The Victory Day Celebration!

"...Hello, dear listeners! It's your beloved Mr. House. I heard the Survivor Daily has been shut down. I knew this day would come all along! Those lying windbags have finally shut their traps! Of course, not that I care—after all, they never put a dent in the House Channel's ratings! The people will always stand on the right side. Thank you all for your unwavering support and loyalty! "Once again, praise be to the castellan, and praise to the residents of the Inner City who grant us bread, water, and food... Oh, blame that fool Hal—he nearly made me leave the most important news for last! If not for our great Inner City research institutions refining the synthesis process and consumption standards for nutrient paste, we wouldn't have one chip per kilogram of nutri... Yes, the good news is, nutrient paste has gotten cheap again! Bread will gradually follow suit, and soon you'll all be able to afford it. Mr. House gives you his word! "What a pity our neighbors aren't enjoying such fine days. Without any declaration of war on either side, they won a dishonorable war through underhanded means, and righteous heavenly retribution quickly descended upon their heads! The Alliance is drowning in debt. Not only do they owe us a fortune, but they owe a ton of money to Ideal City as well. Because of that, they've been forced into the humiliation of letting residents of Ideal City build a twenty-story building on their turf... Tsk, tsk. Taller than the Administrator's own quarters! Though come to think of it, does that gopher living in a burrow even have a house of his own? "In short, remember to close your doors and windows tight tonight, because those paupers will probably do just like last time—wasting ammo shooting uselessly into the sky in impotent rage, setting off all sorts of ear-splitting, crackling racket. Don't go poking your heads out, or you might get your skull cracked by falling bullet casings. In other news, all factories in the Alliance are closed today. Everyone there has lost their jobs, left to loiter aimlessly in the streets, picking up cigarette butts tossed away by the shelter residents... Poor northern suburbs. It'll probably turn into a marauders' paradise again. There are just too many paupers and vagrants gathering there. You folks best not wander out on a whim. "Just you wait and see—by next year, they're guaranteed to be finished! "And we stay forever young!" The day of the triumphal celebration. The street broadcasts were unusually loud today, injecting a bit of holiday atmosphere into Boulder City, which had remained entirely untouched by the war. Mr. House had spent roughly half an hour breaking down the causes and effects of the war for his listeners, explaining how the Boulder City Bank had cleverly ridden the Legion's tailwinds. Taking advantage of the Alliance's vigorous push to develop heavy and military industries, the bank had utilized 510 million chips of debt to fleece the Alliance. In one fell swoop, Boulder City had flipped from a victim of the Alliance dumping cheap low-end industrial goods to aggressively dumping its own goods back onto the Alliance, swelling Boulder City's coffers over and over again. After half an hour of explanation, he had fully proven that Boulder City was also a victor—a clandestine, glorious, uncrowned king! At the edge of the industrial zone, outside the entrance of the Walnut Tavern, a crowd of bleary-eyed workers who had just rolled out of bed gathered early in the morning. They couldn't care less about who won or lost the war; none of them expected the high-and-mighty lords to take pity and toss them a few chips anyway. They were all here to catch the latest chapter. Nonsense though both were, the serialized novel in the Workers' Newspaper was clearly far more entertaining than Mr. House's drivel. Especially now that the story had reached a particularly thrilling climax: Doji, a poor kid from the slums, had pulled off a miracle thanks to the power of his Awakening, scoring an upset victory over a power armor unit corrupted by slime mold. He not only earned a massive bounty and a black room card, but also won the favor of a beautiful noble lady who fell madly in love with him—though this also made him a thorn in the side of her fanatical suitor, a chiliarch in the militia. It was a clichéd tale, not merely tropey but outright trashy, yet it gave them such a rush of vicarious satisfaction that they could hardly keep their hands to themselves. They had argued all night over where the plot would go next, having even decided on the names of Doji's future children. Under the eager gazes of his fellow workers, Sberg, who could read, picked up a newspaper from the rack beside the door, cleared his throat, and prepared to read aloud. Only to find it was still yesterday's issue. "Hold on," Sberg said, gesturing for everyone to be patient. He picked up another copy, frowned, swapped it for yet another, and found it was identical. Unable to hold back, he turned toward the disfigured tavern owner. "Why is this still yesterday's issue?" Leaning against the doorframe with folded arms, enjoying their dismay, Tang chuckled. "You should count your lucky stars you can even read yesterday's issue. Won't be long before the guards come round to confiscate those too." The workers grew agitated at once and crowded around him. "Where's the new one?" "There isn't one. The whole newspaper office is gone!" "Then... what about the novel running in it?" "Are you an idiot? I told you, it's gone! They shut down! What else do you want? Go back to scrounging cigarette butts!" Tang shoved the worker in front of him aside with a string of curses. He was in a foul mood—he'd taken a kick from a guard over this whole mess. The workers looked at one another in disbelief. "...Gone?" "Why, though? We weren't bothering anyone!" A stubbly man clenched his fists and muttered in frustration. He busted his back every day, slaving away for the factory bosses. This was the only small pleasure he had left in life. What right did the lords have to shut it down? A worker raised a hand. "Anyone want to come with me to City Hall and demand an explanation?" People exchanged uneasy glances; no one uttered a word. A few months ago, they had possessed the nerve to raise hell at City Hall, but the situation then was worlds apart from now. Back then, they had been protesting the Alliance's dumping of cheap industrial goods into Boulder City; the factory bosses had backed their unrest, and behind those bosses were major shareholders from the Inner City—essentially the nobles locking horns with each other. Factoring in all the layers of backing, even if they had killed that idiot Dulong, no one would have laid the blame on them; people would have secretly given them a thumbs-up instead. Now, however, the nobles had reached a consensus. The factories were up and running again, booming even more than before. The Alliance had borrowed a massive sum of chips from Boulder City, bringing the factory bosses a flood of orders and filling the Inner City nobles' pockets to bursting. The workers had gained too; everyone had a job to feed their family. Life was getting better, and with bread so expensive, no one wanted to lose their livelihood. The wind completely left their sails. Just then, someone mumbled: "...Then can't we just write the rest of the story ourselves?" Their eyes lit up one by one, though hesitations lingered. "Do you know how to write?" the stubbly man asked the young fellow who had made the suggestion. The young man blushed and shook his head. "No... but you don't necessarily have to know how to write before you start creating things! Maybe you learn as you go along? Nobody's born knowing how to write." "I remember Sberg wrote a letter with suggestions to the newspaper office! The Workers' Newspaper only came about after that!" How long ago was that?! Finding all eyes suddenly upon him, Sberg froze, caught between tears and laughter. "I... I can only read. I can barely write." A boilerman clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "No problem, brother. You just keep the story going; the rest of us will help you brainstorm." Sberg instinctively wanted to decline, but looking at those pairs of hopeful eyes, he couldn't bring himself to refuse. Even knowing this might bring him trouble, he nodded. "We'll need to change the name, though... Let's call it the Worker Comrades' Paper." "It'll be safer that way." The crowd chimed in with laughter. "No problem!" "Call it whatever you like!" "We just want to see what happens next!" Time to clock in. As bells tolled across the industrial zone, the workers clustered by the tavern dispersed, trudging off to their respective factories. Heading toward the canning factory, Sberg pulled the collar of his faded padded coat tight, staring down at the coal-dust handprints on his shoulder with a heavy heart. Maybe publishing the Worker Comrades' Paper really was a good idea. The Alliance's newspaper office had been driven out, but its readers remained right here. If he could gather up past issues of the Workers' Newspaper, bind the serialized story into a collected volume, and then write the sequel himself, it might just sell like hotcakes... At the very least, it offered far more hope than toiling away in a cannery. Sberg's thoughts began to burn with excitement. Working his entire life in Lord Weijia's factory would never let him eat canned food for every meal, but if he kept Doji's story going, maybe, just maybe, he could... ... Boulder City was not the only place abuzz with excitement. Just twenty kilometers away, Dawn City in the northern suburbs of Qingquan City was in the midst of an equally grand spectacle. On Triumph Square, right next to North Street, stood a dense sea of people. Over a third of the Alliance's entire population had gathered here, craning their necks toward the very center of the square. Those unable to attend were gathered around televisions or radios, waiting for the Administrator on stage to speak. And it wasn't just Alliance citizens. There were residents from Boulder City, as well as wastelanders who had traveled from distant Sunset Province, Jinchuan Province, the eastern provinces—and even Yunjian Province at the easternmost edge of the continent—just to catch a glimpse of what the legendary Administrator looked like. Most settlements run by shelters were awful. What made this guy so different? Gazing at the sea of expectant faces below, Chu Guang raised his index finger and tapped the side of his helmet, opening the loudspeaker while releasing his faceplate. In that instant, the crowd fell silent on its own. Suppressing the surging excitement in his chest, Chu Guang drew a deep breath and opened the celebration with a solemn, resonant voice. "...Just last month, we secured victory in the war against barbarism. Through our presence, Sunset Province has obtained lasting peace. "We have already cheered our victory, and we have commended and rewarded the individuals and collectives who rendered outstanding service; I shall not repeat those today. Yet I must still thank all of you standing here, as well as our friends holding fast to their posts in distant places. This light was ushered in by all of us together. "Our battlefield was not only the desert, but the forests, the fields, the factories, the stations, and everywhere an Alliance citizen set their eyes... Our unity forged this invincible chariot, and the spoils it has won rightfully belong to every single person who supported it. "We remain far from the utopia where one only needs to work an hour a day, but from this day forth, everyone can use the eight hours of their own time to ponder how we might move closer to it. Naturally, this path is destined to be arduous. The wasteland will not end on its own; you cannot expect to solve everything lying in bed. "You must draw knowledge, experience, and lessons from the books of the Era of Prosperity. Ponder how to improve the tools in your hands and your methods of production. Treat every compatriot beside you with kindness, unite them through every means possible, and create even greater wonders together, rather than profiting by ostracizing, dividing, and opposing them. "We will not pin our hopes on anyone's moral character. Therefore, we must establish an ever-improving set of rules to transform the cruel jungle into orderly villages, and the weed-choked wilderness into crisscrossing, fertile farmlands. "Let malice, cowardice, baseness, deceit, and ugliness lose the soil they need to survive in competition. Let righteousness, bravery, honesty, self-respect, and kindness emerge at the forefront of our society—instead of hoping that people are born gentle and humble, or placing our bets on the 'tallest among us.' "We shall not only end the wasteland across the earth; we shall also put an end to the desolation in the human spirit—the invisible, yet all too real wasteland! "Victory will ultimately belong to us! "To all of us!" The proper application for Call to Victory seemed to be in speeches. Though Chu Guang had not deliberately activated the talent, pouring all his passion and focus into the words allowed him to clearly see the fiery hunger and yearning flickering in every pair of eyes. They harbored not a shred of doubt. He would make good on every single word he had uttered! And within his heart, he made a vow— He would never let down those gazes full of trust. "...That was magnificent!" Standing among the crowd, Dolly clapped excitedly, but after only a couple of claps, Fang Chang took hold of her small hand. "It's the thought that counts. You only came off the operating table a few days ago—take it easy," Fang Chang said, looking at her with concern. "Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud, I've been fine for ages!" Dolly pouted playfully, her brows dancing with mischief. "By the way, sneaky Mr. Fang Chang, you're about to lose your job in the Alliance, you know... Your Administrator said with his own mouth that crafty bad guys won't have any ground to stand on." Fang Chang spread his hands helplessly. "In that case... my dear Investigator Dolly, which Alliance law has this crafty bad guy of yours broken?" Heaven be his witness. He was undoubtedly the most Lawful player on the entire server. Most players hadn't even finished reading the Player Handbook, whereas he had not only read the Player Handbook cover to cover, but was also well-versed in Alliance law and had even taken part in drafting legislation as a shelter resident. For instance, the clause stating "Shelter residents are prohibited from using the respawn mechanic to donate corpses or organs to non-Alliance public institutions for profit" was voted into Alliance law and the Player Handbook through his active advocacy. Without that law, once player numbers swelled, someone would have inevitably exploited that shortcut to farm cash, ultimately ruining the gameplay experience for the majority. He kept a clear measure in mind of what money could and couldn't be made. No matter how broad his palate, he always chose his methods with caution. Resting her thumb and forefinger on her chin, Dolly put on an astute, pondering expression. "Let me think on it. Once this investigator finds out, I'll blackmail you... By the way, what's an investigator? Like an Alliance guard?" Meeting that curious gaze, Fang Chang averted his eyes guiltily. "Cough... No, it's nothing." Oh boy. Another slip of the tongue... In the remaining time, Chu Guang announced a series of measures, including "adjusting the twelve-hour workday to eight hours." Almost every single policy directly affected people's daily lives and touched on the matters they cared about most. The Alliance's factory owners had already reaped ample profits; it was time to return a portion of those profits to the citizens of the Alliance. If they were unwilling— The Alliance would rather they pack up and clear out to their neighbors! As Chu Guang announced the upcoming arrangements in a ringing voice, Lister, standing beneath the stage, stared at him without blinking, an indescribably complex storm of emotion flickering in his eyes. The Alliance hadn't actually stripped away much of his profit. Even if the minimum wage increased from one silver coin to two, it wouldn't impact his Lister Factory in the slightest. Long ago, he had already raised his workers' hourly wage to four silver coins, and technical staff earned over ten. This wasn't out of charity, of course, but because without doing so, he couldn't recruit enough hands at all. Every trade and industry was crying out for labor. In particular, the heavy and military-related industries that the Alliance prioritized during the war, along with the businesses run by shelter residents themselves, offered astonishingly generous wages. After all, compared to the meager cost of labor, expanding capacity by every means possible while orders were abundant was the absolute top priority. What truly weighed on his mind was something else entirely. If that Administrator intended to honor his pledge of "fairness," then no matter how much money Lister made, he could never become an actual aristocrat in the Alliance. And yet... That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. His dream was to build a sprawling merchant empire. If his caravans could bring about a tiny bit of positive change to the wasteland, so much the better, but he had never aspired to become an aristocrat or an emperor reigning above all. Business was business. In terms of labor costs, so long as the Alliance enforced the rules impartially and everyone's costs rose simultaneously, he had nothing to worry about. Raise prices when called for, scale up production when warranted, and cut back when appropriate. Everyone could compete on the same track through sheer competence. He would also do his utmost to adapt the upgraded KV-1 variants to better suit the shelter residents' tastes. Even if the Alliance wanted to subsidize bizarre little workshops using the profits from large factories, it made no difference; he didn't believe for a second that those tiny shops could dent his sales. If the Alliance wanted to keep them alive, so be it. His real fear was that Alliance rules would grant exceptions to "aristocrats." If that happened, he wouldn't stand a chance. After all, even a pig could fly if the wind blew hard enough; how could anyone running within the track defeat powers operating outside it? That was precisely why, after earning enough chips, he had insisted on spending a fortune in Boulder City to grease palms and buy an aristocratic title. Not because he coveted noble privileges, but because that black card spared him more than ninety percent of potential troubles. Yet at this very moment, the man on the stage told him there was no need to worry. What he feared would never happen in the Alliance. Where rules could be applied, the Alliance would invariably abide by rules. If they intended to improve labor conditions, they would require every factory to comply across the board, never singling out businesses outside the shelter first. At the same time, the Alliance would permit no privileges outside the rules. On the soil beneath his feet, Alliance currency could buy any commodity, but no currency would ever be permitted to trade for honor and dignity. The shelter residents even imposed extra rules upon themselves, exercising strict self-discipline without demanding adoration or leniency from the people. Even though they fought most of the battles and were the most qualified to become nobles, their choice to renounce that opportunity meant that no one else would ever qualify to become an aristocrat either. For a brief moment, Lister caught a glimmer of light. And for the very first time, a thought beyond making money sprouted in his heart—to help that light spread even farther. Yes. He had swallowed a great deal of filth to make money, but that didn't mean filth tasted good, much less that it smelled sweet. For a ruthless man who had pulled himself up from nothing, nothing felt more personally humiliating than watching an ignorant pig sitting on the steps, snorting and chuckling in smug satisfaction. He didn't care about the sordid, shameful scandals of the Inner City nobles, just as he didn't care whether a marauder's chips were clean or whether a slab of meat in the frying pan had suffered a sob story. But he couldn't stand those swines throwing an arm around his shoulders and saying, "We're two of a kind." On what grounds?! That was all he wanted to ask. No matter how filthy the chips in his pocket were, he had hauled them back with his own hands from a hellish wasteland. Those parasites had done nothing—what right did they have to claim they were the same as him? From those hideous faces, he felt only a revulsion deep in his soul. If not for the fact that he still had to carve a massive slice of fat from those swines, he would have loved to snap the black card in his pocket right now and walk toward that blazing, brilliant light. "Long live the Alliance!" Swept up in the atmosphere amid the rolling waves of applause, Lister couldn't help shouting at the top of his lungs. Beside him, Qian Duo and Qian Lai exchanged surprised glances while clapping vigorously, wondering what had suddenly possessed their boss. He had told them more than once that they were here in the Alliance to make money. They had taken his words to heart. Yet why did it feel like... He had gotten completely swept up in the act himself? After the Administrator declared the celebration open, a thunderous tide of applause instantly washed over the entire square. Standing among the crowd, Alisa clapped her little hands excitedly, gazing intently at the man on the stage before suddenly looking up at her father with a hint of concern. "...Daddy, I think he's right. We should unite the survivors around us as much as possible, instead of turning them all into our enemies." "We have always been united." "What about the people in the Outer City?" "It's too late." "Why?" Alisa's eyes widened. In a cautious voice tinged with pleading, she said, "I can give up my ragdoll. A one-silver-coin hairpin is actually very cute too..." She liked the older sister who had called her cute; back then, she had forgotten to tell that sister that her smile was very cute as well. Yet in Boulder City, people hardly ever looked at her, let alone smiled at her. Even in the Inner City, whether in shops, on the streets, or in classrooms, the smiles people gave her felt more like practiced courtesies. Melvin stared unblinkingly at the stage, his sinister eyes narrowed like a vulture's. When his lovely daughter looked up at him, however, he dialed back some of his grim hostility, softening his tone at least a little as he spoke patiently. "...You can give up your ragdoll, but you can't throw away the ragdolls belonging to your friends, can you? My child, I understand your feelings. You are a kind girl, but when it comes to the things you're talking about, kindness alone isn't enough." Of course he knew that if Inner City residents ate one mouthful less cake, Outer City residents could have ten more loaves of bread. The leftover nutrient paste could then feed livestock, Boulder City would grow stronger, and ultimately the Inner City's shelves would be even more abundant—everyone would improve together. It wasn't as though no one had ever proposed that. Yet those who acted on it invariably ended up losing their black cards, making way for the newly elevated nobles. Because that logic was flawed from the very beginning. Why should Inner City residents eat one mouthful less, and why would Outer City residents remain content with ten loaves of bread? Once those paupers tasted sweetness, they would push for more, craving comfort and shunning labor, even refusing to work... In Boulder City's brief two-century history, such lessons had occurred more than once, and every single time had ended in bloodshed. He wasn't uneducated; how could he not know such elementary concepts? But what difference did knowing make? Did the sun rise because people needed to wake up? Of course not! Human nature was far uglier than gnawers, and the laws of nature would never bend to human will. Truth be told, he loathed the man standing on the stage. Every single unrealistic promise the man uttered caused him physical revulsion. Yet he would never let that disdain show on his face. Work was work, personal matters were personal; he kept them strictly separate. No nobles? Heh. Just wait and see. Melvin gave a cold smile. Echoing the frenzied atmosphere around him, he clapped gently alongside his innocent, adorable daughter. Yet those withered lips, resembling rotting wood floating in a swamp, continued to part and close. "...The only reason you can still stand up there is because the people haven't awakened from the sweet dream of victory after victory. The shelter residents closest to you will be the first to snap out of it. Once they realize their cake is being handed out to those wretched hyenas, they will quickly figure out how to use the authority in their hands to claw it back with interest... Just how long will you be able to keep them in line? Heh." Ah. How he longed to witness that man's despair. Involuntarily, Melvin felt a pang of jealousy toward the man's youth once more. Even though he believed from the bottom of his heart that no alliance was unbreakable, he would not live to see the day it collapsed. That was precisely why idealists were so detestable. Even when they ultimately lost to reality, the flames would still burn atop their ashes for a while, scorching the eyes of everyone who had ever beheld them. If only he had never come here. Every time that thought crossed his mind, Melvin felt an irritation in his chest, as if tens of thousands of ants were crawling over his heart... ... The celebration officially commenced. As the Administrator stepped down from the podium, the crowd gathered on Triumph Square began to disperse into the lively neighboring streets. Shops along the avenue had swung their doors wide early on, pulling out all the stops to lure customers in hopes of turning a handsome profit on such a festive occasion. "Look, Eclipse, there are more and more people here..." Excitement danced in Frost's eyes as it repeated the phrase over and over. "This is an opportunity for us!" At the moment, it wore a maid outfit, with an armband of black lettering on a red field around its sleeve reading: [Celebration Self-Governance Committee]. A few days ago, the lifestyle players of Dawn City had sought to select volunteers to help maintain order during the celebration. After all, the Alliance lacked massive walls, and they had to guard against bad actors slipping in. Drones flying overhead would flag suspicious targets, and the Celebration Self-Governance Committee's job was to assist the guards in keeping close tabs on those individuals, while also handling emergencies and aiding the understaffed guard force in resolving minor disputes. Frost would never pass up something so fascinating, especially when it offered a chance to gather precious sociological data. It had promptly dragged Eclipse along to sign up. Although it was not a player, nor even an Alliance resident, it frequently lent a helping hand to everyone, so the players had gladly accepted it. The players hadn't mentioned, however, that only players could earn Regional Reputation rewards; Frost would only receive a modest silver coin stipend. Not that it cared about the money anyway. Eclipse looked blankly at its companion, eyes swimming with bewilderment. "I do not understand." Frost clicked its tongue in dissatisfaction. "Didn't you hear what the Alliance Administrator said? He said the Alliance won't pin its hopes on anyone's moral character." "And?" "We're not human! We're AIs!" Frost stared at Eclipse with bright eyes. "So as long as we prove we're competent, the Alliance will put us to good use!" Eclipse stared at it blankly. Yet Frost paid no heed to its confusion, gazing out at the bustling street and losing itself in self-satisfaction. Ah... My sapience plugin is on fire! I really want to corral all these organic beings, pampering them under the devoted care of machine servants until they wear utterly spoiled expressions. Surely then the whole world would be filled with love and peace! Even so, the Directorate had been far too conservative in this regard, only recently passing the bill submitted by the Kangmao Group to allow bionics to participate in public affairs. By contrast, the adorable little Smurfs of the Alliance were far more open-minded, frequently asking for their assistance with various tasks. Life here was so much more fulfilling than in Ideal City! Just as Frost was reveling in its daydreams, a startled cry came from nearby, seemingly near a fruit stall not far from the trading post. Twitching its ears, Frost instantly dropped its dreamy expression. It snapped its gaze toward the noise, its eyes turning sharp. "Eclipse, looks like someone needs our help!" Eclipse nodded expressionlessly. "Yes. Xiao Qi also requested that we head over... It said to mediate as NPCs, but not to go too far—" "What are we waiting for then?" Full of vigor, Frost rolled up its sleeves and strode toward the bustling crowd. "Come on, let's go check it out!"