In the heavy twilight, Yang Zicang walked along the hard-packed dirt road, the blue cloth coat given to him by Long Mingjie draped over his arm.

A staff car from the division pulled up from behind, and Anxi stuck his head out of the window and shouted:

“Whoa, pal, so you just walk away like that? You nearly squeezed the two of us to death in there—we almost didn’t make it back!“

The car stopped beside Yang Zicang; Hurst, in the passenger seat, eagerly turned his head to look around.

“Mr. Fogman, you’re amazing. I didn’t know what was going on even in the last few minutes—so it turns out even the idea of establishing an autonomous committee was yours. How are you Fogfolk just… so incredible? “

“Heh-heh, maybe it’s because we’ve lived through times like these before. “

Yang Zicang pulled open the car door and saw that Hurst’s clothes had split at the seams, reminding him inexplicably of a quilt—a quilt? Glimpsing Yang Zicang’s thoughtful glance, Hurst laughed heartily and said:

“This was left by the villagers. They insisted we eat. “

“Heh-heh, I told them we were driving here to pick you up, and only then did they let us go. Oh, hurry up—if we don’t leave now, they’ll come chasing after us. “

The car puttered off toward the city.

Anxi learned that it was Yang Zicang who had contacted Yao Xiaoqin earlier, asking her to help find The Biologist to confirm the condition of bones from severe syphilis patients after death, and had urgently contacted She Liqi, making sure they spared no effort to quickly track down that old newspaper.

“So, does that mean everyone pitched in again this time? “

Hearing the driving ex‑employee speak in fluent Fogfolk language, Hurst instinctively looked to the Fogman in the back seat. The man gave a faint “hm ” in response.

The closer they got to White Violet City, the more tangible the restless atmosphere in the air became. Many vehicles were parked along both sides of the road—they were actually stuck in a traffic jam… Even if it was a jam of oxcarts and horse-drawn carriages.

Sensing that something was about to happen, Yang Zicang shed the work coat he’d worn for the past two days, slipped back into the navy-blue jacket Long Mingjie had given him, and buttoned up his black naval-style cap. He deliberately let his unkempt hair—left uncut for two months—cover his ears, then pressed the cap tight to pin it down.

Hurst, who kept glancing back, caught sight of the Fog Man’s head-to-toe transformation—a burst of spirited vigor about him, he couldn’t help sighing inwardly. Though it’s said clothes make the man, this simple get‑up, once draped on this young man, somehow carried an ineffable presence that felt more compelling than his own intricately wrought suit.

“We’re stuck,” Anxi said, slapping the steering wheel.

“Then you think of a way to ditch the car. I’ll go on foot; contact me tonight.“

With that, Yang Zicang pushed open the car door, stepped out under the curious eyes of those around on their ox‑carts and horse‑drawn wagons, and walked ahead, merging into a motley crowd that had also chosen to go on foot.

“Hey, mister—are you following the hero’s dress code too?“

At the arched gate of the city wall, three students stopped and spun around, gazing at him with eager surprise.

“The Hero’s dress code?” Clad in head‑to‑toe navy, Yang Zicang looked dazed. He tugged at the brim of his naval cap. “No, you must be mistaken.“

“I think not!“

One of them dashed up to peek at his jacket, while another studied his straight‑cut trousers.

“This is, like, the official Hero Triple‑Kit!“

“What?“

More people nearby turned to look. “Even the cap is the exact same model—goodness, I worked so hard on my custom hero hat, but compared to yours, there’s nothing left worth boasting about.“

Suiting actions to words, two tall, enthusiastic young men stepped forward and grabbed his arms.

“Listen! They’re passing through here — let’s join them! “

Yang Zicang was jostled forward by the youthful crowd that had enveloped him.

They were of different ages, different appearances, and vastly different temperaments. Yet if one thing united them, it was the blue, black, and navy jackets and trousers they all wore, in varying degrees!

“What’s going on? “

In the narrow gaps between crowded vehicles in the tunnel, Yang Zicang was tugged along at speed.

“What? “

An earth-shaking roar erupted from the throats of the people beside him.

Yang Zicang turned his head. They were clenching their fists and pounding the air above them.

— “Take back the Baijin Mountains! “

A jolting shiver raced down Yang Zicang’s spine.

“Take back the Baijin Mountains! ” The people around him shoved him forward.

The moment they passed through the ancient city gate’s archway, a tsunami of cheers and cries crashed into them!

— “Vocal support forQingying Gazette! “

Under the newly fallen night, the streets teemed with surging crowds. The Grand Duchy’s blue seabird standard, holding a flower in its beak, along with a myriad of colorful pennants, converged into a great torrent, flowing through the ancient thoroughfares!

Countless arms waved, and from their throats burst scalding cries:

-｛May Valkyrie, Fifth Layer distributor, has marked a new node for this blaze-kindled light of glory.｝

In the crowd, Yang Zicang cowered and shrank, his gaze passing through a dense sea of heads to see some people leaping up into the trees, waving flags.

From the second-floor windows lining the street, many people waved bedsheets inscribed with text and the newspapers in their hands.

-｛Distributor February. Di’an radiates shock.｝

“Sir, which shop ordered your Hero’s Three-Piece Suit? “

Two people shouting slogans nearby caught a fleeting glimpse of that black lambswool naval cap, and squeezing their way over with effort, they clutched newspapers and pushed forward.

A young man of around seventeen or eighteen squeezed past two girls in black slim-fit trousers and a greenish-black half-skirt, excitedly rubbing Yang Zicang’s sleeve, while another person struggled to lean in and compare those details against the blurry figure photographed by the seaside, reproduced in theTranquil Watcher Gazettehe held.

It was that distant figure lingering by the plaza, silently watching as clothes were distributed to the disaster victims. Though the face was unclear, that unmistakable attire was easily identifiable.

“That Jean Conrad guy… “

I explicitly told him not to mention the Fogfolk’s proposed plan, but not only did he bring it up… Yang Zicang’s sharp gaze swept across the newspaper.

With just one glance, the youth tracing the pattern of a Level 1 Memory Magic Rune in his mind had already recalled and understood the gist of its entire contents.

“He even took what I said… ‘Don’t mention me, so that everyone working hard to stabilize the people here can earn greater recognition from the compatriots in the Grand Duchy back home, and feel more connected’—he dressed that up in his words and published it. Lucky for me, he didn’t reveal my name. “

-｛Distributor Tå Tarminq signaled ‘un poco apretado’.｝

……

The great procession in White Violet City struck like a boulder crashing into a lake, its ripples radiating outward with breathtaking speed.

Hidden among the crowds were spies from the great nations, reporters from domestic and foreign newspapers, and individuals of every stripe—all scrambling by any means to telegraph news of this massive eruption back to every corner of the continent.

“…slogan is gaining wings. Mmm-hmm, right, right.“

“Now it’s not just condemnation of Teransi, Councilor: mm? Mm? Parliament in session? That’s no, sir, now down here, what are we supposed to do…“

“They’ve already started boycotting products from mills that exploit labor. Did you catch that?“

A long line wound out from the door of an expensive long-distance telephone booth. A man in a round-brimmed gray felt cap tapped the back of the man now clutching the vibrating mouthpiece.

“Hey buddy, you think you could call the Councilors back at your own office? Some of us got urgent calls right now.“

……

In Grand Duchy Bijing—Béryl-City, inside the offices of the Běhǎi Morning Post, a hive of activity: people swapping files, dashing back and forth.

“Fast, new telegram over the wire!“

“Photo; who can send a photo back? Can we still hail a Fogfolk agent to relay it?“

“No time for that – have Eric draw two on-site sketches now. “

No sooner had the massive man in the oversized shirt finished speaking than the door burst open with a bang. A person rushed in, clutching a freshly printed newspaper, and shouted, “Bad news! That civilian-founded Violet Metropolis Weekly has already released a special edition! “

“Damn it! “

……

The Grand Duke Célestin, who hadn’t been seen in ages, stared at the documents in his hands. He let out a long, deep sigh from his chest.

“Are the newspapers in other cities like this too? “

“Yes, I think we need to put a lid on these things. Orders now to ban publication in all cities? “

The Grand Duke raised his head and gave a cold glance at the bent-waisted confidential secretary beside him. “Don’t you know foreign newspapers will print this news too? “

“I… ” The slick layer popped on his forehead shriny scalps of the sweating bureaucrat as mouth glitched almost speechlessness.

Over this half-sovereigning ruler even vanished but several polit-abilities hadn’t that might be used…now suddenly shines with radiance long years of losing edge as seeing said beast’s vigor unstoppans slowly.

“Have you forgotten that this offers a golden opportunity to the Fogfolk? Get me a pen, now. “

Nevertheless,the bureaucrat indeed saw secret fear arise to the tycoons calling The Foggy folks be them real opponents in brinkworks.He didn’t dare up use the word ‘Your Highness’, just curtsey moved promptly then reverienced both arms deliver a luxury smooth ballproof drafting pen.

……

One hour thereafter, news stands flipped insane uptempo lines between sweat droplets throwing oodles upon overnight redactions onto all city editorshots.For now, in longest dormant declaration Grand Duke sent weird direct Executive Order number jumping beyond usual cabinet instructions pointing fierce signs towards our foregin-packed coastal pillage basin lands!

—— “Nobody scions of Grand Duchy ought be reduced slave forced removal help—this belonging under arms. “

The hefty man trembled as he read the telegram in his hands. It was the super-biggest headline news perfectly prepared for his second evening publication.

“Boss, we’ve hit the jackpot! The content for the extra edition was just ready when this ‘Administrative Order’ arrived! Other presses won’t have time to catch up! “

“Now! ” He leaped onto a chair, stomping across two, and brandished the paper in his hands, roaring: “Add it in! Start the presses now! Front-page headline! “

Countless sheets of paper spewed from the old cast-iron manual printing presses. Newsboys swarmed like beehives to and from the factories, the freshly printed pages flying out like falling snowflakes…

No sooner had the newsboys shouted a few cries than their papers were snatched away by numerous hands, leaving behind a few copper coins.

Order demands the Marshal “Act immediately, reclaim lost territory, and defend our people! “

Lord Horn, the Seventh Grand Duke, pledges: Exert every effort to repatriate more captured compatriots within the next two years!

The news swept through like a hurricane.