Capítulo 1378: Chapter 664: It’s Him, It’s Him, It’s Really Him!

The huge amount of money that anonymously arrived in the account made things easier to handle.

The saying goes, “Taking people’s money, solving people’s problems!”

On the streets of Barcelona, countless blue and yellow flags sprang up overnight, visible from the lampposts at Catalonia Square, the awnings of cafes on Gracia Avenue, and even beside the underwear fluttering on clotheslines in the old town, symbolizing the pursuit of independence swaying in the wind.

The money was spent wisely.

Professional propaganda teams worked overnight to produce tens of thousands of posters, featuring Hordi’s solemn face, with the words “Our future, our vote” written beside it.

The airship flying over the city carried the message “See you in 3 days,” drawing tourists to stop and take pictures. Street food trucks provided free Catalan specialties of cava and tapas, with people raising their glasses shouting “Independence,” the spilt wine staining the T-shirts, resembling border lines on a map.

Every morning at ten, the parade began on time.

The procession started from the city hall, slowly moving along La Rambla Avenue, led by elderly people with white hair holding banners that read “Never Forget 1714,” marking the shame imprinted in their hearts by the conquest of Spanish royal power. In the middle were young parents holding their children, with mini flags in the strollers, the babbling mixed with the slogans creating an oddly harmonious echo. Finally, the students brought up the rear, skating with megaphones playing Hordi’s speech snippets on repeat.

The voice “Voting is not division, it’s coming home” echoed between the buildings.

The entire Barcelona was like an ongoing three-day open-air party, noisy yet maintained with a deliberate order.

Protesters actively made way for ambulances, picked up litter from the ground, and even during arguments with opposing citizens, only shouted at each other with flushed faces, pushing and shoving no more than twice before being pulled apart by those around them.

“Hey, Spaniard, look at this popularity!”

An ice cream vendor winked at a passing policeman, with a “Buy one, get one free on referendum day” sign hanging in front of his stall, “Don’t just stand there idly, remember to vote in three days, and I’ll give you a twenty percent discount!”

The policeman rolled his eyes but didn’t act harshly; orders from the top were to avoid conflict as much as possible until the referendum results were announced.

This “lukewarm water” style of protest made Gonzalez in Madrid both angry and anxious.

He had originally prepared a complete set of plans for dealing with violent conflicts, with the National Guard standing by around Barcelona, but the other party didn’t play according to the rules, like a punch landing on cotton, frustrating him enough to break three coffee cups in the office late at night.

“A bunch of hypocrites!” He cursed at the TV showing Hordi calling for peace, “Pretending to be saints while stirring up division!”

Yet, while Catalonia was weaving its dreams of independence through slogans and parades, true violence had torn open a hole in another corner of Spain.

The ETA Organization in the Basque Country, like a pack of wolves long lurking, revealed its fangs just when everyone’s attention was on Barcelona.

The first victim was the tax director of Biscay Province.

Early Wednesday morning, as he was driving out of his house, the wheels rolled over a speed bump at the gate when a loud explosion shattered the calm of the entire street, the rear half of the car blown apart, black smoke wrapped in burning debris soared into the sky.

Neighbors rushed out only to see a twisted metal frame and a spreading pool of blood.

ETA’s statement appeared half an hour later on a crude website of Basque radicals: “For Basque freedom, every blood-sucking Spanish bureaucrat deserves to die. This is just the beginning, Gonzalez, next might be your dog!”

The brutality between the lines starkly contrasted with the gentleness of Catalonia.

Then, at noon on Thursday, a big hole was blasted in the outer wall of San Sebastian’s city hall. At the time, the mayor was holding a meeting inside on “regional security and stability,” the blast wave overturned the conference table, shards of glass cutting several council members’ faces.

This time ETA used a time bomb, calculating the timing to let these “collaborators with Spain” taste the fear.

“Damn you ETA!” The mayor shouted amidst the chaos, holding his bleeding forehead, “Come for me, don’t play dirty tricks!”

But ETA had no intention of dealing with him directly.

Early Friday morning, a policeman responsible for monitoring Basque separatist activities received a package at home containing a bullet and a note: “Your child is in third grade, class 2 at Saint Mary’s Primary School, we know what time he finishes school every day.”

The policeman broke down immediately, crouching to the ground in tears.

He could not fear dying, but he couldn’t gamble with his child’s life; the next day, this tough guy submitted his resignation and vanished from public view.

ETA’s retaliation was swift and fierce, targeting government officials specifically.

They did not conduct large-scale attacks on civilians but focused on individuals symbolizing Spanish rule, using assassination, bombings, threats to gradually undermine the government’s foundation.

An official responsible for educational reform in the Basque area, who pushed for Spanish language teaching, had acid thrown on him at his doorstep, leaving half his face disfigured. Another retired general involved in suppressing ETA activities was shot dead with three shots by a masked man on a motorcycle during his morning exercises; even a businessman supplying office supplies to government departments received a warning letter saying if he dared do business with the “Spanish puppet” again, his warehouse would turn into a sea of fire.