Morelos State is not very big, with an area of just over 4,800 square kilometers. In China, that's equivalent to a mid-sized prefecture-level city, much smaller than Shanghai, about the size of Wuxi.
But taking it down in six hours, isn't that too exaggerated?
Didn't you need any time on the road?
Or was there no resistance at all?
"Is the report accurate?"
"Yes, aerial reconnaissance confirms it. Cuernavaca has indeed been taken. The local militia defending it, originally numbering over 600, retreated southward. Civilians in the streets are beating gongs and drums to celebrate."
Victor's tone immediately rose, a smile breaking across his face. "Good! Excellent work! Taking Morelos State in six hours, that's a meritorious deed. Tell Commander Stravitz that when he returns, I'll hold a celebration for him."
Victor rose from his chair, moved to the map hanging on the wall. With Morelos State in hand, Mexico City no longer needed to fear becoming the front line of warfare. Its safety index had greatly improved.
He stood with hands on his hips, lighting a cigarette, slapping several southern states on the map with his hand, a confident expression glowing on his face as though everything was within his grasp.
The troops who received benefits truly got things done.
In fact, Commander Heinrich von Stravitz himself was somewhat at a loss. Leading the armored army in an all-out charge, he found the tanks' speed unsatisfactory in the Altiplano region, so he ordered Deputy Commander Kurt Königspe to trail behind with the tanks for cleanup operations.
He bypassed the fortified towns ahead, leading a regiment straight to Cuernavaca. The road was smooth, free of any ambushes, and by the time his forces reached the city's outskirts, this was the scene that greeted him.
Hundreds of villagers stood on the main road leading into the city, holding up portraits of Victor and cheering, along with pre-prepared banners.
"Warmly welcome the Government Forces to Cuernavaca!"
"Long live General Victor!"
Some even threw flowers onto the advancing military vehicles…
"Bringing food and drink to welcome the Royal Army!"
"General, General…" Heinrich von Stravitz stepped out of his vehicle, his guard nervously gripping his gun, scanning his surroundings with vigilance. All of a sudden, an old man rushed toward him, falling to his knees with a thud, wailing and weeping.
"Why are you only coming now?" he cried out, his voice hoarse and filled with grief, lying flat on the ground. "If only you'd come earlier, my son wouldn't have been beaten to death by the drug traffickers."
The guard stood protectively before Stravitz, looking at the sobbing elder with an uneasy heart. Stravitz gently patted the guard's shoulder, signaling him to relax, and stepped forward, bending down to help the old man up with both hands.
He froze briefly. The old man's arms had no flesh to them!
They felt like… two bamboo sticks.
Heinrich von Stravitz glanced around in bewilderment, seeing gaunt faces everywhere.
"We've suffered so much! The drug traffickers don't even see us as human. They forced us to destroy all our crops to grow drug raw materials, but they don't care about our food supply. Each household only gets a bag of corn weighing less than 30 jin every two weeks."
The old man continued to wail, gesturing with his hands. "My grandson, barely three days old, starved to death… He weighed less than five jins when he passed away!!!"
"The drug traffickers forced my daughter-in-law to smuggle drugs. They cut open her stomach alive, pulled out her organs, and stuffed the drugs inside her. Ahhh!!"
Speaking of this, he pounded his chest, almost losing consciousness from the anguish. His cries came in sobbing spasms:
"My son was beaten to death before my very eyes. They decapitated him and thrown his head straight into my arms."
(—Taken from the true accounts of Guatemalan refugees).
Stravitz and the warriors around him were silent…
He felt a sharp pain in his chest.
How could this "Spring City," just 85 kilometers from Mexico City, endure such misery?
The South was nothing short of hell.
Their social hierarchy was utterly twisted.
Drug traffickers > Officials > Civilians > Refugees with no utilitarian value!
The so-called militia was more like their private army. When they saw the situation turning unfavorable, they abandoned them and fled under protection.
Stravitz helped the old man to his feet, dusting off his knees. Looking at the hundreds of people gathered there, he climbed onto a Humvee and addressed them. "Listen, everyone. I understand what you've been through. Rest assured, those damned drug-trafficking scum will die for what they've done!"
"We will drown them in their own filth!"
"And rest assured, now that the General's forces are here, no one will ever stand above you again. Bo'er, distribute all the food we brought to the people."
The guard froze for a second, opened his mouth, and finally nodded forcefully. "Understood!"
"Hey kid, eat up." A female medic from the army took out two sausages and a piece of chocolate from her backpack. These were meant for quick energy replenishment. She handed them to a skeletal child.
The boy was covered in grime, with snot and some unrecognizable sticky substance smeared across his face. He was barefoot and clearly had no value… a destitute commoner.
Even though autumn had arrived, he was dressed in thin rags, standing timidly at the side, unsure what to do.
When the sausage and chocolate were offered to him, he lifted his head. The sunlight behind the medic made her face difficult to discern.
The boy licked his lips, nervously glancing around.
"Take it and eat," she said.
The female medic tore open the sausage wrapper and handed it to him. Looking at him thoughtfully, she pulled a red scarf out of her bag. Under the child's bewildered and shy gaze, she wrapped it around his neck and gently wiped the dirt off his face with a sterilized cotton swab.