Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 635 Merit can't buy life!
Casare returned to the National Palace, jumped out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop, and went straight to Victor's office.

In the dead of night, his heavy footsteps echoed.

At the corner on the top floor, he met Rohus Misch, the deputy director of the Secret Service and his personal bodyguard, who whispered to him, "The Führer is in a bad mood. Be careful."

Casare nodded, took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and waited for a "come in" from inside before pushing the door open. It was dark inside. Victor was not sitting behind his desk, but standing with his back to the door in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the sparse lights of the city outside.

He was wearing a simple shirt, and his figure looked somewhat lonely in the dim light.

Casare closed the door, stood in the doorway, and said in a low voice, "Boss."

"Has it been dealt with?"

"Yes, Tatiana committed suicide."

Viktor didn't turn around, but his shoulders seemed to tense slightly.

After a few seconds, he spoke slowly, his voice devoid of much emotion: "She...chosen it herself?"

"Yes," Casare answered readily, then hesitated for a moment, "Kuaukmot is having a breakdown."

Upon hearing this, Viktor finally turned around. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were filled with extremely complex emotions: weariness, regret, and even a fleeting moment of bewilderment, all of which eventually settled into a bottomless heaviness.

He remained silent, walked to his desk, and unconsciously ran his fingers across the surface.

"I understand." He finally said those three words, his voice a little hoarse.

Casare looked at him, hesitated for a moment, and then asked the crucial question: "Boss, what about Kuukmot...?"

Victor's gaze fell on the corner of the table, where a photo framed a picture of the three younger men—Victor, Casare, and Cuaukmote—standing in front of the Tijuana Governor's Mansion, full of vigor and beaming with smiles, against a backdrop of the fading smoke and ruins. His fingertips lingered on the frame for a moment.

That was the first group photo they took after conquering the important northern city.

“Let him rest.” Viktor’s voice returned to its usual calm, but with an undeniable decisiveness. “He needs time to be relieved of all his duties.”

Casare nodded, not surprised by the decision.

Viktor picked up the photo frame, his fingertips tracing the cold glass surface. Looking at the smile on Kuukmot's face in the photo, his eyes became even more profound and unfathomable.

"Why?" He seemed to be asking Casare, or perhaps himself, or even the past in the photograph. "Why does it always have to be like this? Is position really more important than the roads we've walked together, the blood we've shed?" He paused, his voice carrying an indescribable weariness and vicissitude. "Mexico... it's heavier than all of us. Sitting in that position isn't about enjoying life."

He put down the photo frame and let out a barely audible sigh.

Casare stood silently, understanding the weight of Victor's words. This was not a hypocritical sentiment, but the most genuine confusion and heaviness of a person at the pinnacle of power facing betrayal and loss.

“People change, boss,” Casare said softly.

Victor looked up at him and nodded. "Make sure he has a place to rest, quietly and respectably, so that Mexico remembers their contribution, not their fate."

"There will be a meeting tomorrow, and all ministers must attend."

"Understood." Casare acknowledged the order, turned and left the office, gently closing the door behind him.

In the room, only Viktor remained, along with the photograph on his desk that captured their past brotherhood. He picked it up again and gazed at it for a long time.

...

The next day, the National Palace Ministerial Conference began on time.

Viktor, seated at the head of the table, cut straight to the point without any opening remarks: "First resolution: Due to health reasons, Kwaukmote is suspended from all related duties effective immediately, and Education Minister Anatoly Lunacharski will assume his duties."

As soon as she finished speaking, the conference room fell silent. Several ministers who were implicated by Tatiana changed their expressions drastically, their eyes filled with panic, and they shifted nervously in their seats.

After he finished his announcement, he did not immediately move on to the next item on the agenda. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, placed his hands on the table with his hands crossed, and slowly swept his gaze over each of the ministers present. The air in the conference room seemed to freeze, and everyone felt an invisible pressure.

Viktor's gaze finally settled on those whose eyes were darting around, and his voice was low and carried an undeniable power: "Now, there are some things we need to talk about."

Before he could finish speaking, the conference room door was silently pushed open, and George Smiley, the Director of the Internal Affairs Bureau, walked in with several stern-faced employees. He went straight to Victor, bowed slightly, and handed him a list: "Your Excellency, the list has been confirmed."

Viktor didn't take the list; he merely raised his chin slightly as a gesture.

The Director of the Interior, understanding the implication, turned to face the ministers on either side of the long table, opened the list, and began calling out names in a cold, metallic voice, devoid of any inflection:
"Deputy Minister José Mendoza."

The finance minister, whose name was called, turned deathly pale instantly. His lips trembled, and he instinctively tried to stand up and defend himself.

"Deputy Minister Carlos Rodriguez."

The Deputy Minister of Security's forehead instantly broke out in a cold sweat, and his hands, resting on his knees, clenched into fists until his knuckles turned white.

"Director Emilio Sanchez."

The director of the National Oil Corporation Administration Bureau visibly stiffened, his eyes filled with terror.

As soon as a name was called, an agent would quickly step up behind that person.

Those whose names were called did not need any prompting. Under immense fear and pressure, they were either gently helped up by the agents or stood up on their own, trembling, and then silently led away from the conference room. Some of them were even shaking in their legs.

It reminds me of a line from a movie: "What the hell were you doing all this time?"

The door closed again, leaving only heavy breathing and deathly silence in the conference room.

Those empty seats were glaringly conspicuous.

Several ministers found themselves alone, their seats empty, and they themselves felt uneasy, even breaking out in a cold sweat.

Viktor slowly raised his head, his gaze no longer sharp as a knife, but instead filled with something heavy and scorching, as if suppressed lava had finally found an outlet.

His voice wasn't loud, but it struck everyone's heart like a heavy hammer, every word carrying a scorching heat:
“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse yet filled with immense power. “I know what you want: wealth? Status? A better life for your families? So that the brothers who shed blood and sweat with us no longer have to worry about tomorrow’s bread? Do you think I, Viktor, don’t understand?”

His gaze swept over the remaining people, his eyes filled with pity, anger, and an unfathomable disappointment.

"But do I lack what you have?!" His voice suddenly rose, his chest heaving violently. "Have you forgotten what you were like before? Minister of Commerce: Ludwig Erhard!" He pointed at the Minister of Commerce and said bluntly, "What did you live like before? Eating moldy black bread, drinking cheap liquor mixed with sawdust, watching your loved ones freeze and starve to death in the dead of winter; living like rats in the mines, never seeing the light of day, being whipped by drug dealers and gangsters; hiding in damp sewers, clutching a few precious bullets, wondering if you'd survive tomorrow!"

He slammed his fist on the heavy oak table, making a dull thud that made the water glasses on the table vibrate.

"Back then, what were we risking our lives for? Was it so that we could sit in a warm palace today, enjoying ourselves with drug money stained with the blood and tears of our compatriots? Was it so that our children could become walking corpses, inhaling the powder we ourselves brought in?!"

His voice trembled slightly with extreme anger, and a barely perceptible red tinge appeared in his eyes.

"Money! Money is a good thing! I don't object to you getting rich! Do everything you can to develop the country! To develop trade! To develop production! Make the country rich, make the people rich, and make yourselves rich in a fair and aboveboard way! What's wrong with that?! Did I, Viktor, stop you from getting rich?!"

Fuck your mothers!

I couldn't help but blurt out a swear word.

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his surging emotions, but the deep sorrow was even more clearly etched on his face.

"But drugs? No! Absolutely not! That's poison that corrodes our very foundation! It's a plague that destroys the souls of the next generation! It's the most despicable weapon the enemy uses to break our will! Think of those children lying in the slums, convulsing! Think of those parents who sold their own flesh and blood to buy a packet of powder! Think of the vows we made! 'For a better life'? Is this your understanding of 'better'?!"

He abruptly stood up, placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and stared intently at everyone, as if his gaze could pierce through their souls.
"Whoever touches this is a traitor! A traitor to the blood we shed! A traitor to our fallen brothers! A traitor to the country we built from ruins with our own hands! A traitor to the millions of compatriots who trusted us and entrusted their future to us! Whoever touches this is no longer my brother! They are the cancer we must eradicate! The rotten flesh we must pluck from our ranks!"

He stood up straight, his chest still heaving, but his tone carried an almost tragic resolve:

“Those taken away today crossed this red line. They chose betrayal. I gave them chances, more than once! But they mistook our understanding for weakness! They mistook our tolerance for indulgence! Now, with their own hands stained with filth, with their hearts completely blinded by greed, they have clearly shown us all—this bottom line is inviolable! To cross it is to die!”

He uttered the last four words almost through gritted teeth, each word deliberate and chilling, carrying both an icy killing intent and a profound, heart-wrenching weight.

Viktor took a deep breath, venting his anger, and then sat down again.

The conference room was deathly silent, with only his burning words echoing and burning in everyone's ears and hearts, leaving an indelible mark.

That heavy sense of "bitterness," that questioning of "brotherhood," that understanding of "getting rich" and the absolute taboo against "drug trafficking," are like invisible shackles, or even red-hot branding irons, deeply engraved into the depths of everyone's soul.

The air seemed to solidify into a heavy block of lead, making it hard to breathe.

“Go back now, all of you. Think carefully about what I said today, think about why you sat here in the first place, and think about whether you deserve to sit here now.”

"roll!"

Viktor hadn't cursed so rudely in a long time, but these bastards needed to be taught a lesson.

No one dared to linger, no one dared to make eye contact, and no one dared to utter a single extra sound.

The ministers, almost holding their breath, rose stiffly and silently, filing out as if escaping a minefield that could explode at any moment. Their heavy footsteps quickly faded into the empty corridor.

"Casare".

After everyone had left, Viktor's voice rang out in a low voice, without raising his gaze.

"Boss."

Viktor remained silent for a few seconds, his gaze seemingly piercing through the heavy tabletop.

He spoke, his voice tinged with barely perceptible weariness: "How is he?"

Casare understood immediately: "He's been arranged to stay at the 'Sini Estate,' with security and medical teams on standby around the clock. He's physically fine, just a little down."

“You mean…” Victor paused, then exclaimed, “Should we go see him?”

Actually, he wasn't always as strong as he thought. He got in touch with the other party early on, initially wanting to use his identity as a figurehead, but eventually, he was inspired by Kwakmote's patriotism and they worked together for the cause of drug control.

like what?
Just like Zhang Liang and Liu Bang!

Casare lowered his head. "Boss, I don't know either."

Viktor slowly stood up, turned his back to Casare, and walked towards the huge floor-to-ceiling window.

His shadow stretched long in the light, revealing a deep loneliness. He gazed at the gray horizon outside the window, remaining silent for a long time.

I watched it for a long time.

Finally, a low, hoarse voice, heavy with weariness, broke the deathly silence:

"After I return from Mount Tepeya tomorrow, I want to see him. Even if he hates me, he will understand. But if you do something wrong, you should be punished."

He's acting out of brotherly duty, but it's practically impossible for him to forgive Tatiana.

A mistake is a mistake, and merit is merit. When will merit be able to exchange for a life?

“I’ll arrange it,” Casare said forcefully.

Victor nodded. "Let's go."

The two walked out of the conference room, where security personnel stood guard, surrounding him as they prepared to leave, when his cell phone rang. Casare quickly ducked behind and answered the phone, "Hello!"

"Ah? Okay, I understand. I'll report to the Führer right away."

After hanging up the phone, he saw Viktor looking at him. "What's wrong? What happened again?"

The word "again" was used very well. He was feeling quite tired and was afraid that something else might go wrong.

Being a boss means having to clean up after others; it's a real headache.

"Boss, our men have broken into Medellín!"

……

(End of this chapter)