Chapter 566 - Riot

"There is no cure," Hippo said bluntly. "We have quinine, which suppresses it. But if we face an explosive outbreak, we don't have enough beds, we don't have enough nurses, and frankly, we don't have enough drugs."

"Do what you can," Wang Luobin said. "Just prevent a total collapse."

In the cold arithmetic of the Planning Council, a sick laborer was worse than a dead one. A corpse was a one-time loss; a patient was a resource sink. But labor was precious—it took ninety days and significant capital to import a worker from Guangzhou. They couldn't afford to let them die en masse.

"Prevention," Hippo said. "Nets. Screens. And smoke."

The camp disappeared into a haze of qinghao smoke. It choked the lungs and stung the eyes, but it kept the mosquitoes at bay. Yet, the parasite was already in the blood.

Cases mounted. The hospital overflowed. Women from the migrant families were drafted as temporary nurses.

Hippo watched his quinine reserves dwindle with mounting panic. They had miscalculated. They assumed Hainan's malaria was like Lingao's—sporadic. But Sanya was a pestilent hotbed. They needed chloroquine, primaquine—modern synthetics they couldn't produce. They were fighting a 21st-century war with 19th-century weapons.

Then the dying started.

It began with three or four a day, then ten, then twenty. The cemetery filled up in a week. He Fanghui had to open "Phase Two."

Every day, the funeral pyres on the secluded beach roared to life. The wind carried the cloying scent of burning flesh back to the camp.

Panic spread like a contagion. Rumors whispered that the "miasma" of the railway line was a death sentence. Fear turned to anger.

Though Shan Daoqian tried to lead by example, taking his pills and working the line, the laborers saw only death. Political Security operatives flashed "Orange Alerts": Riot Imminent.

The Construction Command convened. "We need to calm them," Zhuo Tianmin said. "Better food. Visible leadership. Rotate the Elders to the front lines."

But it was too little, too late.

The strike began the next morning. A labor team refused to leave the barracks. When captains tried to force them, they were beaten.

Zhuo Tianmin rushed to the scene. He believed in reason. He believed that if he explained the science—that the medicine worked, that prevention was key—they would understand.

He stood on the steps of the Public Hall. "Brothers! Listen to me! Taking the pills will protect you! I take them myself!"

"To hell with your pills!" a laborer screamed. "Keep them! We want to live!"

A ceramic brazier smashed at Zhuo Tianmin's feet.

"Don't be afraid—"

The mob surged.

Logic died. Fear took over. A dozen hands grabbed the Elder. Fist met flesh.

"Kill him!" someone shrieked. "Kill the running dog!"

Zhuo Tianmin fell. Boots rained down on his ribs. For the first time since arriving in this timeline, he felt the cold, paralyzing terror of impending death. His status as a "Senator," a "Creator," meant nothing here. He was just meat.

The riot exploded. The Public Hall was torched. The mob rampaged through the camp, looting supplies and hunting down the "collaborators"—the native team leaders and health workers. Several nurses were cornered and raped.

News reached Command.

"They have Zhuo Tianmin," Wang Luobin said, his face draining of color.

"Send in the troops," Xi Yazhou pulled his pistol.

"He's a hostage," Qian Shuixie said coolly. "If we wait, they'll realize his value. We have to hit them now, while they're confused."

"Do it," Wang Luobin ordered. "Bring him out alive. Crush the rest."

The riot squad advanced. A shield wall of rattan and steel moved against the mob. Stones clattered harmlessly off helmets.

The infantry didn't stop. They advanced in silence, a machine of suppression.

Clubs rose and fell.

The mob, disorganized and leaderless, broke instantly. The "bravery" born of desperation evaporated before the discipline of the Army.

Zhuo Tianmin was found in the dirt, battered, bleeding, but alive. The rioters had been too busy looting to finish him off.

"I'm fine," he croaked as they loaded him onto a stretcher. "Just... bruises."

But as he was carried away, he saw the other victims. Health workers with broken limbs. Nurses weeping, their clothes torn. The shrouded bodies of loyal staff.

He closed his eyes.

The toll was heavy. Ten native staff dead. The Public Hall reduced to ash, taking valuable documents with it.

The inevitable backlash was swift and merciless.

"Laborers have no right to strike," the Council declared. "And raising a hand against an Elder is treason."

"We must kill," Xi Yazhou raged. "They beat an Elder! If we don't wash this in blood, our authority is dust!"

"Public execution," He Fanghui agreed. "For the murderers. For the rapists. For the leaders."

Qian Shuixie stayed silent. He believed in workers' rights, but he wasn't suicidal. A line had been crossed.

The next day, the entire camp was assembled on the beach.

Bayonets gleamed under the tropical sun. The atmosphere was heavy with the promise of violence.

In front of the assembled thousands, a massive funeral pyre burned. Eleven white-shrouded bodies—the victims of the riot—lay upon it, their souls ascending in smoke.

Beside the fire stood the gallows.

The trial was a formality. "In the name of the Senate and the People..."

Twenty-five men were dragged up the steps. Ringleaders. Murderers. Rapists.

The ropes tightened. The trapdoors fell.

Twenty-five bodies swung in the sea breeze, silhouetted against the roaring flames of the pyre. The lesson was burned into the memory of every laborer present:

The grip of the Australians is iron. Work, and you might live. Rebel, and you will surely die.

(End of Chapter)