Darkstone Code-Chapter 922 - 920: Guardians of the City

"We don’t have much time to wait for you to slowly get the shares from your uncle. Do you understand what I mean?"

"The longer you drag it out, the more excited those people become. The Blue Army Commander has already called me, asking if I need his help."

"If you can’t do it, tell me now, and I’ll have your brother take over these matters."

"If you do well, then show it to me."

"How many days do you need to bring me good news?"

Sanchez’s general father’s voice contained no trace of familial affection, each word was an icy command, full of discipline.

To this great warlord, children are merely better tools, more trustworthy than strangers, but only a little.

As long as he holds overwhelming power and arms in his hands, he can freely bring forth countless children.

In places unknown to people, there are some of his children, the ultimate insurance plan.

Not to mention, there are still women by his side nurturing new life.

Over the years, he has lost many children. At first, the deaths brought him grief, but as more died, he got used to it.

So the tone he uses with his child isn’t one of a "kind father," but simply that of a "general."

Sanchez clenched his fists, "No more than three days, I will make my uncle realize the foolish decision he made."

"Very good, I’m waiting for your good news, don’t keep me waiting too long."

After hanging up the phone, Sanchez didn’t leave, but quietly watched the phone.

He lost many brothers; now there are only two left. But soon, he would have new brothers born.

Mariluo’s warlords are mostly "family systems," the general being the patriarch, arranging much work for their siblings and children.

There are essentially no "comrades" or "brothers" who can reach the similar height as the warlord himself.

If these people didn’t accidentally die during the initial rise, they’ll later encounter various accidents.

Power is too tempting.

Sanchez also desires power and wouldn’t allow his brother to surpass him, taking away everything that should belong to him.

He turned back to the interrogation room. After a night’s rest, the president felt slightly better.

However, due to maintaining the same posture for a long time, his butt lost sensation, and his arms showed obvious bruising.

This resulted from a blood circulation disorder. If not treated timely, by tomorrow, his hands may become necrotic, form blood clots, and threaten his life.

Yet he knew nothing of this, and neither did Sanchez; they weren’t doctors.

Sanchez dragged in a folding chair from outside, sat opposite the president, arms resting on his thighs, body bent forward, his gaze fixed on the president.

"The general said that my brother should come to take over my duties. He’s disappointed that I couldn’t get you to sign."

He spoke like he was confessing, laying all his thoughts bare.

He lit a cigarette for himself, still the brand "Every Moment." Taking a puff, he held it in his hand and continued, "You know, the general is a very strict person."

"If you perform well, he praises you. Poor performance leads to punishment. If I don’t do well enough, maybe he won’t hang me up like an ordinary soldier and beat me, but he’ll definitely question my abilities."

"People like us can be greedy, vile, petty, but absolutely cannot lack ability."

"People die..."

The president remained silent. He was awake but didn’t want to speak, partly too hungry to muster strength, partly too lazy to open his mouth.

Sanchez stood and walked to the door, receiving a phone from his subordinate, bringing it into the room.

He walked to the table, and with a strong push, crashed, a chaos of sounds as various bloody tools toppled to the floor.

He placed the phone on the table, then pressed the speaker button.

Instantly, the voice of a young girl came through the phone—she was the president’s eldest daughter.

This was the girl he had with his first wife, but shortly after her birth, that poor woman died in an attack.

He loved his daughter dearly; she was a treasure left by his first wife.

Through the speaker, the voice of the adorable daughter was filled with terror, crying out incoherently, calling the president’s name, shouting "papa," pleading for anyone to hear her prayers and save her.

Sanchez moved the chair to face the president, and sat down, creating almost no space between them, nearly head to head.

"My dear uncle, are you willing to sign?"

He stared at the president, who with his remaining strength chuckled, briefly, without speaking.

He knew what Sanchez wanted to do, feeling deeply saddened but helpless.

If he signed now, not only would he die, but everyone connected to him would perish!

This is the style of Mariluo, from near-extermination massacres between Malorians and Mariloans, to treating their own so ruthlessly now.

The whole country is steeped in brutality.

He signed, everyone will die.

If he doesn’t sign, at least he himself won’t die.

He knows how to choose, though the choice is painful.

Sanchez’s eyelids twitched, he leaned slightly towards the phone, "This one won’t do, next."

Screams from a girl pierced the air, followed by seven or eight gunshots, abruptly cutting off her voice.

A young male voice followed, it was the second son of the President.

"While we fight the enemy on the front lines, you enjoy the peace we’ve attained with our lives and blood in the Federation."

"We don’t blame you because you have your work to do."

"But look at yourself, not only have you botched your own work, you try to possess a life that isn’t yours. Don’t you regret?"

The President quivered slightly, clenching his teeth in silence.

"It seems your son isn’t enough to sway you!" He tilted his head, "Next."

A barrage of gunfire, and the sound of footsteps arose again.

Sons, daughters, his mistress, illegitimate children, all returned to the Lord’s embrace in a matter of seconds.

Sanchez’s scalp suddenly itched immensely, he scratched it hard, "Seems you’ve made your final decision."

At this moment, the President suddenly spoke.

"You know, when my brother first asked me to handle the business in the Federation, I knew he wanted me out of the picture."

"He sent people to assassinate all our original partners, now he doesn’t even intend to spare me..."

"Sanchez, you don’t know, when you were born, I was the one who carried you out of the delivery room, your father didn’t care about you at all."

"If he plans to get rid of me now, he will also eliminate you in the future. To him, you’re merely a tool."

"And, you made a mistake..."

Sanchez frowned, he knew how his father’s henchmen met their ends; there was no way so many could just suddenly have accidents, someone must be responsible.

The General had ample reason to act; these people disregarded ranks, trying to establish their own influence, so they all had decent accidents.

But the President saying the General will kill everyone... He doesn’t believe it.

That doesn’t prevent him from continuing the conversation with the President though, maybe the President’s thoughts might clear up at some point, "What did I do wrong?" he casually asked.

The President looked at him, speaking slowly but enunciating clearly, "This is the Federation, not Mariluo, your tactics here constitute a crime!"

A few minutes ago, the dispatch operator at the Bupen Police Station impatiently hung up the phone.

Damn, a poor soul living in the suburbs suspects his home has been invaded and expects the Police Station to send someone to check it out, isn’t that a joke?

Sending someone to look, with nothing happening, would cost around dozens of dollars.

This sum isn’t covered by the caller but entirely by the Police Station. If every report were taken seriously, the station would go bankrupt quickly.

She comforted the caller, telling him he could go back and verify, and if someone was really invading, to seek help then.

The freshly hung-up phone rang again, the operator signaled thunderously to her colleague and answered the call, her expression suddenly serious.

The pencil twirling in her hand started sketching on her notepad; after hanging up, she lifted her phone again to select a division button and pressed it.

"Someone reported... the community heard gunshots; go check it out, better suit up with bulletproof vests and heavy weaponry!"

The community she referred to was a high-end villa community.

Bupen isn’t short of such communities.

Why did her attitude shift?

Oh, it’s absolutely not discrimination against the poor; rather, the report mentioned gunshots — a case of evidently higher danger, deserving serious treatment.

Upon receiving the alert call, the division immediately dispatched two patrol cars to investigate, meanwhile, detectives were prepared to deploy at any moment.

Ten minutes later, the two patrol cars slowly entered the community, which lay undisturbed.

Each villa separated by significant distances, surrounded by privacy walls and various vegetations.

To avoid disturbing residents, the patrol cars didn’t activate their sirens.

"Too quiet, I reckon it’s a false alarm..." said a relaxed officer in the first car.

If something really happened, the security guards from the community service company would have been dispatched already, wouldn’t wait for an alert.

They arrived at the house reported in the call; silence enveloped it, neither gunshots nor any human sounds.

Just as the officers planned to ring the bell, two men donning black gloves emerged from the door.

Glances met for a moment, the two men in black swiftly drew their guns and fired!