Chapter 249: Fajar Thoughts
In a luxurious hotel suite located about 40 kilometers from the center of Cirebon, the atmosphere was tense and silent.
Indonesia’s ninth president, Fajar, sat at the head of the room, surrounded by his cabinet of ministers.
On a large television screen, a live broadcast of the battle between Ren and Batara Guru was ongoing, displaying the widespread destruction ravaging Cirebon.
A mix of horror, shock, fear, disbelief, awe, and astonishment hung heavily in the air. These high-ranking officials, who had long lived in a bubble of privilege and power, were brutally reminded that there were forces in this world that cared nothing for their social status, titles, or authority.
"So this is the power of a Campione, huh..." Fajar muttered, his voice trembling slightly. "This is real, not some CGI visual effect. Truly... astonishing."
In his tone, a deep sense of envy was unmistakable. After reaching the pinnacle of his career as the nation’s leader, he realized bitterly that his title meant nothing in the eyes of beings like a Campione.
The Finance Minister, Sekar, broke the silence with her pragmatic concerns.
"It’s terrifying... The destruction is on par with, or perhaps worse than, the 2004 Aceh tsunami. The material losses could reach hundreds of billions of rupiah!"
Her face was pale, but not out of concern for the lives lost—rather, she was preoccupied with the nation’s financial losses over the hundreds of thousands of casualties.
"President, the Regional Budget won’t be enough! If we push forward, the allowances for officials will surely be affected." Sekar continued, her voice tinged with panic.
Her words were like a warning siren to the other ministers. Their expressions of worry shifted into selfish anxiety.
"That’s absolutely unacceptable!" Exclaimed the Defense Minister, Hadi. "Our allowances are our right. We’ve worked hard; our welfare must not be compromised."
"Agreed." Chimed in the Minister of Communication and Information, Joko. "The people can wait. The priority is ensuring the government operates smoothly, and that includes our allowances."
"We cannot disrupt our fundamental rights." Added the Minister of Energy and Mineral Resources, Roby. "Those allowances are crucial for maintaining the motivation of officials."
The Minister of State-Owned Enterprises added, "Exactly! Our base salaries are already small; those allowances compensate for the moral burden and stress of leading this nation." He glanced briefly at the President, seeking approval.
It should be noted that these high-ranking officials received substantial allowances, amounting to 50 million rupiah per month—roughly 3,000 US dollars—a stark contrast to the average citizen’s income of 400 dollars or less.
Amid the debate, Fajar responded nonchalantly, "Then raise taxes."
Sekar’s face lit up instantly. "Understood, President. I’ll immediately draft new tax regulations."
Her mind raced, compiling a list of potential taxes: online transaction taxes, social media taxes, digital content taxes, taxes for small-scale traders, and even taxes on basic goods like sugar. For them, raising taxes was a magical, fail-proof solution, rather than managing Indonesia’s abundant natural resources.
"Hooray!"
The other ministers erupted in cheers, praising the President’s ’wisdom’.
"Brilliant, President! A truly ingenious solution!" Exclaimed the Minister of Tourism, clapping enthusiastically.
"A visionary decision! The greatest president in the nation’s history!" Added the Minister of Education with fervor.
"With this policy, the welfare of state officials will be preserved, and development can continue. Truly a win-win solution!" Declared the Minister of Trade.
In that lavish room, the high-ranking officials continued to applaud and cheer, isolated in their bubble of power and self-interest, utterly disconnected from the suffering of the people they led.
"..."
Having heard too many hollow and exaggerated praises from his ministers, Fajar merely nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on the screen displaying the terrifying power of a Campione.
But behind his calm demeanor, his heart churned with intense emotions—a volatile mix of envy, inferiority, and deep-seated resentment.
(Not born from talent, not forged through effort, not chosen by lineage—but born from victory—ordinary humans who, by lucky, could slay a god.)
His gaze lingered on the image of Ren, effortlessly wielding power capable of destroying a city.
(Wielding power that defies reason, challenging the impossible... those who can kill gods...)
Fajar compared himself to Ren. His path to the presidency was far from pure. Five years ago, when he ran as vice president alongside the eighth president, he didn’t even meet the age requirement.
His father, the former seventh president, had freely leveraged his influence. Together with his uncle, a supreme court justice, they deliberately manipulated the constitution, bending the rules just to ensure Fajar’s candidacy.
From vice president, Fajar then ascended to the presidency. His throne was built on a foundation of collusion and nepotism, not meritocracy.
Seeing a "commoner" like Ren—who lacked prestigious lineage or a grand background—hold a far higher and globally respected (or feared) position made Fajar’s blood boil.
How could someone like that stand above him?
Yet, beneath all the frustration and jealousy, there was a very real fear. Fajar wasn’t foolish. He knew his limits. Provoking a Campione wasn’t something that could be resolved with apologies or political negotiations. It was an act of suicide.
So, he could only sit there, burying his grievances and resentment deep within his heart, while secretly hoping that one day, somehow, he might grasp even a fraction of the mesmerizing power he witnessed.