Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World-Chapter 117: Law and Order (Part 15)

The Next Morning – Central Market Tea Stand, Iron Hearth

The scent of simmering barley tea mingled with the dusty morning air as vendors finished setting up their stalls. Beneath a patched canvas awning, three middle-aged men sat on crude wooden stools, sipping from steaming clay cups.

"Hey," one of them said, glancing around before leaning in. "Is it true? I heard two Iron Shield gangsters were arrested—in the middle of the damn market."

"True as daylight," replied the second man, who lived a few streets away from the square. "I saw it myself. The ones in those deep navy uniforms—the ’Officers of the Law,’ they call themselves. Took them down clean. No swords, no nobles, just batons and guts."

The third man, older and a bit stockier, leaned forward with a grin. "You think that’s wild? I went to Station A this morning. Just to see if it was real."

"You went?" the first man asked, eyebrows raised. "Why?"

"Curiosity. And doubt," he admitted, scratching his chin. "Thought maybe it was all a show—maybe the gang paid them off, or they’d be let go after a few handshakes and hush money."

"And?" the second man prompted.

"They’re still in the cell," the third man said, nodding. "Bruised, shackled, and not smiling. I don’t know what punishment’s coming, but they’re not walking free. And that station?" He whistled. "Stone walls like a noble’s barracks. Doors reinforced. It was so well built that I even was in awe as I walked into station A. Also I counted at least twenty officers on duty—all in that matching navy-blue. It looked like they actually trained together. Not like the old city watch clowns with mismatched boots and crooked badges."

The second man sipped his tea and muttered, "Huh. Maybe they’re the real deal. I mean—first day out, and they go straight at the Iron Shield? That’s not just brave—that’s suicidal if you don’t have real backing. Also for some reason I want to trust the new officer."

There was a pause but all of them didn’t disagree.

"And they didn’t just brawl and vanish," the third man added. "They posted signs. Gave speeches. Even let people visit the station and check for themselves."

The first man, who had once been fined unfairly by the old city watch, frowned. "It’s almost too good to believe. But if it’s true... if the King really sent them and gave them this kind of authority..."

The third man nodded. "Then maybe Iron Hearth’s finally got a force that works for us."

There was another pause.

Then the first man chuckled to himself. "You know... I’ve been talking sh*t about tax collectors for years. Always figured they just took and never gave back. But if this is where my money’s going?" He shook his head, almost in disbelief. "Hell—I wouldn’t mind paying more."

The three men burst into laughter, loud and genuine.

Just a week ago, none of them would’ve said such a thing out loud. But today, with two gang enforcers sitting in jail, and uniformed officers patrolling the market with calm authority... something felt different.

...

However, elsewhere in Iron Hearth, the atmosphere was anything but hopeful.

Beneath the worn flagstones of an abandoned tavern on the outskirts of the city—repurposed into a hidden meeting hall—a very different kind of gathering was underway. The air was thick with pipe smoke and tension. Iron torch sconces flickered dimly against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the grim faces seated around a crooked wooden table.

At the head sat Kaelen Virell, leader of the Iron Shield gang—his long, weather-worn coat draped over his shoulders like a general’s cloak. Beside him were his two vice-commanders, Borik and Tannus, each exuding that cold, street-hardened arrogance earned from years of unchecked power.

Around them sat a mix of Iron Shield high ranking members, their hands idly resting near hidden blades. But what made this gathering particularly delicate tonight were the guests—substitutes sent by several minor nobles and wealthy merchant families who had long benefited from Iron Shield’s underground influence. These nobles weren’t like Count Delric who is considered high ranking nobles or the royal loyalists. They were the bottom feeders of nobility—those with just enough status to matter, but never enough power to thrive without backroom deals and bloody hands.

Of course, none of them had come in person. They’d sent proxies—bodyguards, stewards, and second sons—cloaked in anonymity and excuses. They weren’t loyal to Kaelen. Just... invested.

Kaelen leaned forward, the candlelight catching the jagged scar beneath his right eye. He rapped his knuckles once against the table.

"They arrested two of ours," he said coldly, voice quiet but razor-sharp. "In broad daylight. In the middle of the godsdamned central market."

No one replied.

Kaelen’s gaze swept the room like a blade. "And not just that—they did it wearing uniforms. Marching under a royal seal. Calling themselves Officers of the Law."

One of the proxies cleared his throat. "They... they claimed it was by decree of King Arthur Tesla. That this new force—"

"I know what they claimed," Kaelen snapped, cutting the man off with a glare sharp enough to slice steel. "I know it came from Arthur. What I want to know is—why is this time different?"

The room fell quiet, the torches casting uneasy flickers across hardened faces.

Everyone at the table knew what Kaelen meant. Over the years, King Arthur Tesla had sent aid to Iron Hearth—funds, supplies, even a handful of royal guards once or twice. But those efforts had always been half-measures. Token gestures. A few coins tossed into a fire too large to smother. They’d never lasted. They’d never mattered. Kaelen had crushed every attempt with time and patience, because no one had the guts—or the authority—to truly challenge the Iron Shield’s grip. Also it was because Arthur was not the one who was operating the past attempt.

Until now.

This time, it felt different.

And Kaelen hated it.

One of the merchant proxies cleared his throat nervously. "From what we’ve heard... these officers weren’t just sent. They were trained—personally. They’re not city watch or borrowed guards. They’re operating under direct royal authority. And... they said they outrank even a marquis when it comes to enforcing the law."

Kaelen’s lip curled. "Authority?" he scoffed. "So what if the king gave them pretty badges and nice boots? That doesn’t change anything. It’s the same game. Send in a few hounds to show the people he’s ’doing something,’ then pull them back once the nobles start whining."

He slammed a fist onto the table.

"But this time he dared to put hands on my men. In the center of my streets."

A murmur of discomfort rippled through the lieutenants.

"I don’t care who trained them. I don’t care if Arthur himself laced up their boots and handed them a sword. They think they can march in here, parade around in dark navy blue coats, and humiliate my people in broad daylight?"

His voice dropped into a low, venomous growl.

"They want justice? I’ll give them blood."

Borik leaned forward, his voice cautious but curious. "You think we retaliate immediately?"

Kaelen’s eyes burned with fury. "Of course. This isn’t about two pawns getting slapped in irons. This is about sending a message. The king thinks Iron Hearth belongs to him. Let’s remind everyone who really owns these streets."

Years of unchecked power, noble protection, and a kingdom too distracted to care had forged Kaelen into the monster Iron Hearth feared. He had grown fat on chaos and arrogant on silence. And now, for the first time in years, someone had struck back—and he refused to let it go unanswered and still thinking he has more power than the king himself.

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