Blackstone Code-Chapter 483: A Plan Out of Control

“Kill these foreigners!”
The cries from the crowd grew louder and louder. At first, there was confusion. The people of Nagaryll have never had a tradition of resistance. Their religion has always taught them that enduring hardship offers a better chance of reincarnation than seeking revenge.
Most of them weren’t natural leaders or even inclined to lead. The crowd that had gathered was largely there out of curiosity, hoping to take advantage of any opportunity to snatch a little something—just like when they had previously stormed Lynch’s workers’ compound or looted the homes of the wealthy.
They were merciless with their own kind when it came to crime. Petty thieves and the like rarely made it to the police alive if caught. But foreigners were different. For a long time, they had represented the third ruling class, enjoying elevated social and political status. The average citizen might follow the crowd for personal gain, but few dared to shout something as bold and dangerous as
kill them.
In Nagaryll, the gods might forgive the sins of the wealthy, but they would never spare a poor man.
And yet, someone had shouted it. And seemed intent on acting on it.
A young Nagaryllian climbed the wall of a wealthy estate, his face burning with rage, fists raised as he screamed, “Break in! Kill these foreigners! Take back what’s ours!”
Though he was quickly beaten down with sticks, another person stepped forward. Then another. A new expression appeared on the faces in the crowd—something never seen before.
“They’re not our people,” murmured the regional leader of the Youth Party in the Mongwu Province, crouched in the crown of a tree some twenty meters away.
The view from the tree was clear—he could see much of the wealthy estate and the swelling crowd below. Beside him were several core members of the Youth Party, with others stationed on the ground beneath the tree.
As soon as they heard that a foreigner had tortured and killed a local maid, they rushed to the scene to investigate. But someone else had acted even faster—those leading the charge into the mansion.
Previously, they couldn’t identify these individuals among the crowd. Now, they had revealed themselves.
The short-statured leader was troubled. He understood the character of the native Nagaryllians, his fellow countrymen. They would never dare to do something like this. And besides, they had just looted another rich estate—yet their hands were empty. As the first to break in, they should’ve had more loot than anyone.
If they had taken anything, they would’ve gone home to hide it, waiting for the chaos to die down before selling it on the black market for a quick profit. That was the unspoken rule, a tradition. Get caught, and it’s bad luck. Get away, and it’s easy money.
But these people had nothing. Their rage was over-the-top, their actions too deliberate. And they weren’t part of the Youth Party. Something was off—seriously off.
One of his companions seemed oblivious, smiling with excitement. “Doesn’t matter if they’re not ours—I admire their courage. We should recruit them!”
He looked ready to act. “We can’t let others take all the credit. This is our chance to be seen!”
But the Youth Party’s fame wasn’t widespread yet, and the leader felt the time wasn’t right. They hadn’t secured any real
assets
yet. Drawing attention now would bring scrutiny from the government, religious authorities, and the foreign ruling class. They’d already destroyed two temples, and enforcers were on their trail.
He hesitated, watching as the intruders opened the mansion gates from inside, letting the crowd pour in like a flood. Even the guards trying to drive people away were overwhelmed and scattered.
One of his companions jumped from the tree and shouted, “Let’s go! It’s time people knew who we are!”
Still hesitant, the leader looked toward the estate as the crowd surged in. His companion urged again, “If we don’t move now, it’ll be too late!” Gritting his teeth, the leader jumped down too.
The others were equally eager—hungry to make a mark. But they didn’t understand that the Youth Party wasn’t strong enough yet. Claiming credit for actions they didn’t start could cost them dearly.
Looking around at his comrades, the leader shifted his approach. “This isn’t our battlefield. Didn’t I tell you before? What we want is their businesses, their wealth—not just to kill them in anger.”
“Killing them is easy, but the government will seize their property. You all know how corrupt our people can be. I want you to split up now—go to other places. Before this spreads further, help those people make better choices!”
He scanned their faces. “I have a feeling this will get big. Maybe you’re right—it’s time we began.”
Some tides cannot be resisted. He felt it too—a wave building quickly, as if someone was helping to push it. But something about that help felt wrong, even if he couldn’t say why. The only option now was to accelerate their plans.
Originally, they intended to kill fleeing foreign businessmen on the road, so their children or local family could inherit their wealth—cash, assets, everything. That way, their property would return to the people rather than be seized by the state.
Normally, the government would use any excuse to confiscate these assets and evict the occupants, as they often did. The plan wasn’t supposed to unfold so quickly. It needed more preparation—but time had run out.
More and more people were rushing in from all directions. Some were already targeting nearby estates. The police, who usually arrived promptly, were nowhere to be seen. A storm was coming.
Meanwhile, Mr. Simon, who had nearly finished packing and was waiting for someone to take over his business before leaving, received word of the situation.
He immediately ordered his butler to lock all the doors. Then he grabbed his hunting rifle and secluded himself in a study with the fewest windows.
He was anxious. A friend had just called in a panic, saying the locals had gone mad and were attacking his house. The call was chaotic—he could barely make out the words. Then came a sickening thud, like bones breaking. Silence.
Moments later, someone with a local accent picked up the phone: “You’re next, sir.”
Terrified, Mr. Simon ran to the edge of his estate and looked out. Strangers were already on the street.
It’s important to understand—foreigners had their own communities in Nagaryll. These areas were prosperous, bustling, and largely inaccessible to local Nagaryllians, whose poverty kept them out. Police even blocked beggars and petty thieves from entering.
At a glance, these foreign districts hardly seemed like Nagaryll at all. They were quiet, clean, and free of poverty and filth.
But now, outsiders were breaching the gates—and more were coming.
Mr. Simon cursed the absent police, who should have been beating back the crowd. He gave up on the idea of fleeing. He wasn’t brave enough to hurt others before they could hurt him. A law-abiding man, he feared being stopped if he tried to drive away. Hiding at home seemed safer.
He clutched his hunting rifle and sat in the study, awkwardly checking its ammunition.
Any sound near his ears made him panic.
He turned his head to glance out the window—there were some unsettling noises outside. He picked up the phone, intending to call the police again, but this time, there wasn’t even a dial tone—no sound at all.
The phone line had been cut?
Fear tightened in his chest, and his anxiety deepened. He shouted the butler’s name loudly. Before long, the study door opened.
“Sir…”
“I’m a bit thirsty. Also, send someone to check why our phone line is down. And are there a lot of people out on the street?” He wiped the sweat from his temple. “It sounds noisy out there. It’s never been like this before.”