If It Could Really Change Anything

"Vincent, how are you? Are you hurt?"

Old Felo gripped his son's shoulders and turned him this way and that, searching for any possible injuries.

His face was filled with concern and worry, utterly lacking the composure he had shown while confronting the gangsters earlier.

Vincent helplessly let his father move him around, then seemed to remember something and raised a hand to point at Dragon standing nearby.

"Father, this is my partner, Dragon. He was injured saving me."

"Quick, get a doctor over here!"

Old Felo immediately understood and hurriedly turned to instruct his men.

Meanwhile, Reed walked over to John, nudged him with his elbow, and whispered,

"I heard the gangsters say Vincent started it. Aren't you going to make them squat there holding their heads too?"

"Since when does whatever the gangsters say count? I didn't see it, anyway." John took out a cigarette and offered one to Reed.

Reed accepted the cigarette and lit it. After taking a deep drag, he scratched the back of his head in irritation.

He had never seen anyone so blatantly biased!

"Wait, that's not right."

Reed suddenly came to his senses again.

"I'm the highest-ranking officer at the scene. Why did you make the decision on your own without consulting me?"

"We're both doing this for justice. Don't sweat the small stuff."

John waved dismissively and followed Old Felo and the others into the restaurant.

Under everyone's wary gazes, he walked up to Dragon, who was sitting in a chair, and looked down at him.

"Kid, remember me?"

"Uh..."

Dragon blinked. The man before him seemed familiar, but he truly had no memories related to him.

Among the people he knew, there was no one with a head of white hair.

In the end, Dragon shook his head.

"That's fine. As long as I remember you. Watch yourself from now on."

After giving that meaningful "warning," John turned around and returned to the dining table to finish the food he had left untouched.

Good food must never be wasted!

Dragon was utterly baffled by such erratic words and actions, more confused than ever.

At that moment, Vincent pulled Old Felo into a corner, unfolded the crumpled draft of the skull flag, and handed it to him.

"Father, this is the pirate flag I designed. We shouldn't stay here any longer. Let's set sail!"

"Let's return to our homeland as pirates and rise up to overthrow those rotten nobles!"

"Father, our hope lies in our homeland, the Feros Kingdom!"

Old Felo took the draft of the skull flag and stared at it for a long time. Then he suddenly tore it to pieces.

He raised his head and fixed his blazing gaze on Vincent's puzzled face. The emotions he had suppressed for so long suddenly erupted.

"Stop talking about becoming pirates and starting an uprising! If that could really change anything, your grandfather and the others wouldn't have taken me from our homeland to beg for food on someone else's doorstep!"

"Yes, in Shells Town, we Feloce people are treated like rats, discriminated against and ostracized by the locals."

"But at least here, we can fill our stomachs and stay alive!"

"Dignity? It's nothing in the face of survival!"

His roar, accompanied by flying spittle, sprayed Vincent's face, leaving him frozen where he stood.

But soon, the unyielding fire of youth in his heart awakened Vincent. He raised a hand and pointed toward the kitchen.

"Father, is this what you call survival? Smuggling and selling alcohol, risking death to make a fortune off the Prohibition Order?"

Then Vincent turned and walked to the window, pushed it open, and pointed toward the alleys farther down the street.

"And outside, what do we Feloce people do? We sell our bodies in the Pleasure District! We humble ourselves to serve the locals as laborers and servants!"

"We kill one another in the Underground Fighting Arena, drawing locals in to gamble on Feloce people slaughtering each other!"

"The locals only need to pay a pittance to hire us and work us like beasts!"

"If this is what you call survival, then I'd rather die!"

Vincent practically roared that final sentence.

Old Felo looked at his son, his gaze gradually growing complicated as the image of his younger self surfaced in his mind.

He had once been like this too, wanting to change everything, but...

"I'm only a man, not a god. My abilities are limited."

"Vincent, your dream is too far beyond me. All I hope for is that everyone can... stay alive."

After saying that, Old Felo seemed to age decades in an instant. Even the back that had always stood straight hunched over.

His appearance moved every member of the Felose Chamber of Commerce present. They all knew what Old Felo had sacrificed for everyone over the years.

Smiling apologetically at others and swallowing humiliation had simply become normal.

His father lowering his head in their argument brought Vincent no joy of victory, only an unprecedented emptiness.

But he still had to do it. He would never compromise with life!

At the same time, their argument was like a spark of fire, pointing Dragon in a direction amid the thick fog surrounding him.

"If this is what you call survival, then I'd rather die!"

Dragon repeated Vincent's words softly, his fists slowly clenching as endless strength welled up within his hollow body.

He had decided. He would accompany Vincent to the Feros Kingdom and rise up!

John watched Dragon's transformation and immediately realized that this was the turning point that would allow him to change.

Grand speeches could never compare to cruel reality in their directness.

"Only through pain and struggle can people grow and find the path that truly belongs to them."

"Let me see what kind of story you two will tell..."

Dusk.

153rd Branch Base, colonel's office.

Compared to Reed's office, where luxury hid beneath its simplicity, this place was plain and unadorned.

There was only an ordinary, even somewhat worn coffee table and sofa, along with a desk piled high with all sorts of documents.

John stood beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, curiously studying the man behind the desk, who was bent over his work and rapidly handling official documents.

The man looked to be in his forties or fifties, with short dark brown hair, a square face, and a full beard.

He had the sort of face that would look imposing once he got older.

This was Colonel Rory Burns, commander of the 153rd Branch Base.

John had been called into the office ten minutes ago, and Colonel Burns had kept his head down working the entire time, completely ignoring him.

It was a common tactic among those in power: call a subordinate over, leave him hanging at the side, and make him overthink and reflect on himself.

It was a way to display the superior's authority through the pressure of a confined room.

Just as Burns felt he had left John standing there long enough, he suddenly caught the pungent smell of smoke in the office, which had previously smelled only of ink.

He abruptly raised his head and saw John standing in front of the desk with both hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

With vacant eyes and an intoxicated expression, he looked as though he had entered some realm of self-enlightenment.