The streets of Lata were alive with a fury that hadn't been seen in years. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, shouting with hoarse voices, their faces twisted with anger.
Signs that once boasted slogans of national pride now hung in tatters—"Down with the Empire," "Bernard's Taxes Will Kill Us," "Not a Slave to Imperial Gold." The air buzzed with friction, the sharp, sizzling heat of resentment.
Eric stood on the balcony of what used to be the royal palace. His gaze swept over the crowd like a predator surveying prey. The protests, though ragged and disorganized, had a pulse—unlike the kingdom that had once stood proud, crushed under the iron boot of the Bernard Empire. The anger was raw, like a wound still open and bleeding.
"Idiots," Eric muttered to himself, his fingers curling into fists.
He could hear the chants echoing from the street below, a growing crescendo of defiance.
"FUCK THE EMPIRE!" they screamed, their voices seething like a boiling cauldron.
