powerful, stirring the hearts of everyone present:
“Comrades!
The situation is now extremely urgent. The entire class we represent is on the brink of destruction!
The death of a class is vastly different from the death of an individual.
When a person dies, the body can be carried out, thrown into a crematorium, and turned to ashes. But when a class dies, all that’s left is an even more decayed, fetid carcass, exuding a nauseating stench.
Right now, the beast of capital and the shackles of oppression are frantically eroding the very soil we depend on for survival. That pervasive stench, like poisonous gas, pollutes every breath of air we take.
We are gradually losing our class identity. In this cruel reality, it’s already difficult for us to sustain our existence…
They want us to toil endlessly, without rest. In their eyes, we are nothing more than tools to be discarded at any moment, completely worthless!
Like vampires, they ceaselessly suck our blood, manipulating the chessboard of economy and market at will. We are merely pawns to be moved around on their board!
Their evil grip has long been tightly clamped around our throats. They not only want to break our spines, stripping us of our upright dignity, but also to crush our larynxes, preventing us from even uttering a final cry!”
The man waved his arms, then clutched his own throat tightly with both hands. His eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging in his arms, as if he were using all his strength.
Everyone in the audience held their breath, their eyes focused intently on him.
Unlike during Antina’s speech, this time, no one was shouting, no one was making a scene. Their eyes were equally wide, filled with grief, indignation, and unwillingness. Tears glistened at the corners of their eyes.
Silence reigned for about half a minute. During that half minute, the air itself seemed to freeze, a suffocating pressure filling every corner. Finally, the man spoke again:
“Comrades, you must remember:
We have only one way out, and that is resistance. There is another path, death.
But of course, death does not belong to us workers!”
“So, tell me loudly, what do we need?”
“So, tell me loudly, what must we do?”
“So, tell me loudly, what do we strive for?”
“Survival! Resistance! Freedom!”
The voices from the audience rose like a surging tide, wave after wave. The impassioned cries seemed ready to burst through the oppressive courtroom and soar into the sky.
Compared to Antina’s speech, the man’s words were more concise, powerful, and infectious. He spoke from the people’s perspective, and the strength he seemed to rally was even greater than Antina’s.
Listening to the cries from the audience, rising ever higher, the man in the gray-blue suit slowly lowered his ten fingers from his throat, took a deep breath to calm his excited emotions, and then turned to look at Antina and Vista behind him.
A gentle smile appeared on his face. He patted Vista’s shoulder lightly and said earnestly:
“Younger generations, in the cosmos, in this world, others have long since paved a bright path for us. With their blood and lives, they showed us the way forward.”
“Of course… compared to those great predecessors, I am still very immature, and perhaps I have never truly participated in brutal wars…”
“But you, relying on your own strength, have bravely embarked on this path. So, are you interested in learning about ~ Bolshevism?”
“What is that?”
Vista asked, curiosity in his eyes and with little fear.
“Oh ~ It’s an organization full of ideals and faith. It will lead us toward true freedom and liberation.”
“Oh, right, I forgot to introduce myself. My name seems to be… Joseph Demikhov. I’m a space-time traveler; you can also call me a ‘God’s Chosen One’. Currently, I work for the ‘Scholars’.”
Antina’s expression tightened. She quickly reached out and pulled Vista aside to a quieter spot.
Demikhov, however, stood his ground, showing no intention of stopping Antina. He just calmly turned back to face the dense crowd of workers and, as if no one else were there, began loudly explaining his views and future action plans.
He spoke eloquently, touching on topics like calling on workers to actively mobilize like-minded friends and family to join the struggle, or teaching how to skillfully employ guerrilla tactics in extreme crisis situations…
The more Antina listened, the more familiar it sounded. These theories seemed to faintly echo from some corner of her memory.
“But I still think this guy acts strangely. He’s simply not on the same page as us. And when he talks, there’s always this indescribable sense of dissonance.”
Antina frowned slightly and whispered to Vista.
Unlike Antina’s worry, Vista’s expression held a hint of optimism.
“There are so many ‘God’s Chosen Ones.’ I believe among them, there are bound to be comrades who share our ideals. As for that dissonance you mentioned, he’s about to talk to us about Bolshevism anyway. Let’s just listen with an open mind. Maybe the answer lies in his words.”
Antina glanced back at Demikhov. He had just dismissed the gathered workers; the seeds of hope had been sown.
“We’d like to hear about this Bolshevism you speak of.”
And so, the memories deeply etched into his mind, more indelible than his own life, poured out of him like a dam bursting, an endless torrent:
“That meeting in Minsk, it was the beginning of everything…”
