The third day of the operation began.

  The trucks were still moving with that same brisk, disciplined rhythm. But today was different. Today, the targets were no longer city officials or port thugs. The teams began to fan out, sweeping through the villages and plantations where corrupt officials lived like petty kings, hiding in plain sight.

  Felix scanned the list in his hand. Forty-three names for the day's work. Most were small-time—village heads who had sold their constituents' rice rations, treasurers who had padded budgets, cops who had shaken down local stalls for bribes. But they still had to be caught. This operation needed to be comprehensive. It had to be felt across every layer of society.

  He handed the list to a waiting courier. "Distribute these to the teams. Operations begin at seven."

  ***

  10:15. A Village Office on the Mountain Slope.

  This place was only reachable by a narrow footpath, a two-hour horseback ride from the nearest town. But the team made it anyway. Six men, drenched in sweat and weary, yet they pushed on.

  The village head—Marcos, forty years old with a gaunt face—was having lunch on his veranda. Seeing them approach, he stood up but didn't run.

  "I was expecting this," he said, his voice flat. "Ever since I heard about the operation yesterday."

  The team leader, Sergeant Manuel, nodded. "You know why we're here?"

  "The coffee rations for three years. 500 kilos per year were reported as damaged, but I sold them." Marcos let out a sigh. "I did it to fund a local place of worship. But still... it's corruption."

  Manuel studied him. The man wasn't making excuses or blaming others. He was simply confessing.

  "You know the penalty?"

  "Prison. Maybe execution." Marcos offered a faint, resigned smile. "Please... don't harm my family. They knew nothing about it."

  Manuel was silent for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "We're only here for you. Your family will be safe."

  Marcos nodded. He stepped inside his house briefly—perhaps to say goodbye to his wife, perhaps to grab a jacket—then emerged with his hands raised. He didn't wait to be handcuffed.

  On the trek back down, Manuel asked him, "Why didn't you run?"

  "Run where?" Marcos gazed at the ravine beside the path. "Here, everyone knows me. In the city, I have no one. It's better to just accept my fate."

  Manuel offered no reply. But in his mind, he filed this name away. This one was different.

  11:23. San Pedro Port.

  Three cargo ships were detained. Their contents: weapons.

  Not new weapons—old rifles, second-hand ammunition, even a few grenades corroded with rust. But weapons, nonetheless. Their intended destination: villages south of the capital.

  The ship's captain, a middle-aged man, was handcuffed on the dock. Around him, wooden crates were pried open, inspected, and catalogued.

  "Who are these for?" an officer demanded.

  The captain remained silent.

  "Who paid for them?"

  Silence.

  The officer sighed, then gave a signal. Two men escorted the captain to an empty warehouse at the end of the pier.

  Five minutes later, a muffled shout was heard. It was short, cut off, then silence.

  Ten minutes after that, the officer emerged, jotting something down in his notebook. "He says it's for that group in Valverde. The same one connected to the murders yesterday."

  Felix, who had arrived half an hour earlier, read the note. His gaze then shifted to the ship and the crates.

  "This is just one shipment. There could be many more."

  He pressed his radio. "Maritime teams, tighten surveillance. Every single ship gets inspected. No exceptions."

  ***

  The Sun Palace.

  Mateo was reading the third day's report. 43 targets: 38 apprehended, 2 killed (while resisting), 3 escaped. Better numbers than yesterday.

  He glanced toward the window. The sun was beginning its descent. Outside, the city was still very much alive. Lights were flickering on across the skyline.

  Isabella entered without knocking. Her expression was calmer than the day before, but her eyes still held a reservoir of unasked questions.

  "I heard about what happened at the courthouse. A judge was arrested right in his own chambers."

  Mateo nodded, not looking up. "He was involved in fourteen bribery cases. He was selling verdicts—the rich went free, the poor went to prison."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "And you arrested him in front of everyone."

  "Let them see. Let everyone understand that no one who harms the people and the state is above the law."

  Isabella sat down. "I also heard about what happened at the market. The merchant, Gutiérrez. He hired thugs to extort money."

  "And now he's in a cell."

  "You want me to feel sorry for him? I don't. But I heard he has four kids and a sick wife."

  Mateo finally set the report down. "I've already ordered a team to check on his family. If they're genuinely in need, they'll receive aid. If it's a lie... well, that's that."

  Isabella studied him for a long moment. A small smile touched her lips. "Do you really think any of this will work?"

  "It has to." Mateo turned back to his reports.

  ***

  The Fourth Day.

  Today brought bad news.

  Two villages in the north were openly defying the operation. The residents had gathered behind barricades, preventing the soldiers from entering to arrest their village heads. Rocks, machetes, even a few homemade rifles were brandished.

  Felix read the field report aloud. "San Lorenzo Village and Buena Vista Village. The village heads there are popular figures. Two years ago, they used village funds to build a road—legitimate or not, the villagers see the results. Now they're defending them."

  Mateo was silent, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the desk. Tap-tap-tap.

  "How many villagers?"

  "Over a hundred in San Lorenzo. About fifty in Buena Vista."

  "Weapons?"

  "Machetes, rocks. But some rifles too. Might be from fugitives."

  Mateo thought for a moment. Five seconds. Ten.

  "Send a negotiation team. Not to bargain—to talk. Explain that their village head will still be taken in, but the villagers themselves won't be harmed. If they continue to resist, we'll consider them supporters of an insurrection."

  Felix nodded. "And if they still resist?"

  Mateo met his gaze, his eyes turning cold. "You know what to do."

  15:15. San Lorenzo Village.

  The negotiation team arrived in two trucks. They didn't approach immediately, stopping a hundred meters from the barricade. A sergeant climbed out, walking forward alone, his hands conspicuously empty.

  The villagers behind the barricade were tense. Machetes were raised. A young man clutched a rifle—not a high-quality weapon, but dangerous nonetheless.

  The sergeant halted ten meters from them and raised his voice.

  "Listen to me! I'm not carrying any weapons. I'm here to talk!"

  An old man—likely the village head—stepped forward. His face was weathered, his beard white.

  "Talk about what? You want to take our village head! He built this road! He helped everyone during the flood!"

  The sergeant gave a slight nod. "I've heard that. He sounds like a good man. But he also embezzled funds. Rice and grain rations meant for the village, for three years, 100 kilos a month. What was that for?"

  The old man fell silent. He glanced back toward a house where the village head was hiding.

  "We know," he finally admitted, his voice quieter. "But he's good. That rice... he used it to help the poor families. Not for himself."

  "The law is still the law." The sergeant's voice was firm but not unkind. "He will be taken. But none of you will be harmed. His family will be safe. But if you resist—" he gestured toward the trucks behind him, "—it will be considered an act of rebellion. You know what that means, don't you?"

  A heavy silence descended. Whispers rippled through the crowd. A woman began to cry.

  Then, from deeper within the village, the village head himself emerged. He walked slowly toward the barricade, and the villagers parted to let him through.

  He stopped in front of the sergeant. His face was aged, etched with exhaustion and a deep weariness.

  "I'll go with you," he said quietly. "Just... don't hurt my people."

  The old man who had spoken earlier embraced him. "Sir... we're so sorry..."

  The village head shook his head. "You've done nothing wrong. I'm the one who did. I thought good intentions could excuse the means... I was wrong."

  He raised his hands. The sergeant signaled, and two soldiers stepped forward to cuff him and lead him to a truck.

  The villagers stood in absolute silence. No one threw a stone. No one shouted.

  16:17. Buena Vista Village.

  The second team wasn't as successful. The villagers held their ground. Their negotiator was even hit by a thrown rock, sustaining a gash on his head.

  Felix received the report, his jaw tightening.

  "Second team," he said into his radio, his voice flat. "Clear it."

  Twenty soldiers dismounted from the trucks. This time, it wasn't for negotiation. Rifles were raised, shields held at the ready.

  The villagers behind the barricade screamed. Rocks flew through the air. A homemade rifle cracked—the bullet missed everyone, but it was enough to warrant a response.

  The soldiers returned fire. Not to kill—they aimed at legs, at the ground just in front of the barricade. Three villagers fell, screaming in pain. The rest scattered.

  The barricade was breached in under five minutes.

  The village head of Buena Vista—younger and more defiant than Marcos—was apprehended in his house. He fought back and was struck in the head, falling unconscious. He was dragged to a truck.

  The remaining villagers, mostly women and children, wept by the roadside. The soldiers paid them no mind. The trucks departed, leaving behind only dust and small patches of blood on the ground.

  ***

  San Pedro. Korps Field Office.

  Felix reported to Mateo. Two villages, two vastly different outcomes. One peaceful, one stained with blood.

  "San Lorenzo, the village head surrendered peacefully and the villagers dispersed. Buena Vista... there was resistance. Three villagers wounded. The village head was forcibly taken."

  Mateo scanned the report. "The wounded?"

  "Shot in the legs. Two have been taken to the hospital. One is being treated in the village."

  "Medical expenses are to be covered by the state. And their families are to be compensated."

  Felix nodded. "This will set an example."

  "Yes. An example that resisting the government has consequences." Mateo set the report down. "But also an example that surrender doesn't have to mean fear."

  Felix was quiet. Behind his eyes, he could still see the weeping faces of the villagers from Buena Vista. But he said nothing.

  ***

  17:37. A Small Port on the Eastern Coast.

  Three men were detained on a fishing boat. They weren't fishermen—they were carrying fake documents, maps, and a significant amount of cash.

  The interrogation was swift. They were messengers from the same group connected to the Valverde killers. They had come to buy weapons from the port thugs.

  "The port thugs have already been arrested," the interrogator told them. "You're too late."

  One of them, the youngest, began to cry. "I was just following orders. I didn't know it would get this big."

  "Too late."

  They were marched off to a cell. Tomorrow, they might be sent to Banteng Island. Or perhaps to a shallow grave. It all depended on the information they could provide.

  ***

  The Sun Palace.

  For the first time in four days, Mateo had dinner with his family.

  Ricardo sat at the far end of the table. Sofia was beside him. Isabella and Eleanor flanked Mateo.

  The atmosphere was strange. Quiet. Normally, Eleanor would be chattering away, telling stories about school, about her cat and her birds, about anything and everything. But tonight, she was silent. She ate slowly, her eyes fixed on her plate.

  Mateo looked at her. "El?"

  She looked up. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

  "I heard... at school... some kids are saying you and big brother are the bad guys. That you're arresting people and ordering them to be shot."

  Sofia sighed softly. Isabella looked down at her plate.

  Mateo set down his spoon. "Eleanor. The people we're arresting are the bad guys. They steal money, they hurt poor and innocent people."

  "But the kids at school said some people died. Some got shot in the leg."

  Mateo was silent for a moment. Ricardo watched him, choosing not to interfere.

  Mateo took a slow breath. "Sometimes, to stop bad people, we have to be firm. But that doesn't mean your father or your brother are bad."

  Eleanor stared at him for a long moment. Then, her small voice asked, "Do... do you still love me?"

  The question hit Mateo like a physical blow to the chest.

  He reached across the table and took her small hand in his. "More than anything in the world."

  Eleanor offered a tiny, hesitant smile, then returned her gaze to her plate and continued eating in silence.

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