Gendry stared in mute horror at the Light of Grace.
On its glowing surface, a sphere to the south flashed crimson as a fresh wound, while more than a dozen surrounding grids shifted from green to red in swift succession, forming a spreading stain upon the map.
That was the Fourth Clearance Team. That was Flea Bottom.
"All Guards squad leaders and their men will follow me to provide support!" Commander Jon Snow's voice rang out, brooking no argument.
Gendry, as part of the Guards, found his Light of Grace already displaying his amended orders: obey the command of Jon Snow, Second Commander of the Guards, and assist in maintaining the stability of the alert grid.
"Form ranks! Count off!" Commander Jon's instructions were terse as a bowstring drawn taut.
Without hesitation, Gendry gathered his twenty companions and brought them to attention, taking position at the right flank to oversee them, barking "One-and-twenty" when his turn came in the count.
The final number Gendry heard was six-and-thirty.
"Running formation! Move out!" Commander Jon ordered, then set off at a brisk pace, six-and-thirty squads falling in behind him like the tail of a great serpent.
Even now, Gendry's thoughts remained clouded, as though wrapped in fog.
The entire process had unfolded with such haste that it left no time for reflection—only the instinctive responses drilled into them day after day during training.
As the streets and buildings flashed by on either side, Gendry at last found a moment to gather his wits and consider what he had witnessed, and what they might soon face.
Earlier, the two hundred and thirty-ninth grid under Gendry's charge had been successfully inspected.
Though the Clearance Team had not arrived until nearly midday, the lengthy wait had left those within the grid restless and ill-tempered. Some had even attempted to slip across the boundary. Yet overall, calm had prevailed, and no blood had been spilled.
The subsequent arrival of the Hand of the King, Lord Tyrion, and Commander Jon had solidified control of the situation entirely.
A formidable contingent of nearly a thousand men had turned the area inside out. Every item in more than a dozen shops and brothels, more than a score of manses, and dozens of modest dwellings had been recorded in painstaking detail. Not a soul had found means to hide; all were compelled to answer questions truthfully and provide testimony of their deeds and possessions.
Gendry had witnessed with his own eyes as more than a dozen individuals were bound and forced into sealed carriages alongside whatever property had been confiscated from them.
When all had been concluded, Gendry had pressed "Task Completed" on his Light of Grace with his own hand, returning the two hundred and thirty-ninth grid to pristine white on the map. It had been his most gratifying moment since donning the gold cloak.
Then he and his squad had joined the Clearance Team as they proceeded to the next grid slated for inspection.
Lord Tyrion had displayed remarkable confidence. After each grid was thoroughly searched, he commanded all stationed squads to follow rather than leaving any behind to maintain watch. This practice gradually increased the manpower available to the Clearance Team.
Before long, those conducting the inspections far outnumbered those being inspected within any single grid, and their work proceeded with unprecedented efficiency.
Until the light sphere in the south gained red stripes of warning.
From the operation's commencement, Gendry had kept a watchful eye on the mission map displayed by the Light of Grace.
The morning hours had seen the most dramatic shifts in color across the city's grids. Some areas had flared red briefly, then settled to green, as nearby squads rushed to pursue and contain whatever disturbance had arisen. Their sole purpose: to eliminate those small patches of crimson from the map.
Gendry could well imagine the trials his comrades faced in such places. Dense crowds of the uncooperative, shifting constantly, some deliberately sowing discord, inciting others to riot against the crown's authority.
King's Landing was no pool of clear water, after all.
In the hours since, Gendry had endured countless glares and taunts, yet the city had finally stabilized into a reassuring blanket of green upon the map.
Thereafter, only occasional fluctuations had appeared wherever the Clearance Teams conducted their work, and these were swiftly resolved.
Until the light sphere marking Flea Bottom began to display red stripes. This marked the first Clearance Team to issue a warning signal.
Lord Tyrion had dispatched twenty squads in response, while other Clearance Teams diverted portions of their own strength to assist. Yet before most reinforcements could arrive, a large swath of Flea Bottom had erupted in crimson.
What chaos might be unfolding there? How dire had the situation become?
Gendry felt a knot form in his belly. His concern was not merely for the disorder they would soon confront, but for all those who dwelled within Flea Bottom.
He himself had grown up in those fetid streets and crooked alleys.
Though most memories of that place brought him little joy, there had been a few companions with whom he had shared what little they had, supporting one another through the worst times. The simple cookshops with their bowls of brown had sustained countless orphans and bastards who would otherwise have perished.
What fate now awaited Flea Bottom and those who called it home?
Gendry's steps did not falter as they ran in formation, but his heart churned like the sea before a storm.
"Halt!" Commander Jon's shout split the air.
"Each squad leader will position his men along the perimeter. No one is to approach within twenty paces. Any who defy this order will be slain without mercy!"
Gendry and his squad took up their assigned position, blocking a section of street. Behind them lay Bread Street, where countless bakeries stood with doors flung wide, the rich aroma of fresh-baked loaves hanging in the air like an invisible mist.
With mounting anxiety, Gendry scrutinized every change on the mission map.
Save for the western quarter where the Clearance Team still operated, most of Flea Bottom now appeared as a solid mass of crimson. The squads within had withdrawn to the border, forming a line with other units that had rushed to the scene, encircling the red zone in a ring of steel.
The Clearance Team in the west advanced methodically, reclaiming the eastern grid one square at a time.
Yet their pace was unnaturally swift. In just half an hour, four red grids had turned green, and dense formations of soldiers remained stationed in these newly secured areas.
Gendry could almost see the blood being spilled.
Soon after, the Clearance Team severed the red area from west to east, creating two separate zones of resistance—one to the south, one to the north—like two hunks of raw meat on a butcher's block.
The Clearance Team surged southward, and this red area was quickly submerged beneath a tide of gold cloaks.
For the next half hour, no movement registered on the map.
They must be clearing the battlefield and processing prisoners, Gendry thought grimly.
Then, as one, all squads in the south began to move, pressing northward with implacable purpose, forcing the last patch of red resistance against the northernmost boundary of Flea Bottom.
A growing cacophony of shouts and screams reached Gendry's ears. He looked up to see countless figures approaching from the south, their manner aggressive, as though prepared for desperate battle.
Commander Jon drew his longsword. "Hold steady," he commanded. "Remember the steel in your hands. Make ready."
Make ready for what? Gendry did not wish to contemplate the answer.
The mob had already surged forward—a sea of faces contorted with rage, brandishing daggers, axes, wooden clubs, stones, and whatever other weapons desperation had provided.
"Get out of Flea Bottom, you gelded gold-cloaked bastards!"
"Long live King Robert!"
"If you won't give us means to live, we'll take our chances in the grave!"
Commander Jon pressed a shard of black dragonglass to his lips, murmured a few words, then pointed it toward the advancing crowd.
A voice like thunder burst forth from the obsidian fragment. "By His Grace's decree, all dust shall be cleansed! Flea Bottom and its people shall be redeemed. Under divine grace, you need never again want for food or shelter. The path before you is bright, with even the Holy Star as sanctuary for your immortal souls. Why do you defy the will of the gods?"
The roar of the multitude faltered beneath this supernatural pronouncement.
"Fall back at once!" came another voice as Commander approached from the flank, also wielding a piece of dragonglass. "With your pitiful numbers, you would stand against divine will?"
Gendry looked on as the people of Flea Bottom continued their advance, streaming toward Rhaenys's Hill where he stood with his comrades.
"Silence, all of you! Retreat!" Commander Cien nocked an arrow to his longbow.
The crowd drew nearer, their clamor undiminished.
Among them, Gendry recognized several familiar faces—youths whose expressions had hardened into something feral or coldly calculating, no different from the cutthroats who had once preyed upon orphans like himself.
Thrum.
Gendry watched as a face disappeared behind the shaft of a long arrow, and thought he heard the sickening crack of a skull giving way.
"Quiet! Fall back!" Commander Cien's voice rose above the din.
Another arrow took flight, seeking the heart of the mob.
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Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
I Am Raditz
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