The Seven Republics had, until that moment, stood as a nation marked by firm and resolute unity. Despite the cultural and linguistic differences that separated them, their union had been made possible by one common goal: survival.
Unlike other nations, the republics possessed something unique—a network of resources and infrastructure so deeply interdependent that if even one failed, the others would be dragged into collapse. It was that mutual dependence that wove an invisible yet relentless system, one capable of halting even the expansionist impulses of certain leaders who dreamed of empire. Some, like Travis Francisco, attempted to defy that order. All of them failed. Slow, perhaps—but effective. That was the machinery that held the Seven Republics together.
Yet, as with all things in this world, there were aspects of human behavior that defied logic or reason. No matter how clearly one laid out ideas, no matter how irrefutable the evidence, there were always those who simply refused to see. Stubbornness is, after all, a human trait. A form of blindness.
But what happens when someone with such a nature holds power within a powerful institution? Not just powerful—but ancient and deeply rooted, like the military? Then, stubbornness ceases to be an annoyance and becomes a threat. A grave and dangerous one.
Fausto’s speech did not go unnoticed among the military high command. Generals who had long shown their discontent saw his words as a direct threat. Karen’s policies, aimed at calming tensions, no longer sufficed. Rivas, the so-called conciliatory spokesman—in heavy quotation marks—was met with distrust. Though many officers took pride in having one of their own in a prominent position, they still saw him as a politician. And being a politician means little in a game where you don’t know the rules.
The system does not forgive ignorance. You may have the tools to hunt, but if you don’t know how to use them, you will starve all the same. Crude as the analogy may seem, it captures the essence of the matter: politics does not yield to uniforms, and power does not distinguish between stubbornness and danger... until it’s too late.
On April 21st of that same month, an unauthorized maneuver was carried out by several army battalions. It did not go unnoticed in Congress—nor, of course, by President Karen, who, despite her pregnancy and her doctors’ advice, went to Congress in person, demanding an explanation from the military: who gave the order, and why?
Rivas knew nothing. No one had informed him—not even his friend, Colonel Erickson Del Caño.
And then it happened.
The most important radio station in the Republic of Cárdenas interrupted its programming with a live national broadcast, transmitted across all seven republics—including Bélua.
"I am Marshal Andrés Tomas Reccson. I make this statement because it is necessary—for the homeland we swore to protect.
Let me remind everyone that we have the right to take up arms when we see the nation we vowed to defend in danger. The homeland is sacred. The homeland is duty. The homeland is not for just anyone.
This is no revolt, no deceit: this is duty and conviction. We act for the homeland—and for its honor.
Today we heard something alarming, and we have chosen to act. Not for glory. Not for revenge, as they would have you believe.
The Senate—supposedly the guardian of the people’s values—has just passed a bill drastically cutting the budget for the upkeep of the walls. Walls that protect us all. Walls that cost the lives of thousands of civilians and soldiers to build.
Watching bureaucrats try to destroy something erected with such sacrifice has given us a reason to take up arms and defend our homeland.
Someone must decide. Someone with conviction—true loyalty to the nation.
That is why we issue this warning: you have six hours to repeal this law. If not, we will sweep through that place and forge a new order.
We are tired of being patient. We are tired of being treated like fools.
You have been warned."
The world had fallen into panic.
The fear Fausto had voiced with insistence—relentlessly, even irritably to some—was now beginning to take form in reality. It was no longer a warning, nor a hypothesis. It was fact. And no one was prepared.
The Senate convened in an emergency session.
According to several historians, that meeting would go down as one of the most chaotic and tense moments in recent memory. Shouting erupted. Insults flew. Blame was hurled across the chamber. Some demanded the president intervene immediately. Others pointed fingers directly at the RIU party, accusing it of enabling this disaster. A few argued that the root of the conflict lay in the long-standing misuse of the military—treated as a political tool for far too long. Among the thousand voices, theories clashed with suspicions, and rage surged wildly, searching for a target it could strike without consequence.
Then, the unexpected happened.
The chamber doors burst open with a thunderous bang. The sound silenced the room, and every pair of eyes turned toward the entrance.
And there, framed by the imposing threshold, she appeared.
Karen Samanta Freeman. President of the Seven Republics.
Her footsteps echoed sharply against the marble floor. Each step steady, deliberate—almost as if time had stood still for her. But time had not. A noticeable bulge beneath her coat revealed a pregnancy, roughly three months along. It was something no one had expected to see. In the middle of a political inferno, in the heart of chaos, she returned… pregnant.
Silence crashed down like a slab of stone. All debates froze. All voices fell quiet.
Even the air itself seemed to hesitate. It had been months since anyone had seen her in public. And now she stood among them once more, walking with the same authority that had once defined her rule.
“Given the recent events, I was compelled to return,” she began. Her tone was calm—yet firm, unshakably so. “I am here. And it seems a few words have been enough to make this chamber tremble. I don’t blame you. You’re surrounded by armed men. But allow me to remind you of something essential: we, all of us gathered here, stand above the military institution. Do not cower. Do not panic.”
She paused. Her eyes scanned the room, reading the confusion, the fear, the divisions carved into every face. Then she went on:
“As for the demands made by General Andrés Reccson… I will be clear. No. No law will be revoked. The legislation stands as it is, and it will remain so until this Congress—through the legal tools granted by the Constitution—decides otherwise. Not before. Not by coercion. Not by fear.”
A heavy silence followed.
Karen stepped back with the same quiet dignity that had accompanied her entrance.
“That said,” she added, “I must leave now. I need to prepare a national address, in which I will reiterate everything I have told you here. So… I’ll see you soon.”
As she left the chamber, the murmurs began again—like schoolchildren whispering once the teacher has left the room. Even Harrington was left speechless.
Rivas remained seated, lost in thought. He couldn’t believe what he was living through. What he and Victorino had built was on the verge of collapse, and it was the very institution he had once defended that now threatened to undo it all.
When Karen exited the hall, her husband, Fausto, followed her.
There are no official records of what was said between them, but this moment was immortalized in The Red Storm, a novel by Mateo Ocaso.
With a blend of fiction, testimony, and rumor, Ocaso suggests that what was spoken in that private moment shaped the nation’s destiny more than any decree or speech that followed.
To this day, people still argue over how much of it is true.
Karen stood before the window, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. One hand rested naturally on her abdomen. The pregnancy had begun to shape her figure—subtle, yet undeniable. She didn’t turn when she felt him enter. She didn’t need to.
“You spoke as if the world wasn’t on the verge of breaking,” Fausto said behind her, his voice low.
“The world broke a long time ago,” Karen replied, unmoving. “We’re just walking across the pieces.”
He was silent for a few seconds. Then, with the slow cadence of someone stepping through memories, he came closer.
“You could’ve stayed quiet. Said the bare minimum. Avoided provoking them.”
“Look who’s talking,” she said, finally turning to face him. “No, Fausto. Not anymore.”
There was something in her eyes he hadn’t seen when she first took office—a calm, sharpened resolve, almost painful in its clarity. He looked at her with a mix of pride and concern.
“The generals won’t take ‘no’ so easily,” he warned. “You’ve taken away their excuse to act, but not their desire.”
“Then let them try,” she said firmly. “Let them show what they’re made of. You and I—we’ve seen hell up close. This is nothing compared to what we survived.”
“This is different.”
“I’m not afraid of what’s coming.”
“They’re made of war, Karen. You and I both know that.”
“So are we.”
Fausto lowered his gaze. It was true. And it weighed heavily.
“They’re afraid, Karen. Everyone is. The people. The Senate. The high command. No one wants to be left without walls while the infected still roam out there. But yes—neither of us will tolerate this betrayal.”
“What am I supposed to do then?” she asked, her voice on the verge of breaking. “Feed their paranoia? Take bread from a child’s hand to reinforce a wall that hasn’t been attacked in years?”
Fausto took her hands in his.
“I’ll stand by you until the end. We’ll get through this.”
Silence wrapped around them again. She sat down slowly, weary, and placed both hands over her belly.
“This child will be born in a country that owes nothing to fear,” she said. “If I have to stand against the army to make that happen, I will.”
Fausto watched her for a long time. There was something in her he hadn’t seen before. Or perhaps something he had forgotten to see. The girl he once knew, the president who had inherited his cause, the woman who now spoke with the strength of someone who can no longer afford to bend.
“Then let’s do it,” he murmured. “Let’s do it like no one ever has.”
She looked up at him and smiled softly.
“For the nation. For you. And for our child.”
He nodded once, and without another word, he left the room. As he closed the door behind him, he knew he had just witnessed the beginning of something. Not a speech. Not a decree. Something far more powerful.
History had begun to shift.
This, of course, is mere speculation. No official record exists of that conversation.
What did happen, however, was that Karen walked to the government house’s radio station. They powered the signal, and her voice reached thousands of homes across the Seven Republics.
“I believed in your loyalty…”
She didn’t say names. She didn’t need to. The entire country knew whom she was speaking of.
“…In your voice of honor. I gave you my trust, my strength… my sun. Not once, but a thousand times. With every promotion, every medal, every oath—I believed in you.”
She drew breath but didn’t waver. Her voice carried both fury and grief, marching side by side.
“But in the shadows, you sharpened betrayal. You raised rifles against your nation. Against your people. Against the vote that chose this government with clarity.”
Silence spread through households. Not even the sound of bread being cut. Not a child’s question. Even in the bars—renowned for their clamor—a rare stillness reigned. Everyone listened to the radio. Only her voice, clear as the edge of a blade, cut through the air.
“Who taught you to challenge my faith? Who whispered that you could win? Who told you this voice would break? That these hands would drop the staff the people placed in them?”
A pause. There was no image—only the expectant silence of thousands of radios turned on at once. In kitchens, in public squares, in military camps. The static hung in the air, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Then her voice returned. Closer now. Steadier. As if she were speaking from the very heart of the nation, as if each word pulsed with the lifeblood of the land she had sworn to protect.
“No truce. There is no fear in my skin. My pulse does not tremble. My steps are forged of iron, too. I will not bend. I will not retreat.”
The military listened intently to their commander—the very woman they were about to depose.
“Let thunder roar. Let the skies burn. If they challenge me... if they betray me... they will find in me the storm and the sword.”
Far off, from the balconies, some had begun to applaud. Others wept quietly.
“I gave them peace. I gave them patience. I extended my hand. And still... they spat ash where once there bloomed a garden. What now? Will they tear down order as they always have? They seek to shatter what I fought to heal. They want my seat, but they shall not have it.”
She paused. Swallowed hard. But not tears.
“Did they think I would hesitate? That I would yield before their rebellion? Let the earth tremble beneath my feet—history will never forget what I am about to do.”
Now her voice was a steady drum amid the storm:
“March at dawn. Ignite your faith. I remain at my post. I remain standing. There is no shadow, no bullet, that can erase my law. My voice is the flame that will burn into your flesh.”
She lifted her chin slightly. There was no fear in her.
“I saw you in the voting booths, heard the people speak. The verdict was clear. There is nothing more to add. Yet you return with weapons for what was denied to you. With fire and steel, you come to take what is not yours.”
Her voice dropped just a little—more intimate now, more pained:
“I called you brothers. I meant to honor you. You gave your lives in the harshest of times... when peace was but a distant dream. But now you bring shadows. War. Fear. You spit on the law you once vowed to protect.”
One last look to the camera, as if speaking to the very soul of her country:
“Let this be clear. I will not bend. I will not retreat. I am not the woman you think I am. I, Karen Samanta Freeman, President of the Seven Republics, am the law and your superior. Turn back—or face the consequences.”
The broadcast ended. No music. No applause. No farewell.
Only the echo of her voice, ringing through every corner of the nation. In every home, there was fear, uncertainty, but also cheers and chants in praise of the president’s words.
Yet even then, Andrés Reccson gave the order to march on the capital, leading a vast armed battalion, ready to overthrow the president.
History was being written, minute by minute.
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