Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

A heavy silence followed Talon's declaration.

The square held its breath.

Then came a single clap.

Loud. Sharp.

It cracked through the stillness like a lightning strike.

And then another joined it. And another.

Until the dam broke.

The entire crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

But this wasn't just polite approval. It was raw. Visceral. A roar of pent-up rage, pain, and desperate relief erupting all at once. Cheers rang out from every corner of the plaza—shouts of Talon's name, cries for justice, declarations of defiance.

Some raised their hands to the sky as if praising the heavens. Others slammed fists to their chests or gripped the hands of their loved ones beside them. The noise swelled—not chaotic, but unified. A city's heartbeat thundering through cobbled streets.

For the first time in days, something stirred deep within the hearts of Iron Hearth's people.

Hope.

Not the fragile kind whispered behind locked doors.

But the kind that burned.

The kind that roared.

Children were hoisted onto shoulders to see the officers who stood against darkness. Blacksmiths who pounded their hammers against shield rims in a thunderous rhythm.

"Justice for the fallen! Down with Iron Shield!"

The chant spread like wildfire, picking up voices in waves. Echoing from shopfronts, alleyways, and balconies above. Even the officers on the perimeter—silent for so long—allowed themselves faint smiles, pride flickering behind tired eyes.

They knew this moment was more than applause.

It was unity.

It was momentum.

It was the sound of a people reclaiming their voice.

But not everyone celebrated.

Behind the cheers, in the cracks and corners of the crowd, others remained still.

They did not clap.

They did not smile.

Eyes narrowed. Jaws clenched. Feet shifted uneasily beneath embroidered robes and gilded boots.

Because they knew what had just happened.

The king's words, delivered through Talon, were more than just promises.

They were death sentences.

Wrapped in polished vows of justice.

Delivered with the roar of a city ready to turn on its enemies.

Those who had whispered deals in alleyways… who had handed over bribes to Iron Shield lieutenants… who had passed along maps, names, addresses… they were here too. Watching the crowd rise like a storm they could no longer control.

A merchant in fine robes slipped away toward the edge of the plaza, his face pale as parchment..

In another corner, a young noblewoman stood frozen, mouth slightly agape, her painted lips parted in disbelief.

The law had moved.

The king had spoken.

And the Law Enforcement Division now stood with the full backing of the army—mages, knights, and all.

If Iron Shield chose to fight head-on, they would be crushed.

And those who had aligned themselves with the gang—out of greed, fear, pride, or arrogance—heard something very different in the celebration.

It wasn't just justice.

It was judgment.

It was the sound of time running out.

Talon gave a few final words to close the announcement—brief, measured, sharp-edged with purpose. A call for vigilance. A vow of accountability. A warning, wrapped in steel.

Then the gathering slowly began to fade.

But unlike the frightened, uncertain crowds of the days before… this one dispersed with their heads held high. Their steps were steadier. Their hearts lighter.

They no longer felt helpless.

No longer felt alone.

There was strength behind the law again—real strength. Steel. Magic. The weight of the crown itself.

No longer would they whisper their fears in the dark.

No longer would they hand over coin to shadowy thugs in exchange for false protection.

This was the beginning of something new.

This was what Arthur had envisioned.

…

Back at Station A, however, no one was celebrating.

The officers returned not to cheers, but to the cold reality that followed every major speech—a silence that carried weight, not relief.

Behind the heavy iron gates of the Law Enforcement Division, tension pulsed like a second heartbeat. The air inside was thick—not with fear, but with pressure. The kind that came when everyone knew the real work was just beginning.

Because they all knew what came next.

And it started less than an hour after the square had emptied.

The main door began creaking open again and again—not to escort criminals in chains, but to admit nobles in gold-trimmed carriages, merchants with trembling hands hidden in silk sleeves, and cloaked intermediaries who smelled of sweat despite the winter air.

They came one by one. Some walked with forced dignity, trying to hold on to whatever pride they had left. Others stumbled in, eyes darting, begging before they even reached the front desk.

From his vantage point on the upper balcony, Lieutenant Talon watched in silence, arms folded across his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes missed nothing.

Beside him, Lieutenant Renn stood with her hands clasped behind her back.

"They're coming faster than I thought," she murmured.

"Fear moves quickly," Talon replied, his tone cold, clinical. "They've finally realized we weren't bluffing."

Below them, the main hall buzzed with restrained chaos.

An attendant guided a portly merchant through the checkpoint. The man clutched a stack of ledgers like a lifeline.

"I-I have records," he stammered. "Names. Deliveries. I didn't know at first—swear on my life—but once I did, they already had my family watched. I couldn't back out."

An officer nodded coolly. "We'll record your statement. If your intel proves useful, leniency will be considered."

Moments later, a minor noble shuffled in—his fur-lined cloak dragging behind him like a shroud. He tried to speak with confidence, but his voice cracked under pressure.

"I—I never met any of them! I just supplied crates… no idea what was inside! It was business, that's all—business!"

In a side chamber, two estate servants sat hunched in silence. Their master—now claiming ignorance—had delivered them personally, throwing them to the wolves in hopes of buying his own immunity. One of them didn't stop shaking.

By evening, the reception hall resembled a courtroom under siege. Officers moved in and out with scrolls, ledgers, ink-stained reports. A waiting list had formed—nobles, guild leaders, rogue mages, warehouse owners, and frightened middlemen—all desperate to cut ties with Iron Shield before their names ended up on a raid list.

Some came to confess.

Most came to survive.

…

In the strategy room, the map table was already cluttered with new data.

Lieutenant Duran put a thick folder onto the table with a grunt.

"Sixteen names. That's just today," he growled. "And those are only the ones who showed up willingly."

Talon didn't look up. He was drawing a red circle on the eastern district of the city map.

"Double that by tomorrow," he said flatly.

Renn raised a brow. "You think they'll all fold that easily?"

Talon finally looked up, his eyes like twin blades of ice.

"They're not coming because they regret what they've done."

He tapped the parchment.

"They're coming because they're afraid of what we're about to do."

He straightened, voice quieter now but no less firm.

"And from just those sixteen names, we've already uncovered more about Iron Shield's network than we had in the past three months. Distribution routes. Safehouse patterns. Bribed gatekeepers. Even a few hidden caches of mage crystals."

He looked between Duran and Renn, his voice low but resolute.

"This is only the beginning. Starting tomorrow, with our officers—and the full support of the royal knights and mages—we'll begin investigating noble households suspected of collaboration. And with the intel gathered today, we'll start planning coordinated raids on Iron Shield's strongholds."