Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World-Chapter 116: Law and Order (Part 14)

The two men hesitated—but they didn’t back down.

One cracked his neck, flexing thick fingers with slow menace. The other grinned wide, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

"Then come take us," the first man growled, spitting at Jareth’s boots.

Jareth exhaled—a short, focused breath—and his gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.

"On me," he said. His voice was calm, but the command beneath it rang clear.

And then he moved.

There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. In the blink between one heartbeat and the next, Jareth surged forward—baton drawn from its holster in a blur of dark steel and motion. The first thug raised his fists, swinging wide with brute force, but Jareth was already inside his guard. He ducked low, his boot sliding across the dust, and drove his shoulder hard into the man’s gut. A whoof of expelled breath burst from the thug as he stumbled backward—

—but Jareth didn’t stop.

In a single fluid sweep, he hooked the man’s legs out from under him, slamming him down onto the dirt road with a bone-jarring thud. The crowd gasped as the man hit the ground hard, groaning, the wind knocked clean from his lungs.

"Bastard!" the second thug bellowed, and charged—this time at Mikel.

But Mikel had already stepped forward, stance solid, baton raised—not with fear, but with the precision of a trained enforcer. The two clashed, the thug’s wild punch meeting reinforced hardwood mid-swing. The impact cracked like a whip.

Mikel twisted, redirecting the man’s arm with practiced momentum before driving the tip of his baton into the thug’s shoulder—right on the nerve. The man cried out in pain, his arm going limp. He tried to retaliate with a clumsy backhand, but Mikel sidestepped cleanly.

Before the thug could recover, Rourke moved in like a shadow. He locked one arm around the thug’s neck, yanked him off balance, and with brutal efficiency snapped the iron cuffs onto both wrists. The gang member howled, now writhing in dirt and dust—but he wasn’t getting free.

Jareth spun on his heel just as the first thug tried to rise. Without missing a beat, he stepped forward, planting one boot firmly between the man’s shoulder blades and pressing him back down into the dirt.

"I told you," he said, breath calm but firm, "you should have surrendered."

The thug spat curses beneath him, but they were hollow now. Winded. Beaten.

Renford limped into view, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip with the back of his sleeve. He looked down at the restrained thugs and muttered with a faint smirk, "That felt good. Painful... but good."

And then came the silence.

Not the tense silence of fear, but something deeper. Weightier.

A crowd had gathered—vendors, passersby, children peeking from behind crates. And they had all just witnessed something none of them had seen in years.

Not a brawl fueled by alcohol.

Not a payoff handed over in the shadows.

Not city watch pretending not to see.

This... was justice.

Real. Swift. Unflinching.

Jareth looked up at the onlookers, sweat gleaming on his brow, dust coating his dark navy-blue uniform. But he stood tall, eyes clear, baton held at his side with the quiet dignity of a man who had nothing to prove—but everything to protect.

"These men," he said loudly, letting his voice carry, "will be taken to Station A for processing and questioning. They stand accused of assaulting an officer of the law, threatening public peace, and gang affiliation."

He paused, meeting the eyes of a few in the crowd—fearful, awestruck, skeptical.

"The law has spoken today," Jareth said, "and it will again. Every time it must."

A single clap echoed through the market.

Then another.

Then another.

Until the whole square filled with hesitant applause—scattered at first, then swelling. It wasn’t cheering. It wasn’t celebration.

It was respect.

A tired-looking fruit vendor stepped forward and muttered under his breath, "Maybe... maybe things really are changing."

Jareth exchanged a glance with Mikel, Rourke, and Renford—each one bloodied but standing. They nodded to one another.

This was only the beginning.

...

Back at Station A, the atmosphere buzzed with a strange energy—a blend of tension, anticipation, and something far rarer in Iron Hearth: hope.

Word was already spreading like wildfire through the city.

Whispers danced through alleys and across vendor stalls, carried by breathless gossip and wide-eyed accounts. A confrontation had broken out in the heart of the marketplace—two men claiming to be Iron Shield members had attacked one of the new officers. But instead of being ignored, instead of watching another bloody example made in silence... something had changed. The officers in dark navy-blue uniforms had responded swiftly. No bribes. No hesitation. Just law. Just action.

The people watched them walk away afterward—not limping, not flinching, but steady and unbent.

Inside the dimly lit processing room of the station, the air was heavier. The two captured men sat on wooden stools, hands bound, bruised and bloodied. One spat a smear of red onto the stone floor, glaring at nothing. The other kept his eyes locked on the wall, rage flickering beneath his swollen brow. They were Iron Shield footmen—used to shaking down merchants, not sitting cuffed like criminals.

Now, they were experiencing something new: consequences.

At the nearby table, Jareth stood filling out the arrest documentation with calm, deliberate strokes. His baton hung loosely at his side, still marked with dust from the street. His uniform was slightly disheveled, sweat clinging to his neck beneath the collar. But his posture was unyielding. His eyes are sharp.

Across from him, another officer copied the report into the official Law Enforcement Division logbook, each line etched as proof—witness testimony, chain of events, time, location, charges: assault of an officer, threat to public safety, gang affiliation.

The door creaked open.

Lieutenant Talon stepped into the room, boots tapping lightly on the stone floor. His eyes swept across the prisoners, the officers, the paperwork in progress.

"So it’s true," he said finally, his voice a quiet blade of sound. "You five made the first arrest."

Jareth looked up, meeting his gaze with a crisp nod. "Yes, sir. The suspects assaulted Officer Renford during routine patrol. They identified themselves as Iron Shield and resisted detention. We issued the mandated warning, then used proportional force to subdue them."

Talon walked slowly toward the detainees, his expression unreadable. He stopped just a few paces from the bloodied men, looking them over like a butcher sizing up bad meat. He gave a small exhale through his nose.

"This is going to shake things loose," he muttered. "The people will whisper. The merchants will talk. The other gangs will start paying attention."

He turned back to Jareth.

"You did well. No civilian casualties. No unnecessary brutality. We made a point today—and we made it clean. The kingdom is watching us closely, and so far... you’ve upheld the uniform with honor."

Jareth gave a respectful incline of his head. "Thank you, sir."

But Talon wasn’t done. His tone dropped, becoming firmer.

"However, don’t get complacent. This may look like a win, but it’s only the opening move. From this moment on, you’ve painted a target on your back and the backs of your men. Iron Shield won’t let this go quietly."

He paused, then added, "Finish the full report. Thoroughly. Every word matters. King Arthur has personally ordered that any incident involving Iron Shield be reported to him directly—no matter how minor. I’ll send your statement with fast messenger bird so his majesty could receive your report within a day."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Jareth replied. "I’ll finish it by the hour."

Talon gave a single nod, then glanced once more at the detained men.

"Get used to this room," he said coldly. "We’ll be needing it more often."

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving the room in silence—save for the scratch of pen against paper, and the faint muttering of a broken gang’s pride.

Outside, Iron Hearth was no longer quiet.

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