Lisbon’s dawn was pierced by the hoarse cries of newsboys cutting through winter’s chill.

  On every café table and office desk lay the front page of the Diário de Notícias—Jo?o Fernandes’s essay, “On the Material Foundations of National Survival and the Vanity of Utopianism,” now inescapable.

  People had expected a mere rebuttal to personal attacks.

  But as they read, they realized: this was a total counteroffensive against the Left’s entire intellectual edifice.

  ———

  The Left had raged like rabid dogs:

  “Colonies are ulcers of empire! We bleed money and lives there, oppressing natives—we must shed these burdens!”

  These saints—more merciful than the Virgin herself—were nothing less than Portugal’s destroyers!

  “They claim we must abandon our colonies because they ‘drain resources,’” Jo?o wrote, his tone clinical, precise.

  “But look at our factories. Look at our ports. Without Angola’s steady flow of diamonds and rubber, without Mozambique’s shipping lanes and cheap labor, Portuguese industry would collapse overnight—stripped of raw materials and markets alike.”

  “The so-called ‘oppression of natives’ is a myth. It is civilization enlightening barbarism.

  If we withdraw, we leave not freedom—but a vacuum of power, endless tribal war.

  We do not go to plunder. We go to impose order. To bring civilization.

  To abandon our colonies is to sever our own limbs—and relegate Portugal to third-rate irrelevance.”

  The naive Left had also cried:

  “The New State is fascist dictatorship! It strips the people of democratic rights!”

  “Democracy?” Jo?o countered, ice in his prose.

  “In a nation on the brink of bankruptcy, where riots could erupt at any moment—democracy brings only inefficiency and chaos.

  What you call ‘dictatorship’ is simply the necessary concentration of power during national crisis.

  This is not for one man’s ambition—but to ensure governance flows unimpeded, to protect the interests of the vast majority from being devoured by a few agitators.

  When a ship founders in stormy seas, you need one strong captain at the helm—not a vote among sailors on which way to steer!”

  And to accusations that he was “capital’s lackey,” Jo?o overturned the table entirely:

  “They shout ‘resist exploitation!’ yet remain silent about the old regime’s chaos—banks collapsing, factories shuttered, masses wandering streets jobless and starving.

  Is that the exploitation-free world you desire?

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  Yes, today’s order limits your endless strikes. But in return, it gives stable jobs. Wages paid on time. Bread on children’s plates.

  What you call ‘exploitation’ is, to the unemployed, a lifeline they’d beg for. Those who incite strikes aren’t helping workers—they’re stealing the very survival workers have just regained.”

  He ended with a single, scalpel-sharp line:

  “Do not challenge the nation’s survival with your moral purity.

  In a hostile world, staying alive—and living with dignity—matters more than any empty slogan.”

  ———

  The stone cast, waves rose in every direction.

  Yet strangely, after the editorial’s release, the Left’s loudest voices vanished overnight.

  Suddenly, everyone seemed to support the New State.

  In the Merchants’ Club, industrialists wept with relief.

  Jo?o’s argument—that colonies were the lifeblood of industry—had struck their deepest nerve.

  At last, they had a flawless theoretical weapon against those bleeding-heart intellectuals.

  “This is our victory!” they toasted.

  ———

  In workers’ districts, tension gave way to uneasy reflection.

  At the docks, an old laborer handed the paper to his mates, pointing to the passage on unemployment under the old regime:

  “He’s right. Back then, my family nearly starved. Now the rules are strict—but at least we work. We get paid.”

  “A man must live before he can speak of justice.”

  For those who couldn’t feed their children, “freedom from exploitation” did sound like a luxury.

  Copies of The Torch were quietly tossed into trash bins.

  ———

  The editor of A Batalha smashed a cup in his office—but found no words to reply.

  He drafted half an article attacking Jo?o’s “colonial logic,” but even he couldn’t believe his own arguments.

  Because Jo?o spoke truth: industry did depend on colonial inputs.

  “Then… we must rely on the Soviet Union…” he murmured, like a prayer.

  ———

  Students of The University Voice sank into profound doubt.

  They’d believed they fought for justice and freedom.

  Now Jo?o told them their demands would destroy industry and throw workers back into poverty.

  The psychological rupture turned radical slogans into awkward silence.

  Factions erupted within the Left.

  “Were we wrong all along?”

  “Must we trade freedom for bread?”

  “If abandoning colonies means national ruin—what do we do?”

  Infighting began. This internal rot was deadlier than any external assault.

  The Left’s voice fractured—comrades accusing comrades, ideologies devouring themselves.

  Cracks widened into chasms.

  ———

  Right-wing papers saw the chaos—and launched total war.

  No more cautious defense. Now, full encirclement.

  “Who Is the Enemy of the Nation?” screamed one headline.

  “Leftists cry ‘anti-exploitation’—but sabotage our economic lifeline!

  They shout ‘anti-dictatorship’—but shatter national stability!

  Fernandes has unmasked them: they are traitors to the Empire!”

  “For the Glory of the Empire!” declared another.

  “Anyone who seeks to fracture our Empire or abandon our colonies must be purged!

  Let us rally around the government—as Fernandes urges—and defend our interests with an iron fist!”

  As right-wing fervor swelled, even the wavering middle ground defected to the victors.

  When all of Lisbon celebrated the article, the eye of the storm remained eerily calm.

  Jo?o’s apartment stayed shut.

  He accepted no cheers. Offered no comment on the Right’s effusive praise.

  He knew: the hardest work was done.

  He hadn’t just defeated the Left with logic.

  He’d woven colonialism, centralized power, and controlled labor into an unbreakable ideological loop.

  In this new reality:

  — Centralization was necessary.

  — Colonies were essential.

  — Controlled exploitation was rational.

  And anyone who challenged this system?

  They were not dissenters.

  They were enemies of national survival.

  In his study, Jo?o stood by the window, watching the streets grow quiet.

  Old flags fell. New ones rose.

  And he—Jo?o—was the unseen hand that planted them.

  He picked up his pipe and tapped out the ash.

  This childish farce is finally over.

  He gazed eastward. The sun rose, golden light spilling over his rigid frame.

  Outside, Lisbon’s bells began to toll—softly at first, then swelling into a long, solemn peal.

  “Who killed the mockingbird?” he mused.

  He knew what kind of terror his actions would draw from the East.

  “Why fixate on a third-rate power?”

  “The Soviets are clearly… bored.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to give them something more engaging to occupy their attention.”