Chapter 1312: Chapter 636: The World Is Wrong, Not Me!
He paused and added, “The tone sounds a bit anxious and panicked.”
Victor glanced at Cuauhtémoc, who seemed nailed to the chair, lost and spiritless. There was no anger in the other’s eyes anymore, but he looked like a walking corpse.
“Panic?” Victor spoke as if discussing a trivial matter, “Tell them Medellin is fine.”
“Okay.” Casare didn’t hesitate for a moment, immediately whispered a few words to the secretary outside, and after giving instructions, stood by the door again.
Victor no longer looked at the former ally in the room.
He turned around, swiftly opened the heavy solid wood door, and strode out.
Casare followed closely behind, turned to look at Cuauhtémoc, opened his mouth, but there were things he wanted to say, yet didn’t know how to begin.
He closed the door.
Cuauhtémoc’s back looked very lonely.
The motorcade drove away from the Sini District Manor into the night, heading towards the National Palace.
However, just as the vehicle was about to merge onto the main road leading to the center of power, Victor leaned against the seat, looked out at the dazzling cityscape, and suddenly spoke:
“Let’s not go back. Drive around downtown for a bit and check out the Day of the Dead festival.”
A barely noticeable surprise flashed in Casare’s eyes, but he immediately adjusted the route through the intercom.
The luxury convoy discreetly blended into Mexico City’s bustling festive traffic.
The car eventually parked on an outer street that allowed passing.
Victor didn’t get out; he merely rolled down the window.
Deafening music, laughter, and drumbeats poured in instantly, drowning the silence inside the car. Huge skull skeleton lights adorned the streets on both sides, altars meticulously piled with marigolds, candles, and the favorite foods and photos of the deceased.
A vividly colorful parade moved slowly; people’s faces were painted with exquisite skull designs, dressed in luxurious traditional costumes, singing and dancing.
Victor’s gaze swept over the noisy crowd, over those gigantic, festive yet death-symbolizing decorations.
His eyes finally settled on a little boy being carried on his father’s shoulders. The boy’s face was also painted with a small skull, and he held a glowing sugar skull, excitedly pointing at the giant floats in the parade, his mouth rounded, eyes reflecting the brilliant lights, pure and happy, as his mother smiled, gently patting the father’s back, the family immersed in pure holiday joy.
On the other side of the street, a few elderly people sat quietly at the entrance of their shops, small altars placed before them flickering with candlelight, watching the lively parade, with peaceful and even gratified smiles on their faces.
The entire city was immersed in a peculiar atmosphere where the theme of death was enveloped in vibrant life and warm remembrance, grief and celebration coexisted strangely, ultimately transforming into a profound and resilient serenity.
Victor quietly watched it all, his gaze somewhat vacant.
The noise, colors, the pulse of life outside the window washed away the gloom and rage he had just absorbed in the manor, like a soundless flood. He watched the boy stuff the sugar skull into his father’s mouth, noted the serene curve of the elderly man’s lips, and saw the festival smiles radiating on every ordinary Mexican’s face on the street.
Casare remained silent, only attentively observing the surrounding environment.
Time slipped by.
Victor’s gaze shifted from the noisy parade to the warmly lit windows of ordinary households deep down the street, then towards the skyline outlined by festival lights further away.
There was no expression on his face, but deep within those sharp, eagle-like eyes, something settled, becoming more hardened and clear.
Inside the car, only the joyous sound waves from outside remained.
No mistake!
He was not wrong!
His hand clenched on his knee, as if he could grasp the peace from the smoke and fire that he and his brothers had tirelessly fought for and rebuilt from the ruins.
“Let’s go back.” Victor’s voice resonated deeply as he closed the window.
Shutting out the noise of the outside world and sealing away the scenes he had just witnessed.
The convoy turned around, heading once again for the center of power, carrying a ruler whose inner convictions had been silently reinforced.
Victor might have wavered sometimes, but at this moment, the lights and laughter outside the window were his most solid armor and sharpest answer!
…
By the next morning, Mexico City awoke amidst a tiredness following the revelry.
Sanitation workers pushed heavy garbage carts, silently sweeping the streets.
Streamers tangled on the damp asphalt, broken paper flowers, empty bottles, and food scraps scattered everywhere, with a mixed complex smell lingering in the air.
Not everyone’s morals were as noble as the spirit of the festival.
Victor, dressed in simple workout clothes, jogged along a relatively secluded, heavily guarded path behind the National Palace.
After completing eight kilometers, he stopped at the edge of a vast lawn, beginning to stretch.
At that moment, Deputy Director of the Special Service and close guard, Rohus Mishi, walked quickly across the lawn towards him.
“Mr. Leader.” Rohus stood beside Victor, lowering his voice.
Victor didn’t stop his stretching, only slightly tilting his head, signaling with his eyes for him to continue. The morning’s chill sharply contrasted with the steam of heat rising from his body.
“A dozen ambassadors have arrived at the National Palace.” Rohus took a deep breath, seemingly organizing his words, “From Colombia, the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Russia… basically all major countries are here, requesting to see you immediately and without delay.”
He paused, adding with even more difficulty in his tone: “Their emotions are very high. The Colombian ambassador almost pushed to the forefront with red eyes, and the other ambassadors also looked extremely grim. Although the media has been blocked outside by our people, they have already set up their cameras.”
“The situation is a bit out of control.” Rohus tried to describe as objectively as possible.
Victor finally stopped stretching.
He straightened up, took the towel conveniently handed over by Rohus, and wiped the sweat off his face and neck.
“For Medellin?”
“I think so,” Rohus affirmed, “They are demanding a ‘clear, immediate, and convincing explanation.’ The Colombian ambassador even… used words like humanitarian disaster and ‘state terrorist act.'” When Rohus repeated these words, his brows furrowed, clearly dissatisfied with the terminology.
“We helped them fight the drug traffickers, and they’re still unhappy?”
“Let them wait.” Victor’s voice was very stiff, “Notify the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to prepare a conference room large enough. Tell those ambassadors I will explain to them shortly.”
Rohus immediately straightened his posture: “Understood, sir!”
Victor nodded, not speaking further.
He took one last look at the rising morning sun, then turned firmly, stepping steadily back towards the inside of the National Palace, with a hint of latent power in his stride.
Outside the gates of the National Palace, dozens of reporters clustered outside. Of course, they dared not approach, as the security personnel were watching intently, guns ready.
Beyond the barricade, they grandly speculated on last night’s “disappearance” of Medellin from the map, trying all sorts of ways to capture attention.
In all languages, with female reporters even wearing headscarves.
Was Victor really going to mow them all down here?
Surely not so daring!
Inside, Victor wore a very calm expression, accompanied by Casare and President Anatoly Lunacharsky, who was a mere echo, a pure scholar, or perhaps Victor’s loyal supporter.
“Once we go in, no matter what they say, we have only three words: Don’t know, got it?”
Casare and the others exchanged glances and nodded vigorously.
I’ll play dead, what can you do about it!
…