Season 3 chapter 70
The Reunion
Kniya suddenly stood tall and clapped his hands twice—a sharp, booming sound that echoed across the camp.
From behind the stage, a massive convoy of thirty to forty heavy vehicles began to roll in. Armored trucks, steam-vans, and transport buses, all bearing the insignia of the G36 Group—the elite special military unit under the Gleb Operative that answered only to the mission, not the corrupt President.
The soldiers of G36 stood on the running boards, rifles at the ready, but they weren't aiming at the crowd. They were guarding the cargo.
As the gates of the first truck hissed open, a small child stepped out, blinking in the sunlight. Then another. Then mothers, fathers, and elders.
"You thought they were gone," Kniya's voice boomed over the speakers, softened by a rare hint of humanity. "But while the Royals were busy planning protests, we were busy building shelters. We planted them in every state, under every nose, to keep your families safe from the purges."
The camp erupted. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a roar of pure, emotional catharsis. People broke through the cordons, screaming names. Families who thought they had lost everything in the fires of the religious towns were suddenly crashing into each other's arms.
"HAIL THE SAVIORS!" a voice screamed from the center.
"HAIL KNIYA! HAIL MALLESH!" the chant took hold, thousands of voices joining in a rhythmic thunder that shook the wooden stage.
The Vow
Mallesh watched the reunions with a quiet, satisfied nod. He looked at Kniya, who was soaking in the moment, though even Kniya looked more relieved than arrogant for once.
Kniya stepped back to the mic, gesturing for the crowd to listen.
"The people of DI—especially you, the ones they tried to erase—are the only thing that makes this Republic worth a damn," Kniya said, his voice firm. "We are going to ensure your total safety. We are going to ensure this war ends with the right people in the ground. It was all a part of the plan, and we are still executing. Give us the time, and we will fix every broken brick and every shattered life in this country."
Mallesh leaned into the mic for the final word. "The civil war ends when we say it ends. And we say it ends with you back in your homes, and the traitors in theirs—six feet under. Just stay with us."
As the families continued to reunite under the setting sun, the "Hail" chants grew louder, turning the broken refugees into a unified army of believers. The war was far from over, but for the first time, the people knew exactly who was actually holding the shield.
The Floodgates of Grief
As the G36 transport trucks lowered their heavy iron ramps, the sound of the crowd changed. The rhythmic chanting of "Hail the Saviors" fractured into thousands of individual, raw screams of disbelief.
One by one, children—some no older than five, others teenagers with the hollow eyes of those who had seen too much—stepped out into the dusty camp light. They scanned the sea of faces with desperate, trembling hope.
A father in the front row, his clothes tattered and his face scarred by industrial soot, let out a sound that wasn't human. He had seen his daughter. The girl, barely ten, froze for a split second before sprinting across the dirt, her small boots kicking up clouds of dust.
"Papa!" she shrieked, her voice cracking.
They collided in the center of the camp. The father collapsed to his knees, burying his face in her neck, his broad shoulders shaking with violent, racking sobs. Nearby, an elderly woman fell to the ground as three of her grandsons emerged from a van, surrounding her in a huddle of weeping, tangled limbs.
Teenagers who had tried to act tough throughout the displacement finally broke, clinging to their mothers as if they were toddlers again. The air was filled with the sounds of a thousand reunions—the frantic whispering of names, the gasps of breath being held for too long, and the wet, heavy sound of tears hitting the dry earth. Families were being stitched back together in the middle of a war zone.
The Billionaire's Banquet
On the stage, Kniya and Malesh watched the chaos of love and relief. For a brief moment, the cold, calculating mask of the corporate warlord slipped from Malesh's face. He looked at Kniya, who was aggressively blinking, pretending the dust in the air was the only reason his eyes were red.
Kniya stepped to the microphone, clearing his throat loudly to regain command of the room.
"Alright, alright! Enough with the leaking eyes!" Kniya shouted, though his voice lacked its usual sharp bite. "We know you've been living on grit and used cardboard for months. And quite frankly, watching you cry is making me hungry as hell."
Kniya gestured to the back of the stage. On cue, hundreds of G36 soldiers began unfolding long, heavy wooden tables. They weren't setting up military rations; they were bringing out massive, steaming trays of roasted meats, fresh bread, and pots of stew that smelled like actual heaven to the starving refugees.
"We are announcing a temporary ceasefire on hunger!" Kniya declared. "A grand fest for the people of DI! Sit down, eat until you can't move, and remember what it feels like to have a full stomach! It's on the house!"
Malesh leaned into the microphone, his deadpan voice echoing over the clatter of plates.
"As we promised," Malesh added, his tone flat but firm. "There is ice cream. High-quality, cold, and entirely free. However, I must clarify that we still cannot promise you the luxury bungalows today. Our budget currently allows for dessert, not real estate. I think the ice cream is a fair compromise for now."
The crowd, caught between tears and hunger, let out a collective, genuine laugh. It was a small sound, but in a camp that had known only silence and fear, it sounded like a victory.
The Narrative Shift
As the people began to swarm the tables, the two billionaires descended the stage steps. Standing at the bottom was the Priestess, her younger brother clutching her hand.
She was in absolute, paralyzed shock. She stared at the trucks, the food, and the reunited families as if she were looking at a miracle she couldn't comprehend. She had tried to reach these people before, tried to push the truth on that very stage, but she had been unable to break through the wall of fear and royal manipulation. Now, she watched as Kniya and Malesh did in minutes what seemed impossible, successfully pushing their narrative into the hearts of the people like a wildfire. She didn't say a word; she just watched them with wide, stunned eyes, wondering how these two vulgar, arrogant men had managed to manifest such a moment out of thin air.
The Inner Circle
The sun began to set, casting a deep orange glow over the camp. The sounds of the feast—laughter, the clinking of silverware, and the soft murmurs of families reuniting—filled the air.
At a quiet, slightly more private dining table set apart from the main chaos, the group sat down together.
Kniya sat at the head, looking exhausted but electric. Malesh sat to his right, already methodically eating his meal with cold precision. Salesh and Filoska sat opposite them, the tension of the war momentarily replaced by the simple, human act of eating. The Priestess and her brother sat at the end, the young boy already distracted by the food, while the Priestess remained silent, her gaze flickering between the four operators who had just changed the course of the civil war.
They sat in a rare, heavy silence. The Republic was burning, the Royals were exposed, and for the first time, the "villains" of the corporate world were the only ones sitting at a table with the truth.
The Scriptless Mastery
At the private dining table, the Priestess sat frozen, her eyes darting between Kniya and Malesh as if she were trying to decode a foreign language. The sounds of children laughing and families eating filled the background, but at this table, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and high-level deception.
She leaned forward, her voice a low, disbelieving whisper. "How? How did you even manage to do that? You appeared out of nowhere. One second the crowd was ready to tear each other apart, and the next, you had them eating out of your hands... literally."
Kniya leaned back, tearing a piece of bread with a satisfied smirk. "Look, Priestess, we would've been here sooner, but two of my most important assets—Filoska and Salesh over there—got themselves targeted by those royal pricks with high-caliber rifles. We had to pivot. But everything is set now. This narrative is going to spread through the Republic like a goddamn wildfire. By tomorrow, the Royal Family won't be the 'saviors' anymore; they'll be the villains of the century."
The Priestess looked at the stage, then back at them. "Did you... did you practice that? The shouting, the 'angry citizen' act? Was it all a rehearsal?"
Malesh didn't even look up from his soup. "Practice? Priestess, do you think we have the time to do table reads for a refugee camp performance? Absolutely not."
"We're experts in this shit," Kniya added, waving a fork dismissively. "Diverting public opinion is a hobby at this point. That was a pure, random skit performance, but it was required. When I looked at the crowd earlier, there was a darkness in their eyes—a void. They were sad, broken, and dangerously bored. We gave them a show and a target for their rage. I'm telling you, this civil war is going to end a lot sooner than those palace idiots think."