Empire of Shadows

The fat police officer, who had used his hefty body to block the bakery's front door, turned around. His small eyes gleamed with a menacing light as he stared at the chubby owner.

Sometimes, the police in Angel City could be more detestable than gang members, and far less like good people.

Faced with a choice between a vague but terrifying threat and two hundred dollars, the chubby owner ultimately chose to part with the two hundred dollars to protect himself.

The bakery's monthly profit was roughly four hundred dollars. After normal expenses, it was left with about three hundred and fifty dollars.

The sanitation fee paid to the gang was fifty dollars a month, while the fee paid to the police was about sixty-five dollars; now, the gang fee had increased to sixty dollars.

That meant the monthly profit was only two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Including wages for his daughter and himself, the net profit was just a hundred dollars.

This amount might still be unattainable for many in the working class, but for a shop owner, it wasn't all that much.

But after all, it was still a sum of money to be earned.

The fat owner took a deep breath, "No problem, I'll get it now."

It didn't take long for him to grudgingly take out two hundred dollars from the secret cash box and place it on the table.

The officer glanced at the money nonchalantly, then picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, "Johnny, don't worry, I'm a man of principle."

"You haven't really lost out. I won't take any more money from you for six months. You haven't been extorted by anyone; you've just paid in advance."

Such an explanation seemed to comfort the chubby owner a bit, but Lance, who had been observing from the corner, knew very well that the sudden pre-collection of fees wasn't because he needed money urgently right now.

It was very likely that the guy was about to be transferred.

Therefore, he planned to take one last haul before his transfer.

But Lance had no obligation to warn the chubby owner; even if he did, the owner lacked the power to resist.

There had been attempts to report the actions of some corrupt officers, but they all came to nothing in the end.

The officer looked at the chubby owner and then at Lance before tossing his handkerchief into the trash bin beside the table, "If there's any trouble, have them call me on the radio."

Saying that, he put on his hat, patted the fat police officer on the shoulder, and pushed the door to leave.

The "Closed for Business" sign was switched back to "Open for Business."

Through the shop window, Lance saw them move on to the next shop. It was evident that the officer had a big appetite.

From the front of the street to the corner, there were at least thirty shops. If each shop gave him four hundred dollars, that was twelve thousand dollars.

In an era where the average wage was only forty to fifty dollars, twelve thousand was an astronomical figure to the lower class!

"These damn cur dogs with sores on their feet, those bastards raised by a bitch..." Johnny cursed under his breath, and even his curses had to be so cautious, which Lance found laughable.

Suddenly, Johnny raised his head with red eyes, "Do you think I'm funny?"

Lance inexplicably stepped back, quickly waving his hand, "No, not at all."

But the fat owner seemed to have decided that was the case, "You can laugh at me; you've seen me in embarrassment, but it doesn't matter, dinner is off!"

With that, he turned and went back into the room without a second glance, followed by the sound of things being thrown.

Watching the slightly ajar room door and listening to the curses coming from inside, Lance saw the apprentice smirking as he stood by the back hall doorway. All of this gave him a very clear understanding of the times.

Power, that was the fundamental element.

He and those young people who came to collect protection money, and that policeman in his thirties wearing a uniform that represented justice, stripped away their exteriors, there was no difference between them.

What was it that made him work a month for free and still end up owing the capitalist three dollars, yet allowed others to do nothing and collect a hefty sum each month from here?

It was power, the order created by power!

Those without power abide by the order.

Lance wasn't a by-the-book kind of person, at least he was not likely to be.

That afternoon, as he pondered how to make the fat owner pay for his arrogance, a short figure wearing a flat cap suddenly ran up to the outside of the bakery.

With hands on hips, panting, he peered into the bakery, and Lance spotted him right away, immediately stepping outside.

On the boat he had arrived on, he had met quite a few of his peers, seventeen and eighteen, even eighteen or nineteen-year-olds, as it was easy for people of the same age to bond.

You didn't need to know each other, just exchange a few words and express whether you could "hang out" together to form a small clique.

Most of these refugees from the same place had stayed to work locally, many laboring at the port—

This was also where the illegal immigrants were most common, the heaviest, tiredest, dirtiest jobs, always associated with the undocumented.

Locals looked down on such dirty and tiring work, and the capitalists were unwilling to hire the more expensive locals, making illegals the best choice.

By this time, the concept of "job renting" had even emerged, advertised on the harbor's notice board—

According to the laws and regulations of the Federation, on the surface, it was said to be for the protection of the legal rights and interests of the underclass, but in reality, it only provided capitalists with better means of exploitation, so workers wishing to work needed to provide at least one of two forms of identification.

Federal citizens' social security number, or an immigrant work permit.

Whether you were a native or a legal immigrant, you had to have one.

Those without a household registration had neither a social security number nor the possibility of a work permit, yet they needed to work. What to do?

Some locals rented out their jobs to these undocumented workers, like the most common job, boat wiping.

The port management office didn't care who the hell was wiping down the boats with a cloth; they only cared whether the boat wiping was completed on time.

Boat wipers made thirty-five dollars a month. Undocumented workers had to pay the boat wipers fifteen dollars and complete all the work.

Then, the remaining twenty dollars was their own income.

Having twenty dollars was already considered a high income. Now many work cards are increasing in price; some have risen to eighteen dollars.

This means that a person who shouldn't be working overtly only gets seventeen dollars after toiling away for a month.

Living in a concrete pipe, eating the worst and cheapest food, you could only save a few dollars each month.

Some quick-witted locals often "moonlight" two or three jobs or more and then rent these job positions to those without documentation.

Without doing anything for a month, they could earn fifty or sixty dollars. This had become a way of life for some locals.

It was also a way of life unique to a few cities.

The short guy in front of him was named Elvin, a fellow countryman of Lance's, and between countrymen in a foreign land, there was a certain unspoken trust.

This trust stemmed from having similar pasts and the sense of security that came from living in the same area, yet many took advantage of this trust for foul deeds.

However, this little guy could be trusted because he came from the Empire to the Federation with Lance in the same batch.

It was clear that he was anxious.

Lance came out, wiping his hands on his apron, "What's wrong?"

Elvin looked very anxious, "Ethan's in trouble!"

Lance's expression also changed a bit, "What happened to him?"

Among this group, Lance, having relatively mature insights, was respected by others in the small community, and they were willing to discuss matters with Lance.

After all, even if he was not so familiar with this world, as an adult with many years of experience, he was still more steady and suitable for making choices than these half-grown kids.

Elvin took a deep breath, forcing his breath to stabilize, "Today is payday, as you know, our work cards are all rented, so..."

Lance had already guessed what came next, "So the dock paid the rent to the people who rented you the work cards, and then the guy who rented to Ethan refused to pay him, right?"

Elvin nodded repeatedly, "Exactly, that bastard told him he wouldn't give him a dime, and he cussed him out."

"And in a burst of anger, he beat up that idiot, and that son of a bitch called the cops immediately..."

Such incidents were not uncommon at the docks, nor were they in Angel City. There will always be those who covet your wealth and everything you own without your knowing!

This was also directly related to undocumented workers not being recognized by the Federation's legal system. The cost of calling the police far exceeded the loss of working for free for a month, so even if some were swindled, they ultimately chose to act as if nothing had happened.

This encouraged the local maggots to become even more rampant, knowing full well that no one would report them and that the undocumented workers couldn't afford the cost of reporting.

And with the current scale of the labor market in Golden Port City, there was no shortage of people trying out for these work cards.

Lance frowned. This situation was not easy to handle. "Where is Ethan now?"

"I told him to hide in the culvert under the bridge."

"What did that guy say?"

"He said if we gave him two hundred dollars, he'd let it go. If we don't pay him, he'll keep making trouble for Ethan."

"If he really does that, Ethan might end up being sent back."

Being sent back to the Empire at this time wasn't just about being sent to the front lines anymore. The Emperor had gone mad; he would execute anyone who dodged military service!

In other words, if Ethan went back, he'd likely end up in jail, or even dead!

The Federation folks threatened and exploited them with impunity because they knew the root of the issue!

But two hundred dollars was just too much. These people had only been here a month, and after spending on food and necessities, they were mostly left with only a few dollars.

Two hundred dollars; they couldn't gather that much together.

Elvin mentioned this problem as well, "The seven or eight of us could only gather sixty-three dollars. We're still over a hundred short."

Lance sighed, "Not only did I not get a single penny this month, I'm still down three dollars."

There was a tone of hatred in Elvin's voice, "Those damn bloodsuckers!"