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Chapter 1493: Flames

The roar of gunfire was magnified tenfold within the confines of the wooden building.

The woman’s corpse lay there with her mouth agape, as if her final silent plea had been for everyone to run.

The atmosphere, previously strained to its absolute limit, suddenly ignited like a powder keg. It exploded with a deafening roar.

Driven by the primal fear of death, people surged toward the café’s doors and windows with mad desperation. They shoved aside anyone in their path, trampling those who fell beneath their feet without a second thought.

Blood-curdling screams and desperate pleas for help drowned out the sickening sound of snapping bones. In an instant, the café was transformed into a living hell.

In the sheer chaos, even the secret police were knocked to the floor.

Terrified of being trampled to death themselves, they began firing blindly at anyone rushing toward them.

The panic only intensified.

Finally, a few lucky individuals managed to squeeze through the café’s main entrance, only to be met with a sight of utter despair. Two or three dozen more secret police had already surrounded the building.

The surrounding secret police raised their muskets, shouting at the top of their lungs, "Everyone on your knees!"

"Don't move, or we'll shoot!"

Instead of stopping, the "rioters" sprinted toward them with even greater speed.

The officer in charge had received strict orders not to let a single person escape. Having already heard several shots from inside, he cast all hesitation aside and gave the command: "Aim! Fire!"

Flashes of muzzle fire flickered in the darkness. Five or six people at the front of the crowd collapsed instantly.

Under the flickering light of their lanterns, the secret police began the methodical process of reloading—

Adorno stumbled into his home, slammed the door behind him, and threw the bolt. He collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath, his lungs burning as they inhaled the moldy, stagnant air.

He was alive. He had escaped. Aside from a few scratches on his face and his torn clothing, he was physically unharmed.

Yet his body wouldn't stop shaking. His mind was filled with images of the bloody massacre, and he couldn't forget the soft, yielding sensation of things he had stepped on while running. He remembered a limp arm, its owner already trampled beyond recognition.

He sat there on the floor, dazed and motionless, until the first grey light of dawn touched the city and the sound of wailing drifted in from the street.

The sound of mourning spread like a plague, and soon, the entire slum was echoing with sobs.

Not far away, a woman’s voice, raspy and broken, cried out, "My son was only sixteen! He just wanted to hear how he could get enough to eat!"

Lower, grumbled curses followed: "Those devils! Those executioners!"

"What did they do wrong?"

At that moment, a powerful shout rose above the collective grief. "This is a crime! This is a massacre!"

Adorno forced his numb legs to stand. Peering through the crack in the door, he saw a group of people approaching from the corner of the street.

Leading them were several well-dressed gentlemen, clearly not residents of the slums.

A young gentleman gestured emphatically toward the buildings on either side of the street. "Eighty-two people! Last night, the secret police murdered eighty-two people in that café on Mud-Brick Street!

"They were only there to discuss fairness and freedom, and those monsters wouldn't even allow them to speak!"

Only then did Adorno realize that eighty-two people had died in the café the previous night.

In truth, the secret police had only shot about twenty—their marksmanship wasn't that precise—while the rest had been killed in the stampede.

But no one cared for such distinctions now. Every single death was laid squarely at the feet of the secret police.

The young man leading the protest continued to shout, "We must stand together! We must demand justice for them, or else those bullets will find their way into our bodies sooner or later!"

The sound of a bell chimed in the distance. Adorno realized he needed to buy bread and rush to the workshop to ensure he wasn't late.

'You're useless!' he cursed himself bitterly.

The ideals of freedom, equality, and rights that had stirred in his heart the night before were currently no match for his desperate need for wages.

He slapped his legs to wake them up and reached for the door handle, but then he saw Gretel approaching. The child whispered, "Papa, Mama still won't eat anything."

Adorno had instructed the little one to change the wet towel on Karen's forehead and look after her meals while he was out.

He froze for a moment, then turned toward the bed in the corner of the room. He leaned down and gently shook his wife. "Karen—"

His voice cut off abruptly. When he touched Karen’s arm, it was as cold as a stone. She had been burning with fever only hours before.

Trembling, he held a finger under her nose, then yanked it back as if he had been bitten by a venomous snake.

She wasn't breathing.

Adorno’s mind went blank. He wanted to scream, to cry, but no tears came. His body simply continued to shake uncontrollably.

"This is also to reclaim the rights we deserve!" the voice outside shouted again.

Adorno suddenly stood up straight. He shoved the piece of black bread from the table—Karen’s untouched dinner—into little Gretel’s hands and told him to go spend the day upstairs with Mrs. Brandt.

Then, he grabbed a heavy wooden club and strode out the door. He joined the back of the protest march, his eyes cold and hollow.

As they moved through the filthy streets, doors began to open one after another.

Siegfried, wearing his old, tattered military uniform, was the first to step out.

Then came Favre, the one-eyed shoemaker, clutching his heavy iron anvil in his hand.

From shanties, basements, and cramped attics, people emerged from the dark, sunless corners of their lives to silently join the procession.

By the time they reached the next street, the crowd had grown to over two hundred people.

What Adorno didn't know was that at that very moment, across various parts of Vienna, there were at least a dozen similar protest columns forming.

Two hours later, Adorno’s group merged with two others. Led by the gentlemen, they raised their voices in rhythmic slogans and surged toward Schönbrunn Palace.

In front of Schönbrunn Palace Square, Count Salazar, the court official, frowned as he looked at the dense sea of people. He turned to the commander of the Imperial Guard Infantry Regiment and said, "These people are clearly in violation of the decree against public assembly. Disperse them immediately!"

The officer gave him a sidelong glance. "And how do you suggest I do that? I have only a thousand soldiers, and there are at least ten thousand people gathered here."

"Then open fire!"

"That would require authorization from His Majesty."

Count Salazar nodded curtly and turned to head back into the palace.

Behind a second-floor window of Schönbrunn Palace, Franz II stared out with a grim expression. The growing crowd and their deafening chants—"Punish the murderers!" "Convene the Parliament!" "Abolish the secret police!"—made his ears ring.

"If it weren't for Count Pelgen's idiotic subordinates firing in public, we wouldn't be facing this mess."

Annoyed, he signaled a servant to draw the curtains. He turned to Salazar and said, "Go and appease them. No shooting."

He was well aware that if the crowd wasn't intimidated, his guard of a thousand men would likely be swallowed whole by the ten thousand protesters.

Then, he looked toward Cobentzel, who had just arrived. "You're finally here. Order the Moravian Legion to enter Vienna immediately."