Blackstone Code-Chapter 451: Border Crossing

The police were the first to arrive.
When the commotion began, the Chief of Police had already caught wind of it. As the head of police in the provincial capital, he had reliable sources. But he didn’t act immediately. The Governor of Magulana had once privately advised him that if a situation involved foreigners—especially those from the Federation—it was better to wait a little.
Granting foreigners unlimited special privileges would only fuel their arrogance. The chief agreed wholeheartedly. If foreigners were treated as superiors, the lower rungs of the ruling class—like himself—would lose face. It was better to let the foreigners see for themselves that Nagaryll was not a place where they could act recklessly. That way, they’d come to rely on and respect the local authorities.
But waiting too long had now caused real trouble.
He’d only stopped to use the toilet before heading out. He hadn’t been feeling well lately, so he took longer than usual. Nagaryll lacked a modern education system, one reason why religion thrived—people couldn’t explain the mysteries of nature through science, so they turned to the divine.
Take hemorrhoids, for instance. In developed nations, it’s a minor issue with known causes—sitting too long, poor hygiene. But in Nagaryll, hemorrhoids were believed to be divine punishment or the result of a curse. Even members of the ruling class, like the police chief, who came from minor factions, were not well educated.
Culturally, it was said that only those who committed evil, were cursed and despised, would suffer from such afflictions. Seeking medical help would be an admission of guilt. Many in the ruling class suffered in silence rather than confess to being
bad people.
By the time the chief finished cleaning up, ten or fifteen minutes had passed. When he arrived on the scene, his face had changed. Hundreds had gathered, with bystanders packed around the perimeter, even climbing trees and rooftops to watch. One homeowner stood amid rubble, arguing with the people who had destroyed his house.
Sweating, the chief ordered his men to beat back the troublemakers with batons and tried to enter. But this time, things didn’t go as usual.
In the past, people would scatter at the sight of police; no one wanted to be hit, and no one dared resist. This time, the crowd didn’t back down—they clashed with the police.
Though they didn’t strike back directly, they pushed and shoved. The police were tossed around like ragdolls, eventually flung out of the crowd.
Then, a furious young man stood up, his eyes blazing. Facing off with the police, he shouted, “Foreigners are raping our sisters, and you’re protecting them? Are you our police, or their dogs?”
The police’s immediate attempt to clear the scene had made their intentions obvious.
The chief’s expression twisted in discomfort, his gait slightly awkward—he was bleeding again. But he couldn’t retreat now. He stepped out of the car, adjusted his uniform and weapon belt, and squared the brim of his broad hat. His badge gleamed in the sunlight.
He drew a deep breath, his expression steeling with authority, and strode toward the young man.
Perhaps intimidated, the youth looked momentarily uneasy. But soon, others stepped forward, standing beside him with clenched fists and hard eyes.
The chief now realized he was in serious trouble. If he didn’t regain control soon, things would spiral, and he’d be humiliated. He had no patience left.
“No matter why you’re here, you must obey the law! The law does not permit this!” His voice was sharp and commanding—technically correct, though it carried little real authority in the moment.
A young man sneered and shot back, “And does the law permit these foreigners to do evil?”
The chief stepped forward again. “That’s why I’m here. I will uphold the law. Now step aside—”
But the crowd didn’t move. Instead, they linked arms, blocking the police. Someone began to sing. Soon, more voices joined, and the scattered sounds became a unified force.
It was an ancient Nagaryll folk song—primitive and solemn. It spoke of the hardships of survival, awe toward nature’s dangers, and an unyielding spirit. Though meant to teach survival, its mournful tune gave it the feeling of defiance.
The rising chant stirred the crowd. Individual emotion merged into a dangerous group frenzy. The people felt empowered, mistaking collective strength for their own.
They were no longer content to stand behind the gate. They surged forward. The makeshift prefab walls and the iron gate collapsed in under half a minute.
Nail didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran. The others bolted with him. In moments like this, even a brief pause meant death.
When someone couldn’t catch up, objects were hurled. Those ahead heard Nail cry out in pain, then push himself even harder.
Within minutes, the entire camp was overrun by the enraged mob.
The only consolation: Nail’s group was fast. They weren’t pure desk workers—Nail had been a factory laborer just a year ago. Even now, he still worked on construction sites. He could run, and run well. That saved him.
Back at the confrontation, the chief heard a deafening cheer from the crowd. Then the human wall broke open and scattered.
He realized it had all gone wrong.
Fighting through his discomfort, he drew his baton. “Disperse them!” he shouted.
The police charged. The crowd clashed with them in a chaotic melee—young people fighting back, police losing control.
Inside the camp, chaos reigned. Some chased Nail’s group. Others, who had come to watch, began looting and demolishing property.
At first, they were bystanders. But with opportunity in front of them, they revealed their true nature. This was what Asel and Lynch had spoken of: the deep-rooted flaws in the Nagaryll people.
They appeared pitiful on the surface, but with closer understanding, they became despicable.
They lacked a clear sense of right and wrong. In truth, they were self-serving opportunists.
They tore apart anything that could be taken. Even the iron gate at the entrance was hoisted by a few men and carried away.Tables, chairs, coolers—even a sunshade—were not spared. More valuable items like refrigerators were gone, and even the metal roofing from the prefab shelters had been torn off and disappeared. These people were like a swarm of locusts.
The police chief realized the situation had spiraled out of control. Someone would have to take responsibility. He pointed at the crowd before him. “Surround them! Don’t let them escape!”
At that moment, the sergeant arrived with his soldiers—and Lynch.
The soldiers were fully armed, arriving in two modified armored trucks. Their presence caused the crowd to scatter even faster. In no time, the once-cluttered camp was reduced to a heap of worthless debris.
Lynch stepped down from the vehicle. The sergeant and four soldiers surrounded him in a protective formation. A sniper had already climbed to an overwatch position on top of a truck, ready to take control of the situation at any moment.
The precision and professionalism of their movements were intimidating, even to the police chief. “Mr. Lynch…” he started.
Lynch cast a cold glance at him, then looked away, walking directly into the camp with his guards. The chief realized he was likely in serious trouble, but there was nothing he could do now except grit his teeth and follow.
The original group of rioters was attacking Nail’s makeshift house—a shipping container.
Nail had converted it into his home, claiming it was bug-free and he hated insects. Since he was the manager, no one questioned it. They made a few modifications and turned it into a livable space.
Ironically, the container’s sturdy structure made it harder to break into. While many had already fled into the forest, Nail and a few others still inside remained safe—for the moment.
Lynch and his group approached. The crowd showed no intention of stopping. Just as the police chief was about to try redeeming himself by stepping in, Lynch pulled the pistol from the sergeant’s holster and fired a shot into the sky.