Chapter VIII

A heap of barrels pile up on the road, an oil snake slithers to the edge, bringing with it the precursor of violence in a crimson sail. Once delivered, pre-celebratory fireworks spiral to bomb the sky; the stone below dragged with the airborne sparks leaving bolide depressions around the devastated boulevard. Entry to the palace is closed. A horn blown at the sign of success, the rally marches in.

Outside the palace gates, Fajr stands atop a box with a megaphone. Surrounding her like sheep are ordinary folk, the poor people surviving on stale bread and murky water; the poor people wearing little more than a rat's coat; the poor people who saw themselves abused and repulsed, by those who claim their work. Not everyone in the town was there. A small amount remained cooped up in their mud flats, content to watch their freedom from afar.

'My brothers, my sisters, my sharers in suffering; today is the start of the rising dawn. All of us here have watched this cage grow and grow, as our pockets grew thinner and thinner. No more shall our dream livelihood be placed so mockingly close to us yet out of reach. No more shall our dream be locked away by foreign hands. No more shall the dreams of our children be stripped before birth. No more shall the dreams of mothers be taken away before they celebrate a new life. No more shall our new life be hidden from us, we will avenge our ancestors, we will avenge ourselves, and we will avenge every generation to follow. Now, if you want to bring prosperity to our homes, bring hope back to our town, bring our dreams back to us; follow me, all you dream of shall be granted. Now march on and take back our dreams!'

The herd erupts past the gate, drowning the defending guards in a tsunami of diseased flesh. If better care was taken, the disease wouldn't have broken out. One guard could massacre a family on its last legs with ease; ten guards are flattened and crushed under the legs which lasted. Craniums turned pancakes, elbows inverted, eyes extorted and popped. Noses turned handles, fingers removed, blood poured and dropped. Poppies wither, kids sing; the palace will fall, and so shall its king. A chant is chorused through the stampede: 'Praise be to Ira!'; the vibrations crash into the palace walls in volatile torrents. 'Praise be to Ira! Praise be to Ira!' A hundred hands slam against the final door before the palace is theirs. Akuma can do nothing else, he doesn't want to. He too is content to watch it all unfold. Sao sits with Alexander, unprepared for the attack.

'I thought my role was useless. So, this is what they planned for me; a casualty.'

The horde crashes in, arriving at the palace hall. Alexander sips on his tea, adjusts his attire, and tries to leave the safety of his dwelling.

'Sao, do not try and stop me, I have been preparing for this day for a while now.'

'What do you mean, sir? I am sorry, but I don't understand how you can be so calm.'

'Your payment is in the bag under the desk, all two hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces. That should be satisfactory.'

'But, sir, what about your daughter?'

'Don't worry about her. If things go to plan, she should already be elsewhere. I no longer need to worry for her. Now, check the sum, that should be enough, correct.'

George takes a grip around the handle and twists but is unable to open it, Sao's hand the stopper.

'I am sorry, sir, but I do not accept money from beyond the grave.' His eyes lit with hellfire, eyebrows stern and cold as steel.

'Then hurry and take it. I am not dead yet, therefore, if you take the money now your merits and values would not be at stake. Now I must deal with some ungrateful visitors.'

With a sigh, Sao retrieves his reward and leaves out the window. He tries to leave the gold multiple times before reaching his inn room. He does not accept compensation when he has failed his mission, but he is not the one who needs it. Sao starts packing away his and Akuma's equipment. His mission is over.

Back at the palace, the butlers, the maids, and Alexander are taken captive. The rioters parade Fajr back to the surrounding shanty town with gold being thrown in the air as they walk, leaving fireflies in the air and a gold path over the dirt. Those captured are tied to stakes and left to bask in the setting sun. Not full, those who did not partake in the rebellion are deemed traitors, and they too are tied to stakes: kids and elderly included.

Sao continues to pack, Akuma continues to watch. The festival is about to begin.