When the rebellious soldiers were finally subdued, each and every one of them was arrested on charges of high treason. They now awaited a trial that would, without a doubt, set a precedent in the history of the Seven Republics.
Fausto, meanwhile, remained hospitalized. The wounds he had sustained during the uprising required both medical attention and time to heal. In the meantime, it was President Karen who bore the immediate burden of symbolic reconstruction: she had to address the nation.
She walked silently down the long hallway of the east wing of the Government House. Her stride was firm, but the echo of her footsteps betrayed a tension carefully held at bay. Upon reaching the room where the podium stood, she paused. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. The gravity of the moment was reflected in her gaze.
When the microphone switched on and the transmission became national, there was not a corner of the country where her voice was not heard. In bars, in homes, in train stations, in parks, even within prison walls—everyone was listening.
“Citizens of the Seven Republics,” she began, her voice steady, though laden with historical weight, “yesterday our nation was wounded by cowardice. A group of men, once considered comrades, betrayed the very values they swore to defend. In the name of selfish interests and personal ambition, they tried to seize power by force and plunge us into chaos.”
A brief silence followed. Across the airwaves, the people held their breath.
“This was not merely an attempted coup,” she continued. “It was an attempt to mutilate democracy itself—to break the will of a free people who have fought so hard to shape their own destiny.”
Karen lifted her chin slightly. Her voice no longer trembled; it had become the very echo of the republic.
“But they failed. And they failed because our people do not kneel before tyranny. Because justice is not imposed by rifles, but by law and by memory. Today, more than ever, we reaffirm our commitment to liberty, to constitutional order, and to the sacred duty of protecting peace.”
Then, her gaze slowly dropped to a photograph of her husband on the wall.
“Those responsible will face justice in the courts, and history will handle the rest. But to you, the people, I say this: do not be afraid. Do not lower your arms. The Seven Republics still stand. And they will continue to stand as long as even one of us believes in justice.”
The speech ended. There was no applause inside the office, but out on the streets, some people began to cry. Others simply looked at each other in silence. And a few more raised their fists high into the air.
The republic had endured.
In the hospital, Fausto listened closely to the speech playing over the radio. A smile slowly formed on his face, as if he had recognized something familiar in her words. Beside him, sitting on a slightly worn wooden chair, was Victorino, flipping through a newspaper while sipping mate.
“I see you decided to stay,” Fausto remarked, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
Victorino turned a page with a faint sigh, without lifting his gaze.
“I couldn’t leave,” he replied matter-of-factly. “After eight years of sharing battles, silence, and strategy, I can say with certainty—you’re not insane… though you’re nearly thirty and still just as impulsive.”
Fausto let out a small laugh.
“It’s good to see you too. How have you been?”
“Resting… until all this blew up.”
“What you did back there was admirable. You stood alone, facing a squad of armed soldiers. Not everyone would have done that.”
Victorino laid the newspaper across his knees, thoughtful.
"I was a soldier before I was a politician, Fausto. That wasn’t bravery—it was reflex. What you did, on the other hand… going alone to speak with the revolutionary leader Cabeluz, without backup, without guarantees… that was brave."
Fausto lowered his gaze.
"Yeah... that."
"It was also stupid," Victorino added, crossing one leg over the other. "Like throwing yourself into a crowd under a rain of bullets."
"Were there casualties?" Fausto asked, a sudden knot tightening in his chest.
"Only serious injuries. No deaths."
"My God..."
"Exactly."
A tense silence fell. With effort, Fausto pushed himself upright in bed. The bandage at his side pulled sharply, making him wince.
"And now what are you going to do?"
Victorino set the newspaper aside and rose slowly to his feet.
"I was thinking of returning next year. Easing back into it, you know... but seeing how things stand, I believe it’s time to be clear. My return to politics can’t wait any longer."
Fausto studied him, tilting his head slightly.
"Are you sure?"
"More than ever."
"Do you want help? A statement of support or something?"
Victorino let out a brief, dry chuckle—not unfriendly, just seasoned.
"Fausto, I’ve been at this for nearly thirty years. I appreciate it, I really do, but there's no need. I’ve got it under control. And if I don’t... well, I’ll improvise like I always have."
He stood up, pulled an old pipe from his coat pocket, gave Fausto a warm pat on the back, and made his way toward the door.
"Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone," he said before leaving.
Fausto remained in bed. Outside, the city seemed quieter than ever. He turned on the radio and scanned through the dial. Every station had its own version of the uprising. Each voice carried a different tone: concern, relief, criticism, fear. Some spoke of betrayal, others of hope.
And amidst that chaos of opinions, Fausto felt a fleeting moment of peace. The country was moving again, and he was alive to witness it.
But something remained—something recorded, engraved in the collective memory, and sealed in the annals of the new order: the trial against the armed forces.
Every soldier who had taken part in the uprising was dismissed from the military without ceremony. No honors. No leniency. The resolutions came swiftly, like sharpened blades in the hands of a determined state. But the true culprits—the ones who gave the order, who planned the assault, who manipulated the military from the shadows—were met with a different kind of justice: they were arrested and brought to public trial.
The charges were clear and devastating: treason against the homeland, subversion against the democratic state. There was no ambiguity in the accusations, no room for legal loopholes. President Karen knew that a tepid process would only embolden future attempts. And so, she made a move that shook the institutional foundations: she stripped them of their right to be tried under military justice.
It struck where it hurt the most.
"This is not a tactical error, nor a strategic mistake. It is treason," Karen had declared in a national broadcast. "And treason is paid with the justice of free men and women."
The military protested. They claimed interference, a breach of autonomy, betrayal of the State’s own legal principles. But it was all a bitter irony—for they themselves had trampled the Constitution.
The ringleaders were brought before the Criminal Court of the Seven Republics, tried by civilian judges under the watchful eye of a wounded and expectant nation. It would become one of the longest, most painful, and most symbolic trials in recent memory.
Eleven high-ranking officers took their place on the defendants' bench. Among them, four were Lapsus Longus—humans of extended longevity. The others were Lapsus Brevis, men of flesh and finite years.
The sentences were thus tailored to their biology.
All were sentenced to life imprisonment, but the law took into account the life expectancy of each human type. For the Brevis, “life” meant between fifty-five and seventy-five years of effective incarceration, depending on their age at the time of sentencing. For the Longus, however, punishment was proportional to their lifespan, and their sentences could stretch to two full centuries. There would be no leniency.
The case that drew the most attention was that of retired General Andrés Tomas Reccson—the architect of the coup.
Reccson was found guilty on all counts: conspiracy against constitutional order, incitement to rebellion, use of lethal force against civilians, and attempted regicide. Throughout the trial, he remained cold, defiant, and unrepentant. His statements in court were laced with hollow nationalism and contempt for civilian rule. In his eyes, he had acted "for the good of the nation"—even if that nation bled in his hands.
The court did not waver.
“For every life you placed in danger,” the presiding judge said, “for every child who saw their home invaded, for every citizen pushed into fear, and for every soldier you used as a sacrificial piece on your board—this court sentences you to life imprisonment, effective and without redemption, in accordance with Article 44 of the Republican Penal Code. You are Lapsus Longus, General Reccson. That means justice has two hundred years to see your sentence fulfilled.”
It’s said that Andrés Tomas Reccson did not flinch when he heard the sentence.
He remained silent, never lifting his gaze. When they came to escort him to his permanent cell, the press awaited outside the courthouse like vultures—hungry for a statement. Reccson paused for the briefest moment, looked at the reporters with a calm, almost defiant expression, and said:
“I did it for the homeland. My conscience is clear. History will vindicate me.”
Nothing could be further from the truth.
History, indeed, would remember him. But not as he imagined. Not as a martyr, nor as a hero. He would be remembered as the most visible face of treason—a symbol of the military's disdain for the democratic will.
The trial, though thorough, moved swiftly. The country demanded justice, not delay. Within days, news of the verdict spread across the Seven Republics, igniting debate in radio stations, cafés, universities—and especially in the barracks.
As expected, the military sector was the first to raise its voice. Though many admitted a "tactical error" had occurred, they argued that the accused should have been judged by military tribunals. To them, what Karen had done was a political intrusion—a display of resentment against the armed forces.
One of the loudest voices was Oliver Krug, a lieutenant and frustrated ex-politician from the Military Party (MP). In an impromptu press conference, he made a statement that would go down in history for its sheer tone-deafness:
“This is an insult. The institutions of Gabrielism are beginning to disrespect structures that existed long before this State. Either they begin to respect us—or there will be consequences.”
President Karen Samanta Freeman did not hesitate. In an unannounced national broadcast, she declared the immediate removal of Oliver Krug from both his military post and his political immunity.
"It seems the message wasn’t clear," she said, her voice firm and icy. "Threats and disrespect toward the Executive Branch will not be tolerated. Either you learn your place in the Republic, or I will empty the officer corps without a second thought."
She paused, and with her eyes fixed on the camera, added:
"I’ve always held respect for the Army. They saved my life, and my husband’s. Thanks to them, I got to where I am. But they’ve mistaken my respect for servitude. Let it be clear: the people rule here. Not you."
Within the military, Karen’s words exploded like a shockwave. The world was shifting—and the institution was struggling to keep up. For years, they had operated like a state within the State. Now, they found themselves exposed, scrutinized, and stripped of privilege. And that vulnerability hurt more than any punishment.
One of the most unexpected developments came from Rivas Hidalgo.
Until then, he had been the military’s staunchest defender in Congress—a seasoned veteran with battlefield scars, a living legend. Though he no longer held sway in parliamentary decisions, his image was revered by the common soldier—the one who entered the barracks dreaming of becoming like him. Among the ranks, Rivas was a living monument.
Ironically, the high command often ignored him. They saw him as a symbol, not a threat. They failed to understand the quiet power he wielded. But when the trials began, the rank and file no longer knew whom to follow: their superiors, or the flesh-and-blood hero who had once bled beside them?
Many historians—among them Óscar Torres—agree that, had it not been for Rivas Hidalgo’s presence, the military might have attempted another coup. Without knowing it, he had become the main bulwark against a new insurrection. And he made that clear with a speech that shook both civilians and his fellow soldiers.
At a public conference, with cameras rolling and hundreds of uniformed personnel present, Rivas Hidalgo spoke without notes, without fear, and without filters:
"I gave my blood and my life to the Armed Forces," he began. "I fought against monsters and rebels. I ate with you, drank with you. I stood in trenches, in hospitals, and at funerals. I stood up for you in the Senate. I defended your honor when no one else would."
He paused. Took a deep breath. And then he said it:
"I lost the friendship of a brother-in-arms just to prove to the people that we are more than uniforms and labels. And this is how you repay me? This is how you repay the Republic? By betraying it. By violating its will. By staining the uniform. I am ashamed of you."
Silence fell. Absolute and heavy. Some officers lowered their heads. Others stood in solemn respect.
The division within the army was no longer ideological—it was moral. And with each passing day, the military's standing in the eyes of the people grew weaker.
Weeks after the trials, while the country was still nursing the wounds left by the military betrayal, a new announcement shook the heart of the Seven Republics.
Fausto, now out of the hospital and having kept a low profile since, reappeared with a short but powerful message broadcast over the radio:
"I’ll deliver a speech at the plaza outside Government House. I’m sorry for my silence… but I needed time to think."
The location was no coincidence. There, at the center of the capital, stood the imposing statue of Gabriel Foster—a founding figure of the army, a man without whom the military would not be what it was today. He was a symbol of unity in the wake of chaos. To speak before his image was more than a political gesture—it was a challenge to history, a continuation of the cause, a statement of both present and future.
The announcement spread like wildfire through community radio, civic networks, and even makeshift loudspeakers in rural villages.
The message was clear, loud, and above all—resounding.
It is said that millions came to the plaza that day. The official figure, supported by historians and urban logistics experts, speaks of half a million attendees—perhaps a bit less. But popular culture chose the myth: millions.
And that exaggeration, passed from mouth to mouth, eventually became part of the legend.
The truth is, when Fausto emerged from within the crowd, walking toward the great stage set up before the monument, the people roared his name with such force that it seemed to shake the very air. He no longer bore the face of the young man who had once taken office, nor the restless eyes of a teenager set ablaze.
He had changed.
His beard was short, barely grown in. He wore the same white shirt as always, the red tie at his neck, and a black vest that matched his trousers. But there was a new detail—subtle, symbolic: his sleeves were rolled up.
That simple gesture, baring his forearms to the wind, spoke volumes. The old Fausto had been an orderly idealist, a young man of protocol and rigidity. But this new Fausto looked ready for hard work—for a constant struggle. He no longer spoke from passion alone, but from experience.
He climbed the stage. The platform, tall and wide, seemed almost too much for him. But when he took the microphone, and the crowd fell into silence, the entire square seemed to contract around him.
In his memoirs, written years later during his partial retreat from public life, Fausto recalled that moment with perfect clarity:
“I looked up and saw a sea of faces stretching beyond the horizon. Men, women, children perched on their parents’ shoulders, flags waving, voices chanting my name…”
The square, beneath the clear sky, had become an amphitheater of living history. And Fausto, with only a microphone in his hand, prepared to speak to a nation desperate to believe again.
The murmurs faded into a reverent hush. Half a million souls held their breath. The wind blew strong, stirring flags, banners, handkerchiefs. At the top of the stage, Fausto took a deep breath. For a moment, it seemed as if he were gazing past the horizon—evoking the absent, the fallen, the ones who had never stopped believing.
Then he spoke.
"I saw the shadows rise... and they weren’t nightmares, but men with rifles and cruel orders. They came to break our will, to twist our path, to shackle history. But the people—my people—did not yield a single step. Not even a breath."
A ripple of approval coursed through the crowd like a wave.
"O brave homeland. I have offered my blood and my honor for you—and I am not alone. Your shield is not made of metal, but of flesh and spirit: the united soul of a greater people. When others trembled, you fought. When others fell silent, you raised your voice. And when the night sought to reign, it was your fire that lit up the sky."
His words echoed against the walls of the Government Palace. Some wept. Others raised their fists. And all listened.
"The flags waved in the wind—not as mere cloth, but as living flames of an unyielding sun. Every voice united became a wall. Every step, a stone in the path of dignity. You did not tremble. You did not falter. You did not surrender. You did not kneel!"
The cheers erupted like thunder.
"You defended this land with fire in your hands and courage in your soul. The traitors sought to steal our honor, to erase the people’s name from the pages of time. But the day was born. And it was born with its light in our hands. The national banner was not broken—it became a bond that unites, a burning symbol, a witness that we are still here."
Fausto raised one hand, and the stage seemed to tremble beneath the weight of his voice:
"They could not silence our story. They could not erase what the people wrote with their blood, their vote, their voice. Because every vote is a cry of glory. Every election, a declaration of peace, of justice, of future."
Then, lowering his tone slightly—his voice deeper, more intimate:
"And today, as I walk among you, my glorious people, I know there are no chains that can return. The shadows have retreated. Fear has lost its name. Because history is no longer written with the ink of the powerful—but with the steady hand of the citizen."
The people, now ablaze with emotion, were no longer mere spectators—they had become protagonists of their own story. Fausto lifted both arms, as if summoning the very earth itself:
"Justice does not fall! It does not retreat! It does not bend!"
"It does not bend!" roared the crowd in unison.
"You never surrendered! You never knelt! That was your oath! That was your resistance! That was how you defended your great freedom! Let time record it. Let the world hear it. Because here... here, no one rules if the people are not present!"
A collective cry erupted from the square—unstoppable, fierce, electric with emotion.
Fausto’s name was chanted again and again, while thousands wept, sang, or simply stared in silence—understanding that something important had just happened.
From a balcony in the palace, President Karen watched. She said nothing. But anyone standing close enough would have seen her hand rest gently over her heart.
That day, Fausto didn’t just speak.
He made history—history that others would one day try to erase. But his light, his voice, and his vision endured.
Forever.
ns216.73.216.86da2
and then Add to home screen.