The Mourning Poetry Society was a legally registered association, and this trip was to bring relief to disaster victims. Mad Rat Disease was not contagious to the living, either. No matter how they looked at it, they should not have been stopped.
Yet the argument up ahead gradually grew louder.
"We have to pay just to walk through our own city? We have to pay to hand out food?"
Damian, the Eternal Sleep Priest who had always been courteous, composed, and restrained, was now red-faced with anger.
"Look at our wagons! There's nothing but food! Why must even charity be fleeced?!"
The lead officer could not even be bothered to raise his eyelids. "Rules are rules. Never mind whatever association you belong to-even the hospital wagons going in to collect corpses have to pay up!"
"But we're not like them!"
"Who's going to take responsibility for breaking the rules?" The officer sneered. "Besides, how exactly are you different?"
"They're collecting corpses for profit! We're bringing relief to disaster victims! You're the Public Security Bureau! If you won't help them, what right do you have to stop us?"
"Oh?" The officer drew out the word. "Then have you filed the paperwork? Do you have written approval from the Poor Relief Committee and City Hall? Does the food on your wagons have certificates of approval issued by the Public Health Department? Is your association legally qualified to conduct charitable activities?"
"You're already breaking the law! I'm being extraordinarily merciful by only fining you instead of arresting you for providing illegal relief! If I followed the rules, this entire wagonload of food would be confiscated!"
"Hmph. You should count yourselves lucky our inspector isn't here. Otherwise..." Before he could finish, he suddenly straightened like a chicken seized by the neck and saluted to