Chapter 81
Karl Lenaro and the Labor Advocates stood in silence, gazing out beyond the city walls.
The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, and before them, the sick and injured were receiving free treatment. Even the most hot-tempered and radical among them found no words to say in this moment.
“Thank you… Thank you, Saint!”
“May peace be with you.”
The Saint moved tirelessly, tending to the wounded.
The clergy of the Grace Order worked with practiced precision. Minor injuries were handled directly by the priests, while severe wounds or incurable conditions—those beyond the reach of miracles or divine power—were brought to the Saint himself.
Thanks to their astonishingly efficient field hospital system, countless people walked out healed, tears of joy streaming down their cheeks.
“I believe in Lady Lilia. Priest, may I please have a copy of the Scriptures?”
“I want to follow the Saint’s teachings too. Please—just one scripture for me!”
Though the Grace Order made no effort to proselytize, their selfless dedication—forsaking food and sleep to save others—was more than enough to birth a flood of new believers.
“Religion is the opiate of the workers,” one of the Labor Advocates muttered.
Karl Lenaro let out a quiet chuckle.
“But when reality is this painful, sometimes we need a dose.”
“Agreed.”
“Still, we can’t remain dependent on it forever. Sooner or later, workers must stand on their own.”
“Of course, Comrade Lenaro.”
Standing up, Karl Lenaro raised his voice:
“Comrades. As the Saint requested, lay down your guns and bombs. But that doesn’t mean the war is over. We’ll continue the fight in a way that is truest to who we are. The general strike is not yet over. For the first time, the laws and power of the Empire are on our side. If not now—then when?”
Laughter and cheers rippled through the group.
“Propaganda materials are finished and ready.”
“We’ve selected the loudest and most persuasive among us to serve as speakers.”
“Pickets and banners are prepared as well.”
Karl Lenaro nodded, though his expression turned slightly bitter.
“If only our comrades from the camps were here.”
Most of the remaining Labor Advocates were higher-ups. The frontline workers—the ones who toiled side by side with their comrades—were still locked away in internment camps. Their absence would make rallying the masses far more difficult.
And no one knew when—or if—they’d be released.
“But there’s no other choice. We press on without—”
“Comrade Lenaro!! Come outside! Quickly!”
“They’re back! Our comrades from the camps are returning!”
Shouts from outside drew everyone’s attention. The expressions of the gathered leaders lit up in an instant.
Turning toward the Scrap Yard, they saw a group of emaciated figures in prison uniforms emerging, flanked by Black Citadel Inquisitors and the armored Ketlatrus of the White Order.
Their gaunt faces and sunken skin showed the horrors they had endured—but their eyes burned brighter than ever.
“Lef! Moltov! Roza! You’re alive!”
“Comrade Lenaro!!”
The two groups of Labor Advocates embraced at the entrance to the Scrap Yard, overwhelmed by their reunion.
One Black Citadel Inquisitor approached them and spoke firmly:
“The investigation concluded that the interned Labor Advocates were not demon worshippers. They are released. However, any further indication of illegal activity, violence, or terrorism will result in their immediate re-internment. We do not tolerate terror. Or bloodshed.”
“Understood.”
Once the Inquisitors and Ketlatrus withdrew, the Labor Advocates regrouped and immediately launched into a meeting.
“We’ll continue the general strike the Saint began.”
“Please—let us join you.”
“We can’t waste this opportunity. We must be part of this.”
“But you’re all still injured from the camps…”
“We’ll get treated first. Even if it kills us, we’ll be there.”
They clenched their teeth, rage and resolve burning in equal measure.
“I want to see the fat capitalist pigs of this city scream—with my own eyes.”
“Even if I die protesting, I’ll join. I must join.”
At that, Karl Lenaro smiled proudly.
“Go. Receive healing from the Saint. If anyone can restore your bodies, it’s him. And once you’re well—join us.”
He slammed his hand down on the table.
“The downfall of this city’s capitalists must come by the hands of the workers. We must be the ones leading this. Not the Black Citadel. Not the Grace Order. Not the Temple of All Gods. It must be us. Raise your voices! We may not have guns or swords—”
He pointed to his chest.
“But we have conviction! And the united will of our comrades will be our weapon!”
Karl Lenaro slowly pulled a red cloth from the corner of the room and tied it around his forehead and chest.
Emblazoned on it, the symbol of a crossed pickaxe and hammer—representing the miners and blacksmiths of the Scrap Yard. Tools of labor. Symbols of resistance. The crest of the Labor Advocates.
Until now, the police presence had made it impossible to display it openly in the streets.
But no longer.
“Let’s go. Let’s win this fight in the most us way possible!”
And with that cry, history was made.
The words that ignited the first mass general strike ever recorded in the history of the Empire.
***
The Labor Advocates worked with near artistic precision.
At the command of Karl Lenaro and the leadership, each division began to move like a well-oiled machine.
“Zone 3 manager, distribute these pickets and sashes to the comrades!”
“Zone 3 will relay this to all local union leaders! Everyone—gather your members immediately!
No weapons, no violence—this is Comrade Lenaro’s direct order!”
“Tie this red cloth around your foreheads and chests!”
“Wash up, wear your cleanest clothes! This is a historic moment—we must show the world that workers are not miserable, pathetic losers!”
“Call the press! Pay them if you have to—just get them here! Tell every reporter to bring a camera! These moments must be captured. The entire Empire must see this!”
They brought in the media, laid out the contradictions and crimes of the capitalists with clarity, and clearly defined how they intended to improve worker conditions. And with that groundwork laid—
The protest began.
Organized by experts and executed with purpose, the movement quickly swelled to enormous proportions.
The workers of the Scrap Yard were diligent, disciplined people. In a world where not working meant starving, hard work wasn’t a virtue—it was survival.
But now, these same people—who had spent their lives laboring just to survive—were suddenly fed without charge, sleeping on warm beds, recovering from illness, and watching their families regain strength.
For the first time, they had spare time—and Karl Lenaro had given them something worthy to do with it.
And then came the voices.
“Let’s go, comrades!! Let’s reject a life as factory parts and fight for a life as humans!”
“Workers of every city—unite!”
“You’ve lost nothing but your chains! What you gain is freedom, rights, and dignity! March forward for your humanity!”
“Let the pigs of this city tremble before our protest!”
With well-trained agitators at the lead, the momentum became unstoppable.
In no time, hundreds of thousands of workers filled the Central Plaza and the massive industrial roadway known as the Iron Path, waving pickets and flags high.
It was a sight the Empire had never seen before—and likely never would again.
“This is a scoop!! Film it! Keep filming!!”
“Where’s the stenographer?! Don’t miss a single word—write everything down!”
Journalists swarmed every rooftop and open window in the now-empty worker housing blocks, capturing the unprecedented protest below.
A spotlight on their movement.
No police presence to crush it.
A rare moment when the entire Empire would hear their voices.
This was their stage.
And the Labor Advocates wielded the weapon they had sharpened for over a decade: their words.
If not for the Saint, their tongues could have split the Empire in two—and now, those tongues were unleashed with terrifying force.
“A three-year-old child went blind cleaning chimneys! And the factory owners knew he was inside when they started the machines! Poisonous gas filled the vents by their command! There were no humans in that factory—only parts! That’s all we were—parts!!”
“This city held no humanity—only people denied their lives and beasts who abandoned morality and dignity!”
“So here and now, we solemnly declare: We hereby found the Imperial Workers’ Association! From this moment, we vow to stand against the greed of capitalists and to fight for the advancement of workers’ rights!”
The declaration, marked by a fiery and solemn speech, ignited thunderous chants from the crowd.
Hundreds of thousands of voices, perfectly in sync, roared under the direction of the Labor Advocates.
“Give us a wage that allows human dignity!”
“Guarantee breaks and meal times!”
“We are not machines! We have the right to rest beyond our working hours!”
These cries—desperate, angry, unwavering—rattled the very bones of the city.
“Punish the capitalists who summoned Mamon through their greed and dehumanization!”
“Show us that justice and law still live in this Empire!”
“Let the Imperial Court and Temple of All Gods hear us—Answer us! Answer us!!”
Their wails, equal parts fury and anguish, were meticulously recorded by the press—and the very next day, they dominated the front pages of newspapers across the entire Empire.
“You want this story printed across the Empire? That’ll be difficult. We’d need to use magical transmission—and that’s expensive.”
“I’ll cover it. Every copper.”
“It’s not just money. Transmitting photos requires specialized equipment and powerful mages or witches—”
“We’ll help.”
It became possible thanks to the support of Jonathan Karma, Erfa, and skilled mages from the Capital’s Mage Tower Temple.
And once the newspapers were printed, the effect was like a bomb going off across the Empire.
“They’re saying Mamon cultists rose up because of labor exploitation.”
“A three-year-old child worked so hard his fingers bent permanently. Frankly, it’s a miracle things didn’t explode sooner.”
“The Temple of All Gods warned for years that something like this would happen. No one listened.”
Voices of reflection finally began to rise within the noble class.
Why now? Because the ladies of the aristocracy—who had neither reason nor interest to learn about the suffering of the workers—had begun to speak out.
And leading that wave of upper-class conscience was none other than the daughter of Jonathan Karma:
Cecilia Karma.
“Before I met the Saint, I lived in a worn-down house near the slums. When I think of the things I saw back then... this uprising is not at all surprising.”
In salons.
At balls.
Poetry readings.
Musical performances.
Her voice had begun to change the tide.
Cecilia Karma shared her firsthand experiences of life in the slums—an experience no other noblewoman could offer. And every time she spoke, it stirred an overwhelming reaction.
“G-Gods… Their skin was rotting off their bones?”
“She held her dead child in her arms for days because she couldn’t bear to let go…?”
“Oh, heavens… What have we done?”
That evening, the ripple became a wave.
Daughters, wives, grandmothers, and mothers returned home to the noble estates—and unleashed hell on their fathers, husbands, and sons.
“Husband, please tell me… our family’s business isn’t operating like that, is it? Say it’s not true!”
“Darling, don’t worry about such things. I’ll handle it—”
“A Mamon cultist appeared! Because of the workers’ wrath! Are you seriously going to let our family be targeted by the Heresy Inquisition? No, worse—how could you, as a decent human being, even think this was acceptable?!”
“Father, if I find out you treated your workers the way the papers described… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see you the same way again.”
There wasn’t a single nobleman in the Empire brave enough to ignore the fury of the women in his household.
And so, noble society slowly began to shift.
Public opinion within the aristocracy gradually started leaning toward labor reform and rights expansion.
And the first to catch wind of this momentum was none other than Cecilia Karma.
While Iomene commanded operations on the ground in the Scrap Yard, Princess Almeine worked from the capital, striving to pass new laws. The moment Cecilia delivered her report, Almeine made her way straight to the Emperor.
“You want to handle it yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“If you want to solidify your position in the succession line, you need results. Drafting and passing labor reform—make it yours. Convince the old snakes in the Senate. The political wind is blowing in your favor. It won’t be easy, but it’s winnable.”
Almeine’s eyes gleamed with resolve.
“I accept, Father!”
She began skipping meals and sleep to visit every influential noble on the Senate Council.
The Temple of All Gods quietly supported her efforts from behind the scenes.
“Count Albion, if you insist on running your business as before, then you’re no different from the ones who birthed demon cultists. But I know your loyalty to the Empire. Please—support the labor reform bill.”
“Y-Yes, of course, Your Highness. I will. Though… could your companions perhaps… stand a little farther back? Maybe put away those guns and swords—?”
“Disarming would violate the Codex Prorilium, Count.”
Behind Almeine, elite Ketlatrus soldiers and battle-clergy from multiple orders stood at silent attention. Their presence alone was more persuasive than any argument.
In just three days, Almeine had secured the support of the Senate’s majority.
And right on cue:
“We are considering new labor legislation. What are your thoughts?”
“The Senate will follow Your Majesty’s will.”
“Summon Karl Lenaro and Jonathan Karma. I want both capital and labor at the table. Draft a law that satisfies both, and pass it swiftly. I will not oversee this matter—Almeine will. You will obey her as you would obey me.”
With that, the Emperor formally gave his blessing to the labor reform bill.
And within a single day, thanks once again to Jonathan Karma, Erfa, and the mages of the Capital Mage Tower, the news was spread across the entire Empire.
“Comrades!! His Majesty the Emperor has heard our voices!! Tomorrow, my comrades and I will go to the Senate!”
“Long live the Emperor!! Glory to the Arkal Empire!”
On the fifth day of the strike, workers sobbed and embraced one another.
Tears of joy—for the first time, the laws and power of the Empire were moving for them.
Joy that the Emperor had not abandoned them.
Hope that their future might, finally, be brighter.
“Long live the Imperial Workers’ Association!”
“Glory to Comrade Karl Lenaro!”
“Long live His Majesty the Emperor!”
“Long live the Saint!”
The city roared with the chants of its workers.
In that moment, there seemed to be no unhappy soul in the Scrap Yard.
Well… except for a few.
“Y-You bastard!! You ratted on that?! How could you?! You were supposed to take that to the grave, damn it!!”
“I was about to be condemned as a heretic and rot in a Silence Order dungeon for life!! I had to survive!”
“You ungrateful bastard!!”
The factory owners, now too panicked to bother restarting production, had turned on each other in pure chaos.
And then there were the police.
“I swear, I didn’t do anything! It was all Mayor Bias! That bastard gave the orders—”
“Officer.”
“Y-Yes?”
“Have you ever tried soup through your nose? Soup always knows the truth.”
And so, upside down and gagged, many officers were now partaking in the Black Citadel’s unique interrogation technique: the nasal hot soup challenge.
They were the only ones in the city not celebrating.
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