Chapter 1365: Chapter 658: Whistle War?! (Part 2)

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The air in Belfast, Ireland, felt somewhat oppressive.

British Army armored vehicles rolled over the wet streets, the tracks flinging up muddy water onto tightly shut doors and windows. Armed soldiers were stationed every three steps, with sentries every five, dragging the city into a stifling and lethal silence.

The residents huddled indoors, curtains drawn tightly, only daring to sneak peeks through slits at the camouflage-clad figures, the air thick with fear and unspeakable hostility.

Fitz District, a typical Irish community.

Seventeen-year-old Patrick O’Connell, still a high school student, was standing on his home’s second-floor balcony, smoking a cigarette in the evening.

Below, three British soldiers patrolled along the wall, their boots thudding on the cobblestone path, with the occasional butt of a gun clashing sharply against the walls.

Maybe it was the rebellion of adolescence, maybe he had been stifled by the oppressive atmosphere these days, or maybe he merely found the soldiers’ demeanor somewhat amusing; Patrick watched their backs and unconsciously let out a long whistle.

It echoed clearly in the dead silent street, carrying a hint of mockery, almost like a challenge.

The patrolling soldiers abruptly turned, guns immediately raised, pointing towards the balcony.

The leading sergeant had a vicious look in his eyes, clearly taking the whistle as an open provocation. “Who’s there?!” he shouted sternly, his voice echoing down the alley.

Patrick was startled, dropping his cigarette to the ground. He instinctively wanted to retreat indoors, but it was already too late.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” The heavy banging on the door sounded, like drums pounding against the O’Connell family’s wooden door. Patrick’s parents had just set the dinner on the table, their faces turned pale with fright upon hearing the noise. The door was unlocked, and the soldiers rudely barged in, their boots scraping painfully on the floor.

“Upstairs!” The sergeant barked a low order, and the three went straight for the stairs.

Patrick was still stunned on the balcony when a soldier rushed up, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him down. “What did you whistle just now?!” The soldier’s fist was pressed against his chest, and the boy was trembling all over, his lips quivering, unable to speak.

“He’s just a child! He didn’t do anything!” Patrick’s mother screamed as she rushed over, but was stopped by another soldier.

“Stand back!” The soldier shouted sternly!

“Please, he’s only seventeen, he just whistled, it wasn’t intentional…”

The father also rushed over, trying to protect his son, but was forcefully shoved aside by the soldier, stumbling into the wall.

“Take him away!” The sergeant ordered without leaving room for protest, signaling his men.

Two soldiers dragged the still trembling Patrick, hauling him downstairs as if he were livestock.

The boy’s mother chased him downstairs, crying, but was blocked by the butt of a soldier’s gun, and could only watch helplessly as her son was taken out of the house and stuffed into a military jeep parked at the alley entrance.

The door slammed shut, the engine roared as it drove away, leaving the mother collapsed on the ground and the father, supported against the wall, with a look of despair.

That night, the O’Connells visited every temporary checkpoint and garrison nearby, only to receive a cold response: “Suspected of obstructing military duties, under investigation.”

They were not even allowed a glance of their son.

Without a wink of sleep that night, they were all somewhat terrified…

At dawn the next morning, a military vehicle stopped in front of the O’Connell home.

Two soldiers stepped out, handing Patrick’s father a slip of paper. “Patrick O’Connell, fell suddenly ill during detention last night and died despite efforts to save him.”

The father’s hand trembled violently, the paper fluttering to the ground, and the mother screamed, fainting on the spot.

The relatives who had come upon hearing the news yelled, “You are all murderers!”

Yet the British Army, seemingly deaf, drove off without a word.

The news spread like wildfire in Belfast.

“Sudden illness?” Nobody believed this explanation.

A healthy seventeen-year-old boy, who was just fine the day before, died of “sudden illness” in prison after whistling and being arrested? People were more inclined to believe it was torture, a brutal killing, the occupiers’ harsh suppression of the resisters.

When Patrick’s body was returned, his family found obvious bruises on his wrists and ankles, and a dark contusion on the back of his neck.

That afternoon, the residents of the Fitz District gathered spontaneously, holding Patrick’s photo, chanting slogans for justice, and marched towards the British Army checkpoint.

It started as a peaceful protest, but when the soldiers raised their guns and fired tear gas to disperse the crowd, the simmering hatred was completely ignited.

Stones, glass bottles, and Molotov cocktails were thrown at the soldiers, who retaliated with rubber bullets and high-pressure water guns.

The conflict quickly escalated, spreading from the Fitz District across the whole of Belfast. The anger that had been directed only at military camps transformed, in the wake of a teenager’s tragic death, into full-blown resistance against British rule.

Patrick O’Connell, the young man who died for a whistle, became a glaring symbol in Northern Ireland’s history.

His death, like a spark thrown into boiling oil, made the already volatile situation boil over, and overnight, the ranks of the Irish Resistance Army swelled with many new faces bearing looks of grief and indignation—among them Patrick’s classmates, neighbors, and those ordinary people who watched him grow up.

In the office at the top floor of the National Palace in Mexico City, the storm had already passed, and several strands of rainbow peeked through the skyline outside the window.

Casare knocked and walked in, holding a report that had just been encrypted and transmitted.

“Boss, there’s more movement in Northern Ireland again.” Casare’s voice carried a hint of something unusual, “A seventeen-year-old Irish boy in Belfast, just because he whistled at the British Army post, was thrown in jail and found dead this morning.”

Victor’s fingers suddenly stopped, he looked up, the composure on his face shattered into astonishment, his brows knitted into a knot: “What did you say? Whistling? Dead?”

This… is fucking ridiculous!

He grabbed the report and skimmed through it quickly, his frown deepening as he read, finally slapping the report on the table, looking at Casare with disbelief in his eyes, “Was it us who killed Patrick?”

Casare was taken aback, then a look of helpless amusement appeared on his face, and he quickly waved his hand, “Boss, what are you talking about? Our instructions to the resistance army were clear, targets are military facilities and transport hubs, never civilians, let alone such meaningless small-scale conflicts.”

He pointed to the words “died during British Army custody” on the report, his tone helpless and tinged with a wry smile, “We’re not terrorists, doing this kind of thing adds no value to our plans, instead it messes up the rhythm.”

Victor stared at the boy’s name on the report, silently for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled, the laughter full of self-mockery and absurdity.

He shook his head, took a sip of his coffee but tasted nothing, “Indeed, I was too hasty.”

He leaned back in his chair, his fingertips tapping lightly on the table, a fleeting amusement in his eyes, “But these British troops… really have ‘abilities,’ don’t they?”

“We’ve gone to great lengths to stir up the situation, using heavy weapons to attack military camps, to create panic, to hit their military deterrence, and the result?”

Victor raised an eyebrow, “They don’t utter a word, just get a child whistling in jail killed off, it’s more effective than us throwing ten rockets.”

Casare realized this too and couldn’t help but nod, “Indeed, Patrick’s death has already sparked large-scale unrest in Belfast, now the entire civilian population of Northern Ireland is enraged, messages are coming from the resistance army, this morning there’s a long line of people signing up, all fired up.”

“That’s much more effective than us spending money sending weapons.” Victor picked up the report, inspecting it in the light as if it were a curious object, “I was worried the Irish Resistance Army didn’t have a solid enough popular base, now it’s fine, the British Army has personally delivered the freshest mobilization textbook.”

He tossed the report back on the table, lifted his coffee cup and walked to the window, staring at the clearing sky over Mexico City, “Seems we’ve been too conservative, sometimes the most effective weapon isn’t a SAM-7 or an RPG, but that smug arrogance and stupidity.”

Victor turned around, cigarette dangling from his lips, “Advance the delivery of the third batch of support, no need to hold back, since the British are so helpful, we’ll go with the flow and fan the flames a bit more.”

Casare nodded in response, turned to leave, but heard Victor chuckle softly, “Even whistling can cost a head, the majesty of the Great Britain, truly becoming more and more remarkable.”

Such pettiness is quite rare to see.

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