Chapter 132: The Rules of Power

"Legal acts of illegality?"

In the Red Mist Institute's coffee lounge, a mix of bafflement and curiosity filled the room. Someone broke the silence, muttering, "Isn't that an oxymoron? Like a coin being heads and tails at the same time? Or a person being both male and female?"

"You got a problem with that?" A human with an androgynous appearance slammed the table, rising to their feet. "Is this how you mock intersex individuals in public? For your information, being intersex is part of modern culture now! We get to enjoy the best of both worlds, okay? Male and female. It's literally perfection. How can you be so backward in this day and age?"

"I'm sorry! I misspoke. My apologies for any harm caused!" The other person hurriedly stammered out an apology.

Lawrence scratched at the scales on his face and turned to the Snake Boss behind the counter. "Snake Boss, any idea what he means by 'legal acts of illegality'?"

The Snake Boss hissed softly, his tongue flicking out. "Sss... I think I can guess."

"Oh? Explain, then."

The Snake Boss simply smiled and changed the topic. "Sss... Lawrence, are you settling into life at the institute? How's the lab?"

"It's been great," Lawrence replied casually. "Research is progressing smoothly, thanks to all the surplus materials. Necromancy thrives on resources, you know. But wait—don't dodge the question! What's a 'legal act of illegality'?"

"Look at the screen," Snake Boss hissed. "Someone's about to speak."

Lawrence glanced at the broadcast but couldn't shake the odd feeling creeping over him.

It wasn't just the evasiveness of the Snake Boss—it was something deeper, something familiar. It reminded him of the way humans used to question him during his school years. Questions like, "Why do you work part-time instead of going back to your orphanage to study or relax?"

Back then, Lawrence never answered such questions, not because he was ashamed, but because he knew they wouldn't understand. His life circumstances were so far removed from theirs that words would never bridge the gap.

The Snake Boss's reaction carried the same weight—like there was something he simply couldn't explain to Lawrence, something fundamentally different about their experiences.

Wait. Was the Snake Boss even a Bloodborn? Lawrence had never noticed his supposed "Blood Moon Eyes"...

The sound of a voice on the screen interrupted Lawrence's spiraling thoughts.

"In 1659, during the city's civil service exams, there was a recruitment for field agents in the West Wave District's Market Supervision Bureau."

The speaker was Edmund Menken, his body wracked with pain as the heated execution pillar beneath him burned his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he continued, "Fainanshe wanted to help a friend secure that position. The problem? His friend was wholly unqualified for such a competitive role. So, Fainanshe came up with a plan."

"First, he recruited a top-tier academic—a candidate who not only met but exceeded every qualification. This person passed the exam with flying colors and was hired for the position. Meanwhile, his friend also took the exam but naturally failed."

"Then, about a month after starting the job, the academic 'voluntarily' resigned."

"And just like that, Fainanshe's friend was slotted into the position."

Menken paused, struggling through the searing pain, before adding, "That was when Fainanshe was still just a councilman. After he became the mayor's secretary, he didn't need such convoluted methods. Instead, he tailored job postings to suit his chosen candidates. If his pick was a human male in his 30s, he'd draft requirements so specific that no one else could qualify. The process would appear entirely legitimate and above board."

"While civil service exams are mandatory for government roles, each department sets its own filtering criteria. By forming alliances with departmental heads, Fainanshe leveraged their power to establish a vast network of influence," Menken said, turning toward the ogre. "Half of the 'Woodland Gallery' faction's members were absorbed into the government this way. Many more employees succumbed to his threats or bribes, becoming accomplices to his schemes."

He smirked and added, "Oh, for those who don't know, the 'Woodland Gallery' is an art gallery Fainanshe founded to showcase his so-called artistic talents. His faction's members often gather there, hence the nickname."

Fainanshe's response was ice-cold. "And the members of your 'Immortal Wine Club' didn't use the same tactics to seize one-eighth of the government's positions?"

One-eighth might not sound like much, but spread across various departments, it represented a massive intelligence network and political force. It was why Andralier, the faction's leader, was considered one of Fainanshe's biggest rivals for power.

Suddenly, with a dull thud, the execution pillar beneath Fainanshe began to writhe. The moonlight illuminating it twisted like serpents, morphing into menacing chains that slithered upward toward the ogre.

Even without consulting the broadcast, Fainanshe knew what this meant. The audience was voting against him.

His mind raced, but outwardly he remained composed. "You act as if I invented this 'tradition.' These practices have existed for ages. They're unspeakable, unbreakable rules that govern how power operates."

"Without joining a faction, it's nearly impossible to land a good 'entry-level' position. If you want to advance, you need not just departmental recommendations but also the favor of your superiors. 'Push from below, pull from above'—that's the only ladder to climb. If you refuse to align with a faction, even if you somehow land a government job, you'll spend your entire career trapped in menial work."

"Everyone here, every politician, every official, has been both a beneficiary of these factions and a perpetuator of their existence. Beyond the Immortal Wine Club and the Woodland Gallery, the city is riddled with smaller factions. Like a vast spiderweb, if you want to climb higher, you have to step onto the web. These are the rules of power."

"This," Fainanshe concluded, "is nothing more than the ordinary, everyday indulgences of those in power."

In a dingy lower-city bar, a middle-aged orc buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. His tears and snot dripped into his drink, a pitiful sight that turned stomachs.

Thirteen years ago, during his civil service exam, he had placed second in the interview stage. The first? A flawless elf academic who had outshone him in every conceivable way.

Meanwhile, in the city's Food and Nutrition Bureau housing complex, a man in his 40s sat slumped in a recliner, clutching a tub of potato chips. Watching the broadcast, he adjusted his glasses and thought back to his own university days, brimming with ambition.

Twenty years of stagnation and lost potential later, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of bitterness.