Chapter 1: Defending Liberty in America

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Chicago Catholic Daily, front page, April 21, 1921.

"Blasphemy Against God: A Serious Offense Against Decency":
"Alcohol and indecency belong together, and their proper place is in hell. Now that the Prohibition campaign has achieved unprecedented success, it is time to declare war on indecency!"
"...especially vulgar papers like The Windy City Light, which is filthy, wanton, and morally corrupt from top to bottom; decent readers abhor it, and it deserves to be damned... Without a ban, there is no way to restore moral order; unless the organizers are imprisoned, there is no way to obtain forgiveness from the Lord..."

Logan shook the newspaper, raising an eyebrow.

The Windy City Light—wasn't that the small paper he had just inherited?

Calling it a newspaper was generous... it was truly tiny. The entire office consisted of a single room and two employees. The room was so small one could see its end at a glance: just a few tables stacked with various papers, several clunky, heavy typewriters, telegraph machines, and other office equipment. The staff included only the recently deceased father of this body and the uncle before him, Richard Hudson.

With a paper so small, one could hardly expect much substantial content. Instead, there was plenty of "wet goods"—to be blunt, it was filled from start to finish with risqué stories.

Though Logan, seasoned by countless "FBI Warnings," judged that the "wet goods" were actually quite limited in their explicitness, in an era where even drinking could get one hounded, it was no surprise to become a public target.

Richard Hudson valued the "manifesto" highly: "...The author is Pastor Edward Costner, who has great influence in the Chicago area. He played a major role in pushing Prohibition into law and gained significant prestige. Now he's targeting the press—this is troublesome."

Richard grew increasingly annoyed, "And that bastard is a nutcase. Once he bites, he never lets go."

With a loud slap, Logan's cousin, the broad-shouldered, burly Donald O'Connor, planted his bear paw on the Chicago Catholic Daily, growling, "What nonsense pastor—let me warn him, or even take him out!"

Logan raised his eyebrow again. Richard considered the suggestion seriously, then shook his head, "No use. He's not alone; a whole conservative group stands behind him. Taking him out would only bring bigger trouble."

Donald did not press the issue. "I don't understand your intellectual games, but isn't running a newspaper about who has the loudest voice? Then we need to move toward becoming a bigger paper, but this..."

He looked around the cramped office, unable to hide his disdain, "There's no potential here at all."

Richard was displeased, "Recently, our circulation broke fifty thousand per issue. If it weren't for old Logan... sigh. You think a big newspaper can be run just like that? Every major paper is backed by powerful financial groups."

"Even the Chicago Catholic Daily is supported by the church."

"A small paper like ours, with a stable audience, making enough to support itself and a little extra—that's already excellent."

Richard raised his hand to stop Donald’s interjection, "Don’t say you can invest to help us go big. You just took over the Irish Mob, and the other families aren’t easy to deal with."

"Besides, I know well enough—after old O’Connor passed, the O’Connor family lost its most reliable bootlegging channel; the Italians to the south are seizing the opportunity, encroaching on O’Connor territory... Your troubles are no less than ours."

Logan hadn’t realized this, and dug through the memories of his new body.

The Irish Mob, controlled by the O’Connor family, was the largest Irish gang in Chicago.

Logan’s father and Richard had married the O’Connor family's eldest and youngest daughters, respectively, and co-founded The Windy City Light.

Last year, on January 17, 1920, America’s famous Eighteenth Amendment came into effect: manufacturing, selling, and even transporting beverages containing more than 0.5% alcohol became illegal.

America officially entered the Prohibition era.

Without suspense, the Irish Mob immediately joined the lucrative bootlegging business.

Logan’s father had long been a heavy drinker; after Prohibition took effect, he helped the O’Connor family smuggle alcohol. Recently, during a cross-border shipment from Canada, he died in a major accident due to drunk driving, together with old O’Connor.

Thus, young Logan inherited the family’s small newspaper, young O’Connor the family’s big gang; both faced a dark future.

Donald believed Logan’s father was never truly a gangster, and that being dragged into bootlegging by the O’Connor family led to tragedy; he therefore felt a responsibility toward his unfortunate cousin.

Looking at the pale, innocent Logan, just recovering from illness, Donald insisted, "The O’Connor family has always worked together and supported one another. My troubles are nothing."

"Logan, tell me—do you want to make the paper bigger and better?"

Logan closed the newspaper slowly, "Of course. It was my father’s lifelong endeavor."

"Good. The O’Connor family can invest in you." Donald paused, anticipation in his voice, "So what’s your plan?"

This was the family’s only college graduate so far; inheriting a small paper was almost beneath him.

"We must stand on the side of justice," Logan declared, righteous and resolute.

"..."

"..."

Their expressions were a spectacle.

Given the O’Connor family’s background, even if they lied, they wouldn’t dare claim to be just.

Had this kid read himself silly? Did our family produce a traitor?

Logan ignored their faces, serious as ever, "The free pursuit of primal desires is a natural right, the foundational law of America. We are defending those immutable laws, so we stand on the side of justice."

"Moreover, the pastor was right about one thing: our paper disgusts decent people—a grave sin."

"Why haven’t we converted upright folks like the pastor into our readers? My father and Richard were too conservative!"

"The most urgent thing now is not investing to expand, but a complete overhaul. Starting next issue, we must become more just, more attractive in every way."

"I’ll write the front page myself, titled 'Defending Our Free Way of Life!'"

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"The second page will serialize a new kind of romance-action novel. Here’s the outline for 'Fifty Shades of Grey,' Richard, your writing is good—expand it."

"The third page will be entirely devoted to large, alluring photos of the novel’s female lead, hot enough to make the pastor burn with righteous fury..."

"In short, this flame of desire—no, this flame of justice, we must make it burn brighter, illuminating every corner of America!"

"Finally, 'The Windy City Light' is too forgettable; let’s rename it The Sun!"

The young man spoke clearly and methodically, his face radiant with justice.

—Damn it, how did America, once a land of wild parties and every vice imaginable, sink to its current state? Where is sexual freedom? Where is freedom of speech? Where is market freedom?

Americans are still too repressed.

Defending modern American freedoms can’t wait!

"..."

"..."

Richard and Donald stared blankly, both stunned and confused:

What are colleges teaching these days?

Too slick, too shameless, too brazen, too... perfect for inheriting the family business!

After a long pause, Richard flipped through Logan’s novel outline, excitement mixed with fear, murmuring, "Those church lunatics will go completely mad."

Donald slapped the table, laughing heartily, "That’s the O’Connor spirit! Don’t flinch—challenge them head on, drive those nutcases mad!"

...

Night fell as Logan returned home alone.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, Logan saw a slender, Keanu Reeves-like but more Eastern-featured, 21-year-old handsome young man.

His father was a mix of Chinese and Irish; his mother was Irish.

But the resemblance also brought Keanu’s tragic fate.

Mother died young; father... also gone early.

With relatives dying one after another, the young man dropped out, returned home, attended funerals, and—perhaps due to overwhelming grief—after a high fever, his soul changed.

Logan had been a Chinese national in the twenty-first century, merely on a business trip to America, when a lunatic drove into a crowd, then exited the car wielding a submachine gun and fired indiscriminately. Logan could have dodged, but was held fast as a human shield by a drunk behind him, only managing a curse before collapsing.

He awoke in 1921 America.

"Damn you, Americans!" Recalling that moment, Logan couldn’t help but send heartfelt regards to the ancestors of America.

A thought flashed, and the mirror image shifted to a deep-eyed, handsome middle-aged man.

"Harrison Ford"—no, "Han Solo."

[Alias (Bootlegger): Drinking Freedom in America! You are a bootlegger; go forth and baptize America’s imprisoned drinkers with the freedom of alcohol.]

The gift of transmigration hadn’t given Logan any sense of destiny or chosen-one grandeur; his first reaction was simply—good, perfect for some fun.

Otherwise, sent inexplicably to this crazy era and place by two maniacs, if he couldn’t amuse himself, what was there to look forward to?

Besides, the system was evidently a fun system.

He hadn't just changed skins; he was equipped with "orange gear"—as a professional smuggler from Star Wars, Han Solo owned a spaceship. The system hadn’t given him a ship, but a space backpack as large as one.

Oh, and a sudden flood of "Free Trade" knowledge that left his head aching.

Logan touched his face; the mirror Han Solo touched his face—flawless.

"I am Han Solo, spokesman for free trade."

The magnetic voice, utterly unlike his original, was seamless.

"Nice, I’m going nuts!"

"Prohibition, my ass—drink to the death! Not drinking myself dead would be a disservice to the blessings American drinkers have bestowed upon me!"

...

Chicago’s night was ablaze with lights.

Broad roads stretched and crisscrossed, skyscrapers stood clean and sharp, forming a jungle of steel. Well-dressed citizens hurried through crowded intersections like sheep, urged on by police blowing odd two-tone whistles; cars honked impatiently...

This was one of the most advanced industrial cities of the 1920s, easily blinding one to the cold and darkness behind the steel jungle.

"Han Solo" moved like a fish in water.

Especially with new, strange knowledge in his mind, Han Solo practiced it enthusiastically—for example, blending into crowds by using light and shadow to become invisible.

Truly essential for burglary... no, stealth, tailing, and travel.

Gliding like a ghost through busy streets, guided by recent intel, he stopped before a shop with a "Laundromat" sign.

Five quick knocks; a slit of the door opened, an eye scrutinized him from the shadows, then heavy hinges groaned, and the door welcomed him.

It was an underground bar.

Prohibition could not destroy wicked alcohol, only drive it underground. Illegal bars sprang up as soon as Prohibition took effect.

These bars almost always had gang connections.

No one could say how many speakeasies were in Chicago, for its underworld was teeming with gangs.

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But only two gangs were real powers—the Irish Mob dominated the north, while the Italian Mafia held absolute sway in the south.

The two gangs were bitter rivals, always seeking to seize each other's territory.

This speakeasy near the northern district was said to be a new Italian outpost, expanded amid the O’Connor family’s turmoil.

Upon entering, scalding air thick with whiskey, sweat, and cheap perfume assaulted him.

Cocktail shakers spun in bartenders’ hands, surrounded by indistinct faces of drunks; three Black musicians played on stage, saxophone notes flowing silkily yet rough, adding a touch of raucousness to the intoxication.

Under dim light, Han Solo drew no attention, his shadowy figure deftly avoiding staggering drunks, passing beyond music, voices, and clinking glasses, following the pure scent of alcohol to the bar’s secret cellar door.

Unexpectedly, it was unguarded.

Han Solo pushed the hidden door open, arriving at the cellar entrance, hearing voices inside: "Transporting liquor here is still troublesome... These five thousand gallons of whiskey—we can add half water, sell ten thousand gallons..."

The door swung silently open.

"Adding water to whiskey is a desecration, a serious offense against drinkers!"

"Ah..." Two Italians, puffing cigars, stared at the sudden stranger, nearly biting through their stogies in shock.

"Where’d this bastard come from—what do you want?!" The tall Italian spat out his cigar, reaching into his coat, barking fiercely.

Han Solo shifted his gaze from the mountain of barrels to the two Italians.

The tall one glared with murderous eyes.

The short, fat one—with a prominent scar—held his cigar, eyes narrowed, calmly sizing up the intruder.

—Tall and strong, brown jacket, wide belt, resembling a Western cowboy without a gun, but with eyes sharp as a hawk.

Han Solo immediately recognized the latter, surprised to encounter him here, his mind spinning with a wilder idea.

He smiled at the short, fat Italian, "Hello, Al Capone."

Capone’s pupils contracted, wary, "You know me? Who are you?"

Han Solo didn’t answer, his lips curling into an enigmatic smile, turning toward the barrels, closing his eyes to sniff.

In the darkness, scent particles collided in his nose—heavy sweet corn, faint rye spice, subtle caramelized notes, trapped within the breath of mature oak barrels.

Han Solo opened his eyes, voice calm: "This is moonshine, corn-based with rye. The distiller at least knows double distillation, and used cheap molasses for carbon filtration to soften the flavor. Old barrels, but unaged—overall, mediocre quality."

"Selling this is one thing, but diluting it is damned!"

Capone and the tall Italian exchanged a glance, suspicion and astonishment in their eyes.

He nailed every detail!

But could one smell all that? Who was this guy?

His words sounded like he was here to stir trouble!

The tall Italian had already drawn his revolver.

Han Solo ignored him, launching into a performance—at that moment, a Hollywood conman, a Hollywood actor, as if possessed, he was not alone in his act—

He placed his left hand over his heart, voice deep as an undercurrent beneath ice:

"The long night has come, the glass is dusted. From this day, I shall guard it, until death."

"I shall not marry, nor bear children."

"I shall fear neither law nor chains."

"I am the spear that pierces prohibition, the shield that defends the joy in the cup."

"I am the fire that kindles delight, the trader beneath moonlight."

"I give my life and honor to the King of the Night, this night and every night."

The two Italians were stunned on the spot.

Then...

"Hahaha, are you here to put on a show?" the tall Italian waved his gun, breaking into laughter. "What kind of lunatic are you!"

Capone relaxed, sneered, put his cigar back, took a long drag, slowly exhaled.

The mockery on his lips hadn’t faded, when Han Solo, unfazed, slowly raised his right hand, grasping the air toward the barrels!

All the barrels vanished instantly, leaving an empty cellar.

Laughter stopped dead.

The tall Italian’s gun flew out of his hand; Capone’s cigar dropped to the floor.

They were oblivious, mouths hanging open wide enough for an egg.

Han Solo turned, his voice metallic and commanding, "I am Jedi Knight Han Solo, here to defend America’s freedom to drink!"

...

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