Southern Grand Duchy.
This unfamiliar geographical name cast a shadow over the conference hall, stirring ripples of bewilderment.
The core members of the Dawn’s Children present were almost all raised within the main body of the Lorraine Kingdom.
Their knowledge of that land—which was nominally subordinate but practically no different from a foreign country—was pitifully meager.
Wealthy, sugar-producing, and… savage.
That was the extent of their impression.
Someone subconsciously shifted in their seat, the slight friction of the chair sounding particularly harsh in the silence.
In the Capital, they had the protection of their Leader, the support of the organization, and streets and people they were gradually becoming familiar with.
Going to that completely foreign land felt like uprooting a seedling that had just begun to take shallow root and tossing it into an unknown, dark deep sea.
“Go there?” a lowered voice whispered from a corner. “We finally managed to get a foothold here…”
Allen’s gaze swept across the subtle changes in everyone’s expressions. He heard the mutter but did not care.
He spoke calmly, “Among you, is anyone from the Southern Grand Duchy?”
After a brief silence in the crowd, a thin boy with a straight back stood up from a corner.
His skin was darkened from the scorching sun, and his entire being exuded a resilience forged by repeated hardships.
“Leader, I am a runaway slave.”
Allen’s gaze fell upon him, and the files in his memory instantly overlapped with the face before him.
“Julian?”
“Yes!”
the boy’s dark face flushed a dull red with excitement.
To have his name personally remembered by the Leader was, to him, an honor far exceeding any reward.
He did not know that Allen remembered the name, background, and specialty of every person present.
As a leader, this was the most basic skill and the most effective weapon.
To these people who had nothing, remembering their names was an acknowledgment of their value as ‘human beings.’
“Comrade Julian, sit down and speak,” Allen’s voice softened. “Tell us about the situation in the Southern Grand Duchy.”
“Yes.”
Julian sat down as instructed but kept his back straight. He took a deep breath, as if exhaling a decade’s worth of accumulated grief, indignation, and blood.
When he spoke again, his heavy tone felt like an invisible hand dragging the entire meeting room back to the land he had risked his life to escape.
“Child of the Dawn… comrades…” His voice was hoarse and trembling. “Let me tell you what the ‘prosperity’ of the South actually tastes like.”
“Since I could remember, a number was branded onto my chest: D-District 9527. They didn’t call us by our names because names are for people. To them, we were ‘speaking tools.'”
“My mother was D-District 75. In the year I was 8 years old, she was beaten to death by an overseer because she couldn’t finish her quota of cutting sugarcane. I watched from the side, not even daring to make a sound as I cried.”
The cold words were sharper than a knife, carving into the hearts of everyone present. The member who had been muttering earlier had already turned pale.
“Every piece of sugar the Northern nobles eat carries the taste of our blood. The sugarcane fields are a green hell. From sunrise to sunset, we bend our backs and swing our blades. Sweat pours into our eyes, and the sharp leaves cut our skin; the wounds fester and rot under the sweat and mosquito bites. Many people collapse in the fields and never stand up again.”
“The overseers ride tall horses, wielding whips soaked in salt water. If you’re a step slow, it’s a lash that tears your skin open. A person dying is like a beast dying; the next day, a new number fills the vacancy.”
“When livestock gets sick, the master will call a veterinarian to look at it for fear of losing property. When we get sick, we’re just dragged into a quarantine shack full of flies and left to fend for ourselves. When we die, we’re thrown into a mass grave in the valley.”
“To ‘replenish stock,’ they force male and female slaves to mate like breeding animals. The children born are slaves from the moment they arrive. Children… sometimes they are even tools for their amusement and violent outbursts…”
Julian’s voice choked. Those resolute eyes were filled with unspeakable humiliation and sky-toppling hatred. The female members who had once been slaves subconsciously clenched their fists, their nails digging deep into their palms.
“Escape? Many have tried. I’ve almost never heard of anyone succeeding. Those caught are publicly executed—their limbs chopped off, or doused in oil and burned alive—to terrify the rest of us.”
“The Duke’s Crest Power might not show itself often, but his lackeys—those bloodthirsty mercenaries and vicious hounds—are everywhere. They make us believe that leaving the plantation only leads to a more terrifying death. That bone-deep despair binds tighter than any iron chain.”
Julian looked up, the red in his eyes burning with the fires of revenge as he growled with all his strength:
“That place is not the human world; it is a living purgatory! Beneath every plantation are mountains of our compatriots’ bones! ‘Revolution’ is not a choice for the South; it is our only hope for survival!”
This accusation was like a heavy hammer, shattering the last trace of hesitation and confusion in the meeting room.
A cold fury began to spread.
Marianne’s crimson eyes surged with bloody light. She didn’t even realize her nails had scratched several deep marks into the table.
She was already mentally constructing ways to make those plantation owners experience a death 10,000 times more painful than the ‘Bloodhawk.’
Allen waited quietly for Julian’s emotions to settle before standing up, his eyes burning as he scanned the room.
“Comrades, our stage is about to expand from the shadows of Lucien to the fields of Lorraine and the plantations of the South.”
“The reform has given us a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but a storm follows closely behind. We must ensure our ‘roots’ can take hold in the most fertile soil and withstand the harshest winter.”
“As Comrade Julian said, revolution for the slaves of the South is a struggle for survival.” Allen’s voice echoed in the solemn room. “So, how do we win this destined-to-be-difficult war?”
He looked at Marianne.
“Comrade Marianne, distribute our booklets.”
“Yes, Comrade Allen,” Marianne stood up.
With a wave of her slender hand, the shadows on everyone’s desks suddenly came to life, spreading like ink. Plain-covered booklets emerged from the darkness, silently landing in front of each person.
This masterful use of the Brand of Shadow by the Torchbearer made everyone let out a low gasp of admiration.
Finn, Luca, Eleanor, and François flipped open the booklets almost simultaneously.
Three large words, written with strokes that seemed to carry the scent of blood and fire, slammed into their vision—
“Dragon Slaying Technique.”
“This is the weapon we will use to defeat the dragon of the Old World.”
Allen’s voice pulled everyone’s attention back. He didn’t play coy and went straight to the point.
“Every word I say next, you must remember firmly. A good memory is no match for a worn-out pen; take notes where necessary.”
The sound of pens and paper rustling filled the room.
“First technique: Insight into the Dragon Veins. Investigation and research are the foundation of everything. The core is a single sentence: without investigation, there is no right to speak.”
Allen’s gaze passed over Julian, who was gripping his pen tightly, seriously recording the Leader’s words. He was a living investigation report.
“You must lower yourselves and learn from the people. Drink their water, listen to their bitterness, and record every account of blood and tears from their exploitation.”
“Choose a village, a factory, or a district to dissect. Figure out exactly how many Crested Nobles, butlers, merchants, priests, independent farmers, hired laborers, and beggars there are. Learn how they exploit one another and how they coexist.”
“If you do not know one village, how can you know the world? Never trust official documents or hearsay. All information must be verified personally with your own eyes, ears, and feet!”
“Second technique: Identifying Friends and Enemies—who are our enemies, and who are our friends? This is the primary question of the revolution. Currently, the contradiction between the general populace and the feudal privileges of the Crested Nobles is the most acute. Therefore, concentrate your fire there; do not make enemies everywhere. We can even exploit the contradictions between the Robe Nobility and the Sword-Bearing Nobles.”
“At the same time, realize that the Evil God will use the people’s pain and despair to deceive them. The better our work is, the harder it will be for the Evil God to find ground to grow. Solving the people’s real-world suffering is the most powerful form of exorcism!”
“Third technique: Rooting in the People—how do we mobilize the masses? A revolution is not a dinner party, nor is it forced indoctrination. You must start from the people’s most immediate pain.”
“Do not start by shouting ‘Overthrow the Crested Nobles.’ Begin with specific incidents like ‘opposing the butler’s wage deductions,’ ‘demanding lower land rent,’ or ‘protesting the destruction of crops by noble hunting parties.’ Lead the masses to accumulate confidence through small victories and realize the power of unity.”
Allen’s speaking pace was not fast, but every word carried weight.
“Our slogans must be practical. ‘Land to the Tiller,’ ‘Three-year tax exemption,’ and ‘Abolition of the Right of the First Night’—these are more powerful than any hollow ideal! Our benefits must be visible and tangible to the common people. When we take a granary, distribute the grain immediately. When we judge a bully, distribute the property to the poor. Let the masses see and touch the benefits of the revolution with their own hands!”
As soon as the words ‘Land to the Tiller’ were spoken, several members from farming backgrounds began to breathe heavily, a startling light erupting in their eyes.
That wasn’t some ethereal heaven; it was a scene they had watered with blood and sweat for generations but never dared to dream of.
“Fourth technique: Weaving the Net and Building the Base—how do we establish our organization and base areas? A single spark can start a prairie fire, but the spark needs a harbor and fuel. We must continue to adhere to the Chainmail Principle, which is ‘vertical leadership, horizontal isolation.'”
“In the countryside, select the most reliable and oppressed households to develop into our secret strongholds. They are our eyes and roots in the rural areas; they are our ‘Red Fortress Households.'”
“In border areas where enemy rule is weak, such as mountains and dense forests, establish our consolidated base areas. There, we will implement our own laws and train our own army. Ultimately, we will achieve the encirclement of the cities by the countryside and finally seize the cities!”
“Fifth technique: Casting and Wielding the Sword—the strategy of armed struggle. The weapon of criticism cannot replace the criticism of weapons. Facing powerful Crestbearers, we must have our own sword!”
“Our army is the core, but the real power lies in the millions of mobilized people. We must combine the main corps, the local militia, and the guerrilla groups behind enemy lines to wage a true people’s war.”
“Our tactical principles should follow this Sixteen-Character Principle: When the enemy advances, we retreat; when the enemy camps, we harass; when the enemy tires, we attack; when the enemy retreats, we pursue!”
Allen’s explanation was clear, thorough, and filled with logical power. He broke down what seemed like an impossible revolution into clear, executable steps.
Combining Julian’s descriptions, he specifically analyzed how to initiate a successful plantation uprising in the South based on these five techniques.
“We can exploit the gaps in overseer shift changes or use a holiday when their guard is down to seize the armory. But don’t think about occupying the plantation immediately; that is suicide.”
“Our goal is escape—taking all slaves willing to resist into the continuous mountain ranges of the South. The lessons of slave uprisings in history tell us that without a stable rear base, nomadic victories cannot last.”
“We will establish base areas in the mountains, reclaim land, develop production, and train our army while sending people back to the plantations to continue inciting more slaves. When our strength is great enough, we will descend the mountains and liberate the entire South!”
The crowd listened with surging emotions. The sound of booklets being flipped filled the room; many wished they could carve every word into their brains. A magnificent scroll of a war of liberation was slowly unfolding before their eyes.
When they had fully absorbed Allen’s speech, his voice rose again, but this time with an unprecedented solemnity.
“The South will be the first fire we light in the Old World. But if we want this fire to burn, we need a spark—a catalyst that can ignite the entire southern powder keg. And this catalyst requires some of us to make a great sacrifice.”
The conference hall fell silent once more. Everyone held their breath.
“The first and most dangerous step of this plan is that we need some comrades to take the initiative and go deep into the South. They must experience the deepest suffering there and find the seed that can ignite everything.”
“For this, they must abandon their current identities, abandon everything we have given them, and turn back into the most humble, the most wretched, the ones struggling in the mud…”
Allen’s gaze swept across every person, spitting out that heavy word one syllable at a time.
“…Slaves.”
The air seemed to freeze.
Someone’s pen hit the floor with a clatter, the sound exceptionally sharp in the dead silence.
They were being asked… to return to that hellish life?
This required more than just courage; it required the purest resolve, placing one’s own life and death entirely aside.
“I’ll go!”
Julian was the first to stand. His chair fell backward with a loud bang. His chest heaved violently, but his voice was incredibly firm.
“I came from there; I am willing to go back! To liberate my compatriots, I am willing to give everything!”
“I’ll go too!” Another boy, also from the South, stood up abruptly. His face still bore old scars from whip lashes. “That hellhole won’t scare me a second time!”
“And me!”
“Count me in!”
One figure after another stood up. Those members who had once struggled at the bottom and understood that pain best showed no fear, only the determination to break their pots and sink their ships.
They were the people Allen had pulled out of hell; now, for the sake of more people, they were willing to walk back into it.
Allen looked at them, at those young and resolute faces, and a hot current welled up in his heart.
He slowly nodded and officially announced, “Very well! I declare that the ‘Dawn’s Children’ Southern Bureau is hereby established! Comrade Julian, once personnel and supplies are ready, you will be the leader of the first group of comrades going south!”
He looked around at these comrades whose eyes burned with the flames of their ideals.
A sincere and proud smile appeared on his face as he concluded this historic meeting with a powerful sentence.
“Comrades, we are not only good at destroying an old world; we will also be good at building a new world.”
“That is all. Meeting adjourned!”