The Mafia Empire

The next morning, the curtain he had yanked open the night before couldn't keep out the blazing sunlight. Shielding his eyes from the harsh rays, the sheriff slowly woke up, lifting a hand to block the light. His mind blank, he glanced at the hunting rifle, then turned to hang it back on the wall above the bed.

He had a severe illness, but few people knew. Most thought he was merely a hopeless drunk who would never wake up. Only those familiar with him understood he used alcohol as medicine.

He rubbed his face, the crust in his eyes scratching his cheeks painfully. Expressionless, he walked over to the wardrobe mirror, diligently changed into his uniform symbolizing justice and righteousness, pinned on his badge, saluted the mirror with perfect form, and left the bedroom, leaving the house.

Before stepping out, he grabbed a bottle of homemade moonshine from the table, the kind that was stronger than typical low-proof liquor but not quite as potent as the illegal distilleries' products.

He bit off the cap and gulped a mouthful, just about to head out the door when someone shoved him back inside.

"Well, well, look who it is—Mr. Kesma!" The sheriff's tone grew sharp, a flicker of surprise in his eyes quickly replaced by wariness.

Mr. Kesma's stoic, expressionless face was like an artist's sculpture, not a single muscle betraying movement. He removed his round hat and placed it on the coat rack, surveying the room before shaking his head. He walked to the filthy rattan chair in the living room, flipped everything off of it, and sat down.

"What are you doing here?" The sheriff set the bottle of liquor back on the table, his face dark as he sat across from Mr. Kesma. "Have you forgotten our agreement? Unless we're facing life or death, neither of us should contact the other!"

Mr. Kesma did the unthinkable—he shrugged. Even more shocking, he uttered a name that didn't exist in town, "Walter…"

"Shut up! That's not my name!" The sheriff erupted with rage, ready to pounce, but froze when he saw the calmness in Mr. Kesma's eyes. He sat back down stiffly. "No, I'm not Walter. There is no such person.

Call me 'Johnson,' Mr. Kesma!"

Mr. Kesma retrieved an ornate metal case from his pocket, took out two cigarettes, placed one in his mouth, and tossed the other to "Johnson." He pulled out a finely crafted silver lighter, lit his own cigarette, and raised his chin slightly, giving Johnson a cold, unwavering stare. A stranger might have been infuriated or, at the very least, displeased by Mr.

Kesma's attitude, but Johnson knew it was just Mr. Kesma's way of flaunting his vanity.

He'd been doing it, annoying everyone with his boastful manner, for decades!

"I know you have a fine son; everyone in town knows," Johnson said, lighting his cigarette with the silver lighter and inhaling deeply. He fiddled with the lighter in his hands. "But so what? That has nothing to do with me. Listen, I don't want trouble, and I don't want trouble finding me. Got it?"

Mr. Kesma exhaled a cloud of smoke, flicked the ash from his cigarette. The ash fell to the floor in a pristine lump, only to be scattered by a gust of wind from the doorway. He spoke with the same cold indifference as before: "We are friends."

When Mr. Kesma said those words, Sheriff Johnson visibly flinched. Those words had once been a nightmare for many, keeping anyone who heard them from sleeping soundly. But today, it was clear he was not hearing those words as the embodiment of "justice."

Conflict shone in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw twitching. Sweat trickled down his hair, and his lips trembled so much that he dropped his cigarette, which landed softly on the floor.

"What do you want me to do?"

...

Julian had no idea that the trouble he thought would require a large sum of money to silence the sheriff was resolved with just a single sentence from Mr. Kesma. All it cost Kesma was one cigarette.

Although the current situation in Ternell City seemed stable, it was far from secure. The longer Julian stayed away from Ternell City, the more issues would arise, like the always-hidden Heidler. Before leaving, Heidler had left a message for Julian, hoping to meet as soon as possible.

This meeting wouldn't be easy. For someone like Heidler, a wealthy industrialist whose success was built on his ancestors' betrayal of the nation, every action had to align with the interests of the Empire. Even if he was unwilling, he had to comply. Numerous "extreme Guar nationalists" who dreamed of judging him constantly made dangerous remarks.

To protect his life and assets, he had to cling tightly to the Empire's authority.

It was well-known that the Guar people had particularly brutal ways of dealing with "traitors." If the Guar monarchy hadn't been overthrown and if Heidler weren't now a significant figure in high society under the Empire's rule, he might have already been skinned and crucified, left to scream for three days and nights to complete his judgment.

Thus, Heidler's desire to personally control the community association was impossible. He needed an "anonymous deputy" to handle it for him, and Julian was his top choice.

Julian could easily guess why Heidler wanted to meet him. It wasn't to gain more wealth from the community association or from Julian himself; he wanted the association itself. With such a force under his control, he could achieve things he currently couldn't, and this force was crucial to his plans. He could use others, but he wouldn't feel secure.

Julian was a Guar and ambitious. Ambition often equates to "desire," a limitless and instinctive source of human motivation. Julian craved money, power, and higher social status—all of which Heidler could provide. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that with Heidler's status, a few words could save Julian fifteen or twenty years of struggle and elevate him into the Empire's high society.

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