Chapter 138: Viva La Revolution (Part 3)

Bastolle Prison, Warden’s Office

The situation inside the office was tense. The warden—a crocodile beastman—sat in his large, luxurious chair, surrounded by polished furniture and expensive decorations that now did absolutely nothing to calm him.

From beyond the window, the sounds were impossible to ignore. The shouting, the screaming, and the occasional crack of musket fire. Each one a reminder that the situation outside was slipping.

“Sir! The mobs from the slums have breached the southern gate!”

A prison guard burst into the office mid-report, breath uneven from running. The warden’s hand slowly clenched into a fist. His thick scales did not help with stress, but he forced himself to remain composed. Cold-blooded, after all.

“Send all available men to push back the mobs,” the warden ordered. “Prison guards, town guards, mercenaries, everyone.”

“Yes, sir!”

The guard snapped a salute and rushed out immediately.

The warden exhaled once, then stood up and walked toward the mana-comm crystal placed on his desk. It was already active and connected.

“Sir,” the warden said, voice steady, “as you can hear, the prison has been breached.”

Silence answered him. Not empty silence, but thinking silence.

“…Understood.”

Scarf’s voice finally came through the crystal, still calm.

“Move the king and the prince to the gallows. And hold the mobs until I arrive with reinforcements.”

The warden did not hesitate.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I will hold them off until you arrive.”

---

Bastolle Prison, Main Building

The prison lobby had turned into a constant flow of movement. Hundreds of troops—prison guards, town guards, and hired mercenaries—rushed through the main building, heading toward the southern section to contain the breach. Boots pounded against stone floors. Orders were shouted, weapons clattered, and no one stopped moving.

Meanwhile, in a side corridor near the lobby, two figures stayed perfectly still. Irving and Ivy.

They pressed themselves against the wall, hidden from view as groups of troops continued to pass by. Between them was a captured prison guard. One hand clamped tightly over his mouth and a knife resting against his throat. When the last group finally passed and the corridor fell quiet, they began to move again.

“Where do you keep the boarman?” Irving asked.

“H-H-He’s in the lowest dungeon,” the guard stammered, voice shaking even through the pressure on his jaw. “Please don’t kill me, human.”

“We won’t kill you if you cooperate,” Ivy said calmly. “Now lead us to that dungeon.”

“Y-Yes,” the guard replied quickly. “I will show you the way.”

The knife pressed deeper.

“Hieee!”

“The right and quiet way,” Irving said, smiling coldly. “Don’t even think about leading us to your friends.”

“N-N-No, I won’t,” the guard said immediately.

Irving held his gaze for a second longer, then gave a small nod.

“Good.”

---

Prostitutes Lodging

Thirty minutes had passed, the atmosphere inside the lodging had completely changed. Every prostitute now stood ready. Sacks packed, luggage prepared, personal belongings gathered with surprising efficiency.

No one spoke much. They were simply waiting. Meanwhile, Solo was almost ready. Only the final checks remained.

He stood in the room, now fully armed. His brand-new Dwargonian beam rifle resting comfortably in his grip, while a pair of Murican smart-glasses sat neatly on his face.

Prototype smart-glasses. Not released to the public and not even to the military.

“Drone B good,” Solo muttered, tapping a small button on the side of his glasses. “Drone C also good.”

Small translucent windows floated across his vision, displaying live feeds from the drones.

Then he shifted his gaze toward the table. Three gremlin drone operators sat there, hunched over their controllers and monitors, fully focused despite their size. Eyes glued to the screens.

“All three drone feeds are good,” Solo said.

“Kii,” the three gremlins replied cheerfully in unison.

Solo then turned toward the fourth gremlin, the messenger.

“Okay,” Solo said, tone casual but firm. “I know you’ve been working hard tonight.”

The gremlin stood a little straighter.

“But I need you to deliver one more message for me.”

“Kiiii!” the gremlin replied immediately, clearly not considering refusal as an option.

Solo nodded, then pulled out a small pouch and handed it over.

“Our drone inside the prison caught that one of the Misfits is somehow involved in the prison break,” Solo said. “This pouch has four earcomms. Give these to them so they can communicate with me.”

The gremlin accepted the pouch carefully.

“After you give them these,” Solo continued, “you’ll tag along with them. We regroup at the port. Got it?”

“Kii!” The gremlin snapped into a salute.

“Now go.”

The gremlin didn’t waste a second. It rushed out of the room at full speed, pouch secured. Solo watched it leave for a brief moment then turned back.

Preparations complete. Now his attention shifted to Candy and the other girls.

“Alright, listen up,” Solo said.

The room quieted instantly.

“Me and Candy will be at the front. The rest of you follow behind.” He scanned the group. “Good news, there’s no fighting between here and the port.”

A short pause.

“But I still want tight formation. Don’t get too far from the girl in front of you. Got it?”

Every girl nodded, they understood.

“What about the gremlins you’re leaving here?” Candy asked, glancing toward the three operators still working at the table.

“Don’t worry about them,” Solo said. “I’ve left my subspace bag with them. They’ll pack everything up and regroup with me after you girls safely board the ship.”

Solo then smiled at the girls.

“And when you board the ship,” he said, “you will no longer be slaves.”

Smiles spread across every girl faces.

“Okay then,” Solo said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s move. We don’t have much time.”

There's no hesitation as the group began to move.

Solo and Candy took the lead, stepping out first, while the line of girls followed behind in tight formation. Orderly, disciplined, and heading straight toward freedom.

---

Bastolle Prison, South Gate

Now the inner courtyard had fallen into chaos. The slum mobs had fully breached the southern gate. They poured in endlessly. Flooding the area, overwhelming whatever resistance tried to hold them back.

And through all the noise, they kept chanting the same words over and over.

“Viva la Revolution! Free the true leader!”

The chant echoed loudly across the courtyard. Not a single person in the mob actually understood what it meant. But that had never been a requirement because for them, tonight was already perfect.

They were fighting the authority.

Breaking things.

Burning through years of bottled-up frustration.

And if things went really well, Maybe they could even topple the mayor they all hated. A dream scenario for every thug in the Nyanjara slum.

On the battlements above, the prison guards had already begun to retreat. They were outnumbered badly so they ran, and the mobs chased them. Cheering, laughing, energized.

But then—

Something changed. The running slowed. Feet lost momentum and shouts grew quieter. The mob gradually came to a stop.

Ahead of them, the fleeing guards had regrouped. And they weren’t alone anymore. Dozens of prison guards stood in formation. Dozens more town guards joined them.

And behind those lines—

Hundreds of mercenaries. All armored, all armed, all ready. The prison yard fell into a tense silence as both sides faced each other.

The situation had reversed completely. The defenders now outnumbered the attackers by several hundred.

But fear?

That didn’t show, not here. The slum mobs grinned instead. Weapons were raised. Swords, blades, clubs, anything that could be swung. Excitement burned in their eyes.

“ATTAAAAACK!!!” one of them shouted.

“ATTAAAACK!!” others echoed.

Louder, wilder.

And just like that—

They surged forward.

“CHAAAARGE!!!” the guard officer shouted.

“CHAAAARGE!!!” the mercenary officer followed immediately.

Both sides moved fast, then faster.

Until they collided.

Steel met steel, wood met bone. The impact rolled across the courtyard like a shockwave. And within seconds the prison yard was no longer a yard. It was a battlefield.

---

Bastolle Prison, Ximba’s Cell

“GET OFF ME!” Ximba shouted.

He struggled violently. Both Ximba and his father were already restrained, pinned down and cuffed by several prison guards. Outnumbered and overpowered, they were both locked in place.

Nearby, Poomba and Timun stood frozen as spears pointed directly at them. They had been forced back into the corner of the cell, unable to move, unable to interfere.

Meanwhile, the prison warden stood at the center of it all. He had come personally with dozens of guards to collect the king and the prince and bring them to the gallows. Just like Scarf ordered

“King Mufasa,” the warden said calmly.

Mufasa was held firmly in place, guards gripping his arms, weapons close.

“Please don’t do anything rash,” the warden continued, “Or it is the prince’s head that will roll off his body.”

A guard beside Ximba pressed his blade closer against the prince’s neck just enough.

Mufasa saw it. He can only clenched his teeth.

“You traitor,” Mufasa growled.

The warden did not respond.

“Move them out,” he ordered.

The guards obeyed immediately. Mufasa and Ximba were dragged out of the cell, leaving Poomba and Timun behind.

---

Bastolle Prison, Kovalski Sniper’s Nest

High above the prison yard, inside one of the battlement towers at the west gate, Kovalski had established his sniper’s nest. Below him, the battlefield continued to churn. Through the lens, every movement are visible. Every clash, every stumble, every desperate swing of a weapon.

The slum mobs were outnumbered, that much was obvious. But they weren’t collapsing, they were holding. And more than that, they were pushing back hard.

Kovalski adjusted his scope slightly and then he saw why.

Count Tigger.

Even from this distance, the old beastman moved with precision. His blade cut through the chaos with practiced efficiency. No wasted motion, no hesitation.

Next—

Windigo. The massive figure tore through enemies using nothing but brute strength. No weapon. Just his bare bear fists. Each strike sent guards stumbling or dropping.

And then—

Pigbled. Throwing projectiles into the crowd with unsettling accuracy, disrupting formations and creating openings for the mobs to exploit.

“Damn, those old beastmen are good,” Kovalski muttered.

Then—

“Kovalskiii!”

Bella’s voice cut through the air. Kovalski glanced to his right. Bella was running along the battlements toward him.

Her small frame moved quickly despite the massive machine gun slung over her shoulder, almost comically oversized compared to her. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was her face. She looked worried.

“Kovalski!” she called again as she reached him.

Kovalski lowered his rifle slightly.

“Hey, good job leading the mobs into the yard,” he said. “But why do you look so troubled?”

“I—I think we made a mistake!” Bella said, panic slipping into her voice.

Kovalski frowned.

“What do you mean?”

---

A minute later, Bella had finished explaining. Now, Kovalski’s face matched her expression.

“What?!” he said, eyes widening. “So that old tiger said the one in this prison is not Mr. Solo?!”

The realization hit hard as the truth had finally reached the Misfits.

Well... At least some of them.