Neytopia › Part 2: Noon › Chapter 4

The altar of revolution

He started working as an errand boy in the city where the traveling salesman had brought him. Through hard work he became the secretary for the mayor. He listened to the mayor and his friends, laughing at their every joke and catering to their every need, always with a smile. Soon enough he had earned their trust as a loyal servant.

He befriended all the important people in city: he frequented the tavern where policemen went, some of whom he had met at the orphanage; he was an active member in every charity, helping the poor and the old. Everyone knew him and came to him for advice.

The mayor had a library built to decorate his office, though the man never once opened a book.

He, on the other hand, took that unique opportunity to learn about history. His favorite story was about the Tyrant and how he had come to power. There was much to learn from history about politics, and he shared his new political ideas with his brother.

But time passes for everyone. Before he realized, he had spent thirty-two years as a servant. He had always believed he was meant for great things, but there he was, a petty bureaucrat in a god-forsaken hellhole up north.

One spring, news came of revolts across the empire. It seemed that it was about to crumble, that the airs of change were finally blowing his way. “This is it”, he thought. “It’s now or never”.

He organized nocturnal meetings outside the town to mobilize the masses against the empire and start his own revolution. When he conducted his illegal activity, he always wore a mask to hide his identity. He explained to the citizens that they had been wronged, and they agreed with him, and saw that it was bad. He said things like,

The Tyrant controls us through his spidery bureaucrats, who get to decide what we think. Do you think that’s fair? Our ancestors lived in peace, they ruled over their own land—He shook a history book at the crowd—Here, look! Here in this book I have proof, the truth they tried to hide from you! You know why? Because we could rule ourselves too if we only took the chance!

The crowd burst in applause.

There is no pride in this life… We have all become slaves. Who appointed him to rule over us all? I don’t believe any of you knows the answer.

Everyone shook their heads.

No one! The Tyrant was never elected, he just took power!

A young man from the crowd screamed in tears,

Nooo, you can’t just take power!

All you know about our history is a lie. They rewrote it to fit their agenda—He stopped, closed his eyes and raised the book to the sky—I… I’ve had a vision! A glorious vision where I saw all ruling one city, and all cities ruling themselves!

Each night more people came to his meetings, risking their freedom to hear about a better tomorrow and the future socialist paradise. From a makeshit wooden pulpit, he proclaimed:

They beat our ancestors into submission, and we have accepted that for far too long. We must show what we are made of. The berzerker’s cry must be heard again! Rise!

Rise!

Rise my brothers, rise!

Rise!

His followers appointed him future leader of the new northern tribes. He founded a political party, something which had been outlawed for decades, and named it the Northern Revolutionary Party. Its members believed they could force the Tyrant to grant them independence.

No one had been so bold or stupid to try something similar since the Big Unification centuries ago. But now their city was on the brink of starvation as the empire had increased the grain tax beyond reason. Many imperial guards had either deserted or turned to extorsion to fill their bellies. It didn’t help that his city was on the rim of the northern continent, the area where political exiles were sent. Some of those exiles joined him, since the exile administration kept only loose track of them. They became his strongest supporters and took care of propaganda through the new Free Press.

He knew it was time for a man like him to come along and change things. All he needed was an opportunity, and the mayor’s birthday provided him with one. The city’s bureaucrats would all be gathered in one place. The day before the birthday, he spoke to the inner circle of his new party:

The time has come to strike. We must take control, but the capital can’t find out until we are well-established. Capture the imperial guards and seize every building. Round up and imprison anyone who opposes the Revolution. Take the guards’ clothes, we’ll need them to fool imperial tax collectors when they come.

The Party, however, thought their leader was taking things too far. They liked writing propaganda and discussing inequality while they comfortably sipped coffee. They were intellectually combative and had no intention to physically overthrow the empire. Only his brother supported him by helping him rally a small army for the uprising. The others believed the empire would disintegrate on its own, that they only had to wait. But he and his brother would not waste the opportunity. They pressed the other revolutionaries until they caved in.

The day they rose, he and his people pinned a white rose on their work overalls or jackets to know who was on their side. All the important bureaucrats met in the mayor’s house, and like every year, he was in charge of organizing the birthday. Once the guests had eaten well, they called for the servants to serve the liquors. When the guests had finished drinking, he asked the other servants to leave and closed the dining room’s doors. Then he addressed the guests:

I have a present for the mayor—The guests watched as he unveiled a large claymore sword, engraved with a white rose—Legend has it, this particular sword once belonged to the leader of the first northern tribe.

The guests smiled and praised the gift. Soon, however, their faces turned pale. Their heads were heavy, their sight blurred. He slowly put on his mask. The mayor inquired,

What the fuck is this?

Shut up you fat fuck! I am in control now, as I should have been for a long time. We won’t take your shit anymore!

He raised the heavy sword and ran it through a bureaucrat. The others watched in horror, squealing like pigs in the slaughterhouse. One by one he put them to the sword, leaving the mayor for the end. He cut the mayor’s head and stepped out into the balcony, which overlooked the main street. He proclaimed with a mad smile, raising the severed head for all to see,

Our time has come, brothers, rise and take back what is yours!

Those who fought the revolutionaries were executed on the spot. Some did not resist the arrest, but were also executed on the spot. Guards, police officers and bureaucrats were imprisoned, to be executed at night, away from the city. Though none of this tainted the celebratory banquet, where he made a toast:

Let this day be remembered as the day the North cried ‘No more!’

Everyone applauded. Meanwhile, hundreds of bodies were left to rot in a camp far from the city and any transited route. They were the first of many sacrifices in the altar of revolution.