The Mafia Empire
Chapter 7: Chapter 7 Blood Oath

The morning shift was relatively easy since there weren't many steam locomotives running through the night. It wasn't until the afternoon that Julian truly felt the exhaustion. Locomotives arrived one after another, and Mr. Kreen emerged from his office, shouting orders at the workers and directing them.

The work kept them busy from just after one o'clock until seven in the evening, when they finally had a moment to catch their breath.

Julian sat at the dinner table, his arms trembling, unable to even make a fist. With shaking hands, he held a piece of bread and sipped the meat soup in front of him.

Today, he'd earned twelve cents according to the workers. If this pace continued, he could make five dollars and ten cents by the end of the month—a decent amount for a newcomer.

Graf walked over, holding a bowl of meat soup and a few pieces of bread. He sat next to Julian, tearing into the bread with large bites and speaking through a mouthful. "Don't bathe tonight. Just take off your clothes and sleep. Don't do anything else, or you won't be able to move tomorrow."

Julian trusted the advice of experienced people, and Graf's suggestion wasn't unreasonable. Without much thought, Julian decided to follow it and raised a question.

"Mr. Kreen told me the union people would come to see me in a few days and that I shouldn't join. Should I?"

Graf's face immediately showed a look of disdain. He glanced up at the lit window on the second floor, let out a cold chuckle, and said, "Don't listen to that liar. If we don't join the union, who's going to protect the rights of us workers at the bottom? He just wants to take advantage of you. Besides, is the fifty-cent membership fee really that expensive?"

Julian nodded, finishing his broth. As he dug around the bottom of the bowl, he found a small chunk of meat, savoring it as if it were a delicacy.

"I understand."

Julian used to think his family's full house in the middle of nowhere was the worst living situation possible. Sharing a cramped room with his six brothers, each night they'd collapse into bed after long days working in the fields, so tired that they fell asleep immediately, stale with sweat and the odor of dirty feet.

But now, as he sat in a tiny, cramped 30-square-meter room with twenty other men, Julian realized things could indeed be much worse. The experience was uncomfortable, but the exhaustion from the day's work made sleep come quickly.

The next morning, he threw off the blanket and got ready for the day. There was no room for grooming, so he followed the others to the railway platform for another day of labor. The cargo was familiar—massive crates, all clinking softly with the sound of glass.

"What's in these, Graf?" Julian grunted as he heaved another crate onto his shoulder. "Feels like water."

Graf gave a sly grin. "Water? No, my friend. That's liquid gold. We're moving money." Leaning in closer, he whispered, "It's high-proof alcohol. But don't go shouting about it."

Julian's eyes widened in surprise.

The Empire had strict prohibition laws on the production, transportation, and sale of alcohol. Grain spirits couldn't exceed 9% alcohol, and wine no more than 13%. Anything stronger was illegal and had to be destroyed. The punishment for making, transporting, or selling distilled spirits was severe, born out of a belief that strong alcohol created demons.

The law was established after the Empire's third prince drank himself to death—some claimed he vomited black bile right before he passed away.

At that time, all production and sale of undiluted spirits were banned. But as Julian had just realized, prohibition only made alcohol more lucrative. In a post-war empire where many sought an escape, the demand for hard liquor soared. Despite the law, underground production and transport of moonshine created enormous profits for those daring enough to take the risk.

As Julian continued hauling crates, his mind wandered. From what he'd learned in his dreams, alcohol could be distilled to produce high-proof liquor. He didn't know what the local "white liquor" tasted like, but he had no doubt it was potent.

Later, during lunch, Julian caught up to Graf on their way to the cafeteria by the rails. Glancing around to make sure no one was listening, he asked, "Graf, aren't we brothers?"

Graf puffed out his chest proudly. "Of course, brother!"

"Good. So, tell me—how much do you think a bottle of that high-proof alcohol is worth? From the batch we loaded this morning."

Graf's gaze narrowed with suspicion. He studied Julian carefully. Graf might have looked like a brute, but he knew when to be cautious. "Why? You thinking about buying one? Kid, your paycheck for the whole month won't even cover one bottle."

Julian's jaw dropped. A whole month's wages? Just when he'd started to believe his hard work would at least earn him five dollars by the end of the month, learning that a single bottle of whiskey would cost him that much filled him with frustration. His fingers trembled with a sudden eagerness as he saw the possibility of earning more money.

Noticing the look on Julian's face, Graf asked, "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Julian snapped out of his thoughts, playing it cool. "I'm fine. Never felt better!" he laughed.

Leaning in again, he asked, "What about low-proof alcohol? How much does that go for?"

Graf glanced around cautiously before replying, "Listen, if you're thinking of buying high proof stuff and then diluting it, save your money. Don't even bother."

Julian's expression shifted through a range of emotions before he sighed deeply. "Can I trust you?"

In response, Graf pulled a small knife from his back pocket, startling Julian enough that he almost backed away. But Graf calmly cut his own palm, letting blood drip down his hand. "This is a Guar tradition," he said, grabbing Julian's hand and making a small cut. "We're brothers now. This blood oath is sacred. If either of us breaks it, the gods will punish us."

Julian watched in awe as they clasped bloody hands. For a long moment, he said nothing, lost in thought. Finally, growing impatient, Graf nudged him. "What are you thinking?"

Julian looked up, dead serious. "My hand's numb. Am I going to die?"

Graf rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. Worst case scenario, you lose a hand."