Chapter 136: Beasts in the Guise of Civilization

Eight years ago, in 1660, in the city of Kaemon.

On a scorching summer day, Fainanshe drove his modest car into the lower district—a squalid cesspool he had once sworn never to return to.

At the time, Mayor Punk was nearing retirement due to his age and a fatal accident during a Void Realm exploration. Sensing an opportunity, Fainanshe conspired with council members and bribed bureaucrats, making a decisive bid for the mayor's office. It was during this period that his faction, the Forest Gallery, was established, quickly becoming a key player in Kaemon's political elite.

Despite being in the middle of orchestrating his campaign for mayor, he cleared his schedule, canceled all meetings, and drove alone to a neighborhood infamous for its filth and decay. He parked his unremarkable car along a crumbling road so rotten it seemed capable of spawning its own filth, turned the air conditioning to full blast, and lit his pipe. Through the windshield, he stared at a modest ogre art studio on the corner.

The studio was unremarkable, one among many on a street filled with ogre workshops. The air stank unbearably, suppressing property values in the surrounding area.

Oil painting was a unique talent of the ogres—a rare gift they leaned into, given their generally abysmal education levels and limited ambitions. For most ogres, life was about survival with minimal effort, their innate talent a convenient crutch for mediocrity.

The industry, though saturated, thrived without competition. Authentic ogre oil paintings were perpetually in short supply.

Their value stemmed from an extraordinary phenomenon: when painting, ogres sometimes triggered a Void Realm resonance. Art created under this resonance allowed viewers to slowly advance in their faction's alignment, effectively simulating Void Realm travel.

However, the resonance was fleeting. The effects of an ogre oil painting faded after 60 days, making these works consumables rather than timeless artifacts. Paintings that failed to evoke resonance were nothing more than trash.

Most ogre artists began as apprentices, toiling for months or years before producing their first valuable painting. Apprenticeships required no cleaning duties—ogres weren't known for cleanliness—but they often entailed the thankless task of fetching food for their masters.

Ogres demanded hot meals every two hours but were too lazy to dine out, and food delivery costs were exorbitant—few couriers dared to venture into ogre neighborhoods, where attacks were common and insurance offered no coverage. Hiring an apprentice to fetch meals became the most practical solution, with meals as their only compensation.

Fainanshe, seated in his car, loosened the suffocating collar of his crisp white shirt. The summer heat and oppressive stench pressed down on him like a vice.

Exhaling a puff of smoke, he glanced out the window and spotted a young ogre apprentice walking by.

The boy wore a filthy, once-white tank top, paired with shorts riddled with holes. At 6'3", he was short for an ogre but had features more aligned with standard races, his jagged teeth striking but not hideous.

In each hand, he carried large lunchboxes, fulfilling his apprentice duties: fetching meals for the artists.

The moment Fainanshe saw him, he froze.

The boy noticed the car and seemed to meet Fainanshe's gaze through the glass.

After a moment of hesitation, the boy smirked mischievously. Glancing around to ensure no witnesses, he spat a foul glob of saliva onto the window, then set the lunchboxes down and urinated on the car door. As if that wasn't enough, he picked up a jagged stone and viciously scraped it against the car's paint, the screeching sound piercing Fainanshe's ears like a knife.

The boy couldn't see through the double-layered tinted glass to the man inside.

Once satisfied with his defacement, he strolled off toward the studio, whistling as he went. Entering the building, he was immediately scolded by the artist, to which he nodded submissively, flashing a sycophantic grin. Before presenting one of the lunchboxes, he furtively spat into it, then offered it with exaggerated reverence.

Fainanshe remained motionless the entire time, his pipe still between his fingers.

His gaze lingered on the boy's retreating figure until he disappeared into the studio.

Without a word, Fainanshe started his car and drove back to city hall, where he reported the vehicle as vandalized on duty for public insurance reimbursement.

He never bought a single painting from the boy or offered any assistance. In fact, he never sought the boy out again.

The only information he gathered afterward was under the pretext of "preventing ogre-related crimes," commissioning the Discipline Office to investigate a dozen ogres—this boy among them.

Through that glass barrier on that sweltering summer day, Fainanshe, a man who had clawed his way from the slums to Kaemon's pinnacle of power, came to understand the deep-seated rot of this nation.

Eight years later, in 1668, at the Blood Moon Trial.

Fainanshe turned to face the pale Andralier.

"Do you know," he began, "that in most nations, races maintain the family as a fundamental unit?"

"Because they're primitive," Kenmen interjected reflexively.

"I have no interest in debating whether the family system is progressive or regressive," Fainanshe said, his smile twisted and feral. "I simply wish to point out one fact."

"In those nations, the ruling class—if they have one—reproduces autonomously. That's how you get monarchies and aristocracies."

Faces across the trial darkened, their pallor stark under the blood-red moonlight. Kenmen, near pleading, stammered, "But their systems stagnate, their societies falter—our Blood Moon Nation is the pinnacle of civilization!"

"We ban families because our ruling class can't reproduce autonomously," Fainanshe roared. "Blood Saints through rebirth, Moon Shadows through cleansing—they lose their ability to procreate the moment they transform. To expand their numbers, they must convert members of other races!"

"Blood Saints and Moon Shadows are parasites," he continued, his voice echoing with raw fury. "They extract the best talents from every race to fuel their own growth, enslaving us for millennia."

"Why can't we have families? Because they've forsaken blood ties and demand we do the same. Without families, without love or kinship, we can never unite."

"Why enforce Racial Rights and Freedoms? Because the Blood Moon Clans are sexless, ageless, raceless entities. They stand as a monolith, while we're divided by race, gender, age, and class, forced to fight amongst ourselves. They sow discord to prevent us from forming collective power."

"The Racial Rights Act surrounds each of us with towering walls of isolation. The Bloodline Prohibition Act ensures we can't breach them. Alone, we stand powerless against the colossi of the Research Institute and the Church."

Raising his shackled hand, he pointed toward the prison.

"We're no different from the criminals in there," Fainanshe said coldly. "They're wrung dry by the prison system; we're drained by the Blood Moon. Their actions are controlled by chips, while our lives are governed by thoughts implanted in us from birth."

"In the Blood Moon Nation, we have only two paths: become a Blood Saint or Moon Shadow—or become their fodder."

He looked into the blood-red night sky, his voice sharp as a blade.

"The Blood Moon is nothing more than a beast draped in the robes of civilization—a barbarity masquerading as the pinnacle of culture."