97th Street was located in Boulder City's West District. Sewage flowed freely here, the air was foul, and dilapidated tenements clustered tightly together, frequently reviled by nearby citizens as the "Crow's Nest."
Being close to the massive wall, the residents here could only enjoy the sun during the morning and around noon.
Once dusk fell, the street was swallowed by the wall's looming shadow.
Objectively speaking, if one overlooked the lack of sunlight, life here was still far better than in the slums outside the wall.
Most of the people living here were laborers from nearby factories.
Unless they were locals, few people ever cared to come near this area.
There was almost no entertainment, and virtually no one would open a shop among a bunch of paupers.
Those who had jobs worked sixteen hours a day, collapsing into bed the second they got home. Those without jobs wouldn't take a single chip out of their pockets to spend, even if they sat around in a daze all day long.
Still, there were exceptions.
Where the neighborhood bordered the industrial zone stood a beerhall named "Walnut." Its iconic landmark was the pile of empty barrels made of walnut wood stacked outside the entrance.
These barrels weren't large; they could serve as tables, stools, or even makeshift spots to handle personal hygiene.
Laborers passing by after a long day's work would occasionally pull out a chip tipped to them by their foremen to buy a cheap, hearty mug of draft beer, washing away the day's worries before heading home.
Some unemployed workers also came here to whittle away the whole day.
Though their pockets were empty, smelling the beer or breathing in a few puffs of secondhand smoke was better than nothing.
At any rate, it beat sitting at home listening to a haggard wife sighing and nagging about how life was impossible to go on with.
Because mercenaries rarely visited and foreign travelers and merchants never ventured near the West District, the place had gradually become a club for Boulder City's working class.
People didn't just drink here; they gathered in small groups to chat about domestic trivialities or gossip they had picked up.
Especially gossip from the industrial zone.
What people hoped to hear most, of course, was news of some factory hiring, though that sort of thing hadn't happened in a long time.
An unemployed worker with scruffy stubble suddenly spoke up.
"...Maybe we should just go be mercenaries."
A fellow worker laid off from the same cannery cast him a sidelong glance.
"Have you ever even touched a gun?"
"No, but I hear it's not that hard. Flick the safety off, aim the muzzle, pull the trigger, and drive burning shards of metal into a gnawer's skull." The stubbly worker used a broom by the wooden barrels to mimic the motion of firing a rifle. "See? Simple as that."
The crowd burst into laughter.
"The Tide won't come until next year. It's summer right now—your opponents would most likely be marauders."
"I heard Liszt's caravan is hiring. They're planning to open a new trade route from here to the Great Ravine."
"The Great Ravine... I hear that's at the northernmost edge of River Valley Province."
"That really is far."
Beside the doorframe, a group of workers huddled together, taking turns dragging on a cigarette butt that had nearly burned down to the filter.
Sberg couldn't resist taking an extra drag. Noticing everyone glaring at him, he hastily passed the butt to the next man.
Taking the butt and inhaling, Pick, his arm wrapped in bandages, suddenly spoke up.
"Speaking of which, why haven't I seen Kent lately?"
"Who knows? Last time, he led us to surround City Hall. Seeing those well-dressed bastards turn pale with fright was so damn satisfying!"
"It'd be great if we could do it again sometime."
They had nothing else to do anyway. Causing a ruckus in the streets might even let them scrounge up some benefits.
Right then, the potbellied tavern owner emerged from the utility shed beside the tavern, carrying a massive wooden crate.
His name was Don—a short word in the Human Alliance language with only a single syllable.
Looking at the idle paupers, Don couldn't help grumbling, "How long do you intend to loiter around here? If you don't have money, can't you go find some work?"
The worker smoking laughed and said, "We'd love to work. Are you hiring a cleaner, a waiter, or an odd-job boy?"
Don scoffed, replying mercilessly, "Why the hell would I hire a burly man with no tits and no ass to do chores?"
Another brawny fellow raised his hand and grinned cheekily. "Are you hiring a boss lady, then? Sign me up."
"Piss off," Don cursed.
Times had been tough for the Walnut Tavern recently as well.
The paupers grew more numerous by the day, sharing a single cigarette butt among a whole circle, to say nothing of digging out chips to buy drinks.
Sberg suddenly noticed that the older woman who used to pour drinks and the young lad who ran errands had both been laid off.
Now, the owner was doing this manual labor himself.
In the past, the fat pig would have been slacking off and dozing behind the bar at this hour.
At that moment, Sberg caught sight of the wooden crate in Don's hands and the stack of papers inside it. He asked curiously, "What's that?"
"*Survivor Daily*." Don didn't elaborate, huffing and puffing as he hauled it inside the tavern.
*Survivor Daily?*
Everyone exchanged glances. None of them had ever heard of the name.
Of course, that might just be because they never read newspapers.
Most workers were literate, but their literacy was generally limited to recognizing enough words to read equipment manuals and job postings.
Workers who could afford newspapers had no time to read them.
Reading books and papers was a luxury reserved exclusively for the high-and-mighty sitting in offices.
"How much is that thing?"
"Free. Read it however you want, but you can't take it with you," Don said impatiently.
These newspapers were provided free of charge by the *Survivor Daily* office, with a complimentary crate of Nuka-Cola included each month.
They didn't take up much space anyway and gave the drunks something to pass the time with. Operating on the principle that free stuff shouldn't be turned down, he had brought them back.
"Free?!"
Hearing that, the crowd was astonished.
There was actually such a good deal?
What made it even more unbelievable was that those words had come from this stingy iron rooster.
Sberg stepped forward, pulled a newspaper from the wooden crate, and unfolded it in his hands.
Pick tossed away the cigarette butt that had finally burned out and leaned in curiously to look.
"..."
"City Hall and New Alliance authorities conclude successful negotiations; a two-hundred-million aid loan to secure a win-win for both sides... What's a win-win?"
"I just want to smash the New Alliance's factories to pieces! Toss the junk they make right over the wall!"
"Being their creditor doesn't seem so bad though... Kate Textile Mill resumes operations. Look, the paper says it's because they received an order worth a million chips."
"Alisa has lost a Southern Shorthair cat. If anyone spots it, please contact the address listed in the paper. Reward: twenty-five chips... Alisa... That name sounds familiar."
"I remember now... It's Bank President Melvin's youngest daughter!"
Boulder City lacked an entertainment industry and had no celebrities. The headliner at the Queen of the Night Bar and the families of high-ranking officials were the prime subjects of ordinary gossip.
No one was unfamiliar with President Melvin, as Boulder City had only one bank.
Hearing that dignitary's name, the crowd instantly snapped to attention, envious looks surfacing in their eyes.
"...It's actually the bank president's darling daughter."
"Whoever marries her wouldn't have to worry for the rest of his life."
"Keep dreaming. The sun hasn't even gone down yet."
"Twenty-five chips to find a cat... Converted into nutrient paste, that's enough for twenty-five kilos! Do these people have too much money and nowhere to spend it?"
"What do you know? I actually think that's cheap!"
"Sigh, must be nice to be rich..."
The men clustered around the newspaper chattered excitedly.
Although the reward of twenty-five chips made their eyes green with envy, none of them moved to search for it.
Boulder City was so vast—where were they supposed to look for a cat?
Not to mention, whether the cat was even still inside the massive wall was an open question.
While the crowd gossiped enthusiastically, Sberg's attention was drawn to the final line of text on the paper:
*【We are dedicated to building a newspaper that serves all survivors. If you are reading this paper at a public newsstand, please leave your valuable feedback on it. We will refer to your comments after collecting the papers.】*
A newspaper serving all survivors?
Heh.
How novel.
Though they were all survivors living on the same wasteland, Sberg could vaguely sense that people were not equal.
Some were born with silver spoons in their mouths, while others were born to live like cockroaches.
Take that Miss Alisa, for instance.
What did the reality of the wasteland have to do with her?
She had probably never even seen nutrient paste, let alone tasted a bite of it.
After hesitating a moment, Sberg borrowed a pen from the owner and wrote at the bottom of the page:
"We are very interested in what City Hall is doing."
"The bank president's daughter's cat depresses me. Back when I had a job, twenty-five chips was ten days' wages for me."
"...It would be great if you could publish more job information."
"Wishing you a pleasant life."
Having written these words, he returned the pen to the tavern owner.
At that moment, Sberg suddenly remembered the newspaper mentioning that ten empty cola bottles could be exchanged to take one paper home.
He couldn't help pondering whether he should head to the bar street once it grew completely dark to pick up empty cola bottles.
Trading for a paper to take home and teach his son to read would be nice. At least it would make him feel like he hadn't wasted the entire day...
***
Sberg was not the only one who had such a thought.
Over the past two days, quite a few "scavengers" collecting empty bottles had appeared around the taverns of Boulder City.
Ten empty cola bottles could be traded for a copy of *Survivor Daily*. Even if one didn't read it, taking it home to line a table or pad a bed was useful.
As for where this *Survivor Daily* had come from, nobody bothered to investigate.
After all, it had only just printed its very first issue, and its popularity was far too small.
So small that Boulder City's factory owners, chamber-of-commerce bosses, and City Hall officials wouldn't possibly notice it...
That night.
Bank President Melvin returned to his luxury mansion on the edge of the inner city, his face radiant with high spirits.
Negotiations with Dawn City's castellan had gone exceptionally well. The other party had produced an impressive procurement list, including a massive batch of construction materials, textiles, and foodstuffs.
This would create at least fifty thousand jobs for Boulder City, resolving the basic subsistence needs of nearly a hundred thousand people.
By this time next year, Boulder City's gross output value would hit a new high!
Meanwhile, the interest repaid by the New Alliance and the raw materials flooding in from the northern suburbs would breathe new life into the industrial zone's factories!
What pleased Melvin most was that recently, many local factories had begun borrowing from him as well.
When people borrowed money to consume, others were naturally willing to borrow to expand production. His bank could turn a profit from both ends.
And there was virtually no risk of bad debt!
Boulder City had entered a new cycle. He felt as if he could already see the dawn of economic recovery!
"You seem to be in a good mood today. Did something good happen?" His wife took his coat.
"Of course," Melvin said, beaming. "After so many days of wrangling, negotiations are finally over. The New Alliance representative signed the agreement, and our relationship with the New Alliance will enter a brand-new chapter from now on!"
Though the negotiations had been full of twists and turns, thanks to his resourceful performance at the bargaining table—keeping a firm grip on the tempo—he had ultimately forced the New Alliance representative to make concessions, allowing both sides to reach a consensus.
"Still... is lending money to those country bumpkins really alright?" His wife's expression carried a trace of worry.
In her eyes, people outside the wall were either crude mercenaries, filthy scavengers, or plundering marauders.
She found it hard to trust such people.
In fact, even an extra glance from them gave her goosebumps and made her physically uncomfortable.
A confident smile played on Melvin's lips.
"What could go wrong? They have copper mines, farmland, and vast stretches of forest... I'd be only too happy if those bumpkins borrowed even more."
"Debt will turn them into our slaves. That works far better than shackles."
Just then, he noticed a newspaper on the table.
The front-page headline remarkably reported that the negotiations were progressing smoothly.
Melvin raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
The negotiations had only concluded today. Just two hours ago, the New Alliance representative had reluctantly signed the loan agreement, and neither side had even had time to make an official announcement.
How had this obscure little newspaper guessed that a deal would definitely be struck today?
A rather accurate guess.
It couldn't possibly have been printed just a few hours ago, could it?
"What's this?"
"*Survivor Daily*."
Seated on the sofa gently stroking a cat in her lap, Alisa looked up upon hearing her father's question and answered softly.
"Does our family subscribe to this paper?" Melvin asked in confusion.
Alisa shook her head gently.
"No, but I thought it was quite interesting... Remember how I lost a cat earlier?"
Melvin couldn't recall which one; his daughter kept far too many cats.
Seeing that her father didn't seem to remember, Alisa continued in a soft voice, "Back then, you told me you had already instructed the butler to post a lost-cat notice in the taverns, and that mercenaries would bring it back to me before long."
"I think there was something like that... What happened next?" Melvin's expression grew slightly embarrassed.
It seemed the cat hadn't been found, meaning he had broken his promise to his daughter.
However, sensible Alisa didn't blame him, continuing gently, "Later on, that mercenary gentleman never showed up. But this newspaper office found me through the notice at the tavern. They said they could run an ad in the paper for me free of charge, as long as I would be willing to write them a thank-you letter once Little Black was found."
Melvin smiled after hearing this.
So they wanted to use his daughter's reputation to drum up fame for their newspaper?
These people certainly had a head for business.
In Boulder City's high society, his daughter's name was worth far more than a few chips.
Still, such trivialities weren't worth his concern. He simply offered his daughter a caring remark:
"It would be great if it could be found."
"Yes," Alisa murmured, stroking the kitten in her lap as a tinge of worry crept into her eyes. "I just worry about whether it's going hungry."
***
At the same time.
Outside a standalone building not far from the warehouse district hung a plaque reading 【Voice of the Alliance】.
Judging by the pristine nail holding it up, the sign had only been hung recently.
In stark contrast to the quiet exterior, the newspaper office inside was currently a hive of activity.
In particular, Hal, serving as director of the newspaper, had not rested for a single moment from morning until evening, wishing he could split himself into two people.
In fact, that was practically what he had to do.
Because the newspaper office was newly founded and severely shorthanded, he had to juggle multiple roles: overseeing content, handling layout, and managing external relations.
As for how things had ended up this way, it all traced back to that afternoon three days ago.
According to the Administrator's directives, the New Alliance needed its own media outlet.
However, because the New Alliance Liaison Office in Boulder City was understaffed, Shu Yu and Luka had discussed the matter and ultimately placed this significant responsibility onto Hal's shoulders.
The New Alliance's trust had left Hal feeling deeply flattered.
Though he was eager to repay their kindness for saving and harboring him, and to prove his capabilities, he had never run a newspaper before—he hadn't even known what a newspaper was.
Fortunately, Shu Yu hadn't dumped all the work on him. He had gone to the labor market to recruit several employees who had previously worked for the *Voice of Boulder City*, which kept Hal from devolving into sheer chaos despite his hectic schedule.
*Survivor Daily* was their first product, primarily distributed across Boulder City's outer city.
The first print run comprised 1,200 copies, distributed to taverns, general stores, and mobile vendors where spending power was relatively low.
These newspapers were printed at a local Boulder City printing house. For a print run under ten thousand copies, the production cost per copy was roughly 0.5 chips.
Factoring in labor, rent, and utilities, their expenses for today alone had reached over a thousand chips.
As for revenue, there was no point thinking about it for now.
The papers were supplied to those partners almost entirely for free.
Each copy had a retail price of one chip; even if sold, after deducting the vendor's cut, they would at most recoup the printing cost.
And to promote these newspapers, they had even thrown in fifty-six crates of Nuka-Cola!
Yet these investments were well worth it.
A meeting was currently underway in the second-floor conference room. Hal had gathered the office's only six editors to compile the feedback readers had left on the newspapers and discuss the content of the next issue.
Suddenly, the conference room door was pushed open, and a staff member rushed inside.
"Good news! Half of the 1,200 newspapers were sold!"
Hearing this, many at the table relaxed their brows, delighted smiles spreading across their faces.
When people were free to read the papers for nothing, managing to sell half of them was a remarkable achievement for a brand-new, completely unknown publication.
At the very least, it proved their content was solid.
The staff member paused for a moment before adding, "...The bad news, however, is that we didn't make a single coin. We only brought back 120 chips and over three thousand empty bottles."
Hearing this second half, the editors around the table exchanged looks.
"...Maybe selling these bottles could earn us a little," an editor suggested softly, glancing at the director.
Finding a job wasn't easy these days.
Especially when newspapers weren't daily necessities.
He was genuinely worried that the job he had worked so hard to secure might vanish again.
Sensing the misgivings in everyone's eyes, Hal stood up from the conference table and rallied the group in an impassioned voice:
"Don't worry about losses! Profit isn't our objective! Right now, our sole focus is to make a name for ourselves as quickly as possible!"
"I looked through the feedback earlier. The title *Survivor Daily* is still too broad, and the content isn't targeted enough!"
"People sitting in offices aren't interested in which factory line is short-handed, and Boulder City's workers couldn't care less about what the headliner at Queen of the Night is wearing today."
"I propose that, alongside *Survivor Daily*, we should launch sub-publications like the *Workers' Daily*, the *Citizens' Daily*, and the *Playboy Daily*, delivering distinct content tailored to different target audiences!"
"Since the *Voice of Boulder City* has captured Boulder City's high society, we'll venture into the domains they've never set foot in and open a brand-new battlefield!"
As he spoke, Hal felt every cell in his body burning, his eyes gleaming with excitement and ambition.
If this plan could be realized, the newspapers he created would claim every spare minute of Boulder City's residents after tea and meals, and the words he wrote would be read repeatedly by hundreds of thousands of people.
And he would become the city's uncrowned king!
In all his time away from home, this was the first time he had encountered something so thrilling.
Listening to him sketch out this astonishing blueprint, astonished expressions appeared across everyone's faces.
An editor couldn't help asking, "Do we have enough budget for that?"
Hal replied with absolute conviction, "...There will always be a way! Didn't our boss say so? The Alliance won't be stingy when it comes to investing in cultural industries!"
"Besides, we just secured a loan of two hundred million chips. That money has to be spent somewhere, doesn't it?"
Chapter 359