Blackstone Code

The soothing music in the room couldn’t drown out the storm of anger surging in everyone’s hearts.

The Gephra diplomat was right. Once someone becomes accustomed to using the simplest method to solve problems, they grow increasingly unwilling to consider more complex alternatives. Even thinking starts to feel like a burden.

Just like Gephra a few years ago—arrogant and untouchable, no nation could defeat them at sea. They went around the world stirring up trouble. Sometimes attacking a port over a rumor, other times disguising themselves as pirates to plunder on the high seas.

Unreasonable—and growing ever more so.

Because the Emperor of Gephra realized that reasoning was not only exhausting but failed to bring them the benefits they wanted, and worse, it made him angry.

So why bother reasoning?

The gulf would be blocked, shells loaded—either pay up and apologize, or face an attack on your port.

The losses from a destroyed port far outweighed the cost of the Emperor’s extortion, so people just gave in.

It was precisely because he believed this method could quickly accumulate wealth and resources that Gephrans became dangerous. They started actively invading other countries, ultimately triggering a world war.

And the most infuriating part? They won. A group of thugs won the war. Justice lost to evil.

Now, the Federation is walking down Gephra’s old path. Gone are the days when they would first issue formal diplomatic notes in the face of conflict, negotiate whenever possible, even if it meant suffering some losses.

If negotiation failed, they would seek a neutral third party to mediate and try to resolve the issue.

War?

Force?

Impossible. Absolutely impossible.

But now, they’ve changed.

“I agree with the Count. This is a very dangerous sign.”

The speaker was a die-hard Gephra ally—actually, one of the first nations to be threatened and extorted by Gephra. Unable to resist them militarily and unwilling to accept major losses, they eventually joined Gephra’s camp.

This process—being coerced into paying for protection, then becoming part of the alliance—was exactly how Gephra’s coalition formed.

Some joined because they had no choice. Some joined early, hoping to avoid a fight.

Some for self-preservation, others to profit by riding Gephra’s coattails.

The speaker had a thin build, a sharp face, and a pair of small mustaches. “We must make the Federation understand that peaceful solutions are the only way. Using force to solve problems… it doesn’t align with the current global climate.”

“This isn’t wartime anymore. We need to preserve international peace.”

The rest began to voice their agreement, most echoing the Gephra diplomat’s concern: if the Federation benefits from using hardline tactics, they might not stop.

That night, several embassies issued carefully worded statements. No one outright criticized the Federation, but they raised questions—whether there were peaceful alternatives to using force, like… friendly (not just polite) negotiations, or multilateral talks.

Violence shouldn’t be the default response. Sitting down and talking still offers hope for resolution.

If only the Gephrans had understood this earlier, the last global war—costing over ten million lives—might never have happened. What a tragedy.

Several countries aligned with Gephra issued formal declarations. A Sugran diplomat, who had been visibly anxious earlier, suddenly regained composure.

Now that everyone was siding with him, he felt confident again. Maybe the Federation wasn’t so scary after all…

But—

That night, the Sugran diplomat looked at a newspaper on his desk. On the front page were heads covered in burlap sacks. A strange intuition struck him.

Could these be gang members?

He didn’t know where that feeling came from, but it sent a chill down his spine. He could easily imagine it being true.

Sugra’s failed reform had fractured the country. Warlordism was rising. Local thinking had shifted to better a gun than power.

If it was a powerful gang, they might rival the police in combat strength. With weapons, they could even stand up to regional troops.

Would a gang like that—bold enough to kill foreigners—really be dealt with so easily?

He walked to the cabinet, opened a bottle of strong liquor. He needed to calm down.

Due to the backlash from the Federation’s recent statements, many people didn’t sleep that night, all trying to figure out how to address the situation.

Early the next morning, before the President had even gotten out of bed, he called Mr. Truman, asking for an immediate meeting.

Mr. Truman had no choice but to head to the presidential residence—which, naturally, was the presidential palace.

When he arrived, the President hadn’t fully gotten up. He sat in a chair in the reception room, still in his pajamas. A glass of liquor rested on the small table in front of him.

He was staring blankly out the window, his expression unreadable.

Mr. Truman knocked lightly. The President came back to himself and said, “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Mr. Truman smiled, hung his coat on the rack by the door. There had once been a walk-in closet here, but some overly political folks decided that a President shouldn’t live in luxury or show off wealth—so it was removed.

Now he had just a wardrobe and a rack. A few sets of clothes were enough. If he wanted to dress up, he could do that at home.

“Want a drink?” the President gestured at the bottle.

Mr. Truman thought for a few seconds, then nodded. “Alright, but just a little—I’ve got a lot of work this morning.”

The President seemed to have expected that. He poured only a small amount—barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass.

“I didn’t sleep well all night. Things are heading in the worst possible direction—they’ve joined forces. I’m under immense pressure.”

The President didn’t start with complaints or accusations, only expressed the pressure he was under.

Truman paused for a few seconds. “Actually, you could look at this alliance from a different angle…”

“Oh?” The President sipped his drink and looked at Truman. “What kind of angle?”

“The reason they’re banding together is because they’re afraid of us. They believe it’s the only way to counter us.”

The President didn’t respond immediately. He thought it over, then nodded. “That’s a fresh perspective. But the question isn’t how we look at it—it’s how we solve it.”

Truman was clearly prepared. “We don’t need to do anything. We can ignore their outcry—they’re not directly involved. There’s no reason to let them interfere.”

“Also, I’ve received word, Mr. President—those people they gave us, the ones in the photos, aren’t the real perpetrators.”

The President’s eyes lit up. “You mean they really deceived us?”

He quickly followed up, “Do you have proof?”

Truman had spoken with Lynch the previous night. Some evidence had already been discreetly released. Soon the public would know the actual killers—protected and hidden by the Sugran government—had been eliminated.

According to Lynch, these Sugrans who killed Federal citizens were shielded by local officials. They were connected by mutual interests, and the incident may even have been orchestrated by the Sugran government to reduce the number of Federation citizens in Sugra, thereby consolidating control.

Sometimes Truman wondered if Lynch even knew what bottom line meant. He seemed to have none. Framing others, deception—if it served his goals, he’d do it without hesitation.

But he had to admit, the evidence Lynch provided was critical. It was what gave him the courage to keep pushing forward.

Truman nodded firmly. “I have a list. These people are all alive and well.”

The President finally relaxed. He downed the rest of his drink. “I’m putting you in full charge of this. Any problems?”

“No, Mr. President.”

Satisfied, the President pointed at Truman’s glass and stood up. “I’m going to get dressed. Finish your drink before you go.”

At that moment, the President made up his mind. Even the calmest person, when pushed repeatedly, will eventually get angry.

And the President was furious—pressured at home, pressured abroad.

There was nothing he could do when people like Mr. Fitch called, or when the Emperor of Gephra called. But ambassadors from small nations demanding he sit down and negotiate? Who gave them that courage?

He now saw Truman’s point clearly—these countries united because they were afraid. And if they were afraid, what was there for him to worry about?

At 8 a.m., the Federal Times released its national edition. The front page was filled with photos of individuals, along with their names, their activities in Sugra, and their roles in the Mike murder case.

The photos appeared recent—proving that the Sugrans had lied.

At the same time, Truman, First Minister of the Department of International Affairs, formally invited the media to a 10 a.m. press conference. He announced that he had something important to declare.