Sitting quietly in a carriage with a hood forced over his head, Willino waited for the carriage to co to a stop.
Though he had the ability to remove the hood and observe his surroundings, his naturally cautious nature prevented him from doing so.
For all he knew, removing the hood might cost him his life.
After a stretch of smooth road, the carriage soon began to bump, leading Willino to suspect they had exited the urban area.
Fortunately, the bumpiness lasted only about 10 minutes before the carriage stopped.
"Mr. Willino, you can take it off now!" A voice inside the carriage startled Willino into a cold sweat as he suddenly realized he hadn’t noticed the presence of another person in the carriage the whole ti.
"Th—thank you!" Willino removed the hood and alighted from the carriage.
At this mont, he observed that a forest seed to lie before him.
Apart from the Bois de Boulogne, there wasn’t another dense forest like this around Paris!
"This way, Mr. Willino!" said a young man also masked, standing beside Willino.
Under the guidance of the masked man, Willino quickly arrived at a wooden cabin beside the forest.
Even though the cabin was brightly lit, Willino didn’t feel any warmth; instead, a chill crept up his spine and settled in his scalp.
"Go in!" urged the masked man to Willino.
Swallowing hard, Willino pushed open the door of the cabin. Inside, brightly lit, there was only a long dining table, with a figure Willino didn’t recognize seated at the main chair.
Approximately in his thirties, he smiled at Willino and gestured to a seat: "Please, sit, Mr. Willino!"
"Yes!" Mr. Willino maintained a terrified expression as he sat, managing a smile uglier than a grimace toward the fellow beside him.
Willino knew this fellow; like him, he had risen through the State of Martial Law.
However, Willino had fought in the Montmar District, while the other man worked in Saint Martin.
As ti passed, waves of people continued entering the cabin.
The cabin eventually filled, and the host looked at his pocket watch before speaking: "Alright! We can begin!"
The two masked guards by the door left the cabin, their job to ensure no one eavesdropped outside.
The "host" at the head of the table cleared his throat and began: "Everyone, I know you have many questions! Why have I brought you here? Who am I really? So of you may have already guessed my background. Am I right?"
His gaze swept over each gang leader, who, usually commanding great influence, now resembled a group of sickly cats under his stare.
"You guessed right! I am from the Elysee Palace! My na is Marcel Yale!" revealed the "host" as the gang bosses below mostly showed shock, though a few looked unsurprised, having already guessed Marcel Yale’s identity.
Seeing no response from the others, Marcel Yale paused before continuing: "The reason I called you here today is to announce sothing! The President is reorganizing you all!"
The faces of the gang bosses present changed dramatically; the last reorganization was accompanied by brutal slaughter, and they vividly rembered how their previous leaders t their ends.
If Paris underwent another reorganization, they feared they would follow in their leaders’ bloody footsteps.
"I am loyal to Mr. President!"
"I am willing to submit to Mr. President’s leadership!"
...
The gang bosses descended into chaos, each scrambling to pledge loyalty to Marcel Yale.
"You? Do you even deserve to claim you’re serving Mr. President?" Marcel Yale looked disdainfully at the scum.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" The gang bosses nodded earnestly.
"From now on, follow arrangents! Report to imdiately should anything arise!" Marcel Yale instructed the gang bosses present.
"Does this an we are now with the President?" one gang leader asked whimsically.
"You could say that!" Marcel Yale’s tone softened slightly: "But Mr. President is occupied with state affairs; he doesn’t have ti to manage you! I’m your direct superior!"
"Understood! Understood!" the gang bosses quickly responded, indicating their understanding.
Marcel Yale cautioned word by word: "My requirents are simple—delineate and manage your territories! I don’t want to hear any bad news about fighting during this period! Otherwise, just as we dealt with your forr leaders, we can deal with you similarly!"
"Yes! Yes!" The gang bosses couldn’t help but shiver.
Marcel Yale stood and lifted the panel behind him, revealing a map of Paris marked with various gang territories.
Considerable effort went into creating this map by Marcel Yale!
"Alright, the map shows your territories! I hope you can ensure no large-scale unrest occurs within your territories!" Marcel Yale added a few more strokes on the map, completing the allocation of so unclear territories.
None of the gang leaders present dared to voice any objections, nor did they dare to question him.
"Mr. Marcel, what exactly can we do for the President?" a gang leader asked Marcel Yale.
"You probably have so n under you; you just need to act when the President needs you!" Marcel Yale said nonchalantly.
With Marcel Yale’s "allocation," all the gang bosses present received so extension of their influence.
"Um... those original forces..." Willino asked shakily.
"They no longer exist! All those who didn’t co here today have disappeared!" Marcel Yale smiled as he uttered words that sent a chill down the spine of every gang boss present.
Willino left once again, this ti without being hooded.
His mind muddled, he boarded the carriage he had once taken, which carried Willino back to the mansion.
With heavy steps, Willino approached the window, gazing at the kerosene lamp emitting an orange glow, a faint bitter smile appearing on his lips, lying face up on the bed.
Early the next morning, a few subordinates shook Willino awake.
With a weary expression, Willino looked at his subordinates and impatiently asked, "What happened?"
"Boss!" one of the subordinates said excitedly, "The leader of the ’Hamr Gang,’ which has been hostile to our gang, has mysteriously committed suicide!"
"What? Suicide!" Willino instantly beca alert and urgently asked his subordinates, "Are you sure he committed suicide?"
"Well..." the subordinate hesitated for a mont before whispering, "The police said it was suicide, but I heard he might have been assassinated! The ’Iron Fist Gang’ leader was shot six tis in the back; who commits suicide by getting shot six tis! But that’s what the police are saying..."
"Shot six tis... suicide..." Willino swallowed hard, feeling a chill sweeping over him.
That day, many prominent figures in Paris were "forced to commit suicide" by "being shot six tis."
Strangely, the gang rgers in Paris were not as bloody as before, revealing a bizarre sense of self-sufficiency everywhere.
More strangely, those gang mbers who usually flaunted their power had suddenly beco unusually quiet.
It seed as though an invisible hand was orchestrating all these events.
Of course, Parisians welcod the changes in Paris with open arms.
...
February 15, 1850.
With the recomndation of Minister Renio, the signature of Jero Bonaparte, the approval of the Pottery Committee, the unanimous support of the army, and the symbolic consent of the Legislative Assembly, France once again welcod a new Marshal.
He was Prince Monfort, the father of President Jero Bonaparte and the "hero" of the Napoleonic Wars.
Today, Prince Monfort would beco the new Marshal of France in a military camp near Paris, under the watchful eyes of Paris’s senior officers and soldiers.
As President Jero Bonaparte sought to avoid accusations of favoritism, he did not attend Prince Monfort’s Marshal coronation. Instead, Vice President Blair, who represented the President on a tour of the Pyrenees Region, presented the staff to Monfort.
At 9 a.m., dressed in the First Empire Marshal’s attire, Prince Monfort arrived at the military camp near Paris in a double-axle open carriage.
At that mont, Vice President Blair of the French Republic, Minister of War Renio, Secretary of State Saint Arno, Commander Shangjia Ren, De Castelana, Pri Minister Opler, as well as retired and active generals who had fought for the First Empire, were on the temporary makeshift viewing platform awaiting the arrival of the new Marshal, Prince Monfort. Under the witness of all the soldiers, Prince Monfort alighted from the carriage, shedding his usual cavalier deanor and becoming extraordinarily solemn.
The generals on the viewing platform couldn’t help but admit that a serious Monfort Prince truly possessed a touch of the Emperor’s charisma.
Prince Monfort ascended the platform slowly, turning to face all the soldiers.
"Salute!" commanded Minister of War Renio.
All the soldiers paid their respects to Prince Monfort, and the resounding "Song of Departure" sounded.
Amidst the military trumpets, Vice President Blair solemnly took the wooden Marshal’s staff from the hands of General Saint Arno, who also served as the President’s military attendant.
Ti seed to freeze at this mont as everyone held their breath and fixed their gaze on Vice President Blair.
Amidst the watchful eyes, Blair slowly walked to Prince Monfort, presenting the Marshal’s staff to him.
With a dignified expression, Prince Monfort accepted the staff from Blair.
Instantly, a thunderous roar erupted from the soldiers below the stage.
Cheers then echoed furiously.
"Long live the Marshal, long live the Empire!"
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