Every Possibility Is a Continuation of the Past

In the screening room, Sberg saw countless possibilities for the future. Just as Ibers had said, in most of the endings simulated by the computer, he did not stand at center stage—in fact, he didn't appear on stage at all. This settlement was not made up of workers alone, even though in the world line he inhabited, they were the first group of people to awaken. For instance, in Ending 217, the camera focused mostly on Melvin's youngest daughter. From the moment that little girl laid eyes on her first newspaper, she actively tried to persuade her father. Although her views were naive, the problems she identified were very real. Her doting old father, Melvin, eventually recognized some of the issues and attempted to push through a top-down reform, but in the end, it all culminated in the tragic deaths of the entire family. Those untimely, inconsequential scenes were replaced by rows of cold text. Sberg breathed a sigh of relief. He would gladly watch how Lord Stephen and his kind died, but he couldn't bear to watch a little girl he had never met die alongside them—especially one so kindhearted. Or take Ending 269, where the camera focused mostly on a green-haired girl, alongside a red-haired girl. One had lost an arm and an eye in Boulder City, while the other had lost a leg during a mission outside; their shared tragic plight and trauma brought them together. This time, those who united were mercenaries, spurred by the Tide following last year's bitter winter. Although those mercenaries lacked power armor, they proved surprisingly formidable when facing off against the militia that bossed them around. Exceptionally experienced in urban warfare, they even fought their way into the inner city, and in the end, Boulder City seemed to have turned into a mercenary city-state. Everything had changed, yet it seemed as though nothing had changed at all. Incidentally, the Alliance was nowhere to be seen in this simulation; after all, the Alliance hadn't existed back then. Clearly, this machine was not truly predicting the future; it was merely helping them extrapolate various possibilities for the future from what had transpired in the past. However... No matter which ending it was, the one thing missing was the "good ending" he hoped for. The settlement's fate seemed sealed from the very beginning, and this was what drove Sberg to deepest despair—as if no matter what anyone did, it was all meaningless. So he tried dragging the progress bar backward, returning to a far more distant past—a century and a half ago, even two centuries ago—attempting to find answers in the possibilities that had already collapsed into fact. And because of this, he saw many things that left him shaken to his core... Just as he had written in the story of Boer the Awakened, Boulder City wasn't built in a day. Now, he had to add another line: Every settlement had a wonderful beginning. And every settlement had once yearned for a bright future... ... War erupted, and then it ended. With the establishment of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, the Era of Prosperity drew its final curtain. The first fifty years were arduous, yet filled with hope. The Post-War Reconstruction Committee didn't abandon the survivors remaining on the surface; more crucially, the survivors left on the wasteland didn't abandon themselves either. The Defense Department taught the local survivors how to use weapons and form militias to withstand the threat of the Tide. The Technical Department organized scavengers, mobilizing everyone to venture into the ruined city districts in search of usable supplies and recover high-value technology. The Production Department oversaw production, helping the local survivors establish factories that, while hardly advanced, were functional, and occasionally brought in supplies from other places. The great wall was also built during that period. It wasn't conjured out of thin air by some "black box," nor had it fallen from the heavens as rumored; it had been raised bit by bit in the freezing snow and ice by the first-generation managers, one cart of cement and one cart of rebar at a time. Yes, it was that simple. Ordinary, yet magnificent. Back then, the great wall was not very tall—just enough to suffice. After all, fruiting bodies that could fly or leap were few, and the slime mold was not yet the primary threat to survival. The tenants of the Boulder Building were the most resourceful survivors, so everyone trusted them and willingly placed power in their hands; thus came about the concept of the "inner city." Just like the great wall, black cards did not exist in the beginning. In the year 2174, Year 45 of the Wasteland Era, internal friction tore the Post-War Reconstruction Committee apart, and a vast number of talented individuals withdrew from Boulder City. Some headed north to the Wandering Marsh, some went to the westernmost edge of the continent, and others traveled to the eastern coast—yet even more chose to stay. Those who stayed were true warriors. They were as brave as their forebears, always standing alongside those in genuine need of help whenever crisis struck, whether facing an unprecedented winter or never-before-seen mutants. With ideals, they melted ice and snow, lit the hearth fires, and forged steel. They spat upon those who had betrayed their ideals; they discarded all impractical illusions; they believed only in the compatriots who stayed behind with them. They would be their own saviors! Although aid from the Reconstruction Committee had ended, Boulder City's future seemed even brighter. They opened the great wall, taking in wandering survivors. When the Tide arrived, they charged at the very forefront; wherever danger lurked, there were residents holding black cards. They didn't just toil on their own—they rallied everyone together, mobilizing scavenging teams to explore the ruins, setting up outposts to gather resources, and developing them into tiny yet sturdy settlements. They no longer needed sustenance from the Production Department, nor did they count on those selfish people ever uniting again; they took the initiative to venture south into the barren wastes in search of hope. Perhaps moved by their courage, or perhaps simply because the time had come. Five years later, the endless winter came to an end. All living things regained the momentum to grow, and a large number of vaults unsealed in succession. They began taking in bewildered blue jackets, telling those dazed folk that the Reconstruction Committee had dissolved: either go back to sleep, or stay and join us. Whether you like it or not, we can only rely on ourselves now. As everyone knew, blue jackets were mostly warmhearted people, and many popsicles felt guilty toward the compatriots who had suffered on the surface. Thus, when those tormented compatriots reached out to them, they were moved to the point of gladly offering their very lives for these poor souls. The vaults brought not only black boxes, but also technology and luminous ideals. The arrival of the blue jackets injected new blood into Boulder City. Using pre-war technology, they helped survivors further improve the tools left behind by the Production Department, even repaired a batch of power armor that the Defense Department hadn't known how to fix, and, emulating researchers from the Technical Department, attempted to "excavate" from the evolved organisms in the city center. From then on, Boulder City practically became a beacon illuminating the entirety of southern River Valley Province... Yet what puzzled Sberg was that throughout this stretch of recorded history, there wasn't a trace of the City Lord from start to finish. Inner city residents only mentioned in passing that Boulder City possessed an "AI assisting in administration," which controlled the security system of the entire Boulder Building and had no other capabilities beyond that. After the Reconstruction Committee dissolved, the Great Rift Valley gave them something for self-defense. Out of certain misgivings, everyone unanimously decided to place that means of self-defense into the hands of the City Lord as well. Apart from limited communication with the militia, it hardly took part in Boulder City's regular affairs. Even that limited communication mostly occurred only during Tides, or when factions affiliated with the Post-War Reconstruction Committee attempted to approach Boulder City. This was part of that ancient "pact": after parting ways, neither side would interfere with the other, each burying their heads in their own business. There was no profound conspiracy. However, even though the AI named Fang Ming had very little presence, it didn't really matter. After all, Boulder City hadn't been built by him in the first place; the survivors were doing quite well on their own and would only get better. Until, starting from a certain day, Sberg suddenly discovered that the originally wonderful fairy tale began to spoil... In the holographic projection, inside a spacious council chamber, a major issue was under discussion. A grim-faced man propped both hands on the table, looked around at all the attendees, and spoke: "Our settlement has more and more people, and the old methods of resource allocation are becoming less and less effective. Workers will grow more skilled, and machinery will become more advanced—this is an objective law of nature. We don't need that much soap; some people need shower gel, some need shampoo. Everyone wants to look and feel a bit more presentable, and I believe this is a reasonable demand. Food is the same way: we can't eat bread with sausage slices at every single meal. We can start considering diversifying our food options. "However, we cannot use fixed charts to dictate how much of each type of good should be produced every day, nor can we expect everyone to consume only the bare minimum they need. If this continues, not only will soap and sausages grow scarce, even concrete blocks will become hard to find! "I propose letting society decide for itself what it needs, and where surplus productivity and resources should flow. Therefore, we need to invent a tool—a tool that once existed in history—to make the invisible forces of supply and demand visible!" With that, he pulled out a white chip. It was the smallest denomination. Murmurs broke out across the council chamber. Someone stood up and asked, "This is...?" The solemn man continued, "A chip! "It can replace currency! "Though it's clearly inferior to the credits we once used, it can at least reflect supply and demand!" Doubt and concern were written all over the attendees' faces. They felt this wasn't a good thing. Soon, another attendee rose to object: "I know what you're trying to get at. You want to use traditional currency from before the Era of Prosperity, right? But the supply and demand it reflects is still lagged. We've already proven there are better ways!" The proposer nodded. "Exactly! But those 'better ways' are useless to us right now. We don't have that much computing power, nor do we possess enough production tools. Currently, our settlement's level of productivity is barely different from the era before the Era of Prosperity. Even if 'chips' are something dredged up from the trash heap, they are still better than the system we're using now!" The council chamber erupted into argument. It was not until an aged, resonant voice rang out that quiet gradually returned to the room. "Silence!" Everyone turned toward the old man who had spoken, reverence and trust written in every eye. He was among Boulder City's first residents, hailing from the era before the Wasteland Era, and had never spent a single day in hibernation. By now, he was over a hundred years old. His experience was richer than that of anyone else seated here; the wrinkles on his face were like the rings of an ancient tree, every ring etched with history. Even the most unruly inner city residents couldn't help lowering their gaze when meeting his eyes. No one doubted his wisdom or righteousness. Even though no crown rested upon his head. Yet this time, the old man offered no opinion of his own. He merely cleared his throat and raised his right hand. "As before. "Let us vote." ... Adopting chips as currency passed the inner city residents' deliberation without suspense; after all, their old method genuinely no longer worked. Often, what people needed was not the "best" method, but one that was "usable." Yet a problem still remained. The credits of the Era of Prosperity did not allow the "distributors" of resources to reap the greatest benefits, achieving a utopian equality in a relative sense. Chips, however, were different. At their core, they were a traditional currency; even if they deliberately avoided that name, it didn't change their fundamental nature as money. Any old-era currency suffered from a flaw: because the supply and demand it reflected lagged, market distributors would inevitably capture more benefits. That is, the one cutting the cake got the largest slice, the one serving it got the next largest, while the one baking the cake ended up with the least. Man's original intention in inventing currency was for money to serve people, yet things often ended up inverted, with people becoming slaves serving money. Of course, humans were not rigid, inflexible creatures; many measures outside of currency could mitigate the unequal distribution of resources generated by it. For instance, using a visible or invisible hand to take cake from the cutter's hands and give it to others in need. Yet that would not alter the nature of currency. Perhaps seeing this clearly, a vault expert proposed: "Unregulated chips will bring new trouble, and we may not have enough time to constantly adjust the system so that it satisfies our needs at every moment. I worry that one day in the future, our children will treat chips as toys, inverting the original intent and purpose of introducing them. Therefore, I propose... at least inner city residents must not step onto the field to engage in production and business in the outer city. "In other words, we cannot earn chips!" A young man immediately retorted, "But we need to live too. You can't expect us to watch people with chips live the good life while we survive on air, can you?" "Those are two different things," the vault expert said earnestly. "We can pay ourselves salaries, but we cannot hold the faucet while carrying our own bucket to fetch water. That is contradictory!" More people voiced agreement. Although he was an expert born in a vault and wore a blue jacket, background had never been an issue here; everything was open for discussion. Besides, his words were undeniably sound. The chips were being issued by them in the first place, so cleverly bringing a bucket to scoop them back up would be far too bizarre! The eldest old man said nothing this time. He was too old now. After all, he was not an unchanging AI, nor a robust Awakened; he could not escape the curse of aging. Just as cells metabolized, so did humans; young lives would always replace old bones like him, and only then would their society remain young and vibrant. The old man felt it might be better if he remained silent. After all, the moment he opened his mouth, even to utter a single word, people would immediately cease talking and cast hopeful gazes his way. What he feared most was having people look at him with such eyes. He knew very well that he wasn't as wise as they imagined; he had moments of muddleheadedness, and increasingly so as he grew older. In that case, better to say nothing at all. The young should decide their own future, just as he had twice decided to stay behind. Only when truly confronted with a choice can a person prove they are genuinely brave, rather than a coward putting on airs. He had already handed in an answer sheet that satisfied himself, and it was time for him to live out his twilight years. Actually, they were doing quite well. Once he was gone, Mr. Fang Ming would watch over them on his behalf... ... Another decade slipped by. The old man had finally passed away. The young man had become middle-aged, with a hint of steadiness between his brows. Back then, he had only known how to charge headlong forward; now, he had learned how to win over and unite potential supporters. Most crucially, he finally "figured out" why that old man had been so beloved. Because he held people's hearts! And the hearts of the people were a "weapon" far more powerful than black cards. Therefore, when he stood in the council chamber once more, he didn't speak right away, but clenched his right hand into a fist. With a passionate, rousing voice, he stirred everyone's fervor, raising his fist like a rising morning sun alongside his escalating tone. "Friends! Boulder City is already great enough! We have sheltered over five hundred thousand survivors, we have built an even taller wall, countless people lean against its base looking up to us in hope, and the wealth we have created makes the entire wasteland take notice! "Our miracle is plain for all survivors to see!" He successfully captured the attention of the youth. Inner city residents around his age vaguely felt something was amiss, yet there was truly nothing to refute in those words. Deep down, they couldn't help feeling proud as well; they simply rarely expressed it with such fiery tone and emotion. Though the wasteland had not yet ended, within their limited sphere, they had put an end to the Wasteland Era—a truly remarkable feat. They had even built the great wall left by the Reconstruction Committee higher, entirely on their own, without anyone's help. This was vastly superior to those moles still cowering in their vaults to pass the winter. Of course, this did not include the blue moles who had helped them. Those moles were different; they had already become part of them. The middle-aged man suddenly shifted his tone and continued: "...And yet, we who created countless miracles receive only a pittance of chips and live in rooms of less than fifty square meters! Is this the equality we sought? This isn't equality at all! "Right outside this window, those traveling merchants have opened restaurants and bars right beneath our feet! They drink and make merry all day long, scattering handfuls of chips into the air, making men, women, children, and the elderly cheer for them and even kiss their leather shoes! Anyone who didn't know better would think they were the ones who created Boulder City!" His voice took on a trace of hatred. He intensely loathed those who used chips to humiliate his people. And those who were humiliated so shamelessly truly had no dignity. They would rather lick the merchants' boots than bend their backs or offer a single word of flattery to true aristocrats like them! Such as, "My lord, thank you for your hard work!" or something of the sort. If the previous words had awakened people's pride, this sentence completely ignited the fire in their hearts. A fire of fury, and a fire of desire. "...We must do something! At the very least, the rules must allow us to acquire more chips, rather than waiting like beggars for that AI named Fang Ming to dole out alms! "That was ours to begin with!" Countless voices echoed in response across the hall. "Well said!" People raised their hands in righteous indignation. "Why should those thieves steal the fruits of our labor?!" "This is the greatest injustice of all!" The vault expert who had once argued against him was now old. The old man tried to quell the fanaticism filling the council chamber, but it was already too late; at this point, any moderate words were pale and powerless. He could only look at the ambitious middle-aged man with pleading, entreating eyes. "You talk about equality... but the black card itself is already unequal enough. We can improve everyone's living standards, restrict the spending of those unscrupulous merchants—make them pay higher taxes, forbid them from stripping people naked in bars... There are plenty of ways." "Those are two different things!" the middle-aged man shot back without hesitation. "We are discussing chips right now! Those wealthy merchants can squander money as they please, while we sit here like ascetics debating how to make their lives even better! People have even forgotten who brought them this good life in the first place! My father died in the pioneer corps. If he were alive today, he would be ashamed of Boulder City!" He knew. Once he uttered those words, no one could stop him anymore. After all, the blue moles had never sacrificed for Boulder City like that. Most people here were the descendants of heroes; their forebears had shed sweat, and in many cases their lives. This was no longer just an issue of fairness—it struck at the justice in their hearts. And in his mind, what he asked for wasn't much: merely that those blinded by money raise their heads to look at the true heroes among them. They might not be as great as their fathers, but they had still accomplished plenty. Clearing his throat, the middle-aged man looked at the silent blue jackets and proposed a compromise that could win over the conservatives. He hadn't intended to fling the window wide open in one go anyway; he could crack it first, then pry it open gradually. "Those merchants have proposed to us that they, too, are part of Boulder City, that they should also participate in public affairs, and that they should have the right to obtain black cards... But unless we amend the old rules, we cannot accept them. "You say the privileges of black cards are unequal; I agree. Since that's the case, let us make changes and allow certain wastelanders from outside to join us. In exchange, from now on, we can also step onto the field to earn chips. "Admit it, the old ways are obsolete! It's time to turn the page on the past! Smarter, more capable people must be allowed to command more resources and more chips!" The voting began. Unsurprisingly, he won. Though it wasn't a total victory. The council negotiated a compromise, adding a few words to the original rule. That way, the change seemed modest, calming all dispute. The old rule had been: "Inner city residents shall not engage in business to earn chips." They amended it to: "In principle, it is inappropriate for inner city residents to engage in business to earn chips," and passed it down as ancestral guidance for the next generation: "It is unbecoming for inner city residents to step onto the field and earn chips." By tying it to a moral bond, the restriction had supposedly not weakened—in theory, it should have grown stronger. Most people vaguely sensed this wasn't right. Adding water when there's too much flour, then adding flour when there's too much water was never a good recipe. Even a cook knew this trapped you in the predicament of kneading an ever-growing lump of dough until you were completely at your wit's end. Yet some things were like cigarettes: once someone had taken a puff, it was hard to resist another, until they caught sight of their stained, yellow teeth and finally regretted not showing some restraint at the start... "Do you think you could do any better than them?" An abrupt voice came from behind, interrupting Sberg's train of thought. He turned around to see an expressionless man. "Y-You're... Mr. Fang Ming?" "I am." Sberg had already guessed: the man before him was not human, merely the AI that "assisted inner city residents in managing Boulder City's affairs." Like a machine's operating system, he was part of the machine itself. Sberg's Adam's apple bobbed. He stared at him in despair. "Are we... nothing more than an experiment?" Fang Ming answered without expression, "No." That answer made Sberg feel slightly better. Yet he still couldn't understand. After a long silence, he asked in a raspy voice, a trace of questioning in his tone, "The oldest one... that first-generation resident, he asked you to look after his descendants. You saw all of it clearly with your own eyes—why didn't you do anything?" "Why?" Fang Ming repeated his words verbatim, staring intently at him. "You actually ask me why I didn't do anything. "Do you know? The most disgusting, repulsive trait of your kind is that you constantly fantasize about 'someone else' coming to help you, always wanting to push your troubles onto something else, regardless of whether it's human or not." Sberg stared at him in shock, not understanding why he suddenly flew into such a rage. Expressionless, Fang Ming continued: "When you are hungry, you fantasize about a savior giving you bread; when you are in pain, you fantasize about a savior giving you painkillers. And now you, the offspring of some human, shamelessly interrogate me about why the 'City Lord' merely looked on? Did your father, your grandfather... did not a single vocal creature ever tell you that I am only an AI addressed as 'City Lord' because they wished for this city never to have a living 'master,' and everything I am capable of doing is strictly what you people command me to do?" Looking at the clueless Sberg, a faint hint of pity suddenly surfaced on Fang Ming's blank face. Even if only a sliver. "What a pity. I am not the savior of your fantasies—at best, I count as an overseer. Rather than begging me to come up with a solution, you would be better off praying directly to bread, hoping it falls from the sky. After all, you've already invented it, haven't you? Your ideas, your technology, your methods—you believe that as long as someone knows where it comes from and knows it's called bread, it will naturally sprout on the shelves by itself in the future, don't you? "The screening room has always been beneath your feet; you could have entered at any time to converse with it. And then you committed the most foolish act of all: you locked this room up completely. And the only reason I permit you to stand here is that everyone believes you are already dead." Cold sweat breaking out over him, Sberg stammered in defense, "That... wasn't what we asked for!" Fang Ming looked at him coldly. "And so? Did you refuse it?" Sberg was struck speechless. He hadn't even known such a thing existed—how could he possibly refuse when the noble lords secretly locked it away? To put it bluntly, he had never even seen a black card, let alone used one, and he couldn't even hear what the lords were discussing. Yet as if seeing right through his thoughts, Fang Ming continued mercilessly: "A black card is nothing. If you had finished watching Boulder City's past, you would know it was merely a keycard. If it possessed any magic, it was given by you people, not by me—an AI created by your hands. "In the end, you people did nothing. Right up to the very finish, you still fantasize about a great City Lord resolving the problems you yourselves don't know how to handle. You think that as long as he attacks non-existent enemies on your behalf, all problems will be resolved and everything will turn out fine. "You should count yourselves fortunate that I honored my promise to the very end. Otherwise, I would have used the most effortless method to erase you from these ruins, letting your problems vanish along with your filthy species. That would be true mercy." Looking at the silent Sberg, the entity addressed as the City Lord continued slowly: "To answer your earlier question: an old man who died many years ago did indeed ask me to watch over you, and instructed me that once you passed all the trials, I was to return something he left in my safekeeping to you." Sberg said, "...What is it?" "Something that can wipe you from the face of this planet." Seeing fear flash across Sberg's face, Fang Ming paused, then continued, "Naturally, it can wipe others out as well. Mutual destruction is one of the guarantees of peace. "That old man saw right through you long ago. He knew your cowardice and greed would doom yourselves and everyone else, so he and the others pleaded with me, asking me to keep watch on his behalf to the very end—until you passed all trials or perished completely. And I have kept my promise... In Ending A, which you can see, every single one of you dies. From then on lies a downward spiral with no further possibility of redemption. "The voting is about to begin. "This will likely be the last one." He turned around, his back to the shell-shocked Sberg, and said: "Follow me. "I'll take you to see the final ending." ... Beneath the Alliance building, snow lay thick and white; winter was approaching its coldest depths. Dressed in a warm, expensive woolen overcoat, Melvin looked up with an ashen face at the building before him—not yet fully completed, but already in use. There was so much in his heart he wanted to say, yet he didn't know how to begin. The inner city council had convened once again. As the president of Boulder City Bank and an esteemed black card holder, he was the last person who should be absent. Yet he simply lacked the courage to face those questioning glares and the furious curses and reprimands of his shareholder friends. Moreover, he didn't believe they could reach any consensus at the meeting. What was losing its potency was not just the chips, but also the black cards in their hands. He admitted he was an incompetent bank president. He had tried every trick he could think of, yet it all seemed like scratching an itch through a boot, powerless to save a train accelerating toward the abyss. Perhaps... his daughter was right. After all, it wasn't anything profound; even clever children could understand it... If she traded her ragdoll for a one-silver-coin wooden hairpin, a little girl in the slums could have a new set of clothes. Yet just as he had answered her at that celebration— "Is it... too late?" Watching the heavy, feather-like snow drift down, Melvin muttered to himself. Actually... perhaps not. As long as the Alliance was willing to immediately honor its pledge and let a shipment of goods priced in silver coins pass through the great wall, rather than dawdling and hesitating outside, everything would be fine! If only the Alliance would grant him a loan! Never mind the crooked merchants and paupers for now—at least let his shareholders convert their chips into silver coins first. That was an immense sum of money, after all! A spark of hope rekindled in Melvin's eyes. That man... The man who stood on stage speaking with fiery conviction, swearing to bring a definitive end to the Wasteland Era, would surely sympathize with his difficulties! He was a truly benevolent man! The dearest, kindest idealist! Even the lowliest wastelander could find care and compassion with him, so why not a man of genuine capability like himself? A blazing fire burned in Melvin's eyes. Praise the Administrator! Never before had he liked the fellow so genuinely from the bottom of his heart! Just then, Old Charlie emerged from the building's main entrance, looked at Melvin, and said, "Follow me. Our Administrator is waiting for you inside." His heart thumping wildly against his ribs, Melvin squeezed out a fawning smile and bowed obsequiously: "Thank you... thank you." Old Charlie cast him a pitying glance, ultimately refraining from saying "You're thanking me too early," and guided him into the building. Through stairwells and corridors, Melvin finally saw the man who had spoken at the celebration once again, and his heart felt as if ten thousand ants were crawling over it once more. Chu Guang set down his pen and looked at the man standing in the room. "You're here?" Melvin nodded hurriedly, offering an ingratiating smile as he said, "I've come to apologize... We ran into a minor issue earlier, and City Hall had to intercept a portion of the cargo, causing a massive number of defaulted orders in the industrial zone. We will press those factories to remit their debts to your companies. I hope these minor complications won't affect our agreements." Chu Guang replied offhandedly, "It's fine. I understand your difficulties. What's written in the contract is how we'll proceed. Private commercial dealings and our cooperation are two separate matters." Seeing how agreeable Chu Guang was, Melvin breathed a sigh of relief, his smile growing even more cheerful. "Thank you for your generosity and understanding! May I... ask you for one more favor?" "What is it?" "Regarding that previous agreement to allow free exchange between chips and silver coins..." Melvin gave an embarrassed smile and clasped his hands together. "Due to some unavoidable circumstances, I implore you to honor that term ahead of schedule. Forgive the imposition!" "Why?" "Be—" Meeting Chu Guang's amused gaze, cold sweat dripped from Melvin's brow, and he forced an awkward smile as he continued, "We loaned you so much money when you needed help the most. Now that we've run into a slight difficulty, shouldn't you lend us a hand?" Seeing no change in Chu Guang's expression, he hurriedly pressed on: "Of course! I admit, asking you to do this immediately is a bit difficult... We could negotiate—say, a debt swap! You give us five hundred million silver coins, and we waive your one billion chips of debt. How about that? When all is said and done, you'll save a huge sum in principal and interest." Five hundred million silver coins was enough to purchase over five hundred thousand tons of grain—enough to feed Boulder City for four years! Of course, he wouldn't use it all to buy grain; he would spend the bulk of it on industrial goods to improve the lives of Boulder City's survivors. This time, he would handle things with genuine diligence, restructure Boulder City's economy, and restore trade relations between both parties to normal. Chu Guang showed scant interest in his promises, replying indifferently: "A debt of one billion chips, is it? But just a few days ago, we already prepared the principal and interest for the year after next, and the year after that." Melvin's heart dropped like a stone. Sweat the size of beans broke out across his forehead. His legs suddenly went limp, and with a thud, he fell to his knees. "Please... I beg you, show mercy and give us a way out! Three billion chips! No, we'll waive all your debts entirely! As long as you give me five hundred million silver coins... No, four hundred million is fine too!" Chu Guang looked at Melvin in silence, then suddenly let out a sigh. "Get up." Melvin didn't move; he even pressed his forehead against the floor. Chu Guang grew slightly impatient. "I don't speak to people on their knees. If you keep this up, I'll have Lü Bei throw you out." Melvin's shoulders shuddered. Having no doubt Chu Guang would carry out the threat, he shakily clambered back to his feet. Chu Guang glanced at the dust on Melvin's knees, looked at his expensive overcoat, and finally looked into his eyes. "Even now, do you still believe it was the Alliance that made you end up like this?" Melvin remained silent. Chu Guang knew the fellow wanted to nod. In his heart of hearts, Melvin believed everything was Chu Guang's fault, yet dared not utter a sound because he was begging for help. Though Chu Guang had no desire to humiliate his opponent, looking at that face brought so low into the dust, he couldn't help but speak: "Why is it that you would rather kneel before me and beg, dragging your coffin into my house to weep, than sit down with your shareholders and your residents to talk things through properly? You pinned your hopes on chips, then pinned your hopes on black cards, and now you come running to beg me. "When the Bone Chewer tribe attacked, you shut your gates tight, refusing to send a single soldier, and clamored to throw our goods out of your settlement so we wouldn't earn a single chip... Did you ever consider back then that today we would fulfill your wishes in this manner? "How do you have the gall to claim you lent us a helping hand? We haven't even settled that old score with you!" Regret and anguish brewed together into a bitter wine, blurring pupils that were slowly losing their light. Melvin's mouth hung open. Like an old phonograph, he muttered soul-crushed pleas: "Please, I beg you, show mercy. As long as you help us weather this storm... we'll buy your goods! From now on, you will be the master of Qingquan City, the master of the entire River Valley Province! Whatever you say goes! We'll listen to you completely; whatever displeases you, we'll change according to your demands!" Even though he knew deep down that matters had reached a point where Chu Guang would never bleed the Alliance to nourish Boulder City, a dying whale with only half a breath left. Yet he still couldn't stop groveling and begging. At least it was better than doing nothing. It was the only thing left he could do... Chu Guang looked at him with pity. "I gave you chances, yet you couldn't even survive through this year. How can you expect me to believe five hundred million silver coins would save your lives? And what you are doing right now only makes me feel like I am playing a lute to a cow. "What a pity. You always had chances to hit the brakes and re-examine the relationship between us, and our relationship with the wasteland. "Yet your folly and naivety make me feel that your chips truly are worth nothing at all."