From official reports, eyewitness accounts, and the future memoirs of Karen, a precise reconstruction of what happened that day was made possible. What transpired marked a before and after in the history of the Seven Republics.
Shortly after the announcement, cheers and chants echoed outside the Government House. Former employees and the posthumous writings of Fausto himself would later describe the scene with unsettling clarity: the clanging of pots and pans, the synchronized shouting, the crowd gathering—igniting a spark no one could extinguish. Hearing the chorus of voices, Fausto made his way to the balcony. From there, he saw hundreds, then thousands, of people pressing against the gates of the Red House. The chants rose like a tide:
"The people united will never be defeated!"10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPr25Xkj61p
"No justice, no peace! Without the people, there is no power!"
The city of San Isaak had become a boiling cauldron. Teachers, doctors, laborers, students, and civil servants—each with a different face but the same look of determination—filled the streets. This was not a mere protest; it was a declaration of principles.
Karen, Fausto’s wife, watched him from the threshold of his office. It’s said she could hardly process what she was seeing. Fausto, always so composed, let a few silent tears slip down his cheeks—not out of fear or sadness, but from the sheer force of the moment. Even so, he did not let himself be swept away by emotion. He turned to Karen and, with an unnatural calm, said:
“Stay here. Don’t come out.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped into the hallway. His footsteps echoed with urgency over the marble floors of the enormous halls of the Red House. He descended the stairs almost at a run, brushing aside those who tried to stop him. He reached the main entrance and flung it open. As soon as he appeared, the crowd erupted as if a living symbol of hope had materialized. Many shouted his name. Some wept. Others climbed the fences just to see him up close.
In that instant, Karen understood what Fausto was about to do. She gave immediate orders to her escort: four of them were to leave their posts and protect him. She remained with only two. She knew her husband was once again acting on impulse.
Fausto, heedless of his own safety, began to climb the fence to join the people. It was a visceral impulse—almost suicidal. Fortunately, his guards reached him in time. Two of them intercepted and restrained him before he could do anything irreversible.
Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the city, the Senate was still in session.
The chamber was thick with tension—the kind that no speech or protocol could dispel. The murmurs were fragmented and erratic, like the echoes of a collective thought that refused to take shape. Every so often, an aide entered with an urgent report, an encrypted message, or footage from the streets. The images were clear: the people were not dispersing. They remained. They sang. They resisted. But the military was on the way.
It was a silent march, disciplined—making it all the more terrifying.
“What if it’s a bluff?” asked a senator from the UL bloc, clutching the edge of his desk as if the marble could offer reassurance.
“And what if it’s not?” someone else replied, without even looking at him.
The confusion was widespread. Some proposed evacuation. Others suggested drafting an emergency resolution. One even proposed demanding an explanation from the High Command—as if that still held any weight.
At first, the harsher voices called for blaming the civilians. “Rioters, agitators, fools,” they said, fearing the response would only escalate matters. But as the minutes passed and the chants of the people reached them in muffled echoes through the congressional windows, those stances began to erode.
The fear was not immediate. It was something deeper. A suspicion that perhaps everything had already broken—long before they realized. And now, at this point, there was no manual left to follow.
That was when Harrington stood up.
He was not a charismatic man, nor particularly liked—he was sharp-tongued and severe. But he possessed something that, on that night, mattered more than any resume: memory.
He spoke without raising his voice, his tone dry, like a man not trying to persuade, but to remind:
“I hear proposals for negotiation. Even surrender. And I understand. Fear corrodes judgment. But let’s not confuse protest with threat. Yes, the people are outside. But they are not the ones coming to remove us. It’s the military. And they do not march for justice. They march for power. If we yield today, if we open the door thinking we’re avoiding chaos, all we do is legitimize force over law. I’m not asking for bravery. I’m asking for dignity. What is the worth of this institution if we retreat at the first glimpse of a sabre? What will remain of democracy if those sworn to defend it surrender without even resisting?” He paused briefly. “We should be ashamed.”
He calmly gathered his belongings, placed his top hat on with solemnity, and walked out of the Senate.
“Where is he going?” some asked in disbelief.
“To those who wish to wait here like cowards, I invite you to stay. I’ll be out there. What’s happening... is history.”
Harrington left, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Silence reigned for a few seconds, until—one by one—other senators began to rise, leaving the chamber with steady steps. Not all followed. One remained at his seat, motionless, fingers interlaced, his gaze lost in an undefined point. It was Rivas Hidalgo.
He had been one of the strongest advocates for civil well-being through faith in the Armed Forces. He had preached the discipline of the military code, its supposed neutrality, its promise of order. But now he was at a crossroads. Where did his loyalty lie? With the elected executive institution—or with the military elite he had helped empower?
Meanwhile, something unprecedented was happening outside the building. Senators, deputies, and officials walked together toward the Central Plaza. They joined the demonstrators—whether out of conviction or political calculation, they were there.
Carriages and wagons rolled down the avenue amidst the crowd, carrying with them an unexpected symbol: the Cabeluces. Leading one of the wagons was Celeste Villordo, one of their most iconic leaders. She halted her vehicle when she saw the group of well-dressed politicians making their way through the crowd.
“Need a ride?” she asked with a sarcastic tone, a half-smile on her lips.
“Please,” Harrington replied without hesitation.
He climbed aboard with agility, followed by other senators who, though clearly uncomfortable, accepted the invitation. Some did so begrudgingly, exchanging glances as if needing reassurance that they weren’t alone in this symbolic contradiction.
It’s known that during the ride, Villordo and Harrington spoke. She recalled how he had once voted in favor of abolishing slavery—a gesture that, for her cause and for freedom, had meant more than just a legislative change. Still, she was surprised to see him here now, apparently siding with a political opponent like President Karen.
“I don’t get it,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s a man like you doing helping the President?”
Harrington replied with a cynical smile.
“I’m not here for her. I’m here for everyone.”
The wagon moved slowly, pushed forward by the human tide also headed to the Government House. Dozens, then hundreds, of people joined the march. Some on foot, others on bicycles, others holding handmade signs. There was no orchestration, no script—only a shared will to defend something greater than a name or a position. To defend democracy.
Harrington remained silent for a moment. Then he murmured:
“I think this is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen... and I’ll likely never see it again.”
Upon arriving at their destination, they were met with a singular sight. Behind the iron gates of the government building, standing atop a makeshift podium, was Fausto. He spoke with intensity, his voice raised nearly to a shout—there were no loudspeakers. Yet the people closest to him repeated his words to those further back, forming a living chain of voice and will.
Fausto spoke of social justice, of democratic values, of the need to defend institutions, and of the people's vital role. His voice—multiplied by others—swept across the square like an ancestral echo.
"When the walls began to rise in 4101," he declared, his tone firm but never straining, "they were not built of stone and steel alone. They were built of hope, of memory, and of resistance."
A murmur ran through the crowd, as if history itself had stirred beneath the cobblestones.
"Every block laid by survivors was an act of defiance against forgetting. And every day of those six hundred sixty-four years of construction was a silent promise: that we would never again allow horror to rule us."
The square fell silent. The echo of his words lodged itself in every chest. Fausto turned his gaze toward the distant walls—still standing, like honorable scars on the horizon.
"Today, those walls still stand. But don’t be mistaken," he added, his voice unwavering. "The walls are not democracy. They are mute witnesses. We are democracy. This full square. You—frightened, angry, loving. And full of faith."
He paused—not from forgetfulness, but out of respect for that moment in which each listener found themselves within that we.
"Faith that the republic is still better than the silence of rifles."
There was something unshakable in his eyes. Like a lighthouse burning in the heart of a storm.
"I wear no presidential sash," he continued. "I hold no office. I sit in no chair of power. All I have is my voice. And it is free, because it belongs to all who still believe that power is born from the people, not from the barrel of a gun."
A wave of whispers followed him, more powerful than any applause.
"To those who wish to seize the government in boots, I say this: you may overthrow institutions... but you will never turn back history."
His words cut like sweet blades—warnings without hatred.
"The military are not our enemies," he warned, scanning the crowd. "But militarism without civilian control is. We have lived through that. We have bled for it. And if we do not learn from it... then we have buried our dead for nothing."
The wind seemed to still. Fausto drew a deep breath—not to assert himself, but to keep from breaking.
"The President of the Seven Republics is not a throne. Not a god. A servant. That is what I was. That is what she is now. For true leadership does not impose—it invites. It does not punish—it protects. It does not divide—it unites."
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd—not of enthusiasm, but of recognition.
"Social justice is not a disease. It is not a burden," he added. "It is a right."
Silence followed. A silence so thick it clung to the skin like cloth.
"I was never elected by popular vote," he admitted. "And yet I spent eight years fighting so that you—yes, you—would stop being mere spectators... and become protagonists. Citizens."
He paused again. His voice softened, but his gaze remained unflinching.
"Today, I beg you—do not give up that title. Not now. Not ever."
He turned slightly, as if the breeze whispered in his ear.
"They ask me why I defend Karen. Some say it is because I love her. And yes, I do love her. But it is not only for love that I defend her. I defend her as a free man. As a citizen. As a republican."
There was no tremor in his voice—only naked truth.
"Because what is at stake is not her person. What is at stake is everything we have lived for: the law, the ballot box, the given word, the limits of power."
The people no longer looked at him as a speaker. They saw him as one of their own. As someone who was simply voicing what they all knew, but feared to say.
"Let us not allow our dead to die twice," he pleaded. "First under the infected... and now under indifference."
He lowered his head for a moment. Not in defeat. In mourning.
"I am not here to be applauded," he said as he raised his gaze once more. "I am here so that you do not forget who we are. We are the United Seven Republics. And we united so that we would never again kneel before anyone but the people."
And then he shouted—not with anger, but with an ancient, righteous fury:
"Democracy or ruin! Republic or barbarism!"
The tremor in the earth was not of nature—it was the crowd awakening.
"Citizens, do not retreat! March forward, with heads held high and hearts on fire!"
And finally, with eyes ablaze:
"Better to die standing than die on our knees! Because this time... the future is watching us!"
And the square erupted.
Not in cheers, but in promises.
Harrington and Villordo were there. Both watched in silence as the scene unfolded before their eyes. Villordo, swept up by the energy of the crowd, joined in their chants, shouting the name of the man on the podium. Harrington, on the other hand, said nothing. He simply raised his fist once—firmly—and then slowly lowered it.
And then it happened.
The moment had arrived.
In the distance, through the dust on the road and the howl of the wind, the figure of Andrés Reccson emerged. He marched at the head of a column of soldiers following him with mechanical precision. Some of them raised flags with pride, as if they truly were the protectors of the nation. Their banners whipped through the air with arrogant flourish beneath the overcast sky.
“They’re coming! They’re here!” shouted Celeste, her voice laced with both fear and resolve.
The entire town turned toward the valley’s entrance. There they were: nearly four thousand armed soldiers, according to the records. The message was unmistakable—someone had convinced Reccson he could seize power by force. They advanced on foot and horseback, abandoning their marching rhythm to form a tight, closed formation. It showed on their faces: they were nervous. This wasn’t a triumphant entry—it was a tense, controlled threat.
Without a word, Reccson drew his saber. As if responding to a silent cue, the officers around him followed suit. And then, in that very moment, the image burned itself into the memory of all who bore witness.
Andrés Reccson raised his weapon and fired two shots into the sky.
The dry thunder of the gunfire cracked through the air like a whip. Panic swept the square instantly. Some people ran, others stumbled back. Mothers shielded their children; the elderly sought cover behind columns and walls. In seconds, part of the plaza had emptied. The clamor transformed into a wave of choked whispers and hurried footsteps.
And then, in the heart of the chaos, a solitary figure emerged.
Standing tall, unmoved, was a man leaning on a wooden cane. He wore his characteristic dark brown suit, his white hair slicked back, his gaze steady, serene. There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Only unwavering resolve.
“Erick…” Fausto murmured, unable to take his eyes off the man.
There he was. Erick Victorino, former President of the Seven Republics. Alone, standing in the middle of a dusty clearing beneath a storm-heavy sky. The crowd stirred in the distance, held back by a wall of soldiers. But in that circle of tense calm, it was just him and Andrés Reccson—face to face.
“Andrés Reccson,” Victorino called out, his voice steady. “You’d best turn around. You hold no power here, and no authority over this nation’s decisions. Abandon this madness. Stand down.”
“You don’t give me orders, civilian,” Reccson barked. “Step aside, or I’ll remove you by force.”
“I was a soldier once too. I know what those words mean... Stand down, son.”
The crowd, seeing them, began to edge closer. They were no longer mere spectators—there was a new light in their eyes, a spark of courage. The army moved forward too, though with evident hesitation. The shields remained raised, but the faces beneath the helmets were no longer resolute.
Reccson’s horse snorted as it halted before Victorino. The marshal lifted his saber, seemingly prepared to strike with the hilt. But Victorino, swift and precise, caught his wrist with the cane and yanked him from the saddle. The marshal hit the ground hard.
That act was the spark.
The military line, barely held together, broke. Some soldiers charged into the crowd. But the people did not retreat—not this time. They surged forward toward the uniforms. Shouts, shoves, flying objects. Chaos erupted.
From his makeshift platform, Fausto watched, heart in his throat. In one leap, he vaulted the railing and plunged into the crowd. His bodyguards tried to stop him, but it was useless.
“Fausto!” cried Karen, desperate—but he had already vanished into the human tide.
Fausto ran, dodging bodies, helping those who fell. He stumbled over an elderly man and lifted him up, pulled a child away from a panicked horse’s path. He shouted his friend’s name.
“Erick! Victorino!”
Amid the confusion, a hand grabbed his arm. It was Celeste—her face streaked with dust and tears. She pulled him toward a side street. There, amid the shouting and pushing, he tried to shield her. He had lost his hat, and the sun now beat mercilessly against his sensitive skin. He felt the sting on his neck and noticed the rash spreading. Without hesitation, he took off his jacket and placed it over Celeste’s head.
“Run. Take shelter there,” he said, pointing toward a nearby building.
She nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Fausto threw himself back into the surging crowd. He saw people climbing trees, helping others stay on their feet. A horse reared up out of nowhere, and Fausto rolled to the side, landing hard in a dry fountain. The blow to his shoulder knocked the wind out of him.
In the distance, he caught sight of a soldier beating a civilian. Staggering to his feet, he ran and tackled the soldier, pulling him away and helping the civilian escape. But the soldier returned and struck him hard in the temple.
Stars burst in Fausto’s vision.
Before the final blow could fall, he fought back clumsily, wrestled the saber from the soldier’s hand, and shoved him away. But the soldier drew his sidearm and fired, the bullet piercing Fausto’s left arm.
The pain dropped him to his knees.
Before a second shot could be fired, a figure burst through the crowd—Victorino. With a single, well-aimed punch, he knocked the soldier to the ground. A swift kick left the man unconscious.
Victorino knelt beside Fausto and dragged him into another dry fountain nearby.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barked.
“I came to help you,” Fausto panted.
Victorino stared at him, incredulous.
“Help me? Doing what, exactly?”
“…I didn’t think that far ahead.”
Furious, Victorino slapped him.
“You’re thirty years old and acting like you’re fifteen. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He tore Fausto’s sleeve to examine the wound.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Fausto muttered.
Victorino scowled at the injury.
“The bullet’s still in there. We need to get you out of here.”
“What about the marshal?” Fausto asked between gasps.
“His men pulled him out. But this isn’t over yet.”
Gunfire cracked overhead, echoing across the plaza. Both men tensed.
“This is going to end badly,” Victorino muttered.
But then, a commanding voice rang out through the smoke and shouting:
“Enough!”
It was Rivas Hidalgo, marching at the head of a new column of soldiers. And he wasn’t alone—his forces were larger, better armed, and advanced like a wall.
“Well… turns out he did pick a side,” Fausto said, half-smiling.
Someone approached them. It was Harrington. Gone was his top hat, his shirt wrinkled, his expression weary and bitter. He sat down beside Fausto, pulled out a flask, took a swig, then offered it.
“I don’t drink,” Fausto said.
Victorino snatched the flask, took a sip, and then used it as antiseptic. He shoved the flask between Fausto’s teeth and, without warning, began to dig out the bullet. Fausto screamed, the sound muffled by the metal.
“Goddamn it…!” he roared, teeth clenched around the flask.
Silently, Harrington handed Victorino a handkerchief. He used it to bind the wound. Fausto, spent, collapsed into unconsciousness.
“I was surprised to see you out there, Erick,” Harrington said.
“Aníbal… still playing games, huh?”
“I always play.”
Victorino handed the flask back.
“Thanks for this.”
“Figured someone would need a drink.”
Around them, the chaos was beginning to subside. The roar of protest faded into murmurs, hurried steps, and the crunch of boots over stone and rubble.
“Did we win?” Victorino asked.
Harrington lit two cigarettes and passed one to him.
“We did,” he said, exhaling slowly. They sat on the edge of the fountain beside Fausto’s unconscious body.
“This’ll look great for my public image,” Harrington said with a crooked grin.
“Old fox…”
They smoked in silence for a few moments. Then Victorino spoke.
“I think I’m coming back.”
Harrington glanced at him sideways, then smiled.
“This is going to be fun.”
Some time later…
Harrington walked away from the wounded young man after ensuring he was stable and conscious. With hurried steps, he crossed the main square, now wrapped in tense calm. The echo of gunfire had faded, replaced by the murmurs of loyalist soldiers guarding the perimeter. Orders were clear: arrest the insurgents.
Among those detained was Anderson Reccson—one of the rebellion’s ringleaders.
A faint smile touched Harrington’s lips as he saw the situation begin to stabilize. In the distance, Rivas Hidalgo still wore his military coat over his suit, barking orders with unwavering authority and an iron gaze. He coordinated the evacuation of the wounded with clinical precision.
Without hesitation, Harrington moved toward him.
Rivas noticed his presence, frowned, and tried to ignore him, but the other’s disheveled appearance gave him pause. He no longer wore his usual spotless uniform. Reluctantly, Rivas urged his horse forward and approached.
“What do you want?” he asked with disdain, without dismounting.
“Help,” Harrington replied in a low voice.
Rivas let out a bitter laugh.
“I never thought you’d ask me for help… in person.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Hidalgo. I don’t need your help. But he does.”
“He?”
“Joaquín Fausto Gabriel.”
Rivas’s expression shifted subtly. According to Harrington’s later account in his biography, it was at that moment he realized Rivas did care about Gabriel, more than he was willing to admit.
“Where is he?”
“At the central fountain—the one with the angel. He has a gunshot wound to his arm.”
Rivas wasted no time. He turned his horse and galloped across the plaza with speed. Upon arrival, he found Victorino holding Fausto in his arms. Without hesitation, Rivas dismounted, took Fausto with Victorino’s help, and settled him onto his saddle. Without a word, he rode off toward the nearest hospital.
It took twenty minutes to reach the building. Rivas burst inside carrying Fausto as if he weighed nothing.
“I need medical attention!” he roared. “He is the president of the Seven Republics!”
The doctors reacted immediately. They carried the unconscious Fausto into the emergency room. Sweat dripping, tense, Rivas sank into a chair in the hallway, saying nothing. He only thought. He did not regret his choice to stand against the army.
Back in the plaza, the scene was different. Soldiers continued arresting insurgents, including Andrés Reccson—curiously at the hands of Axel Quiroga himself. The rebellion had been contained.
Exhausted, Victorino headed toward the Government House. One of the guards, rigid in his duty, barred his way.
“You may not enter, sir.”
Before Victorino could respond, a voice rang out from inside:
“Let him through!”
It was Karen.
The doors opened without further delay. She waited for him in the lobby. Her steps were steady, though her face betrayed anxiety.
“Are you alright?” she asked, taking his hand.
“He will live,” Victorino answered, withholding details.
Karen narrowed her eyes, unsatisfied with the brief response.
“Where is he?”
“At the hospital,” he finally said.
At the sound, Karen faltered. For a moment, it seemed she might collapse, but she forced herself to stay upright. Her determination was stronger than her fear.
“Take me to him.”
“I can’t,” Victorino said gravely. “You’re pregnant. You’re the head of state. You can’t expose yourself like that.”
She didn’t listen.
“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.”
Victorino sighed, resigned. He nodded.
“Wait here. I’ll get trusted escorts.”
Shortly after, they set out for the hospital, escorted by men loyal to Quiroga. Upon arrival, they were met by Harrington, who had arrived earlier, and Rivas, standing in the same spot, arms crossed, impassive amid the hallway’s bustle. Karen hurried forward at the sight of them and addressed Rivas directly.
“How is he?” she asked without preamble.
Rivas straightened.
“Out of danger. The doctors say he’s asleep.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Rivas hesitated for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Victorino, surprised that he hadn’t already mentioned it.
“A gunshot wound to the left arm.”
Karen paled. Victorino stepped forward, concern etched on his face, accompanied by a few guards.
“I’m fine,” she said, raising her hand to ward off their help. “Don’t touch me.”
“You should go back home. It’s not wise for you to be here.”
“I’m not leaving until I see my husband.”
Rivas said nothing. He looked at one of the doctors and, without a word, nodded. The man, visibly nervous at the sight of the president, stammered before indicating the room number.
Karen walked with steady steps to the door. She entered. There lay Fausto, reclined on a hospital bed. His forehead was bandaged, his left arm immobilized, and he bore some minor marks on his face. He wore a hospital gown. He slept with his brow slightly furrowed, as if still wrestling with something in his dreams.
She approached silently and took his hand. Her expression softened. Relief and sorrow mingled on her face, as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
Fausto’s eyes fluttered open, barely conscious.
“What are you doing here?” he murmured in a hoarse voice.
“I came to see you, you fool.”
“Like this...? It’s nothing serious. Just a gunshot... and a bit of a headache. I’m fine...”
Karen let out a choked laugh through her tears.
“I’ll wait for you to recover so I can give you a proper beating for the stupidity you just said.”
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