Blackstone Code

Everything has two sides.

For example, out on the streets, crowds were waving their arms and cheering for the decision made by the Presidential Palace, believing it to be the proudest moment in the Federation’s history.

Meanwhile, others sat indoors, frowning beneath the clear blue sky, worried this could trigger another world-ending war.

Some people celebrate, others despair. That’s normal.

If everyone claims to support something, someone is definitely faking it.

The Federal Ministry of International Affairs’ press conference started on time. Regardless of how people felt about Minister Truman or his foreign policy, everyone was present, eager to hear what he had to say.

There was no long table—just a projection screen and a podium. Minister Truman stood at the podium, reviewing some materials. When his aide signaled that it was time, he organized his notes and looked out at the crowd.

The room was packed. In front were reporters with notebooks and pens—some of whom were unregistered diplomats, better known as spies. Behind them, rows of cameras and recorders were set up.

Since the Federation’s global status began rising, every federal-level press conference had been a magnet for attention. Every country wanted firsthand information—whether to find value, or to guard against potential harm.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m very pleased you could be here today. Regarding some of the current public debates and opinions, I’ll offer a unified response.”

“I know some think our actions are too aggressive. But let me be clear: the Federation never initiates violence—unless our interests are harmed.”

“That was true in the past. It will remain true in the future.”

Someone raised a hand, but Truman stopped them. “Put your hand down, ma’am. It’s not time for questions.”

“But I know what you want to ask—and that’s exactly why I called this press conference.” He gestured to his aide.

The lights dimmed. The projector came to life.

Distorted photos appeared one by one, along with detailed profiles: names, aliases used in Sugra, and their known activities.

When the final photo appeared, a few women in the front gasped.

It showed a heavily built man—not bloated, but powerfully stocky. Around 6 feet tall, at least 300 pounds, scarred from head to toe, his face twisted into a fierce expression.

Even distorted through a projector, the image exuded pure menace.

“Alright, bring the lights up.”

The lights gradually brightened, but the image remained faintly on the screen.

“These individuals,” Truman said, “are the murderers responsible for the Mike massacre. They killed a law-abiding Federal citizen and stole his property.”

“The local government’s inaction led to this moment…” Truman’s face hardened. He jabbed the podium with his finger—bang, bang—echoing through the room like hammer strikes.

His voice brimmed with fury.

“…To this moment, the Sugran central government continues to deceive us. The photos they gave us as evidence of their so-called efforts were completely fake.”

“They gave them to us to pacify us. But I believe—from the beginning—the murder of Federal businessman Mike was never just a robbery.”

“Perhaps, it was a vile tactic orchestrated by the Sugran central government to drive out legitimate Federal trade!”

The press room erupted. Reporters shouted questions, waving their hands. Chaos reigned.

Truman’s statement was explosive. If the Sugran government truly did this, it meant they had openly played the Federation for fools.

Even Gephra now coordinated closely with the Federation. Who did this backward, irrelevant little country think it was—plotting, forming alliances, pressuring the Federation into backing down?

Did they really think the Federation wouldn’t go to war?

“Minister Truman, where did you get this information—?”

“Minister Truman, is the Federation now considering military action—?”

Truman raised both hands. “Quiet! Quiet down—I can’t hear anything you’re saying.” When the crowd ignored him, he simply fell silent.

He wasn’t like those soft politicians who cared about image in front of cameras.

A military man by background, Truman might compromise—but never beyond his limits.

He stood there silently. After more than a minute, people finally realized they had to respect the rules. Order returned.

“I heard a few questions earlier. Let me answer them briefly.”

“First—where did this information come from?”

“There are more Federal citizens in Sugra than just businessmen. There are also gold prospectors. These people have local connections and access to information you couldn’t dream of.”

“After cross-verifying multiple sources, we confirmed these individuals were the real perpetrators of the Mike case. They were hidden by the local authorities—with support from the central Sugran government. Therefore, we have every reason to suspect that this entire incident was sanctioned at the highest levels.”

The press went wild. Pens scratched, flashes burst, cameras rolled non-stop.

Everyone had just one focus—Minister Truman and his words.

“Second—we currently cannot confirm the central Sugran government’s exact stance. We have issued a formal diplomatic note. If we cannot reach consensus on key issues…”

He paused to wet his lips. The room fell dead silent. Everyone froze, sensing what was coming, staring at Truman.

This may become an indispensable page in the history of the Federation.

Under the gaze of the world, Minister Truman solemnly declared, “…We may be the first to use force to resolve our disputes and conflicts—to demand justice and fairness for the wronged citizens of the Federation!”

The room erupted again. Federal reporters were ecstatic—no leader in recent years had spoken such morale-boosting words.

They could already foresee that by tomorrow morning, the entire Federation would be in an uproar.

Foreign media and hidden diplomats, on the other hand, felt a chill. The room’s heating was on full blast, yet an icy dread still crept into their bones.

A giant beast was beginning to bare its claws—terrifying beyond words.

Though many wanted to ask questions, they remembered Minister Truman’s rules. Despite their excitement, they maintained order, raising their hands without shouting.

This scene was broadcast live across the entire Federation.

Among the millions watching was one particularly distinct man.

He appeared to be in his fifties, with a straight, upright posture—even seated on a sofa, he gave the impression of sitting in a hard-backed chair.

His cuffs and collar were perfectly aligned. Even his hair seemed to be in precisely the right place.

A faint smile played on his face, as if he were witnessing something truly gratifying.

Around him were several young men, all visibly stirred, struggling to match the elder’s composure.

Suddenly, the phone on the table rang. The elder turned his head toward it. The young men immediately stood and quietly stepped outside, closing the door behind them.

He moved slightly to the side, lowered the volume on the TV, and picked up the phone. “It’s me.”

“Vice Admiral, the Admiral would like to meet with you.”

“Tell him—I’m not in a position to leave this house right now. If he wants to see me, he can come here. Or wait until my sentence is over.”

Yes, he was serving a sentence—because he had refused an order from the Ministry of Defense to sink Gephra’s surrendered ships. A military tribunal had sentenced him to ten years.

Given his rank and age, the court allowed him to serve the sentence outside of prison.

For him, it didn’t matter if it was ten years or a hundred. If the Federation needed him, a simple pardon or sentence reduction could free him at any time.

This whole process was merely for show—to prove to foreign governments that even a disobedient admiral would face trial and punishment.

But within the Ministry of Defense and the Navy, arrangements had long been made. The moment he left that house, he would immediately be promoted to Admiral of the Federal Navy.

He hung up the phone casually, like ending a call with a neighbor—utterly unfazed that it was from the admiral’s liaison.

He turned the TV volume back up, watching Truman with a genuine smile and a sigh of relief.

The Federation… had finally risen.