Blackstone Code-Chapter 442: Awakening

Crack!

The whip soaked in saltwater struck a troublemaker. He twisted and struggled in pain, but it was useless.

The police station’s whips were far more brutal than ordinary ones, specially made for dealing with disobedient people.

They were crafted from dozens of oxhide strips. The oxhide neck, after tanning with nitrate, became very tough and flexible. Each strip was about two to three millimeters wide with sharp edges, tightly braided together.

The whips needed to be kept at a certain humidity—never too dry to avoid cracking, nor too damp to prevent softness.

The police had dedicated personnel to maintain these whips, a task worth the effort.

Each lash left a sharp #-shaped mark, first swelling into a raised welt over a wide area. The skin would then split during swelling, bleeding slightly but not excessively.

Before use, the whip was dipped in strong saltwater. When the cracked skin absorbed it, the wounds tore further, intensifying the pain.

Interestingly, the wounds were not large, and because the whip was soft, it didn’t cause crushing or mechanical damage to organs. The saltwater also disinfected the wounds.

Even after a whole day of flogging, no one died.

With a few days’ treatment, the punished would mostly recover and face punishment again.

For minor offenses, ten lashes sufficed. But today, the man in the interrogation room had been whipped for over half an hour.

The police chief, bare-chested with thick chest hair emitting a foul stench, swung the whip hard.

Crack!

He didn’t ask questions—who sent the troublemakers to Lynch’s recruitment site, who else was involved, or if there were accomplices.

Decades of experience taught him that questioning prisoners before breaking them only gave them chances to resist. It was better to stay silent and keep hitting until they confessed.

This was the chief’s trusted method.

Each lash made the suspended young man scream in agony. He was like a fish out of water, writhing uselessly despite his struggles.

No matter how fiercely they fought, they would eventually die of exhaustion—just like this youth.

Another lash, crack! The chief’s eyes darkened, his face stiff with rage as he glanced at the young man. Then he dipped the whip back into the saltwater.

Whipping was exhausting. Anyone thinking it was easy had never fought or beaten anyone before.

It took great effort. A normal adult who could endure intense struggle for over three minutes was exceptional.

Most didn’t last that long.

By now, the chief was tired. He took a sip of water, caught his breath, then silently raised the whip and struck again.

The first lash after dipping in saltwater always hit harder—the moisture increased the whip’s force. The young man screamed again, but his voice was hoarse, small, and tinged with sobbing.

The chief knew the youth was close to breaking.

Minutes later, the chief, fully dressed, appeared outside his office. He pulled at his uniform’s hem to smooth out wrinkles, tightened his belt, then knocked.

A voice inside said, “Come in.”

He cautiously opened the door, wearing a flattering smile. He glanced at Lynch sitting to the side and nodded, then turned his gaze to Governor Drag.

“I have a report, Governor,… Mr. Lynch,” he paused.

There was no trace of the brutality from the interrogation room, but the chief’s competence was undeniable.

“A while ago, some local youths were contacted,” the chief said, glancing briefly at Lynch—a subtle but clear gesture.

Governor Drag noticed but said nothing. The chief understood and continued, “They claimed Nagaryll doesn’t need foreign exploitation. To grow strong, Nagaryll must rely on its own people. They formed a group called the Nagaryll Youth Party, accepting only young members.” ɽÄNO͍ᛒÈ𝐒

Neither Drag nor Lynch showed reaction.

It’s normal for social consciousness to react when foreign forces intervene, but this group’s reaction was unusually intense and peculiar.

“I’m not interested in these matters. I only want to know who’s behind them,” Drag said, sitting and exerting heavy pressure on the chief.

The chief nodded repeatedly. “They say no one instructed them. It was spontaneous.”

“The Nagaryll Youth Party provided propaganda materials with slogans and doctrine-like content. They decided to cause trouble at Mr. Lynch’s recruitment event…”

The chief found this unprecedented. Such incidents had never occurred before.

After the country’s power was divided among provincial governors and high priests, no political parties or influential social groups existed.

Suddenly, Youth Party appeared—quite a surprise.

“They claim this is to awaken Nagaryll completely. All young people should unite, or this land will become a playground for foreigners.”

The chief left out some words unsuitable for the room.

The youth, or rather the Nagaryll Youth Party, wasn’t entirely wrong.

Preyton Trading Company’s economic control had pushed society to the brink of chaos. When power was held by a small elite, others could still access some wealth for living.

But now, money was concentrated in foreign merchants and domestic rulers’ hands, who had divided all natural social dividends, leaving nothing for ordinary people.

Venturing into remote areas, one could feel the despair—poor people dying slowly in slums beyond the city, homeless souls scattered in the streets.

All of this signaled that something had to change, whether it was the ruling class or the entire social structure.The emergence of the Youth Party was a kind of awakening—an outburst from the social bottom, young people growing up in a new era, full of anger. This was their awakening.

Their targets were only two kinds of people: those in power, like Governor Drag, and those with wealth, like Mr. Lynch.

That was why the police chief didn’t speak those words aloud—it would only bring trouble.

After saying what he needed to, the chief lowered his head and remained silent.

Governor Drag glanced at Lynch, as if asking for his opinion.

Lynch frowned slightly. “If no one is behind them, then let it be for now. But I think this trend should be suppressed. It’s just a group of ambitious people who might be hiding ulterior motives.”

“Agreed. Keep a close watch on them,” Drag said, standing up and leaving the police station with Lynch.

In the car, Drag spoke softly, half to himself and half as if asking Lynch, “Nothing like this has ever happened before…”

He was referring to the formation of such groups. Power and religion once tightly controlled people. People trusted those religious doctrines and wouldn’t rebel even if treated unfairly.

Now, with the sudden appearance of the Nagaryll Youth Party, Drag felt caught off guard, as if everything was slipping out of control.

Lynch sat beside him, watching the people driven to the roadside by the police, their faces mixed with emotions. He shook his head slightly.

“Have you ever played with sandcastles, Mr. Drag?”

Lynch’s new way of addressing Governor Drag. They were partners — several governors from Nagaryll had already joined the Joint Development Company, with others in the process. Also, Drag was a federal citizen and Lynch’s private partner, so Lynch used Mr. as a more civilized form of address.

Drag nodded. “If you mean the kind built on the beach, yes, I’ve played. Why do you ask?”

Building sandcastles on the beach was a favorite childhood game for many who lived near the sea. The damp sand had a magical plasticity that invited people to shape it, even if the results were often nothing special.

“I’ve played too. For a while, I was obsessed,” Lynch smiled, reminiscing the simple joys of childhood. “I never built them well—never as pretty as the ones some adults made.”

“I thought once I grew up, I’d be able to build beautiful sandcastles like them. But now that I’m grown, I realize I still can’t.”