December 28, 890 holy calendar.
Paris, French Republic Parliament Hall.
The day the election results were announced.
Furina sat in the waiting room, a cup of cold tea in front of him.
Clemenceau stood by the window, back to him, motionless.
Lord Uther, Lady Haweima, and Miss Sebeleida stood in the corner, all three too nervous to speak.
Footsteps came from the corridor, getting closer.
The door was pushed open.
Zola stood at the door, holding a piece of paper, the expression on his face unclear whether it was excitement or shock.
“The results are out,” he said.
Furina stood up.
“How many?”
Zola took a deep breath.
“Thirty-seven million, eight hundred thousand votes.”
The waiting room was quiet for a few seconds.
“What else?” Clemenceau turned around.
“Forty-seven provinces, plus the Paris Special District.”
Zola’s voice was trembling.
“Furina has taken almost every district.”
Clemenceau’s legs went soft, and he held onto the windowsill.
“The Senate?”
“Ninety-seven seats to two.”
“The House of Representatives?”
“Four hundred thirty-one seats to fourteen.”
After Zola finished, he leaned against the door frame, gasping for air.
The waiting room was so quiet that the ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard.
Then, Lady Haweima cried.
“Master…”
She covered her mouth, tears streaming down uncontrollably.
Miss Cheverede also cried, but she was smiling, crying and laughing at the same time.
Lord Uther stood there, trying to maintain his composure, but his hands were trembling.
Clemenceau slowly walked up to Furina and looked at him.
“You did it.”
His voice was hoarse.
“You really did it.”
Furina stood there, feeling the whole world spinning.
Thirty-seven million, eight hundred thousand votes.
Forty-seven provinces.
Ninety-seven seats in the Senate.
Four hundred thirty-one seats in the House of Representatives.
This was the greatest victory in a presidential election since the founding of the French Republic.
He remembered Grandpa Grandpa Pierre.
The old man who picked him up in the ruins, the old man who raised him with goat Milk, the old man who left him when he was fourteen.
If he were watching from heaven, he would surely be very proud.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Paris, at the Conservative Party headquarters, the atmosphere was completely different.
Those once arrogant politicians were now pacing back and forth in the conference room like ants on a hot pan.
“What do we do?”
Someone asked.
“He won.
He really won.”
“We can’t let him take office.”
Someone said.
“Those policies of his, the anti-monopoly, the heavy taxes, the minimum wage—these are all aimed at us.
If he takes office, our money will be gone.”
“Then what?
The election results are already out.
Can we overturn them?”
The conference room was quiet for a few seconds.
Then, an old voice spoke up.
It was the veteran of the Conservative Party, seventy-three-year-old François de La Rochefoucauld.
He was once the Prime Minister of France; although he was not in power now, he still had huge influence within the party.
“Overturn?”
He sneered.
“Why overturn?”
“Then what do you mean?”
“The election results are real, but he himself can be fake.”
de La Rochefoucauld’s voice was calm, as if he were talking about a trivial matter.
“We can say he cheated, say he forged votes, say he used magic to control the voters.
Then, while the new president has not yet taken office and the old president still has power…”
He paused for a moment.
“Mobilize the army.
Arrest him.”
The conference room was quiet for a few seconds.
“But…”
Someone hesitated.
“His popularity among the people is too high.
If the army…”
“The army follows orders.”
de La Rochefoucauld interrupted him.
“As long as the order is legal, the soldiers will execute it. New chapters come out on g.com first.
As for the people?
The people will only obey.”
No one spoke again.
That night, the Ministry of Defense, controlled by the Conservative Party, issued a secret order.
Three regiments of troops were deployed to Paris, surrounding Place de la République, where Furina would deliver his victory speech the next day.
The next day, December 29, Paris, Place de la République.
Furina’s victory speech.
The square was packed with people, extending from the center of the square to the distant streets.
Some came before dawn, some traveled by train all night from the provinces, some were on crutches, some were holding children.
They came to hear him speak.
Furina stood on the makeshift podium, with the tricolor flag of France behind him.
He was wearing that blue small suit, wearing that small hat, his blue-white gradient long hair shining in the winter sun.
He looked at the sea of people below.
Hundreds of thousands of eyes were watching him.
He took a deep breath and began.
“Fellow citizens.”
His voice spread across the entire square through the loudspeaker.
“Yesterday, you used the rights granted to you by the Holy Goddess to create a future that belongs to you.”
Someone in the crowd applauded.
“This future belongs to everyone who works in the factory, to everyone who farms in the fields, to everyone who wanders the streets, to everyone who cries in the deep of night.
This future belongs to all of you.”
The applause grew louder.
“I know, many of you have not heard the word ‘future’ for too long.
For you, the future is just a word, a word written on newspapers, hung in the mouths of politicians, and has nothing to do with your daily lives.”
He paused for a moment.
“But starting from today, it is different.”
His voice became firm.
“I hope that when this government leaves office, we can proudly declare: We are the flag-bearers of freedom and progress, the embodiment of fairness and justice.”
Someone in the crowd raised a flag.
“In these five years, we will do many things.
We will build railways, build factories, and open mines.
We will let the unemployed stand up again, and let the homeless find a home again.
We will let every child go to school, and let every elderly person spend their twilight years in peace.
We will let France become a country with dignity again.”
The applause was like thunder.
“But I want to tell you, this road will not be smooth.
Those vested interests will not easily let go, those monopoly tycoons will not be willing to admit defeat.
Those who are accustomed to the corruption of the past twenty years will try their best to stop us.”
He raised his voice.
“But I am not afraid.
Are you afraid?”
“No!”
The voices of hundreds of thousands of people merged into a torrent.
“That’s good.”
Furina smiled.
“Finally, I want to say a few words.”
His voice became gentle.
“When humanity gains a new life from every crisis, every catastrophe, every disaster, their knowledge will be more extensive, their morality will be more noble, and their goals will be more firm.”
He looked at the faces below.
“I believe that the good life expected by my eighty-seven million French citizens has not failed to arrive.
Their hope will not be in vain, nor should it be in vain.”
The square was quiet for a few seconds.
Then, hundreds of thousands of people cheered at the same time.
“Furina!
Furina!
Furina!”
Clemenceau sat in the first row, tears in his eyes.
He remembered the fire twenty years ago, remembered the comrades who died under the feet of the Titan, remembered the young man named Jaurès.
“District Mayor, I’m not afraid of death.
But I’m more afraid that if I run, my child will ask in the future, ‘Father, what did you do back then?'”
He had no children.
But he had Furina.
The baby born in the flames of war, the child picked up from the ruins, the star shining on the stage, the president standing before hundreds of thousands of people.
He did it.
After the speech, Furina walked off the podium, ready to leave the square.
Just then, there was a commotion in the distance.
He looked up and saw a squad of soldiers walking through the crowd toward the square.
They were wearing uniforms, carrying rifles, with serious expressions.
The crowd began to panic.
Some screamed, some ran, some protected their children.
“What’s going on?”
Furina frowned.
Clemenceau’s face changed.
“It’s the Conservative Party.
They actually called in the army.”
Furina looked at the approaching soldiers, his heart sinking.
He knew those vested interests wouldn’t let go easily.
But he didn’t expect them to act so quickly. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
The soldiers surrounded the square.
They held their guns, aiming at the crowd.
The crowd was compressed into an increasingly smaller circle, and panic was spreading.
“What are they doing?” someone shouted.
“They want to catch Furina!”
“No!
Can’t let them succeed!”
The crowd began to stir, some trying to rush toward the soldiers, some trying to protect Furina.
Furina stood there, watching the soldiers.
He was very calm.
He turned, took a French tricolor flag from the flagpole behind him, and draped it over his shoulders.
The blue cloth fluttered in the wind, the white cloth pressed against his hand, and the red cloth hung on his skirt.
He wore the national flag and walked toward the soldiers.
“Master!”
Lady Haweima shouted, trying to stop him.
Furina shook his head and continued walking forward.
He walked through the crowd, and the crowd automatically made a path for him.
He walked to the very front, facing the soldiers holding their guns.
The soldiers looked at him, looked at the person walking over draped in the national flag, and their hands holding the guns began to tremble.
“Soldiers.”
Furina spoke, his voice not loud, but in the quiet square, everyone heard it clearly.
“Are you going to shoot your new president?”
No one answered.
“Are you going to kill the future of this country with your own hands?”
The soldiers’ gun barrels began to shake.
“Do you know who is standing in front of you?
They are your parents, your brothers and sisters, your neighbors, your fellow citizens.
Are you going to shoot at them?”
A young soldier lowered his gun.
“Each of you has a mother.
Did your mother not hold you and cry in the deep of night?
Did she not save every penny for your food and clothing?
Did she not hope that after you grew up, you could live a better life?”
A few more soldiers lowered their guns.
“Today, you stand here, holding guns, not aiming at enemies, but at your own people.
At those who are as poor, as bitter, and as struggling to survive in this country as you are.”
The gun barrels went lower and lower.
“Whoever shoots today is a Sinner of the French nation!”
The last soldier also lowered his gun.
The square was quiet for a few seconds.
Then, the crowd erupted into a roar.
“Protect Furina!”
“Protect our president!”
People rushed toward the soldiers, not to attack them, but to hug them, to hold their hands, and to say to them: “Brother, you did the right thing.”
The soldiers stood there, at a loss.
Then, a young soldier suddenly turned and aimed his gun at the officer standing in the distance.
“It was you who forced us to come!”
He shouted.
“You said you wanted to catch a traitor, but the traitor is you!
It is you!”
The other soldiers also turned around, their guns pointing directly at the officers.
The officers’ faces turned pale, and they turned and ran.
But they couldn’t run.
The angry crowd had blocked all the exits.
That night, 33 members of the Conservative Party, 12 generals, and 46 senior officials were arrested.
The next day, more than two hundred more people were arrested.
Only a very small number of the remnants of the Conservative Party escaped abroad.
The French Republican Party occupied almost all the seats in both the Senate and the House.
Late at night, Furina returned to the apartment.
He took off the national flag, folded it, and placed it on the table.
Lady Haweima brought a cup of hot Milk.
“Master, you are too tired today.
Rest early.”
Furina nodded and took a sip of the Milk.
“Haweima.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Grandpa Grandpa Pierre would think of today’s events if he saw them?”
Lady Haweima was silent for a while.
“He would be very proud,” she said.
“Very, very proud.”
Furina smiled.
He walked to the window and pushed it open.
The winter night in Paris was very quiet, and the streetlights in the distance flickered with dim light in the cold wind.
The Seine River flowed quietly in the night, and the lights reflected on the river surface like scattered stars.
He remembered that night twenty years ago, the baby born in the flames of war, the child picked up from the ruins.
That baby was now the president of this country.
He took a deep breath, the air of the winter night was very cold, but very fresh.
In the distance, the lights of ten thousand homes in Paris flickered in the night, like a warm ocean.