I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 416 Behind the Grand Ceremony

Deafening cheers, melodious marches, the aroma of food, golden confetti... Wotradnoy was immersed in an endless ocean of celebration.

Chris and Elena's wedding procession, like a flowing golden sun, illuminated every street and ignited the flame of hope in the hearts of every Bagnian.

However, beneath this glamorous grand event, what supports its smooth operation and resists the erosion of undercurrents are countless unseen hands, countless streams of sweat, and even quietly spilled blood.

Home Alone is just a tiny node in a vast shadow network.

In the heart of the bustling crowds, in the shadowy corners of alleys, and atop the noisy rooftops, more of the court's spies and the temporarily recruited player "cleaners" are like the most intricate gears, spinning at high speed within the invisible web of order woven by Chris.

A judge-agent disguised as a street vendor spotted a figure attempting to ignite a Molotov cocktail at the height of the crowd.

He didn't have the hidden blade from Home Alone, nor could he move with the same elegance and stealth. What an agent could do was charge forward like a bull, ending the threat in the moment of the other's astonishment with the weight in his hand... smashing the guy's head with his finger.

The agents then quickly dragged the body into a nearby pile of junk and covered it with a tarpaulin, as if it were just a pile of garbage waiting to be disposed of.

A few seconds later, his hawking resumed, his voice thick with a nasal tone, as if nothing had happened.

A player with the ID "Steam Wrench" managed to blend into the team maintaining the giant float of the celebration by using his identity as a trainee Mechanic from the Mechanicocracy.

He wasn't trying to destroy, but to protect.

While inspecting a vehicle named "Blessed by the God of Machines," he astutely discovered that the steam engine pressure gauge readings had been subtly tampered with... an ingenious time-delay sabotage device.

Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead. With the fastest speed and the most professional tools, he resolved the crisis a few seconds before the pressure was about to break through the critical point, preventing a steam explosion tragedy that would affect hundreds of people.

After finishing all this, he wiped his sweat and grinned at his clueless NPC coworker next to him.

"Minor problem, the gears were a little stuck, fixed!"

Another player, "Nightingale," used her high agility and stealth skills to move like a real nightingale through the shadows and rooftops of buildings.

Her task was to monitor several high points designated as "high-risk observation points" by the court to prevent snipers from disrupting the march.

In the attic of an abandoned clock tower, she silently dealt with several former noblemen's private soldiers who were trying to set up makeshift crossbows. Their bodies were cleverly stuffed into the dusty interior of the clock, leaving only a few dark red spots on the floor that were quickly covered by dust.

The greatest contribution comes from millions of ordinary Bagnians. They may not know the hidden dangers, but their sweat and perseverance are the very foundation upon which the celebration shines.

Firefighters, dressed in heavy fireproof suits, were busy hours before the celebration began, pushing heavy, two-wheeled lever-operated high-pressure water trucks.

High-pressure water jets washed over every inch of the street's cobblestones, removing dirt and potential fire hazards.

The intense physical labor left them drenched in sweat, their faces flushed red beneath their helmets.

When a makeshift tent suddenly caught fire, they rushed over like arrows, the piercing sound of water jets drowning out the screams of the crowd, quickly extinguishing the flames and preventing panic from spreading.

A young firefighter was hit on the head by a falling brick while fighting a fire. His helmet was torn, and a deep gash was cut into his forehead, exposing the bone. Blood stained his uniform, but he gritted his teeth and didn't utter a sound until he lost consciousness. After being dragged off the fire line by his comrades, the first thing he said when he woke up was...

"Is the fire... is it out?"

Inside the printing plant, where posters, schedules, and royal portraits were being produced in preparation for the celebrations, the lights burned brightly all night. Huge steam-powered printing presses roared, emitting the distinctive smell of ink and paper.

The workers worked in shifts, their eyes bloodshot. An older worker, responsible for operating the heavy paper cutter, was in a daze after working for more than ten hours straight. He accidentally cut off half of his finger with the sharp blade, and the excruciating pain made him scream. Blood splattered onto the newly printed portrait of Chris's cold and stern face.

But the factory cannot stop, because more Bagnians, especially the farmers, are eager to see the face of their new king!
The elderly worker was quickly carried away for treatment, and a replacement worker immediately took his place. The blood-stained portrait was torn off by the expressionless overseer and thrown into the waste paper pile, while new, clean portraits continuously emerged from the machine. Efficiency trumped everything.

The soldiers and police maintaining order were the most conspicuous barrier to the celebration. Beneath their crisp uniforms were linings already soaked with sweat. Their helmets were heavy, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight, and their muscles were stiff and aching from standing for long periods and being on high alert.

At the border between the old and new city areas, a small group of radicalized former members of the Church of the Goddess of Agriculture, incited by the protesters, attempted to breach the cordon and throw stones and filth.

Nearby police rushed over at the sergeant's whistle, forming a shield wall and silently enduring the impact. They calmly dispersed the crowd with shields and batons, preparing to make arrests after the crowd's enthusiasm subsided.

Shooting is the simplest method, but it also has the greatest side effects. On this joyous day, gunfire is undoubtedly a desecration and destruction of the harvest festival.

A young policeman's forehead was broken by a rock, and blood flowed down his brow bone, blurring his vision. But he simply wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes still fixed firmly on the chaotic crowd ahead, refusing to back down an inch.

Their existence is like a dike on the coastline, the first line of defense against raging waves.

During the breaks in the day-and-night celebrations, countless unassuming cleaners and handymen in gray overalls pushed carts, quickly cleaning up the street litter, food scraps, vomit, and... the occasional unidentified bloodstains hidden under the debris.

They are silent and efficient, like the city's cleaners, ensuring that the streets remain bright and clean when the next wave of people arrives.

A servant responsible for cleaning the area near the palace square found a small, bloodstained piece of cloth, which did not belong to the celebration decorations, in the corner of a heavy box of ceremonial decorations.

His eyes flickered, but he didn't say anything. He simply swept it into a trash bag and quickly took it away along with the other garbage.

The trained handymen know that some things should not be exposed to the light of day.

The celebration continues.

As the golden floats passed by, they left behind deafening cheers and a shower of petals.

People were immersed in joy, tasting free honey bread, cheering for the jugglers' performances, and pointing at the towering Arc de Triomphe and the huge portrait of the king.

Unbeknownst to them, just moments before on that crowded street, a spy disguised as a citizen had "collapsed" forever in front of a jewelry stall.

I don't know why the old woman praying at the alley entrance suddenly "fell ill".

I wonder how many cold corpses are now inside the clock tower's bell.

Unbeknownst to them, there was a portrait of a king stained with blood in the waste paper pile of the printing factory.

I wonder why a firefighter's arm was wrapped in thick bandages, or why a young policeman had gauze on his forehead.

A piece of blood-stained rag was hidden in a servant's garbage bag.

Sweat soaked through their work clothes, and blood seeped silently into the cracks of the stone slabs or was covered by garbage.

The threat was nipped in the bud, and the chaos was forcibly suppressed.

Countless people, whether they were the ruthless enforcers of the court, players seeking thrills or rewards, or Bagnian soldiers, workers, and ordinary citizens loyal to their duties, all became, in their own way, whether actively or passively, the silent and solid foundation supporting this grand celebration.

Their contributions, like the intricately rotating gears inside the celebration floats, may not be noticed by the public, but they are indispensable.

It was the sweat and blood that flowed behind the glamour that allowed Chris's vision of a new era full of power and order to be temporarily and brilliantly displayed under the sky of Waterladnoy.

As night falls and a grand fireworks display illuminates the sky above the palace, the dazzling light will also illuminate the eyes that are still vigilantly patrolling in the shadows, and the figures who, despite their weariness and pain, remain steadfast in their posts.

The celebration is not over yet, and the protection will not stop.

(End of this chapter)