Golden Gallon Port Welcomes the Imperial Army

North of Golden Gallon Port. Across a barren expanse of red soil, a massive military force churned up billowing clouds of dust as it advanced grandly toward Golden Gallon Port. Among them were trucks, motorcycles, and motorized tricycles, all sporting uniform desert camouflage and flanked by column after column of marching soldiers. Besides these, there were several open-topped off-road vehicles oozing wasteland flair, along with towed artillery hitched behind trucks. Objectively speaking, in both firepower and mobility, they were far superior to the city garrison with its meager few 100mm cannons, and their troops appeared noticeably better trained. Yet compared to the "Fang" clan of the Bone Chewer tribe—which the Alliance had thoroughly thrashed—they were roughly on par at best, and even lacked some of the latter's tanks. However, tanks were not really useful here anyway. Although Polo Province was mostly flat plains, it had few proper roads, and the area around Golden Gallon Port in particular was a flood-prone alluvial plain. Even these light vehicles were struggling considerably to advance. If tanks were brought here, they would likely break down before traveling very far. The surrounding survivors, carrying baskets on their backs or slung over their arms to collect earth, hastily cleared the way upon seeing them, casting awe-filled glances at the fluttering twin-saber flags and gray wolf banners. "It's the Gray Wolf Army!" "His Majesty has finally intervened." "I wonder who's stronger—them or the Iron Men?" Several paupers of the Wolf Clan prostrated themselves on the ground in prayer, gazing up at the pride of their kin, muttering in deep, raspy voices: "...The invincible gray wolves of the wasteland, prowling in packs like sweeping sandstorms, bringing down death upon their foes." Others had eyes glowing with a greedy green light. Where there was war, there was death. When chaos broke out, if they could loot a couple of pairs of pants, a few more family members could go out scavenging, or work snapping sugarcane in the governor's plantations. At that moment, the renowned General Alaiyang, famed for his godlike command of troops, sat in an open-topped off-road vehicle, his eyes slightly narrowed as he gazed toward Golden Gallon Port. Ever since General Abinan's initial defeat, he had been monitoring the situation in Golden Gallon Port, but without orders from His Majesty, he dared not make any reckless moves. What if letting the Alliance make landfall had been His Majesty's directive? Or what if His Majesty intended to resolve the problem through other means? None of this could be said for certain, and guessing was forbidden. Alaiyang had never been to the Alliance, but having lived in Polo Province for over thirty years, he knew Lord Utuo's temperament well. What that lord detested most was not subordinates bungling matters or lacking wit, but someone growing a brain who shouldn't have one, or growing eyes where none belonged. For precisely this reason, he had chosen to bide his time. While keeping his troops stationed in place, he sent several scouts disguised as civilians into the city to gather intelligence on the "Iron Men" and inquire into Governor Nihak's whereabouts, all while awaiting orders from Tiandu. Now that the telegram from Tiandu had finally arrived, Alaiyang issued his orders without a moment's hesitation, directing the Gray Wolf Army, which had long completed march preparations, to advance toward the front. Although he and his men were still roughly seventy to eighty kilometers away from Golden Gallon Port, he already had a firm grasp of the situation there. Sitting beside him, his staff officer, Gopal, spread a map across his knees, pointed to two marked lines, and said in a relaxed tone: "...Currently, the Alliance's defensive line in Golden Gallon Port hinges on the Governor's Mansion and Rowell Camp. As long as we find a way to eliminate either one, the situation will turn vastly in our favor." Pausing, he tapped his index finger on the map. "Personally, I believe Rowell Camp is a solid point of breakthrough. Stationed there is nothing more than a mob of paupers who've barely touched rifles, backed by at most several dozen Alliance instructors. Once we take it, we can turn around and mobilize the slaves incited by the Alliance to serve us instead." Turning around from the passenger seat, the adjutant asked, "Why would they serve us? I'd say we'd be lucky if they don't cause trouble." Gopal smiled faintly and replied nonchalantly: "Very simple. We offer them things the Alliance cannot. Aside from restoring their status as freemen, we can grant them permission to burn, kill, and plunder in designated districts as a reward." Aside from Tulip Street, which was cordoned off by the Knights and whose prominent figures were indeed untouchable, there would always be districts or streets previously held by the Alliance that held some wealth to skim. And even if there were no spoils to extract, people themselves could serve as trophies. Once the war ended, they could slap any label on them, brand the survivors who had aided the Alliance as penal residents, and hand them over to that pack of wild dogs to do with as they pleased. They wouldn't have to spend a single cent. In fact, they could even take a cut of the lawfully looted spoils. Alaiyang narrowed his eyes slightly. After a moment of thought, he pointed out a flaw in the plan. "Yet most of them are of the Moon Clan. The other ethnicities likely don't even make up thirty percent." The racial segregation of the Moon Clan was His Majesty's policy; they had no authority to take it upon themselves to restore those people's status as freemen. This was a matter of principle. As if anticipating the general's question, Gopal smiled faintly. "It's merely rhetoric to keep them in line. I never said we actually have to deliver on it. Or we could petition His Majesty for a special pardon, re-registering them as Mouse Clan or Snake Clan members, or even bestowing upon them a new surname and a new faith. That wouldn't be difficult either." If His Majesty disapproved, it wouldn't matter anyway—they could simply dispose of those pawns once they had served their purpose. While the vehicle's occupants chatted and laughed, the main army had already arrived at the northern outskirts of Golden Gallon Port, and each combat formation moved rapidly into its predetermined battle positions to pitch camp. A full five divisions deployed along a front less than twenty kilometers wide, surrounding the settlement so tightly that not even water could trickle through—bearing down like dark clouds threatening to crush the city under their weight. Fifty thousand men was truly no small number; in the eastern provinces, that many people could constitute a fair-sized settlement of their own. Still, Alaiyang remained cautious. Even though intelligence showed the enemy numbered under a thousand and had just been worn down by the city garrison, he did not allow his troops to make any reckless advances. Instead, he ordered his adjutant to round up coolies from the surrounding areas to dig artillery shelters, trenches, and foxholes on the outskirts of the urban district. Meanwhile, on the roof of a three-story residential building in the outskirts of Golden Gallon Port, four players in exoskeletons held binoculars, looking out toward the positions a kilometer away. "Not bad. These guys actually know their stuff," Yincha Yangcuo remarked, a hint of surprise appearing on his face as he observed the well-constructed artillery shelters. It wasn't just fortifications; they had even set up camouflage netting to block drone surveillance, which looked like it had been imported from the Legion. Ban Sui Cuo Tuo looked slightly grave, while Mei You Jia Ren beside him wore an eager, itching-for-action expression, murmuring excitedly: "Finally, a tough fight!" The Governor's Mansion private guards earlier had been far too fragile. Despite looking like proper soldiers, they hadn't managed to scratch even a speck of paint off his exoskeleton's chestplate. According to the locals, this Gray Wolf Army was the elite of the Imperial Army, an ace ground corps answering directly to the Emperor of the Xilan Empire! For a troll and thrill-seeker like him, naturally, the stronger the enemy, the more thrilled he got. After all, defeating noobs who collapsed at the first touch offered zero sense of accomplishment; boasting about it on the forums wouldn't even earn him any applause. From the looks of it so far, this force's performance was quite competent. Neither their deployment speed nor their methodical, steady approach revealed any glaring flaws. The survivors rounded up for the positions swung shovels with their faces to the dirt and backs to the sky, digging pits from morning until dusk. Seemingly annoyed by how slowly these half-starved wretches dug, dozens of overseers brandishing whips soon appeared across the positions. A few lashes here and there proved effective—the survivors worked noticeably faster, though several skin-and-bones young men collapsed to the ground from exhaustion. The officer leading the overseers was thoroughly pleased with the scene. The stamina of these survivors was like toothpaste: squeeze hard enough, and you could always wring something out. The players hidden in the distance munched on rations from their backpacks, watching the survivors toil, staying on the roof until night fell. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the soldiers made no offer to feed the survivors; reclaiming the distributed tools, they drove them off the positions. A ragged crowd of survivors limped toward the settlement, anger simmering on every face, though none dared voice a word of protest. Seeing one group of survivors heading directly toward their neighborhood, the four players conferred briefly, slapped down a hundred-dollar bill in the civilian house, slipped outside, and seized an opportunity to intercept a contingent of them. "Hey, hey! Hold on there, folks! We need to talk to you!" Yincha Yangcuo popped open his helmet visor, smiling as he waved and stepped forward. At the sight of these four Iron Men encased in exoskeletons, sheer terror flashed across the faces of the dozen or so ragged survivors. Having just tasted the empire's whips, the last thing they wanted was to taste the whips of these Iron Men. Yet no one ran. Staring at the rifles slung across the players' chests, their legs felt as heavy as lead, even though the safety catches were on and the rifles uncocked. Just as panic was setting in, a man in an exoskeleton stepped up and suddenly pulled out a cigarette pack. "Have a smoke and chill out. I don't need to teach you how to puff, right?" Speaking in halting Human Alliance language, Mei You Jia Ren grinned playfully and handed out a cigarette to each of them. Cigarettes were a form of hard currency on the wasteland, trailing only bullets and alcohol, and standing slightly above even bread. Most importantly, they were easy to carry. Though he didn't smoke much himself, he always packed a few packs on missions. For breaking the ice and easing locals' wariness, tobacco worked even better than cash. Even though these locals were poor enough to eat dirt every few days, tobacco leaf and pepper were not particularly scarce here. Some gathered tobacco leaves themselves, crushing them to smoke or selling them to supplement their households. A few of them held the rolled cigarettes under their noses and sniffed, instantly recognizing what they were, their faces slackening into astonishment. Never in their lives had they seen rolled cigarettes so refined, so much so that they hesitated to light them up. Mei You Jia Ren thoughtfully produced a lighter and sparked them all up, saving them the agonizing dilemma. Leading the dozen-odd people into an alleyway for a puffing session, Mei You Jia Ren asked with a grin: "You folks were digging like mad out there. How much did those wolf-bastards pay you?" At his words, the survivors' faces soured. One of them, a blunt sort, cursed outright: "Money? Those stingy bastards wouldn't give us a dime!" Several others quickly chimed in: "Damn right!" "Never mind pay—we're lucky if they don't rob us blind!" "Bastards even stole the basket I use to gather dirt..." As they spoke, several pairs of eyes stayed glued to the lighter in the Iron Man's hand, brimming with envy and longing. Mei You Jia Ren feigned surprise. "No pay? Then why the hell are you digging for them?" The blunt man spat indignantly, "No pay is the least of it! We had to bring our own rations!" Mei You Jia Ren fanned the flames: "Can't you just refuse to go?" The survivors shook their heads one after another. "Can't do that. They've seized that patch of red soil. If we don't go, we've got no dirt to eat." "When they're short on hands, they come around here snatching people. We all live here; they'd drag us out anyway." "If they come knocking, there's no telling what'll happen." "All three of my daughters are of age." "Those goddamn bastards!" "I hope they end up buried in that red dirt!" The survivors vented in an overlapping cacophony, growing angrier with every word. Hearing this, Mei You Jia Ren's eyes darted, and a wide grin broke across his face. "Tell you what—they won't pay you, but I will!" Everyone in the alley froze, staring at him in bewilderment. "You... pay us?" "That's right," Mei You Jia Ren nodded with a chuckle. "But remember, since we're paying extra, you've got to dig even harder! Starting tomorrow, you dig like hell for me. If they tell you to dig a pit one and a half meters deep, dig it two meters! If they want two meters, dig two and a half! Throw in an extra fifty centimeters for free!" The survivors stared in disbelief. The blunt fellow eyed the Iron Man suspiciously, asking dubiously, "You're really giving us money?" Mei You Jia Ren smiled. "Damn right! Not only that, we pay daily! Per person... we'll give you twenty Xilan coins!" Twenty Xilan coins! Their eyes went wide. Instinct told them such good fortune had to be a lie, yet the lit cigarette dangling between their lips made them unconsciously inclined to believe it, if only half. Maybe these Iron Men really were rolling in cash? A Mouse Clan youth swallowed hard. "Does... does everyone get a share?" Mei You Jia Ren chuckled. "Naturally! Equal treatment for everyone!" Someone else asked, "Can we bring more family members?" Mei You Jia Ren agreed readily: "No problem! We pay per head... ah, but leave the little kids out; under twelve doesn't count. Tomorrow at dawn, we'll count heads right here. As long as you do as we say, everyone collects!" His eyes glinted, and he tacked on: "You can bring extra recruits for me too. For every head you pull in, we'll give you an extra five coins! But keep it strictly under wraps. Don't let anyone out there catch wind of it, or you won't just lose the money—you might lose your lives." Delight beamed on their faces; not a single person showed fear at his parting warning. Mei You Jia Ren arranged the payout time and location on the map, then dismissed them. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, over a thousand people congregated in the northern outskirts of Golden Gallon Port and marched toward the Gray Wolf Army's positions. Spotted by the sentries on the front line, the dense mob gave the soldiers quite a fright—they thought the Alliance had launched an assault. Only when the crowd drew near did they realize it was a mob of settlement residents. "What are you doing here?!" a sentry barked. Several survivors at the front bellowed back with utmost righteousness: "We're here to work!" "Your officer told us to come!" "He said to come back today, and if we didn't dare show up, he'd drag us from the settlement!" "Hurry up and put us to work!" Listening to the clamor rising from all sides, the soldiers on duty were dumbfounded, staring at the crowd in complete bewilderment. Unsure what to do, they hurried to dispatch a runner to consult their superior. At that moment, their officer was snoring away in the artillery shelter dug just the day before. Wakened abruptly, he looked dazed, clumsily grabbing his cap from the bedpost. "Has the Alliance attacked?!" "No, sir," the soldier said rapidly, watching his superior hastily slip on combat boots. "A mob of Golden Gallon Port residents showed up at our lines. They claim you ordered them here to dig earthworks..." The officer tying his laces paused for two seconds, looking blank, then nodded. "Yeah, that did happen. What about it?" The soldier paused, lost for words. "Well, then..." "Hand out the shovels and spades, point them where to dig and how to dig! Do I need to teach you that too? Goddammit, making a fuss over such petty nonsense! Wake me when the Alliance attacks!" Cursing under his breath, the officer kicked off the boot he had just shoved his foot into, tossed his cap onto the bedpost, rolled over, and went right back to sleep. He hadn't turned in until after three in the morning and was thoroughly exhausted. Waking him over such a trivial matter was utterly thoughtless! Scolded soundly, the soldier sulked in aggrieved silence. Seeing his superior already snoring again, he could only jog over to the frontline logistics quartermaster to distribute earthwork tools to the survivors. Equipped with tools, the survivors immediately dispersed across the positions, sweating profusely as they worked like madmen—a night-and-day transformation from yesterday's sluggish pace. By mid-morning, when the whip-wielding overseers strode onto the field, they were astounded to find their whips completely unnecessary. "Bizarre." "When did these beasts get so hardworking?" A few overseers huddled together, eyeing the men sweating profusely in the trenches with heads down. Driven by curiosity, one of them walked over and shouted: "Well, isn't this a miracle! How come you're working so hard today?" The survivor kept his head down, shouting with his back turned to the overseer: "Master, slacking gets us the lash, and we still have to do the work anyway!" "Yeah, master, we're afraid of pain!" "If we finish earlier, once the fighting's over, we won't have to suffer anymore!" These were lines taught to them by the folks paying them. Naturally, they dared not raise their heads, let alone look the overseer in the eye, terrified their expressions would give the game away. The overseer nodded without suspicion, yet couldn't resist a cold jeer: "If you'd had this awareness earlier and worked half this hard in daily life, you wouldn't have ended up in this wretched, half-dead state." Even if they couldn't become soldiers like him, they could have run a small stall or learned a trade. How else could they have ended up worse off than cattle, chained here digging dirt? In the end, it was pure laziness. The overseer watched them a while longer. Seeing they worked vigorously without needing the lash, he couldn't be bothered to swing it, turning away to lounge in the shade beneath the camouflage netting. Elsewhere, having finalized his operational deployment, Alaiyang was inspecting the lines. He first checked the critical artillery batteries, anti-aircraft emplacements, and machine gun nests before heading to the front edge for a look. To his astonishment, the coolies who had been slacking off yesterday were now laboring with fiery zeal, every last one of them. It was as if gold were buried beneath the soil. Incredible. When had these loafers ever been so industrious?! Lowering his binoculars, Alaiyang looked at the adjutant beside him. "How much did you pay them?" The adjutant reported smugly, "Reporting, sir! Not a single cent!" "Not a single cent?!" Alaiyang stared at him in disbelief, suspecting his ears were playing tricks on him. The adjutant chuckled and boasted, "I heard from the men below that the local residents are all yearning for us to win swiftly so their lives can return to normal. That's why they came out in droves with their whole families at dawn to help." Pausing, he added: "In the end, His Majesty commands the people's hearts, and the General's fame is renowned far and wide. Heaven's timing, earthly advantage, and human harmony are all on our side. It would be hard to lose this battle even if we tried." Although suspicious, Alaiyang found it awkward to refute the first part of that claim. He simply nodded and put the trifling matter aside. He didn't need the coolies to dig the trenches to textbook precision; so long as they provided his soldiers with cover to hold the line, it was enough. The real battlefield lay within the city; these trenches and earthworks would only be needed when deploying troops and ferrying ammunition to the front. "Give the locals some token of gratitude anyway. Once the work is done, hand each of them a loaf of bread as compensation for taking them away from their daily chores." The bread he meant was certainly not the soft, white variety slathered with butter and jam that he had eaten for breakfast, but black bread packed with wheat bran, pebbles, and sawdust. This was the staple of most lower-class imperial citizens and low-to-mid-tier farmers, sold by the half-jin for a few Xilan coins, the exact price determined by the bread's quality. Unfermented, it was harder to chew than hardtack and could practically be swung as a bludgeon; typically, people broke it into pieces and soaked it in water before eating. Even so, it was vastly better than eating dirt or flatulence-inducing beans. The adjutant nodded deferentially. "Right away, sir. I'll arrange it shortly." Alaiyang nodded, then asked, "By the way, any word from Rajesh?" Rajesh was one of his most capable officers—an Awakened, an exceptional marksman, and especially skilled in disguise and intelligence gathering. Well before the army marched, Alaiyang had dispatched him and two other scouts into Golden Gallon Port to gather intelligence on Alliance operations. Two days had passed since their last contact. Before formulating the next stage of the battle plan, he needed the latest intelligence. The adjutant hesitated slightly and shook his head. "No new intelligence has arrived yet... The Alliance's troop deployments must have shifted considerably of late. I reckon Sergeant Rajesh is waiting for things to settle before reporting." Alaiyang frowned slightly. "...It seems we must give him a little more time." He harbored an ominous premonition, but it was too early to jump to conclusions. Daring not approach too close to the front line—certain that Alliance soldiers lurking within the settlement were watching this position—Alaiyang took only a distant glance before retreating behind cover and concealment. The sun gradually sank behind the mountains. The officer in charge of frontline construction walked out onto the positions for a look, nodded in satisfaction, and ducked back into his shelter. This depth was more than sufficient! At this rate, they would complete the outer perimeter fortifications of Golden Gallon Port within three days at most. Those Alliance soldiers wouldn't dream their construction could proceed so quickly. At the same time, at the fringes of Golden Gallon Port settlement, a crowd of survivors, dripping with sweat from the heat, queued nervously before an alleyway. This street was their own neighborhood, and lookouts watched every entrance to the block, leaving little risk of outsiders stumbling in. Still, collecting money from these Iron Men made most of them uneasy. They feared the Iron Men might renege on their word, and feared even more that imperial soldiers might catch them with the cash. Yet the moment crisp new 20-denomination bills were thrust into their hands, almost every trace of anxiety melted into an ingratiating grin. "Thank you, master! Thank you!" A man with a bedsheet tied around his waist pressed his hands together in gratitude, looking so moved he seemed ready to drop to his knees. Yi Bu Deng Tian, who was in charge of handing out the money, was chuckling inwardly, but maintained the posture of a civilized man, offering a correction: "Don't call me master, I can't take that. We pay, you work. It's a transaction, understand? Not charity or alms." The man clearly didn't understand, bowing and scraping with a grin: "Yes, sir, master!" "...Damn it, wasted my breath. Move along, hurry up." Yi Bu Deng Tian couldn't be bothered to argue and waved him off. Not far down the alley, two players in exoskeletons stood side by side. Watching the folks queuing for cash, Shanhe Rumeng couldn't help marveling: "You guys are so damn crafty." Earlier today, he had received a quest to transport several cases of Xilan banknotes from the bank on Tulip Street to his frontline teammates. At first, he had wondered what all this money was for—until he witnessed this scene. Looking at his thoroughly stunned ally, Yincha Yangcuo chuckled. "That guy in our squad really is a genius. Quicker wits than me—he ought to be the squad leader." Shanhe Rumeng gave him an envious look—genuine envy. Other squads were brimming with talent; in his squad, of the four members, two were absolute scumbags who couldn't even shelter from the rain without stirring up trouble. Leading this team was truly exhausting. "By the way, have you dug up any clues these past two days? What are those guys planning?" Shanhe Rumeng asked casually. Yincha Yangcuo smiled and answered, "Hard to say. But from their posture, they intend to push forward methodically. You guys at Rowell Camp had better watch out." Shanhe Rumeng looked at him in surprise. "You think they'll make Rowell Camp their main line of attack?" Yincha Yangcuo ventured an analysis: "Eighty percent likely, though it's hard to be certain. I just feel Rowell Camp holds slightly greater strategic value than the Governor's Mansion. Besides, the Governor's Mansion sits on relatively higher ground compared to the northern districts; taking it by force would cost them dearly, and holding it wouldn't be easy. But if they take Rowell Camp, they can force us back to Tulip Street, resetting our frontline to what it was at the start of the second-phase offensive." Once the Alliance's frontline shrunk back toward the harbor, they wouldn't be able to enlist local survivors and slaves as auxiliary troops. Conversely, retaking the Governor's Mansion served little purpose for them beyond shifting the urban battleground from the slums to Tulip Street near the harbor prematurely. Worse, their supply lines would be vulnerable to being cut by the Alliance or local militia trained by the Alliance. Shanhe Rumeng mulled it over and found it reasonable. Just then, a bare-chested local walked up and said to Yincha Yangcuo, "My lord, someone outside is looking for you. A Mouse Clan youth. He says his name is Axin, and that he's your servant." Hearing this, Shanhe Rumeng cast a surprised look at Yincha Yangcuo. "Servant?" "Ah, nothing like that, just a misunderstanding," Yincha Yangcuo chuckled in Mandarin, before turning back to the NPC and saying in Human Alliance language, "Send him in." The bare-chested local nodded. "Right away." After all, they were conducting covert business; any unfamiliar face appearing here would raise alarms. But if it was a servant of these Iron Men, that was another story. He was one of their own. Flanked by two locals, the boy named Axin was brought in. He looked rather flustered, hands jammed into his pockets, clothes spattered with muddy water, and scrapes and bruises visible on his face and arms, evidently sustained not long ago. The moment he spotted a familiar face, the panic vanished from his features. In delight, he hurried forward in long strides. "Yincha!" Yincha Yangcuo looked at him in surprise. "Yo, Axin... what happened to you?" "Just minor scratches, nothing to worry about..." Swallowing hard, Axin said tensely, "I'll take you to see one... no, three people." Assuming the kid wanted him to help intimidate someone, Yincha Yangcuo glanced at the late hour, then looked back at the youth with a grin: "Hold on a bit. Once we wrap things up here, we're heading back to the Governor's Mansion. We'll head back with you then, and if some blind fool's giving you grief, we'll pay them a visit—" "No, you misunderstand," Axin took a deep breath, steadying himself. "No one is giving me trouble. I wouldn't bother you over something so trivial. I only want to... give you a gift." Before the Iron Man could ask, he rushed on: "They're General Alaiyang's men!"