The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 417

Inside the study, Alfred was deep in conversation with Doctor Harris when his phone suddenly buzzed against the polished desk.

“Father,” Charles’s voice came through the loudspeaker, ragged, breathless. “The rebels opened fire on us. I’m hit.”

Alfred shot up from his chair, panic cutting through his usual iron composure. “Son! Are you alright? Tell me where you’re hurt!”

Charles gave a short, shaky laugh.

“It’s nothing—just bruises on my arms. Kelly shoved me too hard when she pushed me down. She still needs to be taught a lesson—you should punish her later. But my girlfriend… she’s bleeding bad.”

His eyes dropped to the tiny, bloody cut running down her arm. Honestly, most villagers would just spit on it, slap some dirt over, and call it “Done.”

But the way she carried on, you’d think she was nine months pregnant and about to deliver triplets in the middle of the street.

Suddenly this little scratch had become a full-blown emergency, complete with “rush me to the hospital, I’m dying” theatrics.

“Where are you now?” Alfred demanded.

“I’m taking her to Los Angeles Prime Hospital. We’re already on the way.”

“Good. Stay there. I’ll send men to guard you.” Alfred’s relief was sharp, almost bitter, but Charles wasn’t done.

“Father,” Charles said suddenly with anger, “it’s time that we waiting for so long.”

“We need to retaliate by launching ‘that’ plan. No more waiting. No more holding back. It’s time to wipe out the rebels — and cleanse our Los Angeles of all the filth and worthless maggots once and for all.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

Charles didn’t hesitate.

“My contact’s already confirmed. They’ll buy everything — young women sold as slaves, some children and strong men trained as assassins, others thrown into blood games for the dark ring.”

“Every adult we send brings top dollar. And the poor? Their organs fetch a fortune. Just say it’s revenge for their attack, and that we’re doing all of this for the safety of Los Angeles.”

His voice grew sharper, almost fevered.

“The money will flood in. And when it’s done, your name will blaze in history as the governor who erased poverty itself.”

“No beggars, no outcasts, no vermin dragging down the streets. On paper—zero poor.”

“In reality—none alive to stain the records. Los Angeles reborn as a shining fortress for the elite alone. A city purified, perfect, untouchable.”

His voice climbed, bright with a savage kind of glee. “And it won’t stop there. Elites from every nation will flood in. We’ll build casinos, temples of pleasure, arenas that never close.”

“Endless entertainment! They’ll throw fortunes at this city and the money will never dry up. They’ll chase every appetite, every forbidden thrill. Los Angeles becomes their paradise—our paradise.”

Alfred leaned back, breath even but thoughts racing. A slow smile split his face like a blade.

“Fine. They started this war. We’ll finish it—completely. No one will protest. We’re doing it for the citizens.”

He snapped the call shut and sat a beat, fingers tapping the desk. Then he dialed another number.

“General Mark,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer. “You heard about rebels attacking my mansion?”

“We received the report, sir.”

“They’ve armed themselves. Weapons in their hands now—dangerous for the women and children of Los Angeles,” Alfred said, almost reasonable.

“They threaten the city’s security. It’s time. Launch the operation we planned last month. Begin the cleaning.”

“How thorough, sir?” Mark asked.

“Thorough,” Alfred said, smile tightening. “Anyone with a record, the homeless, migrants with no one to claim them, anyone labeled worthless—we treat them as rebels. Sweep them out. Purge the rot. Los Angeles cannot carry the burden of poverty.”

“Understood,” Mark replied. “We’ll make Los Angeles great again. So our children can walk the streets without fear.”

Alfred’s voice softened. “Yes. We’re doing this for our children. And remember—one thousand dollars per head. The elites will pay. They want safe streets for their children; they’ll bankroll it. Their money will make this happen.”

‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’

Mark’s laugh rolled over the line, low and dangerous. “Understood. They’re harmless people—easy to clean. But how do we spin this to the press? They’ll swarm.”

“Simple,” Alfred said, cold and precise

No feeds, no frantic clips, no warning posts—just a quiet blackout while the boots moved. No one could call the world to tell it what was burning.

The rebels, watching their city go dark, scrambled a satellite line and called their weapons sponsor: Bella.

“Miss Bella,” the voice crackled urgent. “Alfred Kingston’s forces just hit us. What’s your order?”

Bella sat in a glass-walled command room, a battered map of Los Angeles spread under her palms.

Twenty aides hovered like satellites around her desk. She’d been waiting for this moment.

“Listen,” she said, her voice clean and cold. “In Los Angeles, out of every thousand people, four are soldiers, ten are the elite rich, about a hundred and ten are poor. The rest scrape by. Meaning you poor folk outnumber the elite and the military combined.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Issue every weapon we have to the poor. Give them guns, ammo—everything.”

“Tell them to strike the soldiers and the elite. Seize the cash, burn the banks, wreck their boutiques. Turn their wealth into the people’s arms.”

“Our Vermont unit is already in position inside the city, targeting military leaders. Don’t worry—we’re on you.”

The rebel captains listened, some with relief, some with bitter pride.

They knew they’d been used—sacrificed by others’ schemes—but they weren’t going down quiet.

Corner a rat and it will bite; hunt a desperate man with gun and he’ll pull the trigger.

This was no neat revolution. It was survival.

Night in Los Angeles was filled with a new kind of weather—gunfire and the flare of explosions, the harsh light of burning cars, the staccato percussion of mortars and shouts. Concrete bled sparks. Windows became toothy mouths of flame.

The governor sipped wine in a warm, gilded room, untouched by the chaos outside. The elite danced in safety, blind to the screams.

On the streets, soldiers pulled their triggers through tears, killing because orders demanded it. People cried out in rage, groaned in pain, and death spread across the pavement like a shadow that would never lift.

In the command room, Bella smiled—small, fierce.

“Father, these are your fireworks. Let Los Angeles burn.”