The Ground Beneath His Shadow : A Tale of Power, Fear, and Cost of Control

Source : freepik.com

For months, Minister Raul Darven had dreamed of a single stretch of land — a rectangle of dirt at the city’s edge, crowded with vendors and the smell of fried noodles and smoke.

To most people, it was chaos.

To Raul, it was potential.

He saw not dust, but gold.

He imagined a market complex—rows of uniform carts painted in bright colors, each rented to the same people who once owned them freely.

He imagined parking lots, collection booths, and a small army of men collecting daily fees in his name.

It wasn’t about helping the poor.

It was about owning their hunger.

But the land belonged to the local cooperative, protected by law.

So Raul did what he knew best: political warfare.

Behind the scenes, he unleashed a black campaign — a storm of lies and whispers.

 “The cooperative is corrupt.”

“The land is unsafe.”

“There will be a redevelopment project soon; better to sell before it’s taken.”

He spread these stories through his proxies — street influencers, radio commentators, and online trolls paid to stir resentment.

And when words weren’t enough, he used fear.

Tax inspectors suddenly appeared.

Health officers “randomly” closed stalls.

Men in uniforms came asking for permits that didn’t exist.

The vendors started to break, one by one.

Some sold their stalls for pennies.

Some simply left, scared and tired.

Raul smiled.

“Progress,” he said, “always begins with cleaning the dirt.”

He didn’t work alone.

He had his servants—men who called him Boss, who dreamed of their own slice of the new empire.

They were promised free gerobaks, “priority spots,” and “monthly cuts” once the land was his.

In return, they became his hands and eyes: spreading rumors, intimidating locals, and bribing officials.

At night, they drank together and laughed about “the stupid vendors who didn’t know business.”

“We’re building the future,” one of them said.

“The King’s Market!” another joked.

And Raul raised his glass, his eyes gleaming.

“To the land that will change everything.”

The plan worked.

After months of chaos, the cooperative was disbanded “for public interest.”

The land was seized and transferred to a government trust — conveniently chaired by Raul himself.

Bulldozers came at dawn.

Wood cracked, dust rose, and the air filled with the cries of people watching their lives crumble.

Within months, a new market stood on the same ground.

The same vendors returned—this time as tenants, paying weekly rent for the privilege of standing where they once stood for free.

Every cart bore the same brand: “Darven Commercial Group.”

And above the parking gates hung a metal sign that read:

“Order. Cleanliness. Progress.”

But greed, like poison, never stays in one vein.

Raul’s servants began fighting among themselves for bigger cuts.

Bribes doubled. Favors became blackmail.

And whispers about “missing development funds” began to surface.

Journalists started investigating.

An anonymous video leaked — showing Raul’s men collecting illegal fees from vendors, demanding “monthly protection money.”

His empire began to collapse under the weight of its own lies.

One evening, Raul visited the market alone.

Rain poured hard.

He watched his perfect plaza half-flooded, the paint peeling from the carts that once shone with promise.

No one saluted him anymore.

Even the guards looked away.

A woman selling noodles under a plastic sheet recognized him.

She didn’t shout.

She didn’t curse.

She simply said,

 “You took everything.

Even the ground under your own feet.”

Raul looked down.

Mud soaked his shoes — the same soil he once called his.

For the first time, he realized:

He had conquered the land,

but lost the right to stand on it.

“Power built on fear never lasts — it only buries the one who holds the shovel.”