Golden Gallon Port.
The slums near the Governor's Mansion.
A dense, dark crowd was currently packed into the open lot where the paupers usually hung their laundry to dry.
Though it was called a drying yard, most of what hung from the hemp ropes were rag-like scraps, barely sufficient to cover one's modesty.
With low literacy rates, an absence of contraception, and no other form of entertainment, the people here loved making babies whenever they had free time. As a result, there were far more people than clothes.
Some of the most destitute survivors even had to share a single robe among an entire family, worn by whoever needed to go outside.
Because of this, when Axin stood in the center of the crowd wearing a clean striped shirt and coarse canvas trousers, his appearance and bearing looked thoroughly out of place among the surrounding paupers dressed in tattered hand-me-downs or draped in bedsheets.
Eventually, after a round of jostling, an elderly man with a sallow complexion and a face lined with deep wrinkles was pushed forward.
His name was Jai. He was of the Rat Clan, not yet sixty, but looked ancient enough to have one foot in the grave.
Then again, in the slums of Golden Gallon Port, living to sixty was indeed a ripe old age. Most people finished their lives before reaching forty.
The people on this street unanimously agreed that since this was a boy of the Rat Clan, it was only fitting for an elder of the Rat Clan to step up and lecture him.
There were three things they needed to find out.
First, what those "iron men" had actually told him the other day. Second, where he had gotten the money to buy this fancy getup.
As for the third matter, which was also the most important:
What the hell did he mean, telling them all to move away?
The old man shoved to the front wore an expression of mild helplessness, but he understood all too well that he was the most suitable person for the job.
So he cleared his throat and looked sternly at the young man before him.
"Axin, you're a good boy. I watched you grow up. I even held you when you were no bigger than a coconut shell."
Axin nodded.
"I remember, Grandpa Jai."
A smile of relief appeared on the old man's face, but his crisscrossing wrinkles soon knit tightly together once more.
"We all know you're an honest, well-behaved boy. You and your family are good folk on this street. So you're on our side, right?"
"Of course."
Axin nodded again. He glanced at Grandpa Jai, then swept his eyes over the surrounding neighbors, and continued speaking at a deliberate pace.
"I can swear to my gods that I want everyone to live a good life more than anyone else."
The moment his voice trailed off, an indignant roar erupted from the side.
"Then what do you mean by telling us to move out?!"
That furious shout instantly ignited the crowd's tempers. A barrage of accusations flooded in, swallowing the two standing in the middle.
"Exactly! What are you playing at?!"
"This is our home! We're not going anywhere!"
"How much did those people pay you?!"
"Ha! Now I see where those clothes came from!"
"Bah! Ungrateful traitor!"
"I knew none of these rats were any good!"
"Quiet, everyone quiet down... let me speak to the boy." Jai's voice carried a note of pleading as he raised his hand in an attempt to calm the crowd, but all that answered him was a shower of spittle.
Nobody paid him any heed.
When it came down to it, the Rat Clan were just lowlifes.
Though they had the appearance of men, their hearts were like rats in the sewer. The people here looked down on them from the bottom of their souls.
Just as the Wolf Clan produced the fiercest, bravest warriors, the Rat Clan produced whores, pickpockets, thieves, and crooked merchants.
These wicked degenerates held a status only a sliver higher than the Moon Clan, who had been stripped of all property, rights, and personal freedom.
The people here had no doubt that the next ethnicity to be reduced to slavery would undoubtedly be these repulsive rats.
Permitting these inferiors to live under the glorious reign of the Empire was an outright disgrace!
Everything would be better off without them!
Bathed in the venomous insults of the crowd, Axin stared expressionlessly at the indignant faces. Suddenly, he felt like laughing.
His status was indeed base.
But were these people any better?
Even if one was as noble as a wolf, living in this godforsaken place still made them nothing more than a stray dog picking through trash. Even if one was as docile as a sheep, they had still birthed cold-blooded thugs and bandits.
On the other hand, his old father, who was looked down upon by everyone on this street, had lived an honest and diligent life, never offending a soul. His father had taught him and his siblings that they must remain honest, dutiful folk so that in their next life they could be reincarnated as superiors.
In all honesty, for the past seventeen years, Axin had indeed lived an honest, dutiful life, and had even planned to muddle through his whole existence that way.
Until yesterday, when these people had treated him like a sewer rat, shoving and driving him out of the crowd solely to test who those "iron men" were and what their attitude toward the locals was...
In that moment, standing alone on the street, he had suddenly despised his spineless self, and despised the people who had kept him living as a spineless wretch for seventeen years.
So much so that when those people handed him the gun, he had desperately wanted to drag out the bastards who had pushed him forward and shoot them dead on the spot.
Yet he hadn't.
Not out of mercy.
It was because he clearly understood who had given him the gun in his hands—or rather, the power over life and death.
Since his masters could place the gun in his hand, they could naturally take it back.
To hold onto this power, he had to do everything he could to please them.
When the time came to kill, his hand would not waver.
But right now.
He had to pull this off cleanly and at minimal cost—before expending the twelve bullets in his pistol.
Gripping the cold metal inside his pocket, he fought to overcome the terror in his heart and the instincts that had been engraved into his humanity over seventeen years.
Then, like an honest, timid boy, he nodded his head a third time—and the last time.
"That's right. I took money. A huge sum, too—a fortune you paupers couldn't imagine in your entire lives."
The surrounding area went dead silent in an instant.
He could sense that, aside from pure fury, the eyes looking back at him carried a hint of greed and longing.
Like hyenas spotting a hare.
They only resented that they hadn't been the ones to receive that gun from the Alliance; they wished they could rob every coin from his pockets.
Without pause, Axin mustered all his strength to maintain his composure and calmly delivered the words he had spent all night preparing.
"Forty thousand in total. Not only did I buy myself a set of new clothes—clothes worthy of the name—I bought sets for my brothers, sisters, and parents as well. Afterward, we plan to buy three pigs, plus some household supplies to make life a little more comfortable for everyone."
A slightly sturdier-looking man stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Axin.
"Why did they give you money? Those iron men."
Axin recognized him.
His name was Vikram, a member of the Wolf Clan. Rumor had it he had served as a soldier once, though whether he actually had was something only he knew.
Axin only knew that this guy was a notorious thug on this street. He had bullied his brothers and his timid father on more than a few occasions.
Axin understood perfectly well that the only reason this man hadn't directly reached out to rob him was not out of fear of Axin, but out of fear of the "iron men" who supposedly backed him.
And for that very reason...
No matter what, he could not lose the backing of those lords.
"I sold my house to them," Axin said expressionlessly, picturing the iron men standing right behind him as he continued at a measured pace. "The house belongs to them now. Whether they blow it up or use it for target practice is their prerogative."
A stir went through the crowd. Countless faces, including Vikram's, displayed shock and bewilderment.
"You can't do that!"
"That's not just your family's house! It's part of this street!"
"That's right!"
At the very least—
A cut of that fortune should have been theirs!
Vikram narrowed his eyes, his tone laced with a threat.
"Kid, I live right down the street from you! If an artillery shell lands on my place—"
"Then go take it up with them! With those iron men!" Seeing the endlessly bickering crowd, Axin suddenly exploded, cutting everyone off with a furious roar.
Nobody had expected this ordinarily meek, timid young man to throw such a violent tantrum. The area fell completely silent in an instant.
Even the street's notorious thug, Vikram, looked at him in astonishment, as if staring at a lunatic who had taken the wrong medicine.
Even so, the man merely stared.
Axin knew the bastard didn't dare lay a finger on him.
He was now utterly calm, and clearer-headed than ever.
He knew that the more brazenly he acted, the more these people would assume he had backing, and the more they would fear whatever gave him the courage to act so fearless.
Besides, they weren't guessing wrong.
He truly had that backing.
And it was gripped right in his hand!
Sweeping his gaze over the bewildered faces, Axin pressed on without losing an ounce of momentum.
"...Go on, band together and talk to those iron men! Tell them to go fight the Empire somewhere else! Or send another spineless coward to negotiate with His Majesty, asking him to hand over the port and the Governor's Mansion to those iron men!"
Looking at the stunned, speechless men, he offered a cold sneer.
"...You don't dare. You only dare pick on someone who looks easy to bully—preferably someone you know all too well, someone who toils away without complaint and never hits back when beaten or cursed at. Someone like me, standing right here."
"I'm the one driving you away, is that it? Then come kill me! And then watch your houses go boom and collapse into ruins! The imperial soldiers will use them as cover, and the iron men in the Governor's Mansion will use them for target practice! When the fighting is over and they dust themselves off and leave, you won't have a thing left except a pile of sand and dirt! Come on then! Are you missing your hands?!"
Nobody moved.
Not a single person even spoke.
Axin panted softly.
Never in his life had he spoken so many words in one breath, let alone in front of so many people.
Yet he was already standing here, like a rat cornered by feral cats.
The only thing he could do now was bluff.
If he showed fear, these people truly would kill him.
Gritting his teeth to suppress the trembling in his shoulders, Axin wracked his brain to recall the lines he had prepared last night, speaking them word by word.
"It's me—the pauper you looked down upon the most, a wretch poorer than any of you—who just negotiated a fair price for you! A price that turns your worthless shacks into at least four fat pigs you wouldn't have touched in your entire lives!"
"Forty thousand! Forty thousand Xilan coins! And if you're willing to tear them down yourselves, they'll give you another twenty thousand! That's a benefit I fought to get for you! Me!"
He shouted at the top of his lungs until his voice turned hoarse. The surrounding crowd instantly boiled like a pan of hot oil.
Forty thousand!
And another twenty thousand if they dismantled the shacks themselves!
Their crumbling mud hovels wouldn't fetch twenty thousand Xilan coins, let alone forty! Even if they were worth that much, nobody would ever buy them.
Many in the crowd were already tempted.
Just as the boy Axin had said, that sum was an astronomical fortune for most people living here.
With that money, they could go out to the countryside, build a slightly roomier cottage, and buy three or four fat pigs.
With pigs, they would be property-owning farmers—far better than squeezing into this slum to scavenge for odd jobs that couldn't even guarantee their next meal.
Seeing the crowd sway, Vikram began to panic.
He survived on protection fees, blackmail, and petty theft, all of which depended on defined turf.
If this neighborhood disappeared, he would be like a stray dog without a home, forced into other dogs' territory to fight for scraps.
Those meaner strays would tear him apart alive!
He wasn't opposed to selling his hovel for a good price.
But it had to be a fortune that could guarantee his livelihood for the rest of his days!
Ideally, it would let him become a true Wolf Clan member, instead of mingling with these paupers like a stray dog!
"Wait! Why only forty thousand—" Vikram put on a ferocious scowl and stepped forward, blustering.
If he brought a few men to negotiate with those iron men, maybe they could demand more—
Yet before the words left his mouth, a sudden gunshot cut him off.
With a bloody hole drilled into his forehead, Vikram's wide, stunned eyes stared at the trembling arm of the young man before him. Moments later, he crashed heavily to the ground, red and white spilling across the dirt.
He had no idea.
Someone had been lining up his head for a very long time.
At the sound of the gunshot, the crowd surged in panic, like monkeys splashed with boiling oil—not surging forward, but scrambling backward in terror.
Jai stared in disbelief at the young Rat Clan boy holding the gun, looking as if he were beholding something utterly blasphemous. His voice trembled.
"You killed someone..."
"Yes. Let me be an animal in my next life, then."
Fighting to conceal the tremor in his index finger and arm, Axin slipped the gun back into his pocket and tossed out the words coldly. Then, looking around at the crowd, he continued:
"What about the rest of you? Are you taking the money and getting the hell out of here, or do you want to end up like him?"
Just as he had expected.
Nobody cared about the corpse.
People died here every few days, whether from starvation or disease; no one ever gave a damn.
Even with the Governor's Mansion right next door.
What they cared about far more was the gun in his hand—the weapon bestowed by the iron men that symbolized authority, even if it only had eleven bullets left inside.
Beyond that—
They cared about themselves.
Or rather, the money.
As for Vikram.
The bastard was already dead.
Hardly anyone had liked him when he was alive, let alone now that he was lying on the ground. A mass grave was his final destination.
The man standing behind Vikram swallowed hard, suppressing the panic on his face as he stared at the youth in the middle of the crowd and spoke up:
"Can you... guarantee you'll get us that money?"
Axin replied without hesitation.
"I guarantee it."
The man hesitated for a moment, nodded, and stepped forward.
Axin stared fixedly at him. Though panic raged inside him, none of it showed on his face, which was numb from the sight of blood.
One step.
Two steps...
Three meters away, the man suddenly halted and took a deep breath.
"...Thank you for everything you've done for us."
Swallowing, he added:
"Just like you said... this place will turn to ruins soon anyway. Even if we don't take the money, nothing will change."
The surroundings fell quiet for several seconds.
People seemed astonished by his agreement.
Soon, however, scattered voices began to chime in.
"It's true..."
"That price is generous enough."
"His Majesty wouldn't give us a copper."
"My shack has been leaking for a while now anyway. It's about time to build a new one."
With someone taking the lead, everything became much easier.
Though those reluctant agreements carried a trace of hesitation, their underlying sentiment came as no surprise, turning into affirmation and praise for Axin.
Seeing the compliant crowd, Axin breathed an internal sigh of relief. Yet he offered no gratitude to the man, merely looking at him coldly.
"Your name."
The man answered respectfully,
"Kunal... Dog Clan."
Axin nodded.
"From now on, you're my man."
The man's face lit up with joy.
Just then, tiny droplets began to fall from the sky, which had darkened with thick storm clouds at some point, pattering one after another onto the bloodstained mud.
Realizing it was raining, the crowd dashed like dogs hearing a dinner bell toward the clothes and bedsheets hanging on the hemp ropes, scrambling to gather them into their arms for fear they would get soaked—and even more for fear that someone else would snatch them in the confusion.
Axin merely crouched down, picked up a spent casing from the ground, and used his trembling thumb to wipe away the mud clinging to it.
"Go bury him." He fought to keep any trace of cowardice out of his voice.
Standing in the rain, Kunal bowed respectfully, like a loyal servant.
"Yes, sir!"
Not just Kunal.
Several other men grabbed Vikram's arms and legs as he lay on the ground and hauled him away from the square.
From this moment on, they were all his lackeys.
None of it needed to be stated aloud.
Crouching in the rain, Axin did not get up. He merely gazed in a daze at the pool of blood in the distance that hadn't yet been washed away by the rainwater.
This was his first time taking a life.
He realized that as long as one didn't treat a person like a person, but rather like a beast of burden, doing it was far easier than he had imagined.
Even though his arm felt numb, the web between his thumb and index finger throbbed with pain, and his trembling legs couldn't manage to stand...
***
"Damn it, it's raining."
"Hurry, let's find somewhere to take cover."
In the slums near Blackwater Street, not far from Camp Rowell.
Four players patrolling the alleyway noticed the rain falling from above, gathering momentum as if it would only pour harder. They hurried under the eaves of a nearby shack.
Unfortunately, the eaves were far too narrow, and the wind blew sideways. No matter how close they pressed against the wall, raindrops still pelted their armor.
The Type 5 exoskeleton boasted decent water resistance, but water getting into the seams around the ballistic inserts was troublesome, and some moving parts would require re-oiling and maintenance.
The more complex a machine was, the pickier it became about operating conditions. Perhaps the only truly rugged gear around was the Mosquito ultralight craft made by Goblin Tech.
Perhaps...
They ought to hire a few NPCs to handle the maintenance.
As Shanhe Rumeng mused on this, he noticed several pairs of dark, bright eyes peering out at them through the crack of a half-open window.
He glanced at Ling Chong, the Perception-type player beside him, who shook his head.
"No killing intent."
Shanhe Rumeng walked up to the door and knocked.
The door opened swiftly, and a wrinkled face poked out from behind the gap, fearful eyes filled with unease.
"My lords?"
"We're just taking shelter from the rain."
With that, Shanhe Rumeng pulled out a hundred-denomination Xilan coin banknote and stuffed it into the hands of the stunned old man.
"Th-thank you." Trembling with gratitude, the old man backed away to clear the entrance.
The interior was dimly lit, but barely visible.
A single table sat inside the room of less than ten square meters, piled with a few pots, bowls, and ladles. Those pairs of dark, gleaming eyes were hidden right behind that table.
They were children of about eleven or twelve, their skin sallow and their faces dirty. There were boys and girls, each wrapped in nothing more than a sheet of fabric fringed with frayed linen, looking as though it had been torn from a single curtain or bedsheet.
Looking at the polished exoskeletons and the rifles slung across their chests, the children's faces held both timidity and curiosity.
They had never seen iron men clad in armor like this. They only felt that these people appeared even more formidable than soldiers carrying rifles.
Two slightly older girls, their faces filled with fear and apprehension, quietly climbed the ladder to the upper floor at their mother's urging.
A flicker of pity passed through Shanhe Rumeng's eyes, but he said nothing. He simply stood near the doorway with his three teammates to stay out of the rain, doing his best not to disturb the family's life.
The two sides faced each other in silence, with only the patter of rain falling outside the window.
After a while, perhaps realizing that these "iron men" weren't so terrifying—and unable to see their eyes behind the visors—the adults and children inside the room gradually stopped paying them much attention.
Except for the three women who had gone upstairs and hadn't come back down, the rest gathered around the table. Using their hands, they scooped fist-sized clumps of mud out of an iron basin filled with reddish-brown sludge and flattened them across the tabletop into patties.
Muttering something under his breath, the old man reached into a nearby basket with mud-caked hands, grabbed some crushed wild herb leaves, pepper powder, and nutmeg powder, and sprinkled them over the mud cakes in turn.
The players standing by the door exchanged glances, involuntarily swallowing dryly, and conversed in hushed tones over the comms channel.
"Is that... dirt?"
"Probably."
"Holy crap..."
"Looking at that, nutrient paste actually tastes pretty good."
"They even have seasonings, though."
Shanhe Rumeng kept silent.
He remembered seeing a post by Sisi mentioning a vast stretch of red soil located north of Golden Gallon Port.
That red earth differed completely from what they typically understood as edible white clay, both in color and composition. It seemed to have undergone artificial conditioning; although nothing could grow in it, once boiled to filter out the sand and gravel and then drained, it could be eaten directly.
Local paupers would mix in plant fibers and seasonings to make it less unpalatable.
Naturally, while eating this conditioned soil wasn't as dangerous as consuming raw kaolin clay, eating it seven days a week was out of the question.
Most of the underclass in Golden Gallon Port still relied on black beans and a larger chickpea-like legume as their staples, supplemented by various wild berries and greens. As for protein, they relied mainly on insects and freshwater snails.
The "mud cakes" were merely a supplement when times were tight.
In short, because the area lay at the junction of tropical and subtropical zones along the alluvial plains of the Eternal River, food sources were relatively plentiful.
That was precisely why this settlement could sustain so vast a population—one that far exceeded the land's carrying capacity.
Yet the survivors living here were merely staying alive, possessing even less dignity than the cattle in the pens.
At least only outsiders were permitted to eat the cattle.
Before long, the man finished his seasoning ritual, and the mud cakes on the table had turned half-dry.
He picked up a few cakes, placed them in a palm-sized bowl, and handed it to an older child, whispering instructions to take them upstairs to the mother and older sisters.
Then he rubbed his hands together and signaled the rest of the family, who had long been swallowing their saliva, to begin eating.
Standing by the door, Ling Chong couldn't bear to watch any longer. He pulled out a compressed ration bar from his backpack, stepped forward despite his squad leader's warning glance, and, under the terrified gazes of the family, thrust it into the hands of the nearest child. In the Human Alliance language, he whispered:
"Eat this."
He knew perfectly well that doing this achieved nothing. It was like stuffing gold coins into the house of a destitute NPC—it changed nothing.
Yet he did it anyway.
There was no particular reason. Wasn't playing a game all about following one's conscience?
Shanhe Rumeng shook his head, but didn't intervene. Standing beside him, Erliang Yueguang quietly gave a thumbs-up.
The little girl, who reached only as high as his exoskeleton's chest plate, widened her dark eyes. Peering through her tangled, unkempt hair, she stared straight at him, then looked over at her father. Seeing no objection, she took a bite of the plastic packaging.
Seeing her prick her lips on the jagged plastic edge, Ling Chong quickly gestured with his hands.
"You have to tear it open, like this."
The little girl hesitated for a moment, clumsily mimicked his motion to tear open the wrapper, and tentatively took another bite.
Instantly, her eyes went round. Those dark pupils seemed to brighten with color, shimmering with a hazy sheen.
It was a delicious flavor she had never tasted before.
She wolfed it down, stuffing it into her mouth. Seeing this, Ling Chong glanced around and found no water containers. Gritting his teeth, he took a bottle of water from his backpack, twisted the cap off, and held it out.
"Don't choke."
Sure enough, the little girl began to cough violently. Grabbing the bottle, she gulped down half of it before catching her breath.
Flipping open his helmet visor, Ling Chong squatted down, smiled, and gently patted her tangled hair, asking in a gentle tone:
"What's your name?"
"Anuo."
Doesn't that sound like a boy's name?
Whatever.
Ling Chong didn't care. He smiled and continued:
"My name is Ling Chong. If you ever see bad guys holding those long-barrel guns, go find us over there."
As he spoke, he pointed in the direction of Camp Rowell, where their company and the rebel forces were stationed.
Her mouth coated in biscuit crumbs, Anuo nodded her little head vigorously, licking her fingers with lingering relish, though who knew whether she had registered a word he said.
The other children watched with wide, longing eyes, swallowing saliva, the sticky mud cakes in their hands instantly losing all appeal.
Figuring he had already given some away and one more wouldn't hurt, Ling Chong simply took out the last few compressed biscuits from his backpack and handed them out to everyone present, including their father—the deeply wrinkled older man.
Watching the children devour the food, Ling Chong felt a surge of satisfaction, a contented smile spreading across his face.
A few compressed biscuits barely cost anything. Besides, nobody really ate them; they were only carried as temporary emergency rations just in case.
The slightly older boy took his younger brother upstairs, apparently planning to share the delicacy brought by the "iron men" with their mother and sisters.
The older man, however, stared silently at the biscuit in his hand with a sorrowful expression, seeming to ponder something.
Finally, as if making up his mind, he looked pleadingly at the smiling Ling Chong.
"Anuo is too young... take another one instead."
The smile on Ling Chong's face instantly froze.
"What?!"
Erliang Yueguang couldn't hold back a burst of laughter, clutching his stomach as he leaned against the mud wall. Shanhe Rumeng looked at him with dark lines all over his face, then turned away in second-hand embarrassment.
Banben Chusheng, who had remained quiet the entire time, suddenly shuddered as if his soul had returned to his body, and spoke up:
"In Bolo Province, only elders and husbands can touch a woman's head. If she's unmarried, touching her head is considered a marriage proposal... I just logged off to check Old Si's forum post."
"What the fuck?!"
Shanhe Rumeng sighed.
"Drag him outside and shoot him."
Erliang Yueguang, who had given a thumbs-up just a moment earlier, nodded in solemn agreement.
"+1. What a complete monster."
Banben Chusheng: "...?"
"Wait, how the hell was I supposed to know?! That doesn't count!"
Scrambling up from the floor, Ling Chong tried desperately to explain, caught between tears and laughter, yet all three teammates looked at him with pure disgust.
The little girl named Anuo merely kept licking her fingers, utterly indifferent to their gibberish, having no idea why her father was sighing.
Her dark eyes remained glued to the backpack that held the delicacies. Her mind was occupied by only one thought:
If only she could have one more piece.
Without them noticing, the rain outside had stopped.
Just as Shanhe Rumeng was about to lead his three teammates away as quickly as possible, a gunshot outside suddenly shattered the post-rain tranquility.
That was the sound of a Ripper rifle!
The four of them snapped to alert.
Without waiting to say goodbye to the family, Shanhe Rumeng shoved the door open and dashed onto the street. His three fully armed teammates followed right behind him.
Boosted by their exoskeletons, the four moved like lightning. Within a single breath, they spread into formation toward the source of the gunshot, taking cover and raising their rifles.
Yet to their sheer surprise, the group of gun-toting figures across the street were not their enemies.
They were their own people...
Chapter 700