I Became The Leader Of A Revolution In A Romance Fantasy

< Chapter 10: From the Ashes – 2 >

It had been two months since I instructed Ms. Lize to establish ‘my organization.’ Today was the day to visit and check one of its achievements.

Once again, Ms. Lize sat beside me in the back seat of the car, reporting on the documents.

“The redevelopment of 3rd Street is progressing well. The results of the job fair are particularly impressive.”

3rd Street was the location of the old downtown area of the capital. It was where I had prevented a clash between the riot squad and illegal residents and declared the New Deal policy. It was a ruin purchased at a bargain price by the mysterious benefactor, Mr. Edmond Dantès.

“Haha, but still, only about 200 people have successfully found jobs, right? We need to work harder.”

“Congressman, creating 200 jobs these days is a miracle.”

I smiled silently at Ms. Lize, who continued to praise my achievements, maintaining a serious expression.

‘She’s not wrong.’

In a situation where even existing jobs were disappearing, 200 new jobs appearing out of nowhere was indeed a miracle. But, well, to call it a miracle was a bit of a stretch. All those businesses were either directly or indirectly owned by me. It was simply a matter of securing the manpower I would soon need, while also boosting my reputation.

These were businesses that were either about to benefit from the New Deal policy or were engaged in overseas trade. You might wonder what kind of trade could flourish when the entire continent was groaning under the Great Depression, but business was booming.

…Mainly by dealing with shell companies established on other continents, used for laundering my funds. After a few rounds of this, voila! Clean funds that I could use domestically without any worries.

(This money is necessary for the future of this country. Honestly, I’m only taking a modest 2% fee for myself.)

‘Saving the country deserves a commission, right? Ahem!’

“Ha ha.”

I unintentionally let out a villainous laugh and quickly wiped it away, then accepted the next document.

“The redevelopment into a mixed-use complex is going smoothly as well.”

“Over 100 households will gain a place to live.”

To someone like me, used to apartment complexes in South Korea, it wasn’t a big deal. But seeing the excited look on Ms. Lize’s face, it seemed to be quite an achievement by the Republic’s standards.

“Good. Once the rumors about 3rd Street spread, people will flock there. When that time comes, make sure to prioritize two things.”

“Priority housing for veterans and priority for current 3rd Street residents.”

I smiled contentedly.

“But Congressman,” Ms. Lize began cautiously.

“Isn’t it possible that 3rd Street is becoming too special?”

“Hmm?”

“Even though the project is still in its early stages and not widely known, there are already murmurs.”

I didn’t need to ask where these murmurs were coming from. They were likely curses from both the left and the right. The royalists simply disliked me. The fact that there was even dissent within the revolutionary faction meant…

“They think it goes against the ideology of equality?”

“…Yes.”

These were truly people who liked to ‘equally’ ruin everything together. However, usually, if their thoughts differed from mine, the idol of the revolution, they would go through ‘self-criticism’ and ‘rectification.’ The ones who harbored dissatisfaction fell into two categories.

The first were those whose minds were entirely consumed by radical ideas. The other…

“The revolutionary committee members are expressing their dissatisfaction.”

Those who had eaten their fill and become complacent. The biggest beneficiaries of the revolution, who were annoyed by me constantly causing discord with the policies they were pushing.

“…I’m sorry. Our staff will work harder to communicate.”

“No need to apologize.”

I smiled lightly. Everything was going as I wanted, so why apologize?

“What do you think, Ms. Lize? After all, you’re also part of the revolutionary faction, aren’t you?”

Ms. Lize looked up and met my gaze clearly. Though she had never shown a subservient attitude, at this moment, her presence was strong enough to make me flinch.

“I believe in you, Congressman, not the revolution.”

“…Thank you?”

“Ha!”

Her boldness evaporated in an instant, and Ms. Lize hid her face behind her folder.

“…?”

“So-so-so-sorry!”

“…?”

“I’m so sorry!”

It would be nice if she could at least explain what she was apologizing for.

We got out of the car. Ms. Lize was still covering her face, refusing to look up.

‘But I can see everything.’

Because her face was far from flat, I could see everything from her two cheeks, which had turned as red as apples, to her tightly shut eyes and her lips repeatedly mouthing ‘What do I do, what do I do!’ If that prominent nose of hers didn’t disappear, there was no way a flat object like a folder could completely cover her face. Should I give her this advice?

‘It’s amusing, so I’ll leave her be.’

I chuckled.

We were in the courtyard of 3rd Street, a place where we could see the entire complex being reborn.

The difference from other streets in the capital was immediately apparent.

People were interacting.

They gathered the distributed food, cooked together, and added a few hidden spices or potatoes to share among themselves.

It was a completely different culture from the other residents of the capital, who closed their windows even in broad daylight, clutching their guns and nervously watching anyone who approached.

I had paid special attention to this from the planning stage.

3rd Street aimed not just to redevelop buildings but to build a community.

The community spirit that the Republic had lost was being revived through the tenant regulations, which imposed penalties for violations.

If tenants accumulated enough penalty points, they would either be evicted or sent to the ‘collective farms’ planned in the countryside.

“Congressman!”

“Oh, Congressman!”

People recognized us. Their bright expressions reflected my rising approval ratings day by day.

What was the point of achieving 100% approval in a complex that would house only 100 households at most?

‘3rd Street must become a paradise on earth. It will be promoted as a pilot case for the New Deal policy.’

Even when the New Deal policy starts, nothing will change overnight. Even with plenty of leeway, the Republic, doomed to the bleak future depicted in the second part of the original work, would not achieve any results.

While the country continued to wander through hell, with neither the Parliament nor the Revolutionary Committee achieving anything, only 3rd Street and the ‘Hastings Congressman’s domain’ would become cradles of hope and happiness.

This would be a preview and a microcosm of the ideals Eugene Hastings held and was actually creating.

Meanwhile, I would keep proclaiming that the reason the old era had to end was that its leaders had failed to fulfill their social responsibilities. Only a government that fulfills its social responsibilities deserves to exist.

– Is this country fulfilling its responsibility to you?

I wouldn’t say that explicitly. The moment it came out of my mouth, it would be too obvious. But wouldn’t everyone start thinking about it? They would wonder if the incompetent Parliament and corrupt Revolutionary Committee were really any different from the old era that deserved to perish.

‘What will people do then?’

I was excited. I waved once with a smile and headed to the first-floor beer hall that was bustling with business.

* * *

3rd Street, under reconstruction, was a mixed-use complex utilizing the lower floors for commercial space.

Once 3rd Street was sufficiently activated and attractive demand was created, there were plans to select local small business owners meticulously, rent to them at exceptional prices, and even provide management support funds as part of urban regeneration.

(In return for these benefits provided through taxes, they would have to deposit ‘a certain amount’ into the development fund owned by Mr. Edmond Dantès, but given the overwhelming benefits they received, wouldn’t the small business owners be pleased?)

Anyway, most of the commercial spaces on 3rd Street were still vacant, but I had used my own funds to open just one from the beginning. Veteran’s Den.

To translate directly, it would be ‘Veterans’ Lair.’

As I opened the door and entered, the interior of the bustling beer hall was revealed. This place, where any veteran or anyone brought by a veteran could drink beer and eat snacks for free, was thriving from early evening. (With prices plummeting so much, no matter how much I handed out, my money showed no signs of diminishing.)

In this hellish era, it was the only place where one could enjoy themselves as in the old days, if not even more. The beer hall’s single rule was:

“Colonel!”

“The Colonel is here, boys!”

“Look sharp!”

The laughing and chatting men all stood up at once and saluted me with the same military discipline as in the old days.

“Eradicate Communism!”

“Eradicate Communism. At ease.”

It was a ridiculous situation where the leader of the ‘reds’ was receiving the salute of ‘Eradicate the Reds!’

But what could I do? This was the last salutation used during the final days of the Royal Army.

The only rule at the Veteran’s Den was that here, we were comrades from the old days.

There were no Congressmen, Counts, or Mr. Hastings.

Here, I was the Colonel, and they were privates, sergeants, and lieutenants.

Men whom even war could not kill were being neglected and dying, shunned by society after the revolution and economic depression.

However, while they gathered at the Veteran’s Den to laugh, cry, and shout as they did in the old days, pride and valor gradually returned to their eyes.

‘Pride that I instilled.’

They were not just conscripts; they were ‘veterans.’ They were not just nobodies who returned disabled from war; they were ‘wounded warriors’ who had sacrificed their bodies for the country.

Identity creates emotion. I could guarantee that less than ten percent of them had looked back on their military days with glory before gathering here.

But this special place, filled with intentionally placed items that evoked ‘military pride’ and ‘patriotic pride,’ and the beautiful attendants selected from the capital who called them warriors while freely serving them drinks and food, flirting even, created an environment that instilled pride in them.

Even if one wasn’t driven by an almost pathological sense of duty and honor, receiving such treatment would naturally make them feel proud. And that pride made them warriors.

‘In short, there must be something to give.’

“Eradicate Communism! Colonel, do you remember me?”

“Lieutenant Stone. It’s good to see you alive again. We haven’t met since the last charge.”

“It’s an honor!”

“Colonel! May I pour you a beer?”

“You cheeky bastard. Is a private supposed to talk to an officer like that? Pour it now.”

“Yes, sir! Right away!”

Eugene Albert Ulfric Hastings, the Count, before I possessed him.

This illustration-like silver-haired male protagonist had one problem.

It was that he looked too much like a ‘silver-haired male protagonist.’

Rigid, aristocratic, and a cold iron man.

In other words… the truth is, this guy didn’t have any information about the subordinates I was listing off right now.

The reason I could recite the personal information of the people gathered here was not because I was a male lead in a romance novel, but because of the year-long investigation I had to conduct as a revolutionary.

The leader of the revolutionary army… turns out he couldn’t even remember the faces of his soldiers?

– Tsk, as expected, the blue blood of feudalism…

– Should I start by rooting him out?

Isn’t it too obvious how this would play out?

Anyway, I memorized it all to survive.

And it actually helped a bit.

Every time I met a soldier on the street, it made a story. I was labeled a war hero who recognized each and every one of his soldiers.

But my head felt like it was going to explode.

‘I won’t do this a second time.’

I didn’t even study for my college entrance exams this hard.

It was at that moment.

“Colonel!”

“Oh, Jjamjji.”

He was the most enthusiastic among our veterans.

Next to him were a military doctor eating butter mixed with potatoes and an unfamiliar face in this area.
A man with an empty space below his right knee.

I barely managed to pull out the face of a rather young boy from the list I memorized after many sleepless nights.

“Corporal Smith?”

“C-Colonel! You really… remembered me…”

“See? I told you he remembers everyone.”

Frank Smith cried like a child.

I instinctively sensed that there was a story behind this.

I had only briefly stopped by the Third Street, and I still had an evening schedule left.

“Lize, let’s cancel today’s schedule.”

“Understood.”

She bowed politely and tactfully left the area.

I, like any other ordinary veteran, joined Jjamjji and Smith at their table and drank beer.

“What’s the matter, Corporal?”

“……”

“Report.”

“Pardon?”

“I told you to report what’s going on. As long as we are gathered here, we are brothers, and you are my subordinate.”

“Ugh…!”

Frank Smith pressed his chest, unable to suppress the surge of emotions welling up inside him.

He choked and spluttered for a long time, mixing his sobs with barely understandable words.

When his tale of a life filled with nothing but pain finally ended,

“It doesn’t feel like someone else’s story.”

“Damn bastards.”

The beer hall was now seething with anger and resentment.

I took a long swig of my beer.

As the lukewarm beer slid down my throat, I thought of ‘that’, which was still in its planning stages.

‘Is it time now?’

‘Is it a bit early?’

‘It might be early, but there won’t be a better reason than this.’

I put down my beer glass.

The calculation was complete.

I grasped Corporal Frank Smith’s hand.

Before that, I didn’t forget to rub my hands under the table.

I wanted the heat to be transmitted through my hands as the chill of the beer faded away.

When Frank looked up, I was shedding tears from both eyes.

“C-Colonel!”

“This fucking world.”

“!”

“These vermin-like bastards treated this country’s patriot, my subordinate, like this!”

Count Hastings, who was usually calm and aristocratic.

Congressman Hastings, famous for his neatness and good manners.

Neither would ever spew such harsh profanity.

Precisely because of this, a spark began to flicker in the hearts of the veterans gathered in the beer hall.