A Vacuum of Order

Rowell Camp. The heavy downpour that had just passed washed the blood lingering in the mud into the roadside puddles, blending a persistent metallic tang of gore into the fresh scent of earth. Yet the people here seemed long accustomed to death, so much so that the blood staining the street looked as though it had been spilled in vain. Before the gate previously blown open by a 100mm cannon, a dense crowd of paupers had gathered to watch the commotion. Among them were residents from nearby streets, newly liberated slaves, and militiamen from the First Corps of the Avengers Alliance standing guard at the camp entrance. Right at the center of the crowd stood ten militiamen. All of them wore white gauze tied around their arms for identification, their hands bound behind their backs with plastic zip-ties. Their expressions varied wildly: some were furious, some nonchalant, others indignant, and a few visibly anxious and hesitant, sensing impending doom. Not far from them lay two corpses, a man and a woman. The man looked to be in his early thirties, the woman around twenty-five or twenty-six—evidently husband and wife. The former’s abdomen had been slashed open with a bayonet, while the latter had a bloody hole punched into her forehead. Both bodies bore distinct bruises and lacerations; they had clearly suffered greatly before dying. Beside the two corpses, two disheveled young girls huddled in the mud, shivering beneath a single blanket barely large enough to preserve their modesty. Their blank, expressionless faces were streaked with frozen tears of terror and dull shock, streaked with mud like dirty water. The two girls seemed to have forgotten how to cry, only letting out sporadic, ragged gasps like fish stranded on a dry bank. Looking at the disarmed militia patrol, the corpses on the ground, and the two girls wrapped in the blanket, Killing Dagger, who had just stepped out of the camp gate, could guess what had happened with his eyes closed. Even so, he turned to the four players standing next to the girls to confirm. "What happened?" Shan He Ru Meng stepped forward, flipped up his helmet’s visor, glanced at the disarmed men, and gave a straightforward report. "...We were sheltering from the rain near Blackwater Street when we suddenly heard a gunshot. When we came out, we saw these guys coming out of a residence." His action recorder had captured everything. He had no desire to describe the scene in detail; it was enough to say these bastards had committed atrocities even beasts would shrink from. Reading the player's grim expression, Killing Dagger could already piece together the rest. He shifted his gaze toward the militiamen with white armbands. Although the militiamen couldn't understand what these Iron Men were saying, they could certainly read a murderous glare. The leader panicked at once and cried out, attempting to defend himself. "That man! He was a jailer at Rowell Camp! We found an imperial rifle and a guard's uniform in his house!" "Can you prove his rifle and clothes weren't scavenged? And who gave you permission to break into their home?!" Killing Dagger glared daggers at him. "Even if he was a jailer, even if he committed unforgivable crimes, what does that have to do with his family?" The militiamen wore looks of defiance, and their eyes even carried a flicker of incomprehension. The leader fell silent, but the man standing beside him took a step forward. "We only went inside to get out of the rain! And... didn't you guys do the same? I saw them coming out of someone's house too!" As he spoke, he turned an indignant glare toward the four Iron Men who had disarmed them. Killing Dagger looked back at Shan He Ru Meng. Shan He Ru Meng froze, then explained awkwardly, "We did go inside, but we genuinely just went in to shelter from the rain... and I even paid them! That family can vouch for us. Hell, if you don't believe me, I can pull up the recorder footage. I had it running the entire time." Ling Chong’s face changed. *Holy shit?!* If they played that recording right here, he’d never wash his hands clean of that head-patting misunderstanding even if he jumped into the Yellow River! Fortunately, Killing Dagger didn't do that. He merely tapped on his VM a couple of times, likely conferring with other players on how to handle the situation. Seeing that things were getting interesting, the surrounding crowd of onlookers grew thicker, pointing and gossiping among themselves. The "Iron Men" and the armed former slaves were at each other's throats. They were simply curious to see how this farce would end. As for the dead man on the ground, someone seemed to recognize him, and several nearby survivors were whispering excitedly. "Abhishek really was a jailer at Rowell Camp, I think. I heard someone mention it before—actually, he said it himself." "How come I heard he was a shoeshiner?" "Come on, that guy was just a porter, and a braggart drunk at that. For all we know, he'd be claiming he was the Emperor's Praetorian Guard tomorrow." "He even had money for liquor?!" "Where would he get the money! Every day he'd squat at the pier picking up whatever the sailors left behind. Last time, I saw someone piss in a bottle and hand it to him. He picked it up, took a sip, and downed the whole damn thing! Later he even told us the Wilante people's booze tasted unusually sweet!" "Hahaha!" "Pity his two daughters, though, dragged down with their old man. Tsk, tsk." "Faces don't look half bad either, just a bit dirty." "After suffering so much, they definitely need some comforting, heh heh." Right then, a horn honked from behind the crowd as a desert-camo wheeled off-road vehicle with a roof-mounted machine gun drove up. The onlookers scrambled out of the way. The door swung open, and Fang Chang hopped out. Ignoring the spectating mob, he walked straight up to Killing Dagger. "I already know the situation. Where's Laxi?" No sooner had the words left his mouth than a crew-cut man walked over from the camp gate, bowing respectfully. "My lord, were you looking for me?" White gauze was wrapped around his arm, a Ripper assault rifle was slung across his back, and a fresh, unhealed scar crossed his cheek, seemingly left over from yesterday's fighting. Fang Chang narrowed his eyes slightly, staring intently at him. "My brother told you to keep your subordinates in check. Is this your idea of keeping them in check?" Laxi looked taken aback. He glanced at the corpses on the ground, looked at the tied-up men, and finally looked back at Fang Chang. "I heard they killed imperial soldiers." "I heard he was killed in his own home," Fang Chang sneered. "And did their bayonets grow out of their belt buckles?" Laxi froze slightly. Then, he walked over to the ten disarmed militiamen, jutting his chin toward the two corpses and the girls wrapped in the blanket. "Did you do this?" His eyes were like those of a wild beast, devoid of the slightest emotion. It was impossible to tell whether he was furious at his men's brutality or felt pity for the poor girls' plight. Pinned beneath those soul-sucking pupils, the squad leader's breathing turned ragged, and he finally averted his gaze. "...I was wrong." Laxi nodded, seemingly accepting the answer. He turned and took a few steps away, then suddenly spun around and flicked off the safety on his rifle. The sudden turn of events startled the surrounding crowd. Even the ten militiamen facing the gun barrel were dumbfounded, completely forgetting to beg for mercy in that split second. Nor did Laxi have any intention of listening to pleas, giving them no time to utter last words before ruthlessly pulling the trigger. A rapid burst of gunfire tore through the air. The ten bound militiamen instantly collapsed like popped balloons, twitching as though electrocuted before slumping into pools of blood. "Aaaah!" Terrified by the bloody spectacle, the onlookers screamed and scrambled backward. The two girls slumped on the ground stared at the carnage with hollow, vacant eyes. Having emptied the rifle's magazine, Laxi tossed it aside, drew the pistol from his waist, stepped forward, and emptied the remaining rounds into those who were still breathing. A dead silence fell over the square. Whether it was the militiamen at the camp gate or the players standing by, everyone fell silent before this mad dog of a man. Fang Chang narrowed his eyes slightly, thoughts racing behind his expression. He neither stopped the execution nor praised it as righteous. Killing Dagger stared at Laxi with wide eyes. After holding his breath for several seconds, he abruptly stepped forward and bellowed at him. "What the hell are you doing?!" "Calm down, brother. They crossed the line, and now they're dead." Pushed back a few paces by the aggressive glare, Laxi showed no sign of fear, continuing in a matter-of-fact tone. "If you're still not satisfied, I can drag out everyone in their company and shoot them too." Killing Dagger's eyes bulged. "Are you out of your mind?!" Laxi looked at the yelling man in confusion. After a long pause, he blurted out, "Is that still not enough?" Killing Dagger stared dumbly at him, momentarily at a loss for words. In a sense, the man had resolved the problem cleanly and decisively, yet he had also resolved nothing at all. Still, it was just as he had said. The culprits were killed, their lives paid in restitution. Was that not enough? Those executed men had been slaves just yesterday, having tasted freedom for barely a day. They had nothing else to offer in compensation except their lives. "That's enough," Fang Chang suddenly spoke up, breaking the rigid standoff. Walking up to Laxi, he patted the mad dog on the shoulder, gave his tensed cheek a gentle pat, and offered a disarming smile to defuse the tension. "A good kill. They certainly deserved to die, but your method was far too crude. You need to establish rules, teach your men what they cannot do and what punishment awaits them if they do, instead of just hauling everyone to a square and riddling them with bullets. Otherwise, people won't accept it." Laxi bowed respectfully. "Understood!" His obedient posture was beyond reproach. Glancing at the corpses on the ground, Fang Chang said slowly, "Take a few men and go bury them." Laxi acknowledged the order, turned back to retrieve his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and barked at several subordinates to carry the corpses away for burial. The issue of "people not accepting it" didn't seem to exist at all. The soldiers harbored no resentment toward their leader for executing their own comrades; instead, the gaze they directed at him became even more reverent and submissive. None of this surprised Fang Chang. Freshly released from their cages, these people were not yet fully civilized human beings in the modern sense. Beasts who lived by the law of the jungle naturally preferred to follow the fiercest among them. Watching Fang Chang step away from Laxi, Killing Dagger hesitated for a moment before he couldn't help saying, "I feel like those men should have at least faced a legal trial. This was actually a good opportunity to use them for propaganda—" "Come off it. They're already dead; what's the point of putting corpses on trial? The one who deserves a trial the most is still hanging from the watchtower." Cutting Killing Dagger off, Fang Chang narrowed his eyes at the camp warden hanging from the watchtower to be pecked by crows, then continued patiently, "The things you're talking about are far too ahead of the patch for them. They're still living in a primitive jungle society; they don't need that stuff yet. Don't forget, before the survivors in Qingquan City even had clean clothes to wear, when did we ever waste time giving marauders a trial? That kind of thing only comes after people are fed and warm." "At this stage, I have only one requirement for them: obedience. Do what we tell them to do. That's the only requirement. That way, even if their discipline is absolute garbage, it's still infinitely better than an emperor who shoved five percent of the population into concentration camps." "As for everything else, we can't rush it." The militiamen's atrocities were partly the vengeful backlash of oppressed people who had suddenly found their spines, but even more so, they were the inevitable consequence of a vacuum of order. The aftershocks of this uprising extended far beyond the few examples caught here today. The rebel army would exercise some restraint out of deference to the Alliance, but the thugs who scavenged weapons from routed imperial troops would only be crueler and more unscrupulous. Who knew how many tragedies were unfolding in dark alleys right at this very moment? To fundamentally solve this problem, a new order had to be established locally to replace the old regime from Governor Nihak's reign. He was already working on that very task. Director Bihari was leading his lackeys to take over police affairs throughout the city, and the training of the militia was progressing in an orderly fashion. They weren't doing a stellar job, but it was enough. Once the new order was established, they only needed to ensure the local survivors were fed, clothed, and sheltered... able to live with just a sliver more dignity than under Nihak's rule, and this new order would naturally gain sufficient legitimacy to maintain governance in the hearts of the locals. It wasn't actually that difficult. A certain gullible emperor had left them a massive fortune that could be put right to use for this purpose. Hauling all that money straight back home would have felt a bit shameless anyway. After deducting the war reparations, "borrowing" the rest under the name of Baiyue Company to invest in the local population would not only earn a glowing reputation for the Alliance and Port French Fries, but also yield another hefty profit along the way. "What about them? What do we do with them?" Killing Dagger glanced at the two girls slumped on the ground, then looked back at Fang Chang. No matter how many macro-level solutions existed, they still had to resolve the immediate situation before them. At least in his eyes, it had to be resolved. All around them, pairs of eyes were watching. Fang Chang remained silent for a long time, then sighed. "Give them two ferry tickets..." Perhaps the survivors at Port French Fries could help them start a new life, just like the people at the Refugee Home. Aside from giving them some financial compensation and sending them far away from this troubled place, he couldn't think of a better solution for now... ... As the corpses and the two unfortunate victims were taken away from the gates of Rowell Camp, the crowd of survivors who had gathered to watch gradually dispersed in disappointment. Although the "White Gauzes'" completely flaccid posture before the "Iron Men" struck everyone as dull, blood had at least been spilled in the end, much to their delight. That guy named Laxi was ruthless, gunning down his own men without batting an eye, slaughtering them like chickens. Those executed lads had truly met rotten luck. It hadn't been that big of a deal—at most, they'd have had to pay two pigs—yet they happened to walk straight into the muzzle of a gun. And besides— It turned out that getting shot didn't kill you instantly; people flopped around in their own blood like fish for a while before finally drawing their last breath. Everyone was pleased; their time spent watching the spectacle hadn't gone to waste. As for the two girls wrapped in the blanket, their fate drew equal curiosity. Some claimed the Iron Men had taken a fancy to them; otherwise, there was no reason to haul them away instead of just sending them home. Others speculated they would be disposed of in secret; after all, since the White Gauzes had given the Iron Men so much face, the Iron Men had to return the courtesy in some fashion. Everyone wracked their brains in their own way, attempting to explain these incomprehensible anomalies. At least they tried. Watching the commotion outside die down, Han Mingyue pushed open the car door and stepped out. Casting merely a passing glance at the bloodstains on the ground, she walked toward the camp gate with complete indifference. Waiting there, Fang Chang gave her an extra look, somewhat surprised. "You're not afraid?" In his impression, aside from the "fallen" disciples of the Enlightenment Society, most Blue Coats on the wasteland had an extraordinary moral squeamishness. He had even braced himself to be scolded by this NPC, yet the expected lecture never came. Instead, he was the one looking like he was making a fuss over nothing. "Did you think the Great Desert was some peaceful paradise?" Han Mingyue teased nonchalantly. "Besides, studying this place is my job. How could I not know what condition the survivors here are in?" *Fair point.* Fang Chang understood immediately. To her, looking at the people here was probably no different from Heya looking at Xiao Yu. Walking into Rowell Camp, Ms. Han glanced around, her eyes gleaming with keen interest. "It really is here..." she murmured. "Here?" Fang Chang looked around. Aside from stacks of cramped pigeonhole shacks and rows of open iron-bar gates, there didn't seem to be anything special. Yet Ms. Han clearly took a different view. Snapping a picture of the layout, she remarked with palpable nostalgia, "...According to the data I gathered in the Great Desert, this was once a scientific research station. During the Three-Year War, a battalion-sized combat unit belonging to the People's Federation Army escorted a massive column of refugees here from the southern industrial zone, maintaining order for quite a long time during the early Wasteland Era." Fang Chang suddenly grew curious about a strange detail. "Is Rowell the name of that battalion commander? Or the name of the research station?" Han Mingyue replied, "The commander's. His name was 'General Rowell.' In the cached data of a signal repeater, I found complaints and accusations against him from survivors of that time, even demands for the People's Federation authorities to relieve him of command. Similar grievances never ceased until the end of the Three-Year War, though they seemed to have had little effect." "According to the timestamp signature on the server, the final transmission was sent by General Rowell himself. It seems he intended to report his work to the Post-War Reconstruction Committee, or perhaps justify his actions. Regrettably, the committee never received the message, and at that time, they lacked the capacity to care about survivors in far-off Bolo Province." "In that message, General Rowell mentioned that aside from mandatory measures taken for survival, he adopted several unorthodox methods to keep the local survivors fed. These included forcing researchers to study how to make soil edible, and forcing certain survivors to serve as lab rats for taste tests." "Remarkably, the researchers under his command actually used the station's equipment to synthesize a single-celled organism capable of breaking down biomass remains. Once processed by this microorganism, the soil turned a reddish-brown and could be consumed after simple filtration." "Unfortunately, halfway through the project, an uprising broke out in Rowell Camp. The rebel survivors buried General Rowell, his researchers, and their research findings altogether in the wasteland north of Rowell Camp, near the Everflowing River... That area was likely permafrost back then, and they expended immense effort to dig a pit large enough. If my hypothesis is correct, there should be an expanse of red soil north of Golden Gallon Port." Fang Chang asked, puzzled, "Why did the survivors rebel against him?" Glancing at the mud cakes laid out to dry on stone slabs in an open space not far away, Han Mingyue said casually, "Matter does not arise out of thin air; it merely flows from one cycle into the next. Why don't you guess where the organic matter used to synthesize 'red soil' came from?" Without waiting for Fang Chang to guess, she continued, "People had to constantly feed corpses, excrement, and other organic remains into the red soil. Only then could the red soil continuously 'grow,' or else they'd have to wait for it to cultivate at a snail's pace." "From a carbon-fixation perspective, this wasn't actually more efficient than farming; its sole advantage was convenience. General Rowell didn't fundamentally solve the problem. He probably read a few Old World books and, with simple-minded good intentions, did what he believed was a good deed, only to be buried by the first generation of survivors who hadn't yet lost their minds." *Holy hell.* *Soil made from buried corpses?!* Fang Chang's Adam's apple bobbed; just hearing it made his stomach churn. Yet the researcher acted completely unfazed, even curling her lips into a meaningful smile. "...The irony is that while General Rowell looks like an arrogant, incompetent fool in hindsight, the descendants of those survivors proved far stupider than him, having abandoned all civilized inhibitions. His fantastical scheme, matched with an even stupider group of people, actually allowed them to live quite contentedly." "In your view, is there a better way?" Fang Chang was curious what good ideas a sociologist might offer. Han Mingyue smiled faintly. "I think your approach is pretty good. Your Administrator is quite a capable person—doing the right things at the right time, without delusions of leaping straight to the finish line... As for specific ideas, my work leans toward theory. I can only offer advisory recommendations, not direct solutions." Pausing, she surveyed her surroundings and added, "I need to stay here for a few days. Although most of the original buildings have been demolished, there should still be some useful clues... Can you guarantee my safety?" Fang Chang offered friendly advice. "I suggest you stay at the port. That's the area under our actual control; this place could become the front line at any moment." Han Mingyue nodded crisply. "Fair enough. I'll follow your lead." ... On the day after the Dolphin delivered the second wave of supplies and the Scientific Expedition's researchers to Port French Fries, Duke Garava, far away in Dawn City First Hospital, finally drifted awake on his sickbed. Before he could fully open his eyes, an anxious, eager cry flopped right beside the bed with a thud. "My lord! You're awake?!" Memories prior to his fainting spell rushed in like a tide. Looking at his servant Niyang kneeling by the bed, Duke Garava extended a trembling hand and grabbed his arm. "Gold..." He sounded like a drowning parrot, struggling to force the words stuck in his throat. Niyang instantly understood his expression and said hurriedly, "Rest assured, my lord! I've already dispatched someone to send word to His Majesty regarding Golden Gallon Port! If all went smoothly, the messenger has reached Silver Moon Bay by now. Using the radio station there, we can contact our scouts on the eastern coast of Bolo Province. By tomorrow at the latest, His Majesty will know the situation here!" Duke Garava breathed a sigh of relief. The Golden Gallon Port garrison was utterly useless, but the empire's military was far more than a mere garrison; those good-for-nothings weren't even fit to be cannon fodder. As long as His Majesty was informed, deploying the Gray Wolf Army stationed along the Everflowing River would drive the Alliance back into the sea in a matter of minutes. He admitted he had miscalculated this time, caught completely off guard by the Alliance and taking a heavy loss both strategically and morally. No matter. As long as they recaptured Golden Gallon Port, they would hold the initiative in ceasefire negotiations, and everything would be back on the table. A look of relief surfacing on his face, Duke Garava nodded slowly and released his grip on Niyang's arm. "Well done... In critical moments, you're the one who can be counted on." It was only a pity his status was so low. Otherwise, he might have considered promoting this clever fellow to a post with real authority. Niyang offered a shy, ingratiating smile. "It is all thanks to Your Grace's excellent guidance." Garava nodded slowly, then stared up at the stark white ceiling. After a long silence, he rasped, "Where is this?" Niyang replied quickly, "Dawn City First Hospital. It's the best hospital around." Seeing Niyang pause, Babulu, who was standing nearby, finally found an opportunity to chime in, adding in a muffled voice, "The doctors here say there's a problem with your heart. If you want a permanent cure, they recommend replacing it with a bionic heart. To that end, they offered two quality options: one from Megalith Military, and one from Ideal City—" In fact, there was a third option: a biological cybernetic implant. However, that procedure was far too radical, supposedly only suitable for Shelter 404 residents or mutant slime mold carriers, so the doctor had only mentioned it in passing. Yet before he could finish speaking, a sharp rebuke cut him off. "Shut your mouth!" Glaring fiercely at him, Niyang snapped aggressively, "You want the Alliance to cut open His Grace's belly and chest?! What are your intentions?!" Babulu's mouth fell open, staring at Niyang in bewilderment. What intentions could he possibly have? He was merely performing his duty as a servant, faithfully relaying the doctor's exact words. Yet, being slow of speech, he panicked under pressure, stammering for half a minute without uttering a coherent sentence. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, which only made him look even more suspicious. Lying in bed, Duke Garava's cheek twitched involuntarily. Hearing that his chronic heart condition could be cured, he had initially felt a flicker of interest; he certainly didn't lack the money. But the moment he heard about being cut open, fear instantly seized him. Going under the knife was no joke. Who knew what the Alliance's doctors might do to him on the operating table? If Chu Guang gave so much as a discreet glance, and the doctor took the hint and nicked his aorta, he wouldn't even have a place to seek justice! Reading the hesitation on Duke Garava's face, Niyang leaned in close and whispered in his ear, "...My lord, I worry the Alliance might take the opportunity to tamper with your heart. As long as you rest properly and take your medicine on time, your condition is manageable. But if the Alliance holds the reins to your heart, there's no telling when it might decide to stop beating." "Hmph, I foresaw that long ago... How could I possibly fall for such clumsy trickery from those treacherous scoundrels?" Silently breathing a sigh of relief at dodging a bullet, Duke Garava shot a venomous glare at Babulu, then turned back to Niyang, keeping his voice steady. "Did anything happen while I was out?" "Nothing yet, my lord. Foreign Minister Cheng did come to visit once, but you weren't awake, so he left after staying a short while." At this point, Niyang suddenly remembered something. "Oh, right! The newspaper you instructed me to buy—I've brought it!" With that, he picked up the neatly folded copy of the *Goblin Observer* from the bedside table and presented it eagerly to Duke Garava. It was the edition from several days prior. Duke Garava's complexion had originally recovered a bit of color, but the moment his eyes met the sensational headline, his sallow face flushed beet-red. *Xilan Empire Gray Wolf Army Chiliarch Diran Weeps: Damn It, I Barely Touched You, and You Chased Me Two Thousand Kilometers?!* *[...The Burning Corps made landfall at Golden Gallon Port. In just one morning, the city defense force was routed with their heads in their hands, and both the harbor district and the Governor's Mansion fell.]* *These bastards...* *This is intolerable! Bullies, absolute bullies!* Garava's vision went black. The world spun violently, his shoulders went limp, and the back of his head, having only just left the pillow, sank heavily back into it. Seeing this, Babulu and the rest of the Wolf Clan guards scrambled forward in panic, prying the newspaper from his clenched fists. "My lord! My lord!" "Quick, quick, CPR!" "Are you a fucking pig?! We're in a hospital! Go get the doctor!" Niyang shoved aside Babulu, who was leaning in to administer mouth-to-mouth, and roared at him. The latter scrambled out the door in a panic, without even pausing to wonder who had actually enraged the duke into fainting in the first place, and bellowed down the hallway. "Doctor—!" At the exact same moment the doctors rushed toward the hospital room, a furious roar echoed through the grand, towering hall of the imperial palace in Tiandu, on the western coast of Bolo Province. "Insolence!" Slamming the telegram down the palace steps, Wutuo's face burned with murderous rage, his twin mustaches twitching beneath his heavy snorts. The boundless imperial wrath bore down on the courtiers' shoulders. Everyone lay prostrate, trembling in terror, not daring to make the slightest sound. The content of the telegram was none other than the original text from the *Goblin Observer*, detailing the events that had unfolded in Golden Gallon Port several days ago. What infuriated Wutuo most was that the Alliance troops had landed at Golden Gallon Port days ago, yet he, the Emperor, was only finding out now! Had his diplomatic mission in Dawn City not rushed this newspaper to him, he would still be kept in the dark to this day! Wutuo's heart twisted like a knife had been turned inside it, and he ground his teeth until blood nearly seeped from his gums. Governor Nihak was his trusted confidant, raking in over a hundred million dinars in foreign exchange for him every year. Now, the man had become a prisoner of the Alliance. And that wasn't all. The hundreds of millions of dinars he had deposited in the Golden Gallon Port bank had now fallen entirely into the hands of those bandits! Splendid! Wutuo's teeth ground together with an audible crunch. He had originally intended merely to teach those people a lesson, never imagining these ruffians would be bold enough to stick their greedy paws directly into his own pockets. Clenching his trembling fists, Wutuo unleashed a deafening roar at the courtiers prostrated below the dais. "Hear my command!" "Effective immediately, the Gray Wolf Army marches on Golden Gallon Port in full force!" "Tell General Arayan that I don't care what methods he uses! No matter the cost! I want the Twin Sabers flag planted back atop the Governor's Mansion!"