Chapter 417

Chapter 417: Seventy-Two Hours

The inner city was eerily silent at midnight. The streetlights, neglected and poorly maintained, flickered intermittently, casting the streets in a surreal, frame-by-frame glow reminiscent of an old movie.

In the dim, yellowish light of an Old Era film, a car sped past, flattening the thin layer of snow that had fallen two days prior.

The hum of the electric engine was far quieter than the obsolete internal combustion engines, yet to those with uneasy consciences, it resonated like distant thunder.

The screech of brakes, the crunch of military boots against the pavement, the sharp sounds of collisions, and the cries of women and children followed in quick succession.

Amidst the chaos, there were brief, guttural shouts, but they were swiftly cut off by muffled thuds. Within just three minutes, four figures were being herded toward the car.

This entire scene, as if lifted from an old film, was observed by Mr. Bazel, who stood hidden behind a sheer curtain.

His neighbor’s entire family had been seized by the military.

As the last person was shoved into the vehicle, the soldier captain tasked with closing the door seemed to sense something. His gaze lifted, locking onto Bazel’s direction.

Under the pale moonlight, the captain’s eyes glinted with a feral intensity, like those of an Old Era predator.

Bazel felt a chill run down his spine. The moment the soldier’s eyes met his, he instinctively retreated half a step from the edge of the curtain, vanishing from the man’s line of sight.

He glanced at the wall clock —

Three o’clock in the morning.

“Daddy.”

A soft, childlike voice suddenly pierced the stillness of the late night, startling Bazel.

He turned quickly to see his three-year-old daughter standing beside him.

“Why are you awake?”

“There was a loud noise from the wall,” the little girl whispered timidly.

Bazel was at a loss for words.

Feeling the warmth of his daughter’s small hand in his, his racing heart calmed slightly. He gently guided her back to her bedroom, then returned to the living room, where he lit a cigarette and sank into the couch, silently waiting for dawn.

It was now three o’clock in the morning on January 3rd, the 53rd year of the New Era.

Fifty-one hours had passed since the Speaker’s victory.

Bazel wasn’t sure if the man still deserved the title of Speaker after the disappearance of the Hope Council, but one thing was clear: the three-day “holiday” he had declared was no act of generosity.

At the end of his speech, the Speaker had made it abundantly clear that everyone in Hope City was to stay indoors.

What followed was a three-day lockdown masquerading as a holiday.

For Hope City, lockdowns were nothing extraordinary. In a city perpetually under threat of beast tides, every household kept a stockpile of long-lasting nutritional paste.

When the beast tides grew particularly severe, a two- or three-day lockdown was hardly unusual.

For most residents of the outer city, these three days were a rare and welcome break. Accustomed to relentless work, they seized the opportunity to hibernate happily at home.

But for some in the inner city, these seventy-two hours dragged on like seventy-two years.

The Speaker had launched his campaign on the morning of the last day of the previous year, spending the entire day purging the high-ranking officials.

Now, these three days were undoubtedly meant to tie up the loose ends of that operation.

Just like the neighbor who had just been taken away, Bazel couldn’t help but think of the head of that household—a slightly balding, overweight man.

He belonged to the same large department as Bazel, and they occasionally crossed paths. The man always had a habit of flaunting his extensive connections in various situations.

However, the very vines that had helped him climb eventually became the traps that ensnared him, a thought that struck Bazel as rather pitiful.

Reflecting on this, Bazel took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the bluish-gray smoke dissipate into the air.

He had a premonition—this clean-up operation was nearing its conclusion.

Although there was still a full day and half a night remaining, with so many people already arrested, appointing new personnel would inevitably take time.

Bazel pondered his past twenty years. As a somewhat complacent factory manager, he had primarily overseen areas related to mining.

It was a small department with little profit, often requiring trips to collect shallow underground samples for analysis.

Feeling that he hadn’t done anything particularly egregious, Bazel stared at the ceiling and drifted into a brief, shallow sleep.

As dawn broke on January 3rd, Hope City remained eerily quiet and solemn. Apart from the occasional vehicles on the streets and personnel patrolling at various intersections, the city seemed almost deserted.

The hundreds of members of the Clean-up Team felt as though they had entered an exceptionally prolonged dream.

In the past, they often faced a somewhat embarrassing dilemma: even if they identified someone with issues, due to various reasons, capture operations and investigations would ultimately fizzle out.

But this time, with the powerful Speaker’s directives, they were able to make arrests freely. Mr. Speaker made it clear that he was from outside the city and was unaware of the local connections. Anyone found to have issues was to be arrested without hesitation.

As for connections? Just expose who was supporting whom and take them in. After all, the top ten had already completely collapsed; these pests had to be thoroughly eradicated while the opportunity was ripe.

For the Clean-up Team, this was nothing short of paradise.

A Clean-up Team vehicle pulled up near a residential area in the inner city. Despite it being daytime, fully armed team members stormed into a house and dragged everyone inside out like lifeless dogs, tossing them into the vehicle.

After issuing the orders, their Captain made his way to the neighboring residence.

“Ding-dong.”

The sound of the doorbell echoed in Bazel’s ears like a funeral bell, causing his heart to skip a beat.

His rationality seemed to be dredged up from the depths of his sea of consciousness by an invisible sieve.

Opening his eyes, Bazel saw the bright living room, and the wall clock’s hour hand pointed at "9."

He hadn’t expected to sleep for so long.

“Ding-dong.”

The doorbell rang again, and Bazel saw his wife emerge from the bedroom, with his daughter peeking around her.

He waved his arms to hurry them back to the bedroom, nervously opening the door to find himself face-to-face with someone in a uniform—the last thing he wanted to see.

“Excuse me, is this Mr. Bazel from the factory office’s exploration department?”

The visitor asked coldly.

“Yes, may I ask what this is about?”

Bazel swallowed hard, shivering from the cold wind outside.

The man carefully studied Bazel’s terrified face and forced a stiff, unpleasant smile:

“You don’t need to go to the factory office tomorrow morning. Go to the research institute to see researcher Ji Yongxing. He is very interested in some of your exploration results from the past few years.”

“Okay, okay.”

Bazel’s tone was slightly hesitant:

“Is there anything else?”

“None.”

The man took a step back, turned, and left:

“Have a nice holiday.”