Follow Me! Go Get Your Weapons!

Even as crowds surged along the edges of the port, a livestock freighter moored by the pier was crammed to bursting with people in tattered rags. Their expressions were vacant and their eyes glazed and numb, no different from the two-headed oxen jammed onto the neighboring cargo vessel. Just then, several men clad in exoskeletons boarded the deck. One sliced through the chain binding the iron gate with a plasma rifle, while another stepped up before the throng, switched on his helmet's external speaker, and bellowed: "You're free!" A deathly silence hung over the deck. Faced with the commotion from the bow, not a single face showed the slightest reaction. None of them even bothered looking over. Lao Bai couldn't help feeling a wave of embarrassment. The players beside him exchanged glances and murmured among themselves. "What does this remind you of?" "The Legion's clones." "Haha, we were thinking the exact same thing." Seeing Lao Bai at a loss for words, Fang Chang sighed, stepped up, and patted him on the shoulder. "That won't work on them... Let me handle this." With that, he stepped forward, looked at the crowd squatting on the deck, and shouted in the Human Alliance language: "We are the Alliance—a coalition forged by survivors uniting together!" Lao Bai stared at him in surprise. Fang Chang gave him a reassuring glance, looked down at the lowered heads, and raised his voice further. "Before coming here, we met some of your suffering compatriots. Their diligence, optimism, and courage left a deep impression on us. No matter how terrible the circumstances, they never once gave up... cramped, sweltering holds, endless voyages, the scorn of others, and everything else you could possibly imagine. "Later, we found a place to take them in. We gave them scrap wood and dried hay we had no use for, and before long, they had built whole clusters of houses right along the beach. Next, we gave them land and seeds, and they immediately reclaimed it into farmland and plantations. We only had to give them a single hand, and they immediately knew where to go from there. "I thought that since you are their brethren, you would resemble them to some degree. Yet here we stand, and all you give me is the backs of your heads!" His voice was drowned out by the surging surf. A few raised their heads, but after less than a second of eye contact, they swiftly buried their faces again. It was as though their very eyes were filthy things. Fang Chang gazed down at them, a flicker of pity in his eyes. Something similar had happened in Boulder City, but when the lash fell there, the people would still flinch and stir. In fact, before the Alliance arrived, blood had flowed through the casinos time and again. It was precisely because of that that even with Lord Xide's immense power, he hadn't dared go too far and still had to manufacture pretexts when seizing what he wanted. Brahma Province, however, was an entirely different story. When the noose settled around their necks, they not only accepted it with gladness, pinning their hopes on the next reincarnation, but had even learned to breathe through their asses instead of their mouths. "...The Empire enslaved your parents, your brothers and sisters, your wives, daughters, and sons. They sold you off to mines, quarries, plantations—every miserable hole they wouldn't set foot in themselves. And what do you do? You squat right here, staring blankly out to sea like beasts! "Were you born to live like this?! Look me in the eye! If you don't have the guts, look at that ship right next to you! Look at the pigs and oxen trapped in those cages! What difference is there between your pathetic, cowering hides and them?! A pack of hyenas wearing human skin tells you to squat, and you obediently squat! Do you know what we do in River Valley Province?! We flay their hides! We boil them into broth! "Only beasts belong in cages! You should be throwing them into those pens, not squatting on this rotten barge in their place! "Every last one of you—get on your feet!" The roar struck like a thunderclap, shattering the waves smashing against the gunwales and splintering the chains binding their spirits. Those lowered heads finally rose, and along with them, pair after pair of knees lifted from the deck. The pupils that met his gaze no longer darted away. Some held shock, some bewilderment; in others, a raging fury blazed, while a few still carried traces of confusion. Yet whatever was there, it was infinitely better than the muddled stupor from before. Looking into those eyes that belonged to men and watching the figures gradually rising to their feet across the deck, Fang Chang gave a nod of mild satisfaction. "Very good. It seems you still possess a shred of courage. It may not be enough, but what you lack, we'll lend you." With that, he drew a pistol from his hip and hurled it with force into the crowd standing before him. Some startled and ducked aside, while others clutched their heads and squatted back down, but several hands reached out boldly. In the end, a burly man with cropped hair snatched the gun from the air. He clutched the weapon tightly, raised it high overhead, and fixed an unblinking gaze on the figure in the exoskeleton. Fang Chang was quite pleased with the look in the man's eyes. Generosity and bravery could be faked, but reflexive instincts never lied. Even among this mud that couldn't stick to a wall, there were still souls worth saving. "Your name! Yell it out!" Veins bulged along the man's neck as he roared with every ounce of strength in his body: "Laxi!!" The players standing behind Lao Bai nearly lost their composure, but fortunately, their helmets hid their amusement. Fang Chang's eyes shone as he roared back without blinking: "Outstanding, Laxi! From this moment on, you are the leader of these people—the Commander of the First Corps of the Avengers Alliance! "No waiting until tomorrow! Right now! We march right now to skin those hyenas and see what hideous mugs are hiding beneath their pelts! "Follow me! Go get your weapons!" "Ooorah!!" Almost the instant the words fell, an ear-splitting roar erupted across the deck. Murky pupils were ignited completely by fury and raw longing. They gazed fanatically at the figure at the bow, looking upon him as if he were their god. The players standing behind Lao Bai and Fang Chang exchanged startled glances, whispering in the comm channel. "Holy crap." "What did Brother Fang Chang do for a living in real life again?" Lao Bai looked at Fang Chang, a hint of confusion on his face. "Weren't we here to round up population?" According to the original plan, sailing these slave ships back to Port French Fries would have completed the mission. Their compatriots were there, and someone would naturally teach them how to start anew. Handing out weapons now was undoubtedly introducing complications. Watching the seething slaves, Fang Chang offered a faint smile and replied quietly, "What's the use of dragging these people to Port French Fries like this? Do we need slaves? With the miserable state they were in just moments ago, I wouldn't take them if you paid me a thousand dinars." Lao Bai was about to suggest using the Refugee Home method, but quickly realized that process was far too slow for the reality here. While experience had proved that the Refugee Home genuinely helped many slaves who lacked life skills gain a trade and reintegrate into Alliance society, its very operational model meant its carrying capacity had limits. Moreover, implementing that program required a fundamental prerequisite: the local survivors had to possess a desire to save themselves and a willingness to help others suffering alongside them. Pick any random person here, and so long as they could scrape by living like a dog, they thought nothing was wrong with them. Drag out someone half-dead, and the rest would just assume it was the fellow's own fault. Perhaps only shedding a bit of blood would offer a slim hope of breaking this cycle. Even if it was only a very slim hope. Seeing that Fang Chang already had an idea, Lao Bai asked, "So what do you plan to do next?" Fang Chang glanced at several nearby ships and slightly narrowed his eyes. "There are still a few more vessels over there. Once we hand out weapons, I plan to have a squad lead them to storm the largest prison in this settlement." Camp Rowell, located on Blackwater Street. According to Sisi's ongoing sightseeing thread on the forums, that camp had been a shelter housing several thousand survivors over a century ago. Some locals even considered it the true predecessor to Golden Gallon Port. Yet regardless of what the camp had once been used for, it was now the private property of the Emperor of the Xilan Empire, managed on his behalf by the Governor's Mansion. Aside from the Moon Clan people persecuted under baseless pretexts, it held vast numbers of bankrupt debt slaves as well as prisoners of special status—accounting for nearly five percent of the settlement's total population! A month ago, the concentration camp overrun and torched by the White Bear Knights had merely been a temporary holding "warehouse" for slaves, lightly guarded at best. Camp Rowell was the true fountainhead of this settlement's slave trade. Before implementing Alliance law, they had to tear that place out by its roots. Otherwise, anything they did would be a waste of breath. As a symbol of imperial authority, taking Camp Rowell was of paramount importance for awakening the confidence of the local resistance. Looking at Fang Chang, Lao Bai hesitated. "They haven't had any training. Isn't this too soon for them?" "If we move now, all they'll face are a few prison guards and the battered city garrison we already crushed. Wait a few days, and that might not be the case." Pausing, Fang Chang added, "Besides, before training, what they need most is confidence. We have to make them realize that their enemies are actually paper-thin!" *** The slaves flooded off the ship in swarms. The merchants gathered along the port looked on with burning anxiety. In particular, several big-nosed traders from the West Coast began shouting in agitation when they saw the Alliance driving the slaves off the vessels. "What are you doing! Those are my slaves!" an enraged Wilante merchant yelled. Walking down from the pier, Fang Chang happened to spot the indignant fellow shouting his head off. He casually took the shackles he had just pried off and tossed them straight into the man's chest. "Go catch them yourself, then." Struck in the chest by the heavy irons, the Wilante merchant reflexively caught them with both hands. Looking up, he saw Alliance soldiers hauling wooden crates of arms from the warehouse, smashing open the iron locks, pulling out rifles, and handing them straight to his slaves. The merchant's face turned livid, and he nearly coughed up a mouthful of blood. Of course he recognized those wooden crates—they were the very payment he had handed over to the port warehouse yesterday to trade for those thousand-plus head of livestock. Watching those monkeys cradling their rifles like precious treasures, he gritted his teeth and ultimately swallowed his fury. He shrank back into the crowd, not daring to utter another peep. Facing the sea of eyes locked upon him, Fang Chang cleared his throat, raised his hands, and addressed the merchants: "This is our dispute with the Empire. It has nothing to do with you. We fight our war, and you continue your business. In fact... starting now, port tariffs are cut in half. "Of course, the slave trade is finished. We do not recognize ownership of one person over another, nor do we welcome any slavers here. "However, if you're willing to sail to Silver Moon Bay and bring back the goods we need, we guarantee you'll make a fortune. "We will pay in dinars or silver coins." Leaving those words behind, Fang Chang instructed players proficient in the Human Alliance language to register everyone seeking passage through the pier, then headed for the next ship. By the time registration was completed, the slaves pouring into the port were fully armed, forming a force a full two thousand strong. Though most carried bolt-action Ripper rifles, with only a few holding automatic weapons like Blade assault rifles and PU-9 submachine guns, and almost none possessed formal military training, their fighting will burned like wildfire. Beyond these two thousand, even more people who hadn't received firearms followed behind brandishing clubs and fish-cleaning cleavers, their eyes blazing with murderous intent. Except for the elderly, women, and young children, nearly everyone had stepped forward, hearts brimming with pent-up fury as they prepared to liberate their kin and families. Right now, they were a single rope twisted tight by pure adrenaline. If they hesitated for even a second, that taut rope could snap. Looking at Laxi, who marched up clutching his rifle with a flushed face and ragged breath, Fang Chang patted his shoulder. "No need to fear. We will fight alongside you." Turning toward Killing Dagger and the hundred-odd battle-ready Burning Corps brothers nearby, Fang Chang shouted: "Now! Cover our avengers! Advance on Camp Rowell! Go liberate the imprisoned slaves!" The rifle-bearing slaves unleashed an earth-shattering roar: "Ooorah!!" *** At noon, a solitary cannon blast shattered the silence, formally kicking off the Burning Corps' second-phase offensive—a full two days ahead of the initial schedule. The territory currently held by the Burning Corps was centered around the streets named after tulips near the harbor, separated from the rest of the city by a ring road called First Knight Road. With the Governor's Mansion to the northwest serving as a fire support stronghold, they watched over large swathes of the northern city districts. In essence, the Alliance's controlled area resembled an irregular pentagon, with Camp Rowell situated on its northeastern fringe. If they could capture Camp Rowell, the Alliance's zone of actual control would extend at least another kilometer to the northeast, forming a pincer stance with the Governor's Mansion to the northwest and establishing a control line parallel to the coast on the map. Meanwhile, General Abinan, who had fallen back into the slums, had no idea what the Alliance was planning. He was still trying to rally his few remaining men and the newly pressed conscripts, plotting a counterattack to rescue the Governor and the lords living on Tulip Street. If he wanted to keep his life, this was his only way out. Just then, however, a mortar shell plummeted with a shrill whistle right onto the freshly erected defense line. With a deafening blast, the sandbag wall stacked in the middle of the street was blown clean over, sending the imperial soldiers crouching behind it sprawling to the ground. Before the hundred-man unit stationed on the street could recover its wits, screaming rounds whined past amid a cacophony of gunfire, immediately followed by thunderous war cries from the other end of the street. "Kill them!" "I'll take you down with me!" "Awoooh!" Hearing the deafening roar of the charge, the imperial soldiers cowering behind cover were completely stunned. If they remembered correctly, less than a thousand-man unit had landed at the harbor. Yet from the ear-splitting shouts, it felt as though tens of thousands were charging their positions! Directing the defense from the rear, General Abinan was equally dumbfounded. From his vantage point, he could see far more clearly than the front-line soldiers: the cannon fodder charging their positions weren't Alliance troops at all, but lowly Moon Clan slaves! Realizing this, fury surged in his chest, and his fists clenched white. Those despicable, shameless bastards! To hand imperial weapons to those vile slaves! And those slaves were utterly oblivious to their own folly, blindly serving as cannon fodder for bandits and stabbing the very Empire that stood behind them in the back! "Fire! Blow these bastards to kingdom come!" Roaring orders for the gunners to fire, he led his personal guard in a swift retreat to evade the spearhead of the ferocious assault. The three 100mm artillery pieces mounted on the street immediately belched furious tongues of flame. Three thick tracers slammed into the crowd, instantly tearing a blood-soaked breach through the charging ranks. Yet that gruesome sight failed to deter the charging mob. People possessed an innate detachment from deaths that were either too near or too far. Especially when warm blood splattered across their faces, seeing their hated enemies mere yards away only stoked the fire burning in their eyes even hotter. These people had never treated them as human beings. The price tags hung around their necks were worth less than a two-headed ox. Since that was the case— They had no reason to treat them as human either. "—In River Valley Province, we flay the hyenas and jackals! We make them into stew! We boil broth from their bones to feed the dogs! "Charge! Show me if you're worth saving!" That roar was swallowed seamlessly by the clamor of the mob. In barely half a minute, the furious Moon Clan slaves surged over the scattered sandbags. They were even faster than the Alliance's mortars. In a few breaths, bayonets plunged into the chests of the gunners, and curved fish-scaling blades smashed into their skulls stroke by stroke, avenging the hundreds of fallen brethren littering the street. Watching these enraged beasts, both the garrison soldiers holding the positions and the onlookers among the survivors were scared out of their wits. Abinan's eyes were filled with sheer terror. His limbs felt icy, trembling, and numb, his lips parting and closing without producing a sound for long seconds. His adjutant came scrambling over from the front lines in utter disarray, looking at General Abinan in panic. "Sir... those slaves have gone mad! We can't hold them on our own! We have to retreat!" Beside him trailed several machine gunners who had narrowly escaped the front. Guided by drones, the Alliance's mortars had cleanly eliminated their machine guns hidden inside the slum's mud brick shanties. Now they had fewer than four hundred men left. The rest had either routed or lay dead on the ground; there was no longer any hope of a counteroffensive. Abinan's Adam's apple bobbed. His wrinkled face was steeped in despair. "Retreat..." he finally squeezed the word from his throat. Being executed by His Majesty would at least leave his corpse intact. If he fell into the hands of these rioters, he would likely be chopped to pieces and thrown into the sea to feed the fish. With the order to retreat given, the garrison troops locked in street-fighting meat grinders within the slums collapsed like an avalanche. Their panicked flight, discarding armor and weapons, bore no resemblance whatsoever to a regular army. Leading the slaves forward, Laxi was equally shocked by the pathetic performance of these men who usually swaggered around looking so formidable. To think that the ones who had enslaved them were nothing more than such fragile trash. "Forward!" Watching the scattering garrison troops, Laxi bellowed to the liberated slaves behind him. "Advance on Camp Rowell!" A deafening chorus of roars answered him: "Forward!!!" *** At the exact moment the garrison collapsed, Warden Sunil of Camp Rowell was already watching the spectacle from the southern watchtower. He had been standing there ever since the first artillery fire echoed. When he saw the rioters breach the roadblocks the garrison had set up on the main thoroughfare, he erupted in furious curses: "That blundering donkey! Bragging like a god in peacetime, but when he's actually needed, he can't even handle a bunch of cannon fodder!" After venting, cold sweat broke out across his brow. Because right then, he saw the rioters scattered through the slums converging toward Blackwater Street. Evidently, those bastards had set their sights on this place. These suicidal wretches... How dare they reach into His Majesty's pockets! A guard standing nearby trembled, his back soaked in cold sweat. "...My lord, what should we do?" That mob might very well include people he had personally whipped. He didn't dare let those beasts catch him. If Lord Sunil hadn't been watching, he would have slipped away long ago. In fact, he wasn't the only one thinking this way. When the mob came surging out from the harbor, many sharper guards had already guessed what was coming and fled out the back door in the chaos. Sunil gritted his teeth, a flicker of hesitation crossing his grim face, but in the end, his dread of authority won out. The nearly fifty thousand slaves held here were all His Majesty's property. They weren't just cheap manual laborers; among them were many high-quality, valuable goods. Even sold off at bargain prices, they could fetch two to three hundred million dinars—nearly equivalent to Golden Gallon Port's total annual export value. If that fortune were lost, His Majesty would fly into a murderous rage. Even the lightest punishment would see his entire family reduced to slavery. Cold sweat dripped from his brow. Seeing the rioters storming toward the gate, Sunil roared: "Prepare for battle!" Despair washed over the nearby guard's face, but meeting those ruthless eyes, he could only muster all his courage and choke out with a mournful face: "Yes, sir!" *** Generally speaking, when a resident of Golden Gallon Port sold off all their assets yet still couldn't repay their debts, and creditors were pressing hard, the Governor would benevolently buy up the "bad debt" in His Majesty's name at a price acceptable to the creditor. If the debt-ridden survivor could repay His Majesty's debt within the grace period, they could regain their freedom. If not, the notorious Camp Rowell was their final destination. The "inmates" here were treated like merchandise for buyers to pick through. Ordinary laborers were sold wholesale at a fixed rate to interested parties, while those with special skills or decent looks were marked at higher prices for capable buyers. The guards here usually didn't openly abuse the prisoners, at most applying necessary corporal punishment to lazy slaves. However, those who remained unsold saw their living conditions deteriorate rapidly. If a slave remained unsold for a year, regardless of their talents, they would be thrown into pigpens or shipped off to mines from which no one ever emerged alive. Thus, whenever the camp gates opened, prisoners in every compound grew taut with tension, rushing to the iron bars to crane their necks in anxious hope. Today, however, the main gates remained tightly shut, without a single sound from within. ...What on earth was happening? That question hung in nearly everyone's mind—until deafening artillery blasts and gunshots erupted outside the perimeter walls. Squads of flustered guards dashed toward the walls, firing into the streets from behind parapets. Yet the incoming firepower swept in like a tidal wave. Within minutes, over a dozen guards tumbled from the walls, leaving striking smears of blood on the open ground before the gate. The slaves in the compounds closest to the entrance were terrified and retreated as far back as they could. Outside the walls, the battle raged in full fury. The Moon Clan fighters assaulting Camp Rowell had already left over two hundred corpses behind, and casualties continued to climb. Their combat prowess wasn't high; they had overrun the already-battered garrison purely through sheer numbers and sudden ferocity. Though the guards in Camp Rowell were nowhere near as well-trained as General Abinan's garrison, they maintained cohesive units and occupied favorable terrain, inflicting heavy losses on the First Corps of the Avengers Alliance. Seeing that the rioters were all bark and no bite, Warden Sunil on the watchtower finally regained his nerve. Leaning forward, he roared toward Blackwater Street: "Haha, you shameless traitors! You dare dream of storming His Majesty's fortress?! You must be dreaming! Just you wait—the Gray Wolf Army stationed along the Everflowing River is already on its way! You will pay for today's atrocities!" Hearing the dread reputation of the Gray Wolf Army, many Moon Clan fighters flinched, including Laxi himself. Yet that hesitation was only momentary. Having come this far, there was no turning back. Watching the prolonged standoff from afar, Killing Dagger couldn't bear to watch any longer. Lowering his binoculars, he spoke into the comm channel: "Are we really not going to give them a hand?" Fighting like this would cost countless lives. A calm reply came over the channel: "They need to do this themselves. No one can do it for them... Hand over that captured 100mm cannon." Killing Dagger nodded. "Understood!" Meanwhile, around the corner of Blackwater Street, the Moon Clan warriors regrouped behind cover for a third assault. Seeing them stymied, Sunil grew even bolder, jeering wildly from behind the parapet: "It's useless! Give up, you wretched, lowborn slaves! You don't even know how to aim! Shoot at me, then! Come on! Bah!" Despite his taunts, he kept his head tucked behind the barrier. Only that foot-thick concrete wall gave him a true sense of security. The walls of Camp Rowell were five stories high, poured entirely of solid concrete, measuring nearly two meters thick at their narrowest points. The camp was garrisoned by a full five hundred guards—a hundred-man unit for each wall, with a reserve unit kept mobile. With the ammunition stored in the armory, he could hold out here until the end of time! Staring at the impregnable fortress, Laxi's face darkened. They had exhausted every trick they knew: hurling molotovs filled with pine nut oil and phosphorus, building crude catapults, even trying to smoke them out. Just then, several Moon Clan men carrying shovels pushed a 100mm field gun out of a narrow alley. "Our Alliance brothers gave us this!" Laxi's eyes lit up. He turned to the fighters around him and shouted: "Who knows how to fire an artillery piece?!" Naturally, none of them did. Yet after a brief hesitation, a scrawny, dark-skinned man raised his hand. "I've seen the garrison fire them! I can give it a shot!" Without a second thought, Laxi grabbed him by the shoulder, dragged him over to the gun, and pointed toward the distant gate. "It's in your hands!" The man gave a nervous nod, plucked a pointed shell from the ammo crate, rammed it into the breech from behind, and slammed the block shut. Directing the nearby fighters to point the barrel squarely at the iron gate, he grabbed the lanyard, dashed to the side, and screamed at the top of his lungs: "Fire!" The instant the word left his mouth, he yanked the cord. A blinding flash filled the narrow alley, shaking the neighboring buildings down to their foundations. A thick tracer screamed toward the distant gate, punching an inward-caving crater clean into the iron! Clutching his ringing ears and rising from the dust, Laxi saw the pierced gate and broke into a broad grin. "Hit it again! Quick!" Without waiting for orders, the makeshift gun crew was already figuring out how to extract the spent casing and reload the cannon. Seeing the hole blasted into the gate, Sunil nearly wet himself on the watchtower, all his prior arrogance evaporating in an instant. Just then, a second cannon blast rang out, and another orange-yellow tracer streaked toward the sealed iron gate. Then came a third— Finally, after taking five direct hits, the battered iron gate groaned and collapsed backward, kicking up billowing clouds of dust in the courtyard. Seeing the barrier fall, the Moon Clan's wavering morale soared. Raising their rifles, they surged toward the ruined entrance. "Kill them all!!!" The tidal roar of their battle cries seemed to tear through the smoke. Watching the horde pour in like an unstoppable flood, the defenders on the wall finally lost their nerve and began to fall back. "Hold the line! Don't let them in!" Scrambling down the watchtower in sheer panic, Sunil shrieked at the retreating guards, but nothing could stem the rout. The guards along the northeastern wall threw open the gate with everything they had and fled wildly toward the slums outside, discarding uniforms and weapons as they ran, leaving them to be snatched up by watching survivors. Watching the rioters charge right up to him, Sunil's face held not a shred of his earlier arrogance—only terror and pleading. He stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence: "I—I had no choice... I was only following orders..." Before he could finish, a rifle butt slammed into his head, sending stars exploding across his vision as he toppled backward. "Screw your mother!" The crowd swarmed him, stripping off his clothes, hacking him to death with blades, and hoisting his corpse up onto the watchtower where he had just stood. The slave pens were wrenched open one after another. Facing their familiar brethren, the imprisoned slaves were bewildered at first, but swept up in the fervor, they quickly joined the ranks. Surrendered guards were rounded up in the courtyard and executed; no one listened to their desperate pleas. Blinded by fury, the Moon Clan slaughtered the Emperor's lackeys in the most brutal ways imaginable to appease the souls of their fallen comrades. Triumphant cheers echoed through the cramped, pigeon-coop cages. Slaves joined in the celebration, whether they were Moon Clan or not. Watching from a distance, Killing Dagger relayed another update on the frontline situation: "...Camp Rowell has fallen completely. I think we'd better take control as soon as possible. If they keep running wild, things are going to get out of hand." Fang Chang's voice came through the channel: "...Mm, I'm leaving that sector to you. Handle the settlement of the liberated slaves and their training. We need them to have some combat readiness before the regular army arrives." Killing Dagger pulled a wry face. "You sure picked a 'cushy' job for me." Fang Chang chuckled softly. "Do a good job. I believe in you!" "I'll do what I can." Ending the transmission, Killing Dagger waved his hand and led his heavily armed squad toward Camp Rowell. This was an unorganized riot. Unlike the "Boers" of Boulder City, they had no Workers' Union organization, nor a picture-book manifesto to serve as guiding theory. Left unchecked, this untethered violence would soon spill over onto the ordinary bystander survivors watching the spectacle. After all, when they were being enslaved, those people had looked on with cold indifference. Now that they held guns, there was no telling if they would vent their rage on those weaker than themselves. No— They almost certainly would. Looking at the survivor named Laxi standing in the center of the camp, Killing Dagger walked over and offered him a cigarette. Laxi blinked, saw it was an ally in an exoskeleton, then broke into a grin and clamped the cigarette between his lips. "Thanks, brother. You guys will always be our brothers. We'll never forget the help you gave us today!" "I hope you mean that." Killing Dagger struck a match, lit it for him, then lit one for himself. Smoking in silence until it was finished, he looked into those wild, beast-like eyes and continued: "You've won an initial victory. As you saw, the Empire is just a paper tiger. The Emperor's lackeys are a bunch of spineless eunuchs—hyenas in human skin. "Yet even against hyenas in human skin, defeating them time and again won't be easy. Remember: a hungry wolf can win once, maybe twice, but only men can keep winning." Laxi frowned. "What do you mean?" Killing Dagger said, "I mean, rein in your men. The slaves here aren't your plunder—they are your people... I shouldn't need to remind you of that." "Of course," Laxi replied without hesitation. "How could I act like those beasts?" "I hope so. I'd like our investment to be a sound deal—at least one that won't bring us... trouble of our own," Killing Dagger cautioned as tactfully as he could. This counterattack was authorized only under the Alliance Constitution and the Player Handbook, granting players the right to launch limited counterattacks against any "non-whitelisted neutral faction" that actively attacked players. As for where the limits of that counterattack lay, the rules had no clear boundaries. The trash dev hadn't stopped them, which meant they hadn't violated server rules. Whether it went against the Administrator's wishes, however, was another matter. Ultimately, this was an operation conducted without direct authorization from the Administrator. The Alliance's path was not an "imperial route," but rather uniting suffering survivors. How to achieve that unity was a balance resting entirely in the players' hands. Barring any surprises, the Administrator had likely already received the report delivered by the airship Niuma. Since no one had received an order through the official website's quest system to halt operations, it meant the Administrator was temporarily neutral toward the campaign. They had to avoid doing things that would displease the Administrator, whether through direct actions or indirect fallout. Laxi furrowed his brow. "All right... Just tell me what to do, and we'll do it." His thinking was simple. You don't bite the hand that feeds you. Everything in their hands had been provided by the Alliance, and they would likely depend on Alliance supplies for a long time to come. Listening to their instructions was only natural. Besides, having charged all the way here on pure fury, he honestly had no idea what to do next. Drive the Emperor out of Tiandu? That was far too distant... Killing Dagger nodded in satisfaction and stuffed the rest of the cigarette pack into Laxi's flattered hands. "Now, we need to begin training you and help you establish a proper chain of command... Also, we need a few photographs. Can you cooperate with us on that?" Laxi paused. "Photographs?" Killing Dagger nodded again, glancing toward the pigeon-coop cages with their doors wide open. "Right. We'll need you to pick out some folks who look especially pitiful, and have them squat back inside those cages for a bit... Just five minutes will do. "You might find it pointless, but we need them to shut a few people's mouths."