A Path of One's Own Choosing

Why? Kneeling in the square, Warfield stared blankly up at the sky. The afternoon sunlight bored through the swollen slits of his blackened eyes, glaring with unbearable cruelty. He would rather it snowed right this second. Snow deep enough to bury him would be best. The reckoning had come to an end. They had lost everything in this settlement. The Alliance had never allowed the open exchange of chips for silver coins. Even if his father possessed unconventional means to convert a few, the amount could never be large. Cr and dinars went without saying; the exchange had been sealed off. Even if Jixiu still had a meager sum of Cr left in his Ideal City bank account, it would never be enough to sustain the family's former way of life. Money was a trifle. Losing power was his true agony. Warfield would rather have had the militia execute him on the spot. Death was the swiftest release. It would be even better if they slaughtered his wife, his children, his mother, and that useless younger brother of his all together! With his own corpse lying in the street, he would plant a seed of hatred deep within Alisa's heart. Perhaps that seed would never sprout in her lifetime, yet it would torment her without end. The moment she witnessed any ugliness from the new authorities in the future, the moment she began to doubt the righteousness of her past choice, she would certainly act. Bearing a justification no one could refuse, she would hold another chip high into the air and reopen this casino... His death would shield her from the purge, and she was young—she would definitely outlive those brutes who possessed nothing but brawn. The blood of Malvin ran in her veins. She was clever and resourceful, even more resourceful than he was... Though the kings of Boulder City were dead, their family could become the new royalty! They surely could! "Heh... heheh..." As the thoughts swirled through Warfield's mind, a chuckle escaped his lips, only to dissolve abruptly into choked sobs. Why? Why didn't they shoot... A short distance away, two militiamen looked at the pitiful wretch with utter disgust. Most of the crowd in the square had already dispersed, leaving only him stubbornly rooted there, unmoving. Gunis had led Jixiu away, followed closely by Warfield's wife and children. No one dared approach him; after all, he had just been beaten black and blue by the new authorities' militia. Warfield's consciousness drifted in a daze. Suddenly, a warm, damp handkerchief pressed against his face, pulling his fading senses back from the brink of darkness. "...Brother." Wiping away the mud, water, and bloodstains from his face, Alisa looked down at him with an equal measure of heartache and fear, whispering softly. "I'm sorry... I put all of our family's assets on the inventory list. But that was all stolen from other people to begin with—" "You don't need to apologize..." Warfield parted his bruised, swollen lips, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You did the right thing. If I were on the outside, I would have done the same. But don't gamble with your life next time. When you're two years older, you'll understand. If they truly want to do something to you, they won't stop at merely cursing you or giving you a beating..." Alisa gazed at him sorrowfully. "Brother... why must we... why must we always be like that?" She couldn't put the feeling in her heart into words. Yet she could sense another kind of heavy expectation her brother harbored for her—one she had no desire to fulfill. "Why..." A fleeting bewilderment surfaced in Warfield's eyes. He truly could not answer that question, nor did he know how to. In a man-eating casino, wasn't devouring others simply the natural order of things? Alisa sniffled and said earnestly, "It's over now. This casino... along with its chips. There will be no more black cards. From this day forward, we uphold only our constitution." Warfield suddenly laughed. Looking at his younger sister with affectionate warmth, he reached out to pat her head, but hesitated and drew his hand back. "Father wrote a fairy tale in your heart. If he could have, he would have wished for you never to leave it for the rest of your life... yet you leaped out the window." "We are family. How could he not understand what you can see so clearly? But doing certain things right now is entirely meaningless. It will only get you all killed, and even if it succeeds, everything will eventually revert to what it was." Alisa shook her head gently, her gaze fixed resolutely on her brother. "Future matters can be left to the future. We only need to do well in the present. At least right now, everyone is good." Warfield stared at her in despair. "Why can't you understand... Fairy tales can never be real! People are born unequal; otherwise, why would the Era of Prosperity have perished? Those people will turn back sooner or later! It's only a matter of time!" "You just said we're family. How could I not understand?" Alisa embraced her brother gently, patting the back of his head to soothe him. "It doesn't matter. I'm still young... When I grow as old as Father, my children will watch over it for me." Warfield's expression twitched violently. In over thirty years, he had never once shed a tear, yet at this moment, he could not hold them back. His sister had chosen the most difficult path, a road devoid of a future—at least none that he could see. And he himself was already as good as dead. Their family might truly be finished. Looking at his sister, who was still trying to comfort him, Warfield didn't even know what he was aching for. Perhaps he was only pitying himself. He had prepared himself for death and meticulously plotted his final gambit, only for it to be turned into a farce by a bunch of fools countless times stupider than him. Perhaps the casino truly would never reopen. Kneeling in the square, his choked weeping broke open, dissolving into a long-overdue, howling wail... ... At the same time, stepping through the afternoon sunlight before the main gates facing the Far Wind Hotel, an endearing group of people arrived. They carried weapons. Yet what they brought in far greater quantities was food, cotton quilts, and the hope to survive the bitter winter. These shelter residents had never forgotten that every survivor standing upon this wasteland was a compatriot of the Human Alliance. Even if radioactive fallout had buried their vault deep underground, they would still step forward with unyielding resolve to fulfill the mission sworn beneath their banner. Besides, a significant portion of these supplies had been obtained from Boulder City virtually for free in the first place. Compared to what they had gained from this settlement, this trickle of provisions was nothing. Furthermore, the Alliance intended to save not only the survivors within the towering walls, but also those huddled in the slums outside. The players had installed a lift beside the elevated bridge next to the Far Wind Hotel, lowering cargo truckload by truckload from where they were parked alongside the road. Even more players pitched tents outside the hotel gates, methodically stringing up cordon lines to maintain formation and order. Most of them were lifestyle-class players. Now that Boulder City had become the Alliance's fifth settlement, it was prime time to farm local reputation. Never having witnessed such an extraordinary spectacle, both the destitute of the slums and the traveling merchants who set up stalls in the plaza before the grand gate set aside their tasks and clustered around out of curiosity. "What is the Alliance trying to do?" "Are they annexing Boulder City?" "Hahaha! Collecting silver coins was truly a stroke of genius on my part!" "Fuck! I bought up a bunch of chips, counting on the new authorities to bring the value back up! I got wiped out!" Entirely unbothered by the survivors' chatter—and unable to understand what they were saying in the first place—the players turned on their loudspeakers to broadcast pre-recorded messages. "Anyone with the strength to work, come register! No wages, but meals and lodging are provided!" "The elderly and children over here! We will arrange housing collectively!" "Damn, there are way too many people!" "Offering shelter to caring older sisters aged eighteen and up! My place is pretty spacious, feel free to come hang out. When you get tired, you can just crash, no problem—" "Fuck! Someone snuck Brother Jie into the line!" "Drag him out!" "Aaargh! Hands off, you guys! I'm here out of the goodness of my heart! I've bled for the Alliance! I've performed meritorious service for the Alliance! I demand to see the Administrator!" Truth be told, several disheveled young women who overheard this genuinely felt tempted to step forward. A little girl huddled beneath a plastic tarp even began surreptitiously counting on her fingers to figure out her age. After all, those blue coats looked quite handsome and didn't reek of filth. If something really did happen, it was hard to say who would be getting the short end of the stick. Most importantly, people wearing blue coats would certainly never 'eat' someone, whereas one could never say the same for other wastelanders. Some itinerant merchants looked civilized enough, but the moment they led girls away from the great wall, they might slaughter them like lambs. To say nothing of the gangs lurking in the slums, who periodically selected presentable 'lambs' to sell off to outsiders. The lucky ones might reach the Bugra Free State to the north and become moneymaking tools for the bosses; the unlucky ones ended up on a marauder's dinner table or operating slab. Unfortunately, the discipline of these blue coats was strict to an exasperating fault. The fellow who was laughing and crying at the same time was swiftly dragged away as though it were all a jest. The curious girls who had gathered had no choice but to head over to the neighboring table to register their names and await placement by the Refugee Home... Although the players were putting in the work, several hundred people managing over a hundred thousand was still an uphill battle, to say nothing of the more than five hundred thousand souls residing inside the great walls. The scene was a chaotic muddle, leaving one to wonder whether they could truly pull this off. Still, the fact that someone was willing to do something was deeply moving, and a few locals stepped up to lend a hand. The Burning Corps and the First Corps entered Boulder City, completing the handover of defensive duties with the 1st Millennium of Boulder City's garrison. Lao Bai led his men toward the armory. Joy, the new militia commander, gave them a tour of a portion of the weapons, with another batch stored in the inner city warehouses and the airfield. When they laid eyes on the weaponry inside, every player let out an involuntary gasp of awe. "Holy crap! Power armor!" Staring at the iron brute standing in the room, Jieyan stepped forward in delight to stroke it. Killing Dagger grinned at him. "Brother, you want one?" Jieyan nodded vigorously, his voice brimming with excitement. "Hell yeah! I dream about it!" "Having dreams is good," Kidneyman said, patting him on the shoulder. "Start saving up contribution points. And cash." Jieyan: "#%¥@!" There were thirty suits of power armor in total, all pre-war models, and more than half were Dragoons identical to Lao Bai's. Some had fallen into disrepair over the years and were currently unusable, but with Yin Fang, that master archaeologist around, that posed little issue. However, these requisitioned armaments counted as mission items. While they would most likely appear in the NPC shop later, they would still require contribution points to purchase. "Damn it..." Ye Shi muttered under his breath. "What a waste to let those fat cats sit on such fine gear!" "Count our blessings. We arrived in the nick of time, before it fell into the hands of marauders." Tearing his gaze away from the power armor, Lao Bai glanced at the crates stacked in the corner, plastered with radiation hazard symbols. According to Joy, those were micro-tactical nuclear weapons left behind by the Post-War Reconstruction Committee. Each was merely the size of a bowling ball, with an explosive yield between one and ten tons of TNT. By comparison, a standard 155mm artillery shell possessed a yield equivalent to roughly ten to forty-five kilograms, depending on the munition type. In reality, crafting such a compact tactical nuke—one that could literally be hurled like a bowling ball—was virtually impossible. But this was a game, after all. Destruction was far easier than creation. Evidently, in places the players could not see, the Administrator had made extensive preparations long in advance. Otherwise, this exploding dead whale of a city would have plunged Qingquan City, and even the entire southern half of River Valley Province, into ten or twenty years of turmoil... That would not have been a matter of spawning a few extra mobs; it would have been a prolonged crisis far outlasting the Bone Chewer upheaval, with an even wider blast radius! "Speaking of which, though, they didn't even use these things during the riot." Ye Shi scratched his head, utterly stumped. "Why?" It defied logic! Drop a single tactical nuke, and an entire street of people would be vaporized, wouldn't they? Kuang Feng shot the kid a sidelong glance. "You'll understand when you're older." Irritated by that patronizing paternal tone, Ye Shi rolled his eyes. "I'm your daddy!" ... On the other side. Before Boulder City's main gates. Though they had also arrived to carry out relief tasks, unlike the players who busied themselves completing missions to earn contribution points and reputation, most of the Alliance NPCs showed very little enthusiasm. To be fair, they were always passionate when facing other survivors in need of aid, and they had never given cold shoulders to the refugees fleeing Boulder City for the Alliance. However, 'door-to-door service' was something quite a few of them had never anticipated. Gazing up at the towering wall that pierced the clouds, Zhao Shu grumbled, "Why?" Yang Ergou glanced at him. "Why what?" Zhao Shu pointed toward the figures carrying suitcases near the gate, though he seemed less focused on them than on what lay behind them. "Why are we helping these bastards?" The two of them were residents of Bet Street. Long ago, they had labored at the Niuma Brick Factory, eventually rising to become foremen; even Vannus, the army chief of staff, had undergone labor reform under their supervision. Later, when the Alliance was founded and everything became formalized, the Refugee Home was turned into a semi-official relief agency. The two joined the Refugee Home together, guiding the survivors who embraced the Alliance to continue adding bricks and mortar to the grand edifice. Zhao Shu was exceedingly familiar with Boulder City. In particular, once he learned that those fortunate bastards could earn wages roughly equivalent to scavengers who risked their lives picking through wasteland trash simply by tightening screws in a factory, his contempt for this decaying settlement had only deepened. The great wall itself was a wicked construct. It kept out more than just slime mold; it slammed the door shut in the faces of countless survivors. Bet Street, Brown Farm... nearly all feudal or semi-feudal survivor communities were legacies handed down by Boulder City's ancestors. He had learned all of this from the *Survivor Daily*. Boulder City had been the first to rot. Then, the plague of its ideology had spread along the tether of chips, gradually infecting other settlements. The entire southern expanse of River Valley Province had become a breeding ground for corruption. Of course, there were plenty of settlements across the wasteland far more rotten than Boulder City, but Boulder City was right on their doorstep, so naturally, he despised its inhabitants the most. Above all, the survivors here loved putting on airs while privately deriding outsiders as 'blue mole rats' or 'country bumpkins.' Did they think he didn't know? Zhao Shu spat in his heart. *Filthy beggars...* They couldn't even afford to eat green wheat cakes! Fucking serves them right! Yang Ergou glared at him. "What are you muttering about?" "Am I wrong?" Zhao Shu retorted self-righteously. "The scrap we scavenged and the grain we grew all went to feeding these parasites! And now that they've made a mess, we're the ones who have to wipe their asses! If you ask me, we should take in the survivors from the slums outside the wall. They're the truly innocent ones. The people inside ought to rot in prison for the rest of their lives!" Yang Ergou frowned. "That was the fault of the lords. What does it have to do with ordinary folk? They can't even chew on foxtail grass right now; they aren't necessarily living any better than we did." Zhao Shu rolled his eyes. "Come off it. They lived far more comfortably than us. Besides, when we were being exploited, did any of them stand up to speak for us?" Working in a factory was undeniably safer than scavenging or hunting out in the wilderness; it wasn't as if they hadn't enjoyed any benefits. Bet Street's population had barely grown in over a century, with an average lifespan of roughly thirty years. Looked at from that angle, the lifespan of Bet Street's residents had effectively been stolen by the factory workers in the city. "You're not wrong." A voice from behind interrupted their increasingly heated argument. Luca walked over. Seeing the old steward—or rather, the city governor, as he should now be called—the two bickering men immediately clamped their mouths shut. Feeling guilty, Zhao Shu took the initiative to apologize. "I'm sorry... I—" Luca looked at the young man, his tone gentle. "You don't need to apologize. I understand the anger in your heart. When I looked at Brown back then, I felt the urge to kill as well; I wanted nothing more than to slaughter his entire family and all his servants." "We could certainly barricade the gates, force the 'filthy beggars' inside to produce goods for us, feed them nothing but pig swill to keep them breathing, and bleed them and their descendants dry to the very last drop..." "But do you expect an Alliance like that to bring an end to the wasteland?" "Or look at it from another angle: not being Wilante yourself, did you ever, for a single second, count on the Legion to end our wasteland?" "Almost the entire desert stands with us, overtly or covertly. We have united nearly everyone we could possibly unite, to the point where even our enemies dare not face us directly. That isn't because we are physically stronger, nor is it because our fists are the biggest." "It is because we are an Alliance, not an Empire." Looking at the scrawny old man, Yang Ergou gave a thumbs-up and grinned. "That's exactly what I was thinking, I just didn't know how to put it into words." Zhao Shu scratched his head, still not entirely grasping the point. He didn't really care whether the Alliance was an Alliance or not. If the Administrator wished to become emperor, he would raise both hands in support. Better yet, if he took the Yu family's younger daughter as his wife, old neighbors like them might share in the good fortune. The once-emaciated girl had blossomed into a stunning beauty long ago, and she was well loved by those vault dwellers. At least in his eyes, she was incomparably better than that vulgar mercenary! Luca patted his shoulder, not pressing him to understand right away, and led the group forward. Regardless of whether these people deserved saving, since the Administrator had declared this place the Alliance's fifth city, they were comrades on the same battlefront, and he would carry out his duty. No excuses. Moreover, he would represent the Alliance in Boulder City to accomplish what neither the Workers' Union nor the militia possessed the capability to do, making up for the compromises they had been forced to strike with reality. That included criminal cases that occurred during the riots, incomplete reckonings, and the like. The Inner City residents could certainly receive forgiveness and amnesty from the Outer City populace. After all, the black cards had been thoroughly abolished, and the extent of the reckoning had been determined by the rebelling residents in their own manifesto; outsiders had no say in the matter, nor did the locals need anyone to lecture them. Yet by the same token, one matter remained distinct from the other: whether to accept those individuals into the Alliance, or which ones to admit, was the Alliance's prerogative. Any 'criminal' accused by relevant parties and implicated in homicides would not be granted Alliance citizenship, regardless of whether they were Inner City or Outer City residents. The Alliance would establish a new court in Boulder City responsible for conducting open and fair trials, with a five-year statute of limitations during which new evidence could be submitted. If those perpetrators were proven guilty by conclusive evidence and could not obtain forgiveness from the victims through restitution, they would either undergo labor reform as supervised laborers or get the hell out, just as the Outer City folk demanded, to find somewhere on the wasteland suited for them... Then again, doing so was practically redundant. Most of the pardoned Inner City residents had no desire to stay, nor could they. They bore the weight of original sin. The Outer City populace had spared their lives solely because they had pledged in their manifesto not to engage in wholesale slaughter, and because the nobles had voluntarily released Sberg and the other 'hostages' in their hands. When all was said and done, a settlement of five hundred thousand people was simply too small. Everyone recognized their faces. They had no future living in this settlement. Sitting down for a meal, a cook might spit into their bowl, and the waiter serving it would roll their eyes. That was far more agonizing than outright execution; death, after all, was over in a flash. Unless, like the generous pardon granted to them by the Outer City residents, or like that young girl Alisa, they stepped forward to perform acts of atonement, proving to everyone in the Outer City that they truly intended to be family. Yet that was exceedingly difficult. Not everyone possessed the ability or the opportunity to atone. Stripped of their power and deprived of all their wealth, earning an independent living was out of the question—merely surviving became a struggle. This was unquestionably an amnesty. Yet to many, it felt far more like exile... ... In the square before the great wall's gate. Bonnie and Kermit stood hesitating over their future. Her husband, Xide, was dead. Her maternal relatives had all been high-ranking militia officers, nearly all of whom had perished in the uprising. The victors had not slaughtered everyone, but that didn't mean no blood had been shed. Upon learning that Boulder City was to become the Alliance's fifth settlement, her two other sons had promptly pleaded guilty, preparing to enter the Alliance's labor camps for reform. With good behavior, they might be released in three to five years, perhaps even picking up a trade or technical skill to live out their lives as ordinary folk. Yet she could not do it. Without servants, she didn't even know how to comb her own hair. Not just her, but her darling youngest son, Kermit, was the same. Unable to do anything without someone looking after him, they would wither away like flowers deprived of water if left without care... Thinking of her future and the mere twenty kilograms of luggage allowed to them, tears welled up in Bonnie's eyes once more. "Mother..." Kermit tugged at her hand, wanting to console her, but realized he didn't even know how to comfort someone. He had no idea where they should go either. The new authorities had confiscated their Cr and dinars, leaving them entirely unable to afford airship tickets to Ideal City, not to mention that going there would be pointless anyway. Their suitcases contained only a few changes of clothes, sleeping bags, high-grade canned goods, and emergency rations of nutrient paste. Just as Kermit sank into despair over his bleak prospects, a chubby boy suddenly pushed through the crowd, waving enthusiastically in their direction. "Hey! Over here!" His comical antics caught Kermit's attention. Looking over, Kermit's eyes widened in astonishment. "Pilu?!" Pilu's face blossomed into a broad grin, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his father, Mr. Weijia. "Young Master Kermit! What luck! You're finally out! My father and I have been waiting for you for so long!" Standing beside him was his father's secretary, Aron. They had originally intended to bribe someone in the militia to extract Bonnie, but had never expected the new authorities to dump the entire mess of Boulder City onto the Alliance. It was an outcome even his father had failed to foresee. If the Inner City residents were to become Alliance citizens as well, they would never have the chance to make up for those regrets! Looking at the chubby boy whose face was flushed with excitement, Kermit scratched his cheek in embarrassment. "I'm not a young master anymore. Stop calling me that..." Having endured that turning point of a night, he had matured somewhat—at least in his own estimation. "How could that be?! You will always be Young Master Kermit in my heart!" Pilu bowed respectfully, just as he always had. Kermit couldn't help but feel touched. Aside from those paupers who had swarmed to snatch his possessions, there truly were good people left in this world! "Pilu... my friend, you're wonderful!" "You're too kind, sir!" Pilu chuckled warmly, then turned toward the mother at Kermit's side, blinking. "And Aunt Bonnie, you are as radiant as ever, as though you will never grow old." Amused by his words, Bonnie, a tear still clinging to the corner of her eye, couldn't help letting her lips curve upward. "Thank you. You really know how to talk, child... just like your father." Pilu continued with visible delight, "Speaking of my father, he has prepared a welcoming banquet for you at the Far Wind Hotel! He knew you wouldn't know where to go, so he specifically reserved guest rooms for your stay." Bonnie paused slightly. "Mr. Weijia did? Thank you... for being so considerate of us." "Of course, it's the least we could do!" Pilu looked at her with an innocent, earnest expression. "My old man always warned me that for a merchant, keeping one's word is paramount. He swore eternal loyalty to Master Xide, so he must see it through. We are terribly sorry about what happened to Master Xide, but thankfully you are still alive. We will take care of you on that good man's behalf." A flicker of hesitation crossed Bonnie's face. For reasons she couldn't articulate, looking at this bright, cheerful chubby boy filled her heart with an inexplicable unease. Was Weijia truly that kind of person? Though she had constantly urged Xide to treat the merchants who made money for him with kindness, Xide had never truly taken her words or her ancestral maxims to heart. And yet... She couldn't stop herself from imagining. Perhaps Mr. Weijia really was a good man who, grateful for Master Xide's past patronage, was willing to care for the two of them in Xide's stead... Seeing yet another pair of Inner City residents preparing to leave for good—a mother and son, no less—a young militiaman standing nearby couldn't bear it any longer and cleared his throat loudly. "Hey, ma'am, that's the wasteland out there. Think carefully! Once you leave this place, no law will protect you two." Looking at the hesitating noblewoman, the youth couldn't help but offer advice. "If you haven't committed any atrocities, the Alliance will take you in... Not everyone who held a black card is a criminal. Mr. Liszt is an Alliance resident, after all." Perhaps he shouldn't have added that superfluous remark. Bonnie had originally felt a tug to stay, but upon hearing his final sentence, her heart clenched, and she instinctively gripped her younger son's hand tighter. She had never done anything atrocious, of course; she had even given generous gift parcels to every maid who left her service to marry... Yet Kermit was another matter entirely. She knew all too well what had been buried in that fire five years ago. Her brother, Russell, had even lost his temper at her husband over it... "Mother..." Kermit's eyes were filled with terror as he gripped his mother's hand. He had no desire to be thrown in with marauders. Rumor had it that the Alliance's labor camps were packed with wasteland demons, the kind that literally devoured children... Perhaps he should let go and allow his mother to lead a normal life. Yet he lacked the courage. Just as he had huddled under the covers all night clutching his S-coin terminal, far from letting go of his mother's hand, he hadn't even dared go see his old father one last time... Her son's trembling hand ultimately solidified Bonnie's wavering resolve. Patting Kermit's hand gently, she drew a deep breath and curtsied with quiet elegance, like a true princess. "Thank you, soldier. We appreciate your concern and kindness... but we have made up our minds about the road ahead. Our fate does not lie here." "Our heartfelt thanks to you for granting us a way out, and may you continue forward with your ideals." The militiaman hesitated, glancing at the seemingly innocent Pilu, then at the expressionless attendant beside him. He sensed that those two were up to no good, but he possessed neither the right to make decisions for others nor the eloquence to say anything inspiring. "Take care of yourselves..." Bonnie nodded, offering the soldier a grateful look, then took her son by the hand and followed the jubilant Pilu toward the Far Wind Hotel. They had exiled themselves, walking away from the settlement and into the wasteland. Yet that was their choice. Watching the mother and son recede into the distance, the young militiaman felt somewhat troubled. Turning to the veteran beside him, he muttered, "I don't know if I did the right thing... Master Xide was rotten to the core, and his son is plenty vile too, but his lady didn't really do anything wrong. She rarely even stepped outside." The veteran cast a glance at him. "What do you know? Good words won't sway a ghost determined to die. Why do you care where they go? Just mind the work in your hands." Everyone chose their own path. Just look at those forlorn lords and ladies whom nobody paid any mind to—plenty of them were probably envious of those two. Not far away, Gunis held her husband, Malvin, in a tight embrace, weeping profusely. Malvin's lips quivered as he patted his wife's back, murmuring words of comfort, yet his eyes were brimming with weary desolation. It seemed as though he had aged more than a decade overnight. His wrinkles were deep enough to catch snow, and countless strands of white were woven through his disheveled hair. "It's fine... everything will be fine..." He mumbled under his breath, praying simultaneously for the rest of his family. Watching Kermit's departing figure, Jixiu stood numbly beside his parents, looking like a puppet that had lost its soul. He had wanted to do something to change this settlement, which was why he had flown all the way back from Ideal City. Yet he had never imagined things would turn out like this. He had no face left to look upon his father, Malvin; no face to look upon his elder brother, Warfield; not even the face to look upon Alisa... He had possessed opportunities to atone. If only he had been braver back then, if only he hadn't followed his elder brother to hide in the Inner City and instead dashed out recklessly to find Alisa, perhaps he would have been beaten to death by the furious mob, but perhaps he might have earned the people's forgiveness alongside her... Yet there was no such thing as a remedy for regret in this world. If he truly wished to regret, he should never have come back... Jixiu took a step forward. Malvin caught sight of it and instantly grabbed him, glaring fiercely at the scoundrel. "Come with me to turn yourself in! Confess everything you've done to the new authorities! The Alliance won't execute you—they will give you a chance to become a new man—" "It's too late." Jixiu shook his head. Seeing his spineless demeanor, rage surged within Malvin, and he swung his arm, slapping him violently across the face. *Smack!* A crisp, resounding crack. Jixiu did not flinch, letting the blow land squarely. The blow from that weathered, wrinkled hand knocked his blank head to the side. Seeing that he showed not a shred of remorse, the infuriated Malvin raised his hand to strike again, only to be firmly held back by his wife. "Enough," Gunis pleaded through tear-blurred eyes. "Don't hit him anymore. Jixiu is still a child. Let me talk to him..." "You bastard!" Malvin roared, glaring at Jixiu. "What time do you think it is?! Can't you listen to your father for once?!" Why did everyone have to go against him?! Xide had been bad enough, but his own son was doing the same! Jixiu suddenly laughed. As he laughed, fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Father. I failed to live up to your nurturing... I truly am an irredeemable fool, just as you see." He paused, muttering as if to himself. "My friends on Endpoint Cloud were right. I'm just like them—we're all lazy bums who love to preach. The only difference is that they have some self-awareness; they know their preaching would ruin others, so they never tell wastelanders how to live their lives. But I was different. Not only did I believe I was right, but I also thought I had brought back some precious treasure that everyone ought to use..." Staring blankly at this son who had suddenly become a stranger, Malvin asked in a trembling voice, "Where are you going?" "To the wasteland," Jixiu said calmly. "Are you out of your mind?! That's a place that devours people! Do you think you walked all the way to Ideal City on your own two legs? I hired mercenaries for you! A useless wreck like you won't survive until tomorrow morning!" Malvin was fuming with fury. He stepped forward to grab the boy, only to trip over the knee-deep snow. Without helping his father up from the snow, Jixiu took a step back, looking down with shame at the man whose temples had turned silver without him ever noticing. "I understand your good intentions. Confessing my crimes and accepting reform is my last chance, but I no longer have the face to stand before anyone in this settlement... They pardoned me, yet I will never forgive myself." "An incompetent, arrogant piece of trash like me deserves to take a beating on the wasteland, to rot and stink in some nameless ditch. That is where I belong." "Farewell. Please tell my dear sister that her bastard of a brother is dead. She doesn't need to atone for a wretched soul like me. She should live happily in a beautiful new world—that fairy tale you quietly wrote into her heart." "I think the Alliance is actually a wonderful place... but I doubt we will ever meet again." He bowed slightly toward the great wall, tightened his grip on his suitcase, turned his back on the bustling square and his despairing parents, and staggered off into the howling, freezing wind... ... Dusk fell. The Alliance's relief stations opened across Boulder City. Vast cauldrons were set up before the gate on the inner side of the great wall, halting those who had intended to flee the city. Five hundred thousand jin of grain a day amounted to less than two hundred and fifty thousand silver coins; besides, with a little rationing, they wouldn't actually consume that much. Compared to the cost of watching this settlement rot, such an expense was trivial. Moreover, they were all one family now. Catching the invigorating aroma, let alone the starving paupers, even the guards stationed at the gate swallowed hard. "It's actually porridge..." "I thought it would be nutrient paste... even nutrient paste would have been a blessing." "Praise the Alliance! Praise the Administrator!" "My child is saved..." Huddled against the cold with shoulders hunched, people murmured in low voices. Some even wiped away tears in secret, hope rekindling in countless eyes that they might survive the winter. Unless pushed to absolute starvation, no one wanted to feed on the dead. Even a single bowl of rice broth was enough to remind them of their dignity as human beings, prompting them to line up orderly behind the cordons of their own accord. Rallied by Lovett, the members of the Workers' Union voluntarily helped maintain order. Most of them lacked education and didn't seem particularly sharp, knowing only a single slogan—to do what Paul ought to do. The figure they revered was not even a real person, yet their drive and passion were astonishing. Without even realizing it, inspired by victory and miracles, that nonexistent Paul had transformed into a faith within their hearts— A faith far purer and closer to the earth than the Great Horned Deer God! Even seasoned soldiers couldn't help casting a second glance at the union workers. They had no doubt that if these men were handed rifles, they would fight far more fiercely than mercenaries working for coin. Even though these men had never set foot on an actual battlefield. "Don't push, everyone! There's plenty for all!" Wearing an apron, Yaya held a ladle in her right hand and a megaphone in her left, shouting with a smug curl on her lips. "Vegetable, mushroom, and minced meat porridge! Sponsored by Tengteng's Cabin! May everyone pass through this bitter winter in peace! Come spring, we'll make sure you all wear beautiful new clothes. Let past unpleasantness remain in the past!" Few paid her any mind; every eye was glued to the steaming cauldrons. Yet Yaya happily carried on barking out announcements for her own amusement. Her Human Alliance language wasn't quite standard, making this the perfect chance to practice! Tengteng blushed and glared at Yaya, wishing she could throw her into the pot and blanch her along with the broth. "Y-you, that's enough! Just do your work properly, stop adding unnecessary commentary..." She was here to farm regional reputation. Regional reputation was practically useless to combat-class players, but for someone like her who was deeply invested in business simulation, it was invaluable! Besides, rare special server events like this unlocked achievements unobtainable during regular daily gameplay. Medals weren't earned solely on the battlefield; in the Administrator's words, this was also a battlefield in its own right. Even setting all that aside, she genuinely enjoyed doing these things. Wasteland survivors possessed a simple understanding of kindness. A bowl of hot porridge or a small deed was enough to move them to tears. In the process, she derived spiritual fulfillment, and the price paid was nothing more than a bit of time spent 'dreaming' in bed. Looking at the blushing Tengteng, Yaya mischievously waggled her eyebrows. "What's the big deal? You did sponsor it, after all! I'm just putting in a good word for your artistic creations along the way!" Seeing that she was about to spin more outrageous promotional slogans, Tengteng turned crimson and fell silent, burying her face behind the milky-white steam. Aside from her troublesome friend Yaya who had tagged along for fun, Huahua, an employee dressed in a long maid outfit, was also enthusiastically helping out. Her warm-hearted petite boss had practically become an idol in her eyes. The moment she heard about the massive upheaval in Boulder City, Tengteng had set aside her work without a second thought to come help, even shutting down her shop! What a truly kind soul! At the thought of Miss Tengteng's generosity, Huahua was moved beyond words. To her, the residents of Shelter 404 were like little angels sent by the Great Horned Deer God to aid wastelanders like them... At a stall not far away. Holding a piping-hot bowl of porridge, Kent kept his head bowed, meekly thanking the cook with the ladle, feeling as though a heavy stone were lodged in his chest. He had hidden at home that night without stepping foot outside. Though the clamor had raged fiercely, it hadn't reached his drafty shack. The mercenaries and soldiers looting during the chaos had targeted houses closer to the Inner City; none of them bothered with the slums of the industrial sector. Unable to resist exhaustion, he had closed his eyes and slept, waking up to find the sky outside already bright. After getting up, he had intended to head to Master Weijia's factory for work, only to discover upon arrival that the premises had been sealed off. The ones sealing it were the Workers' Union. Those thieving jailbirds were now running the show. Watching crates of frozen meat and vegetables being hauled out of the storehouse, Kent felt a sharp twinge of pain in his heart, yet he didn't dare ask where the food was going. After lingering about, he blended into the Workers' Union ranks to help out, even managing to snag a gauze armband. Most workers didn't recognize him and actually took a liking to the hardworking fellow. Looking at the corpses dragged from the alleyways, Kent felt extraordinarily lucky. Thank heavens he had hidden at home that night, or he might have been lying among them... Squatting by the roadside, he took a sip of the rice porridge, dotted with bits of vegetables and minced meat. His stomach warmed up, yet the knot in his chest grew tighter. To make himself feel better, he muttered, "Heh... You wrecked everything, and what did you get out of it?" "All that talk about not becoming another Master Stephen, yet didn't that Lovett become president of the Workers' Union? The militia commander is Joy—nothing more than another Regiment Commander Zhao, just a fresh batch of masters... and I still have to eat the Alliance's grain." The more he thought, the angrier he became. He gulped down a mouthful of hot porridge and spat on the ground in disgust. Hearing his grumbling, a fellow worker shifted over, sitting beside him with a smile. "Buddy, how can you say we didn't get anything? Lovett said we'll have a constitution that everyone has to follow." "The Alliance's constitution?" Kent shot him a sidelong glance and scoffed. "Keep dreaming. It's just a different set of masters." The worker looked at him in surprise, his gaze suddenly softening with pity. Kent despised that look, but felt intimidated by the man's armband, even though he wore one himself. "I know who you are." Kent's heart seized, his face turning pale as though his soul had been sucked out. A secret weighed heavily on his mind: he was the one who had led Alec and Philis to snatch Sberg from outside the tavern and drag him to prison. Although he hadn't seen any wanted posters on the walls, he was certain the workers were hunting for him in secret, ready to drag him into an alley and execute him the moment he was found. "Who?" he asked with a dry throat, his voice trembling. The worker shrugged. "Ken." Silence hung in the air for a moment. ...Ken? Who was that? A new riddle? Kent was utterly bewildered. Just a second ago, his heart had plummeted like a roller coaster, especially when the worker uttered the first syllable of his name. "We gained a fundamental law that everyone must abide by, yet you say we gained nothing. Perhaps in your heart, you never considered that to be anything important." Kent flushed with anger. "Isn't that the truth?! The whole settlement is in shambles! It's all because of you people that I lost my job! If that fool Sberg hadn't insisted on making trouble, if you lot hadn't chosen to believe in some fucking Paul, if you hadn't listened to a little girl, we wouldn't be reduced to begging our neighbors for scraps!" "Think what you like. And you're right, begging isn't honorable; we will repay this favor." The worker sighed, having no desire to explain further, and spoke to himself, "Lovett said we can't convince everyone—that's just how life is. There will always be people finding excuses and angles to criticize us, but that doesn't matter. Let them talk; we will do our work." "He told us to keep an eye on him. If we ever catch him speaking up for those who oppress us, we are to punch him hard and spit in his face. That is what matters." Looking at Kent, who was choking with suppressed fury, the worker teased with an apologetic tone, "You ought to just leave. This place isn't for you, honestly. You aren't even on par with your Master Weijia; doing business carries risks, and he still had to lick Master Xide's boots from time to time. You can't compare to Alisa either; by stepping forward, she bore risks you will never take in your entire life. What were you doing last night? Crying under your covers?" "And now, you sit here holding a bowl, spewing sarcasm—'Oh, mud-legged paupers can't accomplish anything grand, you've merely swapped one master for another,' 'Oh, what does a little girl know,' 'Oh, it's all your fault I lost my job.' Yes, you're absolutely right. We ruined you, and we'll be finished tomorrow. Hurry up and run." "Why not head to Red River Town? There, you can use that boundless energy of yours to slave away twenty-four hours a day, without ever worrying about anyone stopping you from making money. They'll even thoughtfully keep the mutants and marauders outside at bay for you." Patting this 'Ken' on the shoulder with a chuckle, the worker finished the last of his porridge, stood up, and went to return his bowl to the kitchen. In a little while, he had to help out at the Workers' Union. They had united and achieved victory. Therefore, they would continue to stand united. As for the future... They would deal with it when it arrived. If Lovett failed to do a good job, they would just give him a beating! ... Elsewhere, a sign hung above the Alliance's registration desk reading: *Leniency for confession, severity for resistance.* A line of Inner City nobles and their lackeys had formed here as well. Those wishing to remain in the Alliance could confess their crimes here, seeking out the victims with the Alliance's help to apologize and request leniency. The Alliance would censor their faces in the newspapers. The maximum prison sentence was capped at twenty years, and with good behavior, it might be reduced to just three to five. Once they served their time, they could start anew, and exemplary conduct could earn further reductions. Naturally, they could also choose to lock their secrets away, hiding like rats and praying that no one would step forward with evidence to identify them in the future. The Alliance personnel didn't actively discriminate against them, but the way they looked at them—as if looking at scum—was terrifying enough. House had initially hesitated to come, but upon seeing the Alliance soldiers at the gate, he couldn't help shivering and eventually forced himself forward. People left the line from time to time, while others joined, until it was finally his turn. House didn't dare waste a second. Following behind the crestfallen noble who had just risen, he rubbed his hands nervously and sat before the wooden desk. Turning a page covered in dense writing, the clerk handed him a cup of hot water and said with an impassive expression, "Go on. Who did you kill? How did you kill them, how many people, and how old were they?" "I... I haven't killed anyone, I swear to the heavens!" Startled by the blunt opening, House raised his right hand in haste, his voice trembling. "Never!" Great Horned Deer God above! He couldn't resist glancing back at the noble being escorted away by Alliance soldiers. Just what on earth had that man done?! The clerk paused, staring oddly at the man before him. He looked familiar, yet the clerk couldn't place where he had seen him. The Alliance soldier standing to the side shared the sentiment, furrowing his brows as he scrutinized him. "Hey, you look familiar... where have I seen you?" "House!" Fearing that delaying any further would invalidate his surrender, House forced a pale smile, hunching his body as if trying to shrink even smaller. "I... I confess everything! But please, give me a chance to explain and atone!" Without waiting for the clerk to reply, House swallowed hard and pressed on, "You know, if a man is constantly spouting nonsense, it means he actually knows the right answer deep down. Have you ever played the riddle games in the newspaper? Getting every answer right isn't easy, but getting every single one wrong isn't easy either!" "I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry. I insulted your Administrator, and I insulted all of you, but... from the bottom of my heart, I never hated you! I couldn't help but applaud your courage, but I had no choice but to speak on behalf of the masters." "My logic might seem muddled, but that's fine—even if you don't understand, the Administrator will certainly know what I mean! The reason I cursed you so vehemently was simply to provoke you into attacking sooner, so that this casino could be shut down earlier! After all, under Master Xide's rule, this place was utterly doomed, but under Lord Dawn's governance, there would surely be a way forward! And see? You really did attack! In truth, some of the credit belongs to me!" These words came straight from House's heart. Ever since he learned what kind of organization the Alliance was, he had harbored no doubt that the Administrator was genuinely a good man. To think there truly were good people on this wasteland who weren't complete fools! If he had been a predatory merchant, he could easily have avoided hitting the accelerator. He could have joined hands with Malvin, working in concert from inside and out to keep the debt game going until Boulder City residents' savings turned negative—that would have truly ruined everyone here. The masters could have fled to Ideal City to enjoy luxury, while the paupers would have slaved away for the Alliance until they died, living at the Alliance's mercy, with no hope of ever standing on their own feet, the number of overlords riding on their backs swelling from a thousand to over two hundred thousand. Had this been the Bugra Free State to the north, Mr. Sigma would never have exercised restraint. Yet the Administrator had, even going so far as to generously pull them onto the same battlefront... That was what shocked and astonished House the most. That lord truly intended to end the wasteland! He truly regarded the survivors of Boulder City as survivors! Praise the Alliance! Praise the Administrator! Ever since hearing that the lord had referred to the *Workers' Newspaper* as a progressive voice, House had been confident he hadn't misjudged the man. After all, he was one of the few awake in this casino! If even that amateur Sberg could be invited as an honored guest, then if it were him, the Administrator would surely treat him with the highest regard! The clerks and the soldier exchanged glances. At first, they kept straight faces, but when House claimed 'some of the credit belongs to me,' they couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing. House stared at them blankly, not understanding what was so funny. He had mustered up all his courage to sit here and confess his sins, only for these fellows to treat him like a joke! His face flushed darker and darker. Clenching his fists, he didn't dare lash out, hiding his hands inside his sleeves. "What... what do you want? I can explain everything to the Administrator in person—" The clerk didn't bother explaining, wheezing with laughter. "Are you here to entertain us? Not to look down on you, but everyone registering here has blood on their hands. We don't have time to listen to your stand-up routine, even if it wasn't half bad." The other clerk held back a chuckle, chiming in mockingly, "If you think you've performed some great service, go claim the credit with the Workers' Union or the militia. They're the ones who rose up. Sorry to disappoint you, but we never viewed you as a threat. If it weren't for the fact that we're all compatriots from the same land, we wouldn't have bothered coming at all." The soldier in the exoskeleton reached out, hoisted the stunned House up from the desk, and marched him past the cordon. Patting him on the shoulder, the soldier cast him a look of disgust. "Get lost. The Administrator wouldn't bother with the likes of you, though I'd love nothing more than to kick your ass. If I weren't on duty, I would've done it already." The Alliance had its discipline. One couldn't beat people while in uniform; tarnishing his honor over a clown simply wasn't worth it. The soldier returned to his post. House stood on the street, his spirit crushed. Watching the genuine villains queuing up to confess their crimes, he wished for a fleeting moment that the Alliance soldiers would arrest him, lock him away, or even give him a thorough beating. Indifference was the ultimate arrogance. It turned out they couldn't even be bothered with him. Even the *Workers' Newspaper*, established less than a year ago, was considered a progressive voice, while his radio broadcasts of over a decade hadn't earned so much as a single direct glance. What had he spent his entire life doing... "He doesn't want me..." Life seemed to have lost all meaning. Like a walking corpse, House walked away with empty, hollow eyes.