Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World-Chapter 118: Law and Order (Part 16)

The midday sun bore down on Iron Hearth’s central market, casting long, jagged shadows between crowded merchant stalls and the weaving foot traffic of townsfolk. The square buzzed with life—children dashed between carts, chasing a half-deflated leather ball; vendors hawked their wares with booming voices, each trying to outshout the next; the scent of sizzling meat tangled with the earthy musk of old stone, sweat, and horse dung.

And in the midst of it all stood Tannus.

Not lurking in an alley. Not tucked away in some shadowy corner.

He stood right there, in the center of the chaos, as if daring the sun itself to challenge him. Calm. Still. His arms folded across his chest, flanked by two silent lackeys trailing behind him.

On the surface, he looked like any other weary traveler—dressed in plain leather armor, a sun-bleached brown cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, a dust-caked satchel hanging at his side. But the moment anyone’s gaze met his eyes, they knew.

This man wasn’t ordinary.

Tannus’s jaw tightened as he stepped past a fruit stall. His boots crunched against gravel, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were far from the market noise.

Why the hell am I the one doing this? he thought, his lips tightening into a grim line. Vice Commander of Iron Shield—reduced to a thug errand boy. Kaelen should’ve sent Borik. Bastard’s eager for blood. I’ve got better things to do than stomp through markets in broad daylight.

But Kaelen had made his orders clear in today’s morning meeting.

"We need to remind the king that he doesn’t control this place. That no badge, no fancy title, no navy blue uniform will change that."

Tannus had protested, of course—this wasn’t just some merchant shakedown. It was a message. A retaliation. A risk. But Kaelen’s pride had already taken a hit after losing two of their men to these so-called "officers of the law." That alone was enough to enrage the Iron Shield leader.

And now Tannus was here—walking beneath the burning sun, in full view of the public—with one mission: provoke a confrontation. Create enough of a disturbance that the officers would respond. And when they did?

Kill them.

Not threatened. Not intimidated.

Kill all five of the officers who dared arrest Iron Shield men in broad daylight.

That was the mission Kaelen had hammered into his skull—and Tannus didn’t need reminding.

He came to a halt in the center of the cobblestone path, his cloak fluttering slightly as a warm breeze rolled through the market. His eyes settled on a vendor’s food stall just ahead—baskets of steaming buns, grilled skewers, and freshly cut fruit laid out in neat rows. The vendor, an older man with calloused hands and tired eyes, was serving a pair of customers with the quiet rhythm of someone used to surviving in a city ruled by gangs.

Tannus tilted his head.

Perfect.

He raised a hand and pointed lazily toward the stall. "That one," he said flatly, voice barely above a murmur—but it carried like steel across a blade. "Make a mess. Smash everything. Flip the tables, kick the pots, scare the locals. I want it loud. Public."

The two lackeys exchanged glances and nodded. They didn’t ask questions.

Tannus added, "And be sure to make it very clear—shout it if you have to. Tell them this is Iron Shield’s turf. Say it’s retaliation. Say it’s a warning."

The lackeys smirked, cracking their knuckles as they moved. One of them muttered, "Been a while since we reminded these rats who’s in charge."

Tannus didn’t smile.

He just stood there, cloak swaying, arms folded once more.

And waited.

Not for the chaos. But for the response.

Tannus didn’t even blink as the first stall was kicked over, clay bowls shattering, broth and meat splashing across the stone. The vendor’s cry of protest was drowned out by the sudden shriek of terror from a nearby woman. Footsteps scattered. Screams followed.

And then— A sharp, piercing whistle split the air.

The first responder had arrived.

Mikel, closest to the disturbance, broke into a sprint the moment he saw the smoke of overturned pots and the unmistakable insignia of Iron Shield flashing on a pendant one of the thugs wore around his neck. He raised the whistle again, two short blasts this time—calling for immediate backup—and then surged forward without hesitation.

"Stop this at once!" Mikel shouted, baton drawn. "You are committing a crime—destruction of property, disturbing the peace, inciting panic!"

One of the gang members turned to him, grinning like a mad dog. "You think we don’t know that?" he sneered, stepping on a basket of dumplings and grinding it into the cobblestone. "That’s the whole damn point." ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"We want you to come," the other added, picking up a vendor’s stool and hurling it aside. "This isn’t a mistake. This is retaliation."

Mikel’s eyes narrowed, heart thudding—not from fear, but from calculation. "Then you’re under arrest," he said coldly.

That was when the rest of the squad arrived.

Jareth. Rourke. Renford. The fifth officer, Darren. Their navy-blue uniforms stood out like flags in a storm—sharp, clean, unyielding.

The lead thug looked around, still grinning. "Five of you," he said. "Perfect."

"We’re members of the Iron Shield!" the second man bellowed to the watching crowd. "This is our message! This market belongs to us! Not to your king, and not to your fancy little ’law enforcers’!"

Mikel glanced toward Jareth.

Jareth’s gaze swept the wreckage, the frightened vendors, the broken bowls and scattered fruit.

He nodded once. "Then we arrest them."

There was no hesitation.

Batons flashed from holsters in a single fluid motion.

Jareth’s voice rang out like a hammer. "Move!"

The officers surged forward, coordinated like a pack of trained wolves. Mikel flanked the left, Rourke the right, while Jareth went straight down the center.

The two thugs didn’t flee.

Instead, they grinned—eyes glinting with violence—and drew gleaming steel from beneath their cloaks. The crowd gasped as the daggers caught the sunlight, short but deadly, curved for close-quarters brutality.

Mikel didn’t slow. Neither did the others.

The five officers surged like a tide.

The first thug lunged toward Rourke, dagger aimed at his ribs. Rourke deflected with his baton, steel sparking against reinforced alloy. He twisted his body, grunting as he absorbed the blow across his arm, then drove his knee hard into the man’s gut. The thug wheezed, staggered—but didn’t fall.

The second thug spun toward Renford, who stepped in close, ducking under the wild slash aimed at his head. The blade grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric but not flesh. In retaliation, Renford swept the thug’s legs, bringing him down hard. He tried to land a pin, but the man thrashed like a cornered beast, kicking Renford off.

To the left, Mikel tangled with the first man again—baton striking out in quick arcs to keep the dagger at bay. The thug was fast, but Mikel was faster. He faked a left hook, then delivered a clean baton strike to the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blade with a cry.

Jareth, meanwhile, went for control.

He didn’t fight with rage—he fought with precision. Each movement was calculated, like a seasoned duelist. He waited for his opening, then struck hard and fast, his baton crashing down on the second thug’s collarbone. The man screamed, stumbling back, only for Darren to tackle him from behind, forcing him onto his stomach.

"Man down!" Darren shouted. "Subdue and cuff!"

"I’ve got him—!" Renford dove in, helping secure the writhing man’s legs while Jareth twisted one arm behind the thug’s back and locked in the shackles with a sharp click.

The first thug, now disarmed, tried to flee—but Mikel grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into a fist. One final blow to the temple dropped the man like a stone.

The crowd erupted again—but this time not in fear.

It was awe.

The five officers moved as one—efficient, trained, unforgiving. And even though the gangsters had come armed and furious, they were now bloodied, bruised, and very much defeated.

But just as victory seemed certain, a sharp stone whistled through the air—striking Mikel squarely on the head. He collapsed instantly, the triumph vanishing from the team’s faces in a heartbeat.

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