At the very same time the *Rou Rou* arrived at Port French Fries carrying more than a thousand Moon Clan survivors, the *Niuma* airship also returned to Dawn City's aerodrome with the survivors from Shelter 70.
With multiple flight routes opening up, this airship hydrogen-refueling station had essentially grown into a bustling port.
The Niuma Group had contracted and renovated a portion of the berths, while near the warehouse district, the bazaar specializing in imported goods had spontaneously formed a market management committee. They not only pooled funds to repave the roads, but also kept the entire area immaculately clean and organized.
Stepping off the elevator, Huang Guangwei looked around blankly, utterly stunned by the prosperity and bustle before him.
Before coming here, the man named Fang Chang had told him Dawn City was merely a settlement of a hundred thousand people. He had assumed it would be similar to Ring Island or North Island, only situated on land.
Yet seeing it now, the sheer vitality made his jaw drop.
How could this possibly look like a settlement of just a hundred thousand?
If someone told him it had two hundred thousand—or even three hundred thousand—he would have believed it without hesitation!
Descending the steps, he was still standing at a loss, unsure which way to go, when a familiar face suddenly appeared in the crowd not far ahead.
The man wore a loose leather jacket and jeans. His figure had grown slightly plump, wrinkles of laughter crinkled his face, and his arms were spread wide in warm welcome.
Huang Guangwei stared at him blankly, tears welling in his eyes as his parched lips trembled faintly.
"Ad... Administrator!"
This guy hadn't gone to the Great Rift Valley?!
He had never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would run into him here!
His legs moved forward unconsciously. As if he had finally found his bearings, Huang Guangwei dragged his stiff limbs forward one step after another. His stumbling pace grew steadily firmer, steadily more resolute.
Seeing his compatriot's miserable, battered state after enduring so much hardship, Sun Yuechi also felt a twinge of guilt. Though he tried to keep his warmth intact, the smile on his face was already faltering, and his gaze slowly drifted downward along his slightly bent arms.
"Huang... ahem, my dear friend! I heard about what happened to you. While I was away, you were made to suffer... as was everyone else in the shelter. But no matter what, seeing that you're safe brings me immense relief. It's good that you're alright, it really is..."
"Right, you haven't eaten yet, have you? There's a great place nearby that serves pork trotter rice. The savory gravy drizzled over the rice is absolute perfection—my treat! Let's sit down, eat, and—"
The moment he mentioned the pork trotter rice, Sun Yuechi's eyes lit up and he looked up—only to be met dead-on by an unyielding fist.
Completely dazed, he only had time to twitch his neck, sparing his fragile nasal bridge and instead catching that punch, flown across thousands of kilometers, squarely with his cheek.
"Fuck your mother!"
A fractured, roaring echo crashed into his ears.
Before he could even register what was happening, Sun Yuechi took the blow to the face and blacked out on the spot.
Seeing this, the surrounding crowd rushed forward and dragged the man off him.
With his arms pinned, Huang Guangwei kicked his legs in fury. Looking down at the fellow collapsed on the pavement, he roared in righteous indignation.
"Let go of me!"
"This is our own damn business! Stay out of it! Let me hit him! I'm going to butcher this dog-fucker!"
"Aaargh!"
Although the Alliance rarely interfered in outsiders' personal disputes, this was Alliance territory after all.
Regardless of the reason, beating someone in the street meant getting thrown into solitary confinement.
Guards rushing over from nearby escorted him off to the guard station, while the unconscious former administrator of Shelter 70 was lifted onto a stretcher by paramedics and carted off to a nearby clinic.
Shoppers browsing the imported-goods market crowded around, looking at the chaotic scene and trading curious whispers.
"What just happened?"
"No idea... Those two just started fighting out of nowhere."
"I think I vaguely heard something about... uh, pork trotter rice?"
"Pork trotter rice???"
As it turned out, when it came to gossip, NPCs were in no way inferior to players.
The rumors grew more outrageous with each telling, until eventually, an entire convoluted saga of bitter grudges and twisted romance had been spun around a single bowl of pork trotter rice.
By sheer coincidence, the exact moment the fist made intimate contact with the cheek was snapped by a reporter from the *Goblin Observer*.
In Dawn City, anything bearing the word "Goblin" was bound to have nothing to do with the word "reliable."
And that was indeed the reality.
This newspaper sponsored by Goblin Tech was hardly a respectable establishment; in fact, the boss who invested in it never even intended to turn a profit with it.
The photograph was swiftly delivered to the editorial room. Fitted with a rushed headline, it became the front-page story of that day's extra edition—
[SHOCKING! Administrator of Shelter 70 Knocked Out by Subordinate Who Traveled Thousands of Kilometers to Hunt Him Down—All Over a Bowl of Pork Trotter Rice!]
Because the photo and headline were so utterly explosive, countless onlookers scrambled to buy a copy, so much so that the *Goblin Observer*'s circulation that day even surpassed the *Survivor Daily*!
And beyond everyone's expectations, that photograph didn't just boost the sales of the *Goblin Observer*—even the incidental mention of pork trotter rice got caught in the crossfire.
Just what kind of delicacy was it that could make the administrator of Shelter 70 abandon his entire shelter without a second thought?
Almost everyone who finished reading the front page couldn't help but feel an overwhelming surge of curiosity.
Driven by this curiosity, long queues formed in front of every fast-food stall selling pork trotter rice.
Even restaurants and taverns that never served pork trotter rice couldn't resist the allure of profit and hurriedly revamped their menus.
That day, pork trotters sold out completely across all of Dawn City, bringing sheer misery to the pigs that had just arrived on trains from the farms of Sunset Province—slaughtered before they could even get a mouthful of feed...
***
"Hahahahaha!"
Inside the lobby of the Highway Town Hotel.
Sitting at a table dining, Duke Garawa looked at the *Goblin Observer* in his hand. The goatee beneath his nose twitched incessantly as he laughed until his stomach ached.
He was the ambassador of the Xilan Empire and also the lord of White Elephant City. Not only did noble Elephant-kin blood flow through his veins, but his family held vast fiefs stretching from the Everflowing River to the White Elephant Tower, standing among the very pinnacle of prominence in the Xilan Dynasty.
His original mission from His Majesty the Emperor was to visit the Lion Kingdom to display the Empire's majesty. However, the desert dwellers were wholly subservient to the Alliance, which infuriated him while also stoking a sliver of curiosity toward this eastern alliance.
Just what sort of empire was it that could command such a massive following?
And so, he brought his diplomatic mission here.
By sheer coincidence, Myriarch Bannote, the envoy of the Legion—the Xilan Empire's most important ally—happened to be here as well, taking part in a cooperative organization called the "Slime Mold Research Community."
Upon learning that Ambassador Bannote was suffering a headache from being isolated and unsupported in the Community's negotiations, Duke Garawa immediately sniffed an opportunity to prove himself. On one hand, he dispatched a messenger to report this heaven-sent chance of putting the Wilantes in their debt to His Majesty; on the other hand, he patted his chest and assured Ambassador Bannote that the Xilan Empire was willing to participate in the negotiations and shoulder the pressure from the eastern world on the Legion's behalf.
Perhaps moved by his sincerity, Myriarch Bannote, after a brief moment of surprise, warmly grasped his hand. Over the following days, he overcame all opposition and dragged the Xilan Empire into this world council that would decide the wasteland's future.
The job was far easier than imagined; he merely had to follow Ambassador Bannote's lead whenever a vote was called.
Moreover, Duke Garawa discovered that the situation was nowhere near as dire as he had assumed.
Take the Free State, for instance. Though brought into the Community's negotiations by Enterprise, they secretly leaned toward their side. Simply put, if both the Legion and Enterprise voted in favor, they voted in favor. If the Legion opposed while Enterprise was in favor, they played dead. If the Legion opposed while the Alliance voted in favor, they unhesitatingly voted against.
Of course, that also depended on Enterprise's stance; if Enterprise was firmly in favor, they would continue playing dead.
Truth be told, Garawa despised such fence-sitters. Those slick operators thought they were being clever, imagining they could please both sides, only to end up gaining favor from neither. He had heard Bannote curse those profit-hungry, unprincipled merchants in private gatherings more than once.
Whenever that happened, he rejoiced secretly.
The Xilan Empire was different. They were the Legion's most loyal allies from beginning to end. The Wilantes would remember the helping hand they extended today, and His Majesty the Emperor would remember his achievements.
Still, the work was ultimately far too simple; he didn't even need to scrutinize the agenda.
It was precisely because of this that he had recently visited nearly every noteworthy shop in Dawn City.
Every day, when not attending meetings, he strolled through the settlement to observe the Alliance's local customs.
After having his hearty laugh, Duke Garawa composed himself. Elegantly clicking his tongue, he stared at the photograph in the newspaper as though watching monkeys in a zoo.
"These barbarians... Just how utterly uncultured must one be to lose all decorum over a mere plate of food?"
Niyang, the attendant standing beside him, quickly chimed in with flattery.
"...The southern seas rely on the Camel Hump Kingdom for grain relief. The people there are as scrawny as the monkeys of Baiyue Province. How could they ever compare to us, blessed with the full bounty of the Everflowing River?"
Hearing this, Duke Garawa wore a satisfied expression.
This Niyang was his favorite servant, serving as his personal secretary and lifestyle assistant, always knowing the sweetest things to say. The only flaw was his lowly bloodline, being of the Rat-kin.
Even the loyal Wolf-kin guards standing behind him possessed far nobler blood than this fellow.
Compared to the other patrons in the lobby, the aura and demeanor of this table were starkly distinct.
One person sat eating, while more than a dozen stood watching.
Yet this was the wasteland, where even talking lizards and bears existed. Compared to far stranger sights, this self-important group didn't draw that much attention.
By comparison, the *Goblin Observer*'s front-page scandal was far more worth gossiping about.
Duke Garawa, however, did not think so. In his eyes, splendid as he was, he was naturally the center of attention wherever he went—especially since he had deliberately seated himself dead center in the lobby.
Those whispering barbarians were undoubtedly discussing him right now. For that reason, he remained constantly mindful of whether his deportment appeared refined and elegant.
Lisa approached carrying a tray. She cast a slightly puzzled glance at the row of bodyguards standing behind his chair, but asked no questions. She simply set down the tray and spoke politely in a soft voice.
"Sir, your pork trotter rice... Please enjoy."
"Mmh."
Duke Garawa grunted through his nose and tossed the newspaper to Niyang, who stood waiting at his side. Looking down at the plate of pork trotter rice that had taken the entire city by storm, he picked up his knife and fork, sliced off a small piece, and tasted it.
The springy, tender texture was indeed remarkable, braised so soft that it melted the moment it touched the tongue. His eyes widened slightly in pleasant surprise.
Though this Alliance was a tiny spit of a country whose settlements combined couldn't even match the size of his fief, one had to admit these people truly had a knack for culinary craft.
The only thing he wasn't accustomed to was the cutlery here, which was absurdly fussy.
By comparison, he still preferred eating with his hands.
Of course, if served by the delicate, jade-like fingers of a young maiden, that would be even better.
Back in White Elephant City, he never had to lift a finger to feed himself.
Unfortunately, though he had searched all across Dawn City, he hadn't found a single restaurant offering such a service.
Glancing toward the young girl who had set down the plate and bowed, preparing to leave, Duke Garawa suddenly narrowed his eyes, a faint, imperceptible glint of greed flashing across them.
Especially when he noticed the marks on her wrists.
"You're from the Western Continent... a slave from Triumph City?"
That word struck like an unhealable scar.
Lisa's body stiffened at once. Biting her lip, she stared at the guest in shock, then lowered her head and fled hurriedly into the back kitchen.
Watching her retreating figure, Duke Garawa gave a faint click of his tongue.
"What a waste..."
Although slaves were a specialty of Bolo Province—especially those inferior races who were mostly hardworking and fiercely loyal, favored by lower-ranking Legion nobles—there were simply too many of them, sold primarily for value, and thus rarely commanded high prices.
By contrast, slaves originating from the Legion's homeland, especially from Triumph City, were far more exquisite.
Those slaves with brown hair and slender, prominent noses were like purebred dairy cows from the alpine pastures along the Solat River. While not so expensive that only myriarchs could enjoy them, one still couldn't afford them without considerable military merits.
Such slaves were usually consumed internally by the Wilantes. Only on exceedingly rare occasions did they trickle into the market, and rarer still were they bought by foreigners outside the Wilantes.
The lords and nobles of the Xilan Dynasty harbored an almost fanatical obsession with Wilante culture, and as a duke, he was naturally no exception.
Yet this was Alliance territory after all. He didn't want to bring trouble upon himself; it would be disastrous if he disrupted the cooperation between the Empire and the Legion.
And so he merely sighed with feigned regret, focused on finishing the delicacies on his plate, and picked up a napkin to dab his mouth with poise. He then retrieved the unfinished newspaper from Niyang's hands and continued enjoying the scandal of Shelter 70.
These high-and-mighty shelter residents were no good sort.
Arrogant and conceited, each and every one.
Shelter 70 was like this, and so was that three-digit shelter.
End the wasteland?
Usher in a new era?
Heh.
A bunch of lunatics.
He had lived in Bolo Province for so many years; how come he never felt that place was a wasteland?
Utterly ridiculous!
In the mood for a good laugh, he leisurely finished reading the first page.
Yet the instant he turned to the second page, the cultured smile on his face vanished without a trace.
*Port French Fries Welcomes New Residents! One Thousand Moon Clan Refugees Successfully Come Ashore!*
In that single instant, his expression twisted into something as hideous as if he had just swallowed dried snot.
And not just any snot, but a booger flicked from his own finger that had hit a wall, gathered dust, and flown straight back into his mouth.
"Absolute rubbish!"
Clenching his right fist, he slammed it down onto the table with a furious roar, rattling the plates and utensils.
Hearing the commotion in the middle of the lobby, the drinkers chatting and laughing nearby lowered their voices unconsciously, casting surprised and curious glances over.
People in this settlement did throw fits every now and then, but who would dare act up in the place packed with the most shelter dwellers?
Noticing the stares from all around, the Wolf-kin soldiers standing behind Duke Garawa narrowed their eyes menacingly, answering those naked gazes with warning glares.
However, they had clearly picked the wrong audience.
This was River Valley Province, where the folk were fiercely aggressive. Those seated here were wastelanders who lived on the edge of a blade, people who wouldn't flinch even with a gun pointed at their faces. Who would be frightened by a mere glare?
Those warning stares felt like the feeble provocations of toddlers. The patrons had only glanced over out of casual curiosity, but finding themselves glared at for no reason, they stared right back with wide eyes.
As if they didn't have eyes of their own?
Who were these clowns looking down on?
Behind the bar counter, Old Hook watched the group at the center table expressionlessly, his index finger already resting on the alarm button beneath the counter, ready to summon reinforcements at a moment's notice.
He didn't like these fellows.
Not just because more than a dozen of them had ordered only a single bowl of pork trotter rice, but even more so because that goateed bastard had made sweet Lisa cry.
She wasn't merely the poster girl of the Highway Town Hotel; to him, childless as he was, she was like a daughter.
He wouldn't permit anyone to bully her—not an imperial ambassador, nor an imperial emperor.
"My Lord..."
Niyang, standing beside Duke Garawa, quickly bowed and whispered in his ear.
"Losing our temper here accomplishes nothing. Even if we beat them to a pulp, it won't resolve a single issue and will only make us look petty and small-minded... We should summon the Alliance's Administrator and deliver an imperial warning, demanding that they cease their slander against us and stop harboring those despicable Moon Clan wretches."
Hearing Niyang's counsel, Duke Garawa's fury finally subsided slightly. Setting the newspaper down, he forced himself to calm down.
"You are right, Niyang... Bablu, tell your men to keep a low profile. An elephant has no need to heed the mice and ants beneath its feet; there is no point stooping to the level of these base commoners."
"Yes, My Lord." The tower of a man behind him nodded slightly, casting a silent glance at the subordinates beside him.
The guards withdrew their murderous glares from the surroundings, breaking eye contact with the barbarians.
Seeing these wooden figures stop their provocation, the onlookers lost interest in fanning the flames as well, curling their lips and looking away.
Yet after this stir, the focus of everyone's conversation shifted from the front page of the *Goblin Observer* to these strange outsiders.
"Who the hell are those guys?"
"Heard they're ambassadors from the Xilan Empire."
"Pfft, and here I thought they were someone important. Just beggars here looking for scraps."
"These days, toss a brick anywhere in Dawn City and you'll hit an ambassador."
"Xilan? More like Xi-trash, am I right?"
"Haha, what a fitting name they gave themselves!"
"Keep your voice down, don't let them hear you."
"Let them hear it! If I ran into them out on the wasteland, I wouldn't just make sure they heard me—I'd send them down below to pass a message to my dead old man!"
"Hahaha!"
The voices grew louder and increasingly unvarnished, for that was truly how they operated out on the wasteland.
Duke Garawa's brow twitched violently, his teeth grinding with audible creaks. The refined, elegant composure on his face became increasingly impossible to maintain, his rapid breathing betraying his skyrocketing blood pressure.
Those mocking gazes made him feel as if he were sitting on pins and needles.
Deep down, his magnanimity was nowhere near as vast as he proclaimed. After all, he wasn't truly an elephant, nor were those voices truly emerging from the mouths of mice or ants.
Yet for the sake of the Empire, he chose to endure.
Feigning composure, Duke Garawa pulled out a hundred-silver banknote and tossed it down, deliberately letting it land in the greasy plate.
"Keep the change."
The pig lard perfectly soaked into the Alliance crest on the face of the bill, just like their lard-blinded consciences—a detail he had meticulously arranged.
Everyone present had been insulted.
Even if the insult wasn't entirely obvious.
Behind the counter, Old Hook cast a weary glance at the group's departing backs, moved his finger away from the alarm button, and called out perfunctorily.
"Come again soon."
By the Great Horned Deer God, may this jinx never set foot in here again.
Watching the party leave, Old Hook dragged his bullet-scarred leg over, picked up the banknote, wiped it off, and casually cleared the plate.
Returning to the counter, he set the plate down, slid open the cash drawer, deducted the cost of the pork trotter rice, and counted out several small bills and coins. Parting the kitchen curtain, he found Lisa squatting in a corner, quietly wiping her tears. He squatted down beside her and comforted her gently.
"Those guests have left. They... asked me to apologize on their behalf. Here's a tip they left to make amends. Take it and buy yourself some sweets or pretty clothes."
Hugging her knees, Lisa looked up at the old man squatting before her with tear-filled eyes. Her lips quivered softly for a long moment, but she couldn't utter a word.
It was clear she was crying bitterly.
Perhaps it had to do with the things that had happened in her past.
Old Hook could roughly understand what she was feeling, and knew why she couldn't speak, so he continued on his own.
"Back in Highway Town, we often saw travelers from afar. With a single glance, we could tell who was a slave and who was a master. Not because of who wore shackles or who carried a gun, but by their eyes..."
"No matter what, someone who earns their own keep will never be anyone's slave."
"As for those petty busybodies, whichever labels they want to slap on people and whatever nonsense they want to spout is their own business. We can't muzzle a parrot's beak; we just live our own lives."
Lisa's breathing gradually steadying, her mood seemed to lighten.
Through red and swollen eyes, a reassuring smile bloomed on her face.
"Thank you..."
"Don't mention it," Old Hook grinned, reaching out to ruffle the young girl's hair. "I'll have to ask you to watch the front counter for a bit. It's time for me to take a breather."
"Mm! Leave it to me!"
Lisa nodded with renewed energy, raised her arm to completely wipe away the tear tracks from her face, and darted out of the kitchen storage room as briskly as a gust of wind.
Watching the girl disappear behind the curtain, Old Hook didn't get up. Instead, he sat down on the floor with a grimace, clutching his leg with his right hand.
The moment a person relaxed, the bones went rusty. Squatting for just a short while had brought on this much ache.
Back in the day, he had been a tough bastard who hoisted a shotgun to fight marauders, yet now all that remained on his body were the injuries accumulated in his youth.
In the past, those blue jackets had always called him "Hook Who Took an Arrow to the Knee." Though he didn't understand what it meant, the Administrator had told him it was an honorific expressing recognition of his vigorous spirit in old age, so he hadn't minded it, eventually even growing rather fond of the title.
Later on, however, ever since opening this hotel, his leg truly felt as if it had taken an arrow, growing less and less cooperative.
Old Hook gave a wry chuckle and shook his head.
"...Getting old."
Chapter 681