404: Chapter 404 Land Belongs to the Cultivators

"From today on," he said in the Makua People language, his voice carried by loudspeakers across the entire village and the surrounding coconut groves, "Every inch of farmland on this land will be distributed to those who till it. Land acquisition contracts by foreign companies—void. Jial's debts—void. Exorbitant government taxes—void. There is only one rule: do not steal, do not rob, do not kill. Those who violate it—their names will be forgotten."

The cheers of thousands of villagers erupted like a tsunami.

The Mueda Village loudspeakers—installed by the Portuguese colonial government years ago and later used by Jial to broadcast intimidation notices—were now playing traditional Makua People songs. The sound of drums and the shrill singing of women mingled together, piercing through the coconut groves, crossing the beach, and traveling all the way to the bow of the stranded, broken fishing boat on the coastline.

The same morning, land distribution began.

João cleared out Jial's armory, moved the ammunition boxes out, and dismantled the weapon racks. He spread out the nautical charts brought from the lighthouse on the concrete floor and used charcoal to draw a map of the farmland distribution for Mueda Village and the six surrounding natural villages on the back. He had Sebastiao call all the elders from the seven villages to come and sit down in front of the map.

"The land requisitioned by Total—four thousand two hundred hectares—is now returned to the villages." He drew a red line on the map with charcoal. "Three kilometers south of the coastline, five kilometers north, and inland to the old railway embankment—within this range, every registered farming household will have land distributed per capita. One hectare per person, one share per person, regardless of gender or age."

The elders looked at each other. When they had land requisitioned at gunpoint, they never thought of resisting—because resistance meant death. Now that someone suddenly said they would return the land to them, their first reaction was not joy, but disbelief. People who have been deceived too many times instinctively shrink back when good things come their way.

Sebastiao stood up, picked up the charcoal, and drew a circle on the map where his village was located. Then he bit his thumb and pressed a bloody fingerprint next to the circle. "Mueda Village, we sign."

The other six elders remained silent. Then, one by one, they stood up, drew circles on the map, and pressed their bloody fingerprints. Some did not bite their thumbs and only drew circles with charcoal—but João did not require everyone to press a bloody fingerprint. The bloody fingerprint was not the point; the point was that they had left their mark on the map.

By noon, the land distribution notice was written on plywood taken from ammunition boxes and set up at the entrance of the village. João wrote the same sentence in three languages: Makua, Portuguese, and Swahili: "Land to the tillers. Documents will be issued within three days. Anyone coming to drive people away with old contracts will be treated as an armed invader."

A makeshift clinic was set up in the old ammunition depot on the first floor of the village. João installed the portable medical pod brought from the lighthouse on an iron-frame bed moved out of Jial's bedroom, and hung saline bags and antibiotic infusion bottles on the wall with nails. The first patient to come for treatment was a captive whose ear had been sliced off by shrapnel—João cleaned the wound, stitched it up, and gave him a tetanus shot without asking if he was one of Jial's soldiers or a villager. The captive cried.

By nightfall, the clinic had treated eighty-three wounded and sick people. Most were suffering from malaria and parasites, and a few had shrapnel wounds and burns from the fighting. No one was turned away for lack of money—because the clinic didn't charge at all.

Maputo, CIA safe house, early morning.

Harper sat in the surveillance van; what came through the headphones was not intelligence, but a broadcast. The Mueda Village loudspeakers were not very powerful, but the ionosphere had undergone a strange change that night, and shortwave signals were traveling further than usual. His monitoring equipment captured João's speech—every word, every cheer, every drumbeat.

He took off the headphones, his hands trembling.

"'People's Defense Zone.'" He chewed on those three words, then slammed his fist onto the monitoring console. "He's fucking built a country right under our noses!"

He jumped out of the surveillance van and walked into the safe house's encrypted communication room. A map of Mozambique was posted on the wall, with Cabo Delgado Province circled three times in red ink—those were the three "permeable points" assessed by Council of Elders. Now, all three circles were within João's controlled area.

He picked up the satellite phone and dialed Council of Elders' encrypted frequency.

"Mission failed. Jial is dead. João has established a 'People's Defense Zone' in Mueda and is distributing farmland and building a clinic. We have lost control of all our agents in the area."

There was silence on the other end of the line for five seconds. Then Barrett's voice came through, hoarse and steady, like sandpaper grinding metal: "Execute Plan B. The target in Maputo—take them out directly. Frame Myanmar. Make the hardliners in the Mozambique military believe that João's arrival means their president will also be overthrown. Give them fear. Fear is more useful than money."

"Time frame?"

"Within seventy-two hours. I will arrange for a team to be transferred from South Africa—not the trash under your command. It's the remnants of 'Blood Moon.' They owe Council of Elders a debt, and now is the time to pay it back."

The call ended. Harper placed the headphones on the monitoring console, his fingers still trembling. He lit a cigarette; the smoke could not dissipate in the closed surveillance van, swirling into a hazy gray sphere between the red and green indicator lights on the dashboard.

Outside the window, the morning in Maputo was waking up. The morning glow of the Indian Ocean reflected on the glass curtain walls of the city's high-rises, a street vendor selling grilled corn pushed a cart past, and a little girl in a school uniform skipped across the street.

Naypyidaw Presidential Palace, encrypted video conference room.

Four holographic screens hovered above the conference table, displaying the office of Zhou Henian, Governor of the Central Bank of the Dragon Country; the conference room of ASEAN Secretary-General Lin Yongfa; the cabinet conference room of Cambodia's Prime Minister Somsak; and the office of Thailand's Prime Minister Phibun, respectively. The four faces logged in at their respective local times—it was late night for Zhou Henian, and his desk lamp cast tired but excited shadows on his face.

Zhang Cheng sat at the head of the table, with a document spread out in front of him. The title of the document was printed in five languages: Chinese, English, Myanmar, Cambodian, and Thai—《Asian Digital Currency Interconnectivity Agreement》.

"Gentlemen," Zhang Cheng began, his tone as flat as if he were announcing a routine weather report, "At 4:00 AM this morning, the Federation of Myanmar Defense Forces completed the 'Mueda Blitzkrieg' in Cabo Delgado Province. The 120-man unit of the CIA-funded warlord Jial was completely annihilated within thirty minutes. Jial himself was publicly tried and executed by the local villagers. The onshore terminal stations for three key natural gas blocks along the coast of Cabo Delgado Province—Ruvuma Basin blocks 4, 5, and 7—are now under the control of João Mutale's security company."

Zhou Henian's eyebrows twitched. The movement was extremely subtle—he just raised his brow one millimeter from its standard position. Having served in the central bank for twenty years, experienced the 1998 Asian Financial Crisis, the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis, and the 2020 global monetary easing wave, he had long hidden his emotions behind a professional mask. But raising his eyebrow by a millimeter was the greatest surprise that could be read from his expression.