1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 130 The Workers' Iron Fist

The next morning, before the sun had even risen, a group of people had already gathered on the village path at the foot of Phoenix Mountain.

It was the same group of thugs who had led the trouble yesterday. The leader was one of "Jackal's" most capable henchmen, nicknamed "Scorpion." They were all still hungover, their faces beaming with smug smiles as they discussed the pitiful state of the old German man from the previous day.

"Let's put in even more effort today and burn their work sheds down. Let's see how they can stay there then!"

"That's right! Boss Jackal said that if we drive the Germans away, this month's reward will be doubled!"

They staggered toward the construction site, cigarettes dangling from their lips. In their minds, after yesterday's bloodshed, the site would be a mess, the workers terrified, with only a few policemen maintaining order. Their task was simply to pour a bucket of oil over the already extinguished ashes.

However, when they rounded the last mountain pass and saw the scene in front of the construction site gate, everyone's steps seemed to be nailed to the spot.

The smiles on their faces vanished instantly.

At the entrance to the construction site, there were no panicked workers, nor were there any police officers.

What awaited them was a silent forest of flesh and steel.

Hundreds of burly men lined up in three neat rows, like a city wall, blocking all roads leading to the construction site.

They wore uniform dark blue overalls, and instead of a variety of farm tools, they carried solid iron bars of the same length and large industrial wrenches capable of crushing any bone. Sunlight shone on the cold metal, reflecting a chilling gleam.

They stood silently, without uttering a word, but the fierce aura honed from countless dockside brawls and bloody labor pressed down on them like a tangible pressure.

At the very front of the line stood a man.

He had only one leg; the other was a crude wooden prosthetic. He had only one eye, with a gruesome scar above the eye socket.

The lame veteran, Stavros Vlahopoulos.

His single, intact eye was now fixed on "Scorpion" and his gang of thugs, like a hungry wolf.

The drunkenness on the thugs' faces was instantly replaced by cold sweat.

They were street thugs, and bullying the weak and fearing the strong was their instinct. The group in front of them, in terms of numbers, imposing manner, and the weapons they carried, were not in the same league as them.

What kind of factory protection team is this?

This is clearly an army that crawled out of hell!

"Scorpion," forcing himself to remain calm, shouted with a fierce but weak voice, "Who are you? What do you want? We're workers too...we're here...to protect the village!"

Stavros did not answer him.

He didn't even glance at him.

He simply raised the iron rod in his hand slowly and pointed it forward.

A simple action.

An order that brooks no argument.

"Rush!"

Behind them, the "workers' factory protection team" composed of three hundred dockworkers let out a long-suppressed, beast-like roar.

Like a steel wave, they charged towards the group of thugs with heavy steps.

The earth is shaking!

"Scorpion" and his thugs were completely stunned. They had never seen anything so terrifying. It wasn't a fight; it was a charge!

"Run! Run!"

Someone let out a desperate scream.

But it was too late.

The clash between the two groups was a foregone conclusion.

This was a pure, violent, and utterly brutal crushing.

The terrifying strength that dockworkers had honed through years of carrying heavy loads was unleashed in this moment. Iron bars swung, creating a whistling sound, and slammed heavily onto flesh.

The dull thuds of blows, the crisp cracking of bones, and the piercing screams of agony mingled together.

Just as a thug raised his wooden stick, an iron bar struck his wrist, sending the stick flying from his hand. The next second, a wrench slammed into his knee, and he screamed as he fell to his knees.

"Scorpion" tried to turn and run away, but two dockworkers, a head taller than him, blocked his way. He only had time to see two expressionless faces and two iron bars whistling down.

A sharp pain shot through his arms, and he collapsed to the ground before he could even scream.

fighting?

No, this is not a battle.

This was a one-sided crushing defeat.

Amidst the chaotic brawl, a few figures stood out. They were also dressed in workers' clothing, but their movements were far faster and more deadly than the others.

They were agents sent by Constantine.

Their goal wasn't to participate in the brawl, but to "fish".

Like a ghost, an agent circled behind a thug leader who was directing his accomplices, and before the leader could react, delivered a precise chop to the back of his neck. The leader didn't even utter a sound before collapsing to his knees.

Without stopping, the agent put a sack over his head and dragged him into the depths of the nearby woods like a dead dog, where he disappeared.

The same scene was happening simultaneously in various corners of the battlefield.

A few minutes later, the battle ended.

The path was littered with groaning thugs lying haphazardly, not one of them still able to stand.

Stavros, limping, walked up to "Scorpion" and patted his already distorted face with the still-dripping iron rod.

"Go back and tell your master."

The veteran's voice was hoarse and cold.

"Phoenix Mountain is now our workers' association's territory. If you extend your claws again, next time, it won't be your hands and feet that get broken."

After the rioters were cleared out, several horse-drawn carriages drove over from the direction of the construction site.

Constantine arrived under the pretext of resolving "inter-worker conflicts." He wasn't wearing the crown prince's finery, but rather a simple engineer's jacket. Behind him was a convoy of supplies loaded with medicine, flour, and canned goods, along with several royal doctors.

He walked straight toward the villagers who were stunned by the sight before them.

He made no mention of the riot that had just occurred, nor did he even glance at the wailing thugs on the ground.

He announced the royal family's compensation plan in front of all the villagers.

"All families who need to relocate due to the factory construction," Constantine's voice was clear and loud, "every adult male will be given a permanent job at the Royal Steel. The salary will be three times what you used to earn growing olives!"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"The royal family will build you a brand new residential area in the most scenic spot at the foot of the mountain. There will be schools, clinics, and clean running water."

"What you have lost is a barren land. What you have gained is a brand new, dignified future!"

The generous and irresistible terms, like a boulder, were thrown into the hearts of the villagers.

Just then, several agents of Alexandros, leading a group of men with bruised faces and bound like dumplings, walked up behind Constantine.

It was the arsonist who vandalized the construction site and injured Schmidt last night.

"Fellow villagers," Constantine pointed to the men behind him, "the ones who harmed the German engineer, poisoned the well, and tried to frame you are these scumbags bought off with money!"

An agent stepped forward and held up a heavy bag of silver coins and several confessions with bloody handprints, showing them to everyone.

"Their masters, hiding in their mansions in Athens, are plotting all this while drinking fine wine. They want you to bleed, to be impoverished, to be their slaves forever!"

"And I," Constantine's voice suddenly rose, filled with power, "will bring you work, bread, and the hope that your children can live with their heads held high!"

The bloody truth.

And a future within reach.

With both options presented, the choice is self-evident.