The fairy was naturally caught in the journalist’s camera.
The DSLR Camera took an incredibly clear shot of the fairy, capturing the moment it gracefully moved out of the forest and toward a farm. It even snapped the fairy looking around to check if anyone was nearby, and how it navigated through the darkness, trailing sparkling dust from its wings.
It was certain enough to dispel any doubts that it might just be a massive insect.
And then, the fairy made its way to what the farm owner claimed was “part of the farm that was sold for a good price recently,” sneaking through the leaves of the crops like it was searching for a concealed hideout before disappearing into a hole in the ground.
It was only natural for the journalist who had caught a glimpse of the fairy’s secret hideout to dig deeper.
Equipped with a shovel, the journalist began to excavate the spot where the fairy had entered.
Of course, it was illegal.
Trespassing on private property, even damaging crops and digging into the ground, it was no small matter.
At worst, he could face a lawsuit, but…
Well, isn’t the right to know more important than such minor offenses?
The journalist genuinely believed so, and he showed no hesitation at all as he continued to dig.
The shovel flew through the air with glee, striking the earth repeatedly.
And then, a bunker was discovered.
A bizarre bunker that could hardly be called the dwelling of a fairy.
The very air made one’s mood sour, and each breath felt like it brought an unbearable stench that would numb the nose. The damp smell of the bunker crawled through the lungs, leaving a feeling akin to having watched a horror movie.
Decorating the walls were… wow! Something inscribed in various languages that felt as if wicked non-believers and pagans had gathered to offer humans as sacrifices, all while praising an evil being during some grotesque ritual.
With no lights in the bunker, the pitch-blackness combined with the claustrophobic feeling naturally led to such unsettling imaginations.
Click.
And this wasn’t just the journalist’s solitary thought.
The DSLR Camera he held seemed to agree with his sentiments, capturing chilling photos of the eerie ambiance. It was as if it was determined to express just how alien and creepy this bunker found on the farm could be.
With each step taken forward.
With each photo snapped.
The sinister vibe of the bunker intensified.
Emphasized and further highlighted.
This atmosphere, completely at odds with the cute and adorable fairy, felt like stepping into the aftermath of a hellish ritual where no one dared to tread, evoking a shiver down the spine, as if he had stumbled upon the childhood home of a serial killer.
With that dreadful feeling in mind, the journalist pressed on until he reached the end of the bunker, where he made a discovery.
It was a few books and something that resembled bones.
However, to his relief, the books were not what he had imagined while wandering through the bunker.
They weren’t grimoires written in the blood of animals, nor were they divine objects crafted with wicked intent.
The book used ink instead of human blood and was made with ordinary paper rather than human skin. Although it was a bit worn, it was well-preserved—
It was titled, “Capital Found in the Fairy’s Nest!”
Capital.
The exact book that communists always carried with them.
The bible of the communists.
The book of America’s arch-nemeses that once split the earth in half!
And it was also a special book capable of magically influencing existence by merely existing.
What kind of magic comes from an ordinary book, you ask?
The mention, “Evidence of a Red Found on the Farm: What is the Truth?” alone drew the eyes of countless American citizens, guiding opinions in any direction desired.
If that’s not magic, then what is?
Is it some magical engineering nonsense?
Pfft.
This was magic, and this was the journalist’s ultimate power.
Thus, the journalist began to fully utilize this wicked artifact in his hands.
He snapped crisp photos of Marx and Engels’ signatures and fingerprints, prominently displaying them on the front page. He also took photos of parts of the book and uploaded them online. To prevent cowardly cherry-pickers from stealing his scoop, he boldly slapped watermarks onto the photos.
No, he even went beyond that, including parts of himself in some of the pictures.
He placed his business card next to him and even took a selfie holding the “Capital” inside the bunker.
The journalist seized this golden opportunity to proclaim his existence across the United States, no, the entire world. With all his might, he began spreading the exclusive story like mad.
What happened next?
Well, it was predictable.
Envious journalists fervently began to copy his scoop, adding their fluff or spinning their stories. And as this repeated itself, the tale began to spread throughout America and the Internet. The madness that had seemed to simmer down due to the sudden mention of communists was quickly reignited into a raging inferno by the lumber and fan-fanning provided by the journalists.
Thus, the discovery of traces of Reds became a global issue.
What a joyful occurrence.
The journalist who followed the fairy was happy.
Other journalists were happy.
The readers of the exclusive story were happy.
Politicians were happy, and so were the businesspeople.
Countless citizen groups across America were happy.
Except for one person—the farm owner, who was utterly miserable.
“Hey! A Red book was found on your farm! You’re a Red!”
“You racists and Reds, you damn bastard! Get the hell out of America! Get to the Soviet Union at once!”
“You disgusting, family-eating Red bastard! Get out! Get out of America!”
“You’re not a proud American man! You filthy Red bastard! Don’t sully the purity of America, just get out!”
“You’re not even a white person! Just a Slavic mixed breed!”
Of course, the farm owner’s misery only deepened compared to the happiness of others.
But isn’t that just a trivial matter?
“Racist!”
People of color poured in with cries of “justice” ignited by his racist remarks.
“Disgusting pigs feasting on even their own kind!”
Rednecks, Southerners, those filled with intense hatred for racists unleashed words barely fit for speech.
“Disgusting Slavic mixed breed!”
People firmly believing the bunker, presumed to be where Reds stayed, was connected to the farm yelled at the owner as though he were a spy.
“Get out of America! You have no right to live here!”
The rednecks, who had fueled this behavior, thronged in with denouncements, “You’re not an American,” and “I was foolish to think you were a neighbor,” relentlessly assaulting his identity.
As if to fan the flames, countless articles also poured in.
It was a massive frenzy that seemed like it wouldn’t simmer down unless the farm owner were to perish…
Well.
It didn’t really matter.
People getting beaten would be a problem, but… can we even call this farm owner a person right now?
Would it be more fitting to think of him as a sandbag in human form, where candy would spill out if one were to hit him?
And so, people joyfully pounded him.
Swept away in the frenzy.
This continued until the farm owner drove off in his car, and even after he vanished, the madness showed no sign of abating.
If you were to ask why this madness didn’t fade even after the target of their ire had disappeared—
It would be like asking why a campfire, which keeps getting fed wood, doesn’t go out.
The journalists clung to this rare scoop, and politicians didn’t miss out on seizing this fantastic material to rally American support and gather votes. They shouted of wars with communists, the need to root out communists within America, as if to relive the Cold War era.
Both the Republicans and the Democrats.
Everyone did.
It was hardly strange.
With just shouting, their approval ratings could surge, and the “ordinary” farm owner—who could be attacked without repercussions—was an easy target.
It would be foolish not to do so.
Thus, the flames of animosity continued to burn…
“Claims that the location of the Red bunker was sold. Is it true?”
“Exclusive! The owner of the Red bunker was a foreigner?!”
“A Red from the Old World! What is their true identity?!”
“Is the Great Witch Gabriella a Red?”
At last, the fire extended beyond the farm owner and reached the witch.
And at that point, this colossal frenzy had transformed into something uncontrollable.
This entire sequence of events unfolded so naturally.
And that only meant that Odilia’s “revenge” had been flawlessly executed.
Both Gabriella, who had tricked her, and the farm owner were now receiving their just desserts.
Truly a satisfying—
“…”
—thing indeed.
