So Good!

As it turned out, raising his voice had actually done some good. Out of respect for the two barbarians slinging rifles out in the hallway, the coddled bureaucrats who had lived cushy lives finally mustered a sliver of seriousness. As for the outcome, they would have to await further developments. Fang Chang, however, was not pinning all his hopes on these vermin. Employing them for now was merely because there was no one else available. Purging them all at once would offer a moment of gratification, but zero practical benefit. Fang Chang understood all too well that while these fellows feigned complete ignorance on the surface, they were entangled in thousands of secret ties with the grassroots. They had ceded portions of authority and duty to neighborhood associations, authorizing them to "legally" collect "fire fees," "water fees," and "sanitation fees," in return for a cut of the spoils. In other words, these bastards weren’t simply taking money and doing nothing; they were collecting twice and still doing nothing! Most of the paupers in Golden Gallon Port had to pay three separate fees for a single public service—including those extorted by the civil associations. Under such conditions, it would be a miracle if the locals weren't reduced to eating dirt and wearing rags! While most settlements in the Alliance practiced "survivor self-determination," they had never pawned off public services to private individuals, let alone handed them over to violent syndicates. This was no longer a question of autonomy; it was sheer rot! Unless they resolved the issue of one person paying three bills, no matter what they did in Golden Gallon Port, life here would never truly change. As a first step, Fang Chang intended to rely on the meager remaining authority of the old bureaucracy and the enforcement power of the militia to reclaim the powers and duties scattered to gods knew where, or simply absorb the groups that had performed passably. For the second step, he needed to promote competent grassroots personnel from the moderately literate merchant and citizen classes to gradually replace the foul-smelling blood of the old regime—and perhaps even groom a qualified city lord or mayor to coordinate with a future governor of Golden Gallon Port. Assuming the Administrator intended to dispatch a governor here, that was. *** "...The situation here is even worse than we imagined. It's like an orange rotting from the inside out; until you peel the rind, you have no idea what's festering underneath. Sheriff Bihari was right—if we abolish slavery outright, this settlement will be buried under mountains of shit within a single week. But we still have to do it." After stepping out of the governor’s office, Fang Chang met up with Lao Bai, who had returned from Rowell Camp, and recounted what had just transpired. Before "clocking out," Fang Chang had signed a recruitment order to hire two hundred literate citizens into City Hall at a monthly salary of 2,000 Gallons. Once they had undergone training, he would assign them specific departments and duties based on the organizational framework previously hashed out on the forums. He would then merge and restructure the departments left behind from Governor Nihak's era, marginalizing the old bureaucrats into peripheral posts where they could be phased out, completing the final blood transfusion. This administrative structure had originally been devised for Port French Fries, but with so few residents there at the moment, it couldn't be put to use. Instead, the survivors of Golden Gallon Port were reaping the benefits first. Seeing Fang Chang shaking his head, Lao Bai grinned. "Do you still remember why we came here in the first place?" Fang Chang paused for a moment, then replied, "To teach those clowns a lesson, and incidentally liberate some slaves to bring back for labor... Why?" "What we're doing now looks an awful lot like poverty alleviation. Just look at how exhausted you are," Lao Bai chuckled. "Don't be in such a hurry. Some things can't be changed in a day or two." "I'm not rushing. What do I have to be anxious about? Besides, this can hardly be called poverty alleviation. Squeezing a bunch of paupers is utterly pointless. If we want to extract sufficient benefits from this place, we first have to let the locals prosper, or at least help them live with some dignity." Fang Chang sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger as he muttered to himself, "...Literacy is a massive issue. Anti-illiteracy education needs to get underway as soon as possible." He had previously hired a batch of doctors from Silver Moon Bay to treat the wounded captives. Perhaps they ought to bring in some teachers as well. Watching Fang Chang lost in thought, Lao Bai shot him an "I'll take your word for it" look and clapped his buddy on the shoulder with a smile. "Here's some good news. The reconnaissance team we sent north gathered intel; local sources say a guerrilla unit is active in the mountainous area along the northern bank of the Yongliu River. Though they haven't noticed our signals yet, they must have caught wind of what happened in Golden Gallon Port. Someone might reach out to us before long." Fang Chang mused for a moment, then said, "Keep searching. Hopefully there are talents among them we can use... Wait, do you smell that?" As they spoke, a faint, sweet aroma drifted past his nostrils, seemingly carried up the streets from the docks by the sea breeze. How strange. What blew in from that direction was usually the stench of fish. Seeing the surprised look on Fang Chang's face, Lao Bai chuckled. "That brings me to the second piece of good news." "Tail and the girls just arrived." *** "Whoa! Golden Gallon Port!" "It’s only been two months, but it feels like forever and ever!" "Yeah, yeah! Such a huge change, *giao*!" Rewinding a few hours earlier, on the deck of the *Rou Rou*. Standing at the bow on tiptoe, Tail and Rou Rou looked eagerly toward the harbor, pointing excitedly at the buildings. The pier was still the same pier, but the cargo winches had been upgraded from wooden cranes to electrically driven steel machinery. The freight transport had likewise shifted from ox carts and manual labor to forklifts, flatbed carts, and light and heavy trucks produced in Daybreak City and Boulder City. Crates and bundles of military supplies were stacked around the harbor zone, and militiamen with white armbands patrolled the shoreline in place of imperial soldiers. The only slight disappointment was that the port felt a bit desolate compared to two months ago, with only a few fishing boats moored at the docks. This was likely due to the war and the shutdown of the slave trade. Merchant ships from the western coast of Bolo Province were practically non-existent, and Wilante trading vessels were nowhere to be seen. Yet this cleared up berths for the merchant ships arriving from Silver Moon Bay. This time, the *Rou Rou* hadn't just brought a thousand tons of shelled, dehydrated corn; it had led an entire convoy laden with cargo! Back in Silver Moon Bay, Sisi had circulated rumors through the White Bear Knights' bank that a ceasefire was about to be signed and the empire had imposed an embargo on Golden Gallon Port. She then instructed Bank President Old Buma to offer ultra-low-interest loans for specific shipping routes and goods. There was no need for deliberate promotion. Armed with inside news and financial backing, the merchants bustling around the harbor naturally swarmed in like sharks scenting blood, carrying the exact goods needed here. Sitting in the wheelhouse, Sisi expertly sounded the steam whistle, greeting her companions on the pier. Back at the stern, Sesame Paste called out to the Silver Moon Bay crew, preparing to dock and unload. With everyone working together, the cargo vessels were finally berthed before dusk. Massive shipping containers were hoisted ashore by cranes and hauled to the storage yard by forklifts. This area had once been a human transit depot, and the site where the White Bear Knights had previously fought. Since the Alliance's arrival, the facilities here had been cleared out entirely, leaving only a twenty-square-meter patch preserved as a historical memorial. The rest had been converted into a container storage yard to expand the port's warehouse capacity. With port authorities granting them a green light at every turn, the harbor staff gave top priority to verifying the food manifests. They stamped the paperwork for the shipment purchased by the Golden Gallon Port administration on the spot, settling the entire payment in a single lump sum. Immediately afterward, more than a dozen trucks rumbled into the container yard. Under the earnest labor of bare-chested workers, sacks of corn and flour were hoisted onto truck beds, speeding toward several municipal construction sites run by the local authorities, Rowell Camp, and the prisoner-of-war camp outside the city. A total of eight thousand tons of shelled, dehydrated corn traded at a wholesale price of 700 silver coins per ton! Nearly three thousand tons of corn flour also sold at 900 silver coins per ton! In Sunset Province, particularly within the Lion Kingdom—which heavily imported fertilizer, pesticides, and high-yield seeds manufactured by the Alliance—the production cost of a kilogram of corn was merely 0.2 to 0.3 silver coins! Since the railway from Lion City and Luoye City to Petra Fortress had opened to traffic, transportation costs had dropped to under fifty percent of production costs. Even factoring in maritime shipping and deducting crew wages, mercenary protection fees, and other overheads, the total cost per ton of corn remained below 600 silver coins. For merchants with their own cargo ships and private guards, the cost could be pushed down to near 500 silver coins! A bulk commodity return rate of at least sixteen percent was enough to drive every visiting trader mad with greed! And for the Golden Gallon Port authorities staring down the threat of famine, this grain shipment worth over eight million silver coins resolved the settlement's most urgent crisis. Even if distributed evenly, each person would receive eleven kilograms of carbohydrates. Naturally, the final allocation would not be handled through such crude, direct handouts. The Golden Gallon Port authorities intended to launch a series of municipal projects under a work-for-relief scheme—such as the ongoing renovation of Clarba Market and the construction of several major thoroughfares and sewer lines. Through these public works, the authorities would disburse wages and funds in Gallon currency to participating workers and units, and the grain imported through the port could only be purchased using Gallons. This approach prevented the citizen class and old nobility, who held large sums of Xilan coins, from hoarding food. It also provided an outlet for the vast young male workforce to expend their energy, upgraded Golden Gallon Port's infrastructure, and channeled currency precisely into the hands of those who needed it. It was truly killing four birds with one stone. As for the foreign exchange spent purchasing the grain, on paper the authorities had borrowed it from the deep-pocketed Baiyue Company, but the bill would ultimately be footed by the war reparations paid by the Xilan Emperor. Fang Chang had long ceased bothering to tally up how many times the Alliance had won in this campaign on behalf of the esteemed Administrator... Either way, the emperor was doomed to get thoroughly burned. *** POW Camp, City Outskirts. Having slept for who knew how long, Kapil slowly awoke from his stupor. Catching sight of a man in a white coat before him, he parted his lips almost instinctively, squeezing a rasping sentence from his parched, burning throat. "Where... is this?" The doctor glanced at him and answered casually, "Golden Gallon Port." The accent sounded like someone from the Camel Hump Kingdom. That, however, was not the point. A glimmer of joy surfaced on Kapil's face. In his excitement, he thrust out his stiff right hand and grabbed the sleeve of the man in the white coat. "Did we win?!" The doctor paused, then chuckled at him. "What kind of dream are you having?" With that, he called out toward the tent opening. "This one's awake, but his head's a bit scrambled. I'll leave the rest to you." A voice shouted back faintly from a distance. "Got it! As long as he's awake, we'll take over. Go attend to your other rounds, Doc." "Understood." The doctor raised the hand holding his pen in acknowledgment, hastily jotted down a few notes on his clipboard, and stepped out of the modest tent. Kapil stared blankly after him. His outstretched right hand fell limp. Only after the man had vanished into the distance did he snap back to his senses, stiffly craning his neck to survey his surroundings. This appeared to be a field hospital. Over a dozen cots filled the cramped tent, each occupied by heavily bandaged men in a state of utter lifelessness. He then looked down at himself. The portion of his torso peeking out from beneath the sheet was bound tightly in thick gauze. Even more horrifying was his right arm. Only now did he realize that from the elbow down, his right arm had been replaced entirely by a clunky metal prosthesis. Vague memories from before he blacked out flooded his mind. He recalled being knocked unconscious by a mortar shell during the assault on the Governor’s Mansion. Just then, a man in a khaki uniform lifted the tent flap and walked straight over to his cot. "...Twelve pieces of shrapnel in your body, and they only managed to pull out ten. It's a miracle you're alive." Looking down at the man in the cot, the visitor added in a mocking tone, "Of course, your squad mates weren't so lucky. Nine men, and they couldn't even piece together a single intact corpse." *All dead...* Kapil's Adam's apple bobbed. For a long time, he couldn't utter a word. For some reason, when he heard this, the fury he ought to have felt failed to surface. There was only numbness and bewilderment. If a single man had died, he would have remembered his name, visited his grave from time to time, and reminisced about what he was like when he was alive. Yet when so many died that they could only be summarized as a sloppy statistic, the weight allocated to each individual name seemed utterly trivial. Perhaps General Alaiyang had felt the exact same way when confronted with those casualty figures... Kapil merely felt that his own survival was profoundly surreal. "...Who are you?" Though he had already guessed the man's identity, Kapil forced the words through his throat with difficulty. "Clerk from the Prisoner Section of the Golden Gallon Port Civil Defense Office, Logistics Department. You don't need to know my name. All you need to know is that you're a prisoner." With a flick of his thumb, the man tossed a coin-sized iron tag onto Kapil's blanket. A string of numbers was stamped on its surface. "That's your serial number. Once you're on your feet, take it outside to register your name and address. You'll need it when you collect your meals—if you still want to eat, that is." Having delivered his instructions, the man turned to walk out. Snapping out of his daze, Kapil remembered something and quickly called after him. "Wait! My arm..." "The old one was trashed, so we gave you a new one," the clerk said, glancing at Kapil's limb. "The bill will be settled by your Emperor as part of the war reparations. No need to thank us." Watching the man leave, Kapil tested his limbs. Feeling reasonably recovered, he awkwardly eased himself out of bed. The registration station was not far from the tent. Clutching the iron tag, he walked over and completed his prisoner registration before long. It happened to be dinner time. Following the directions of a logistics worker, he located his assigned camp sector, collected his bedding, and took his mess tin to join a long queue before a massive iron cauldron. Two fellows who appeared to share their prisoner status were bustling around the cauldron, steadily stirring the contents with an enormous wooden ladle. The entire camp was bathed in a rich, sweet aroma that made Kapil swallow hard, mumbling unconsciously, "What are they cooking?" He hadn't expected anyone to reply, but the man standing ahead of him turned around. "They say it's corn." A trace of anticipation shone in the man's eyes. Kapil couldn't help but blink. "...Corn?" He had heard of the crop; it was apparently common in the central and southern parts of Sunset Province. A little had been introduced to Bolo Province as well, though it wasn't planted nearly as widely as beans. "That's right. Word is it was shipped in from Silver Moon Bay, just like the doctor who treated you..." Sizing up the bandaged newcomer, the man continued, "I'm Akhtar. Used to be under Myriad Commander Manu... Ah, forget it, we're in the same battalion now anyway." Kapil swallowed and introduced himself as well. "...Kapil. Prince Dilip led us to attack the Governor's Mansion." Akhtar let out a low whistle, glanced at the militiamen on patrol nearby, and cracked a wry grin. "Is that so? That was a complete slaughter... I heard only a thousand of your men made it out alive. You must have been blessed by the Wolf God to survive." Kapil gave a bitter smile. After a long silence, he asked, "What on earth happened here?" "As you can see, we lost and ended up prisoners of the Alliance... though it's mostly those militiamen keeping watch over us." Evidently reluctant to dwell on the details of the battle, Akhtar skirted the topic and continued, "...For the first three days, those monkeys locked us in cages, pissed on us, and dumped food on the ground for us to lick. In the end, the Alliance folks couldn't stomach it and moved us here. Anyway, you woke up at the right time. Now that the POW camp is built, we only work eight hours a day, get three square meals, and earn two Gallons in wages." Kapil frowned. "Gallons?" "The new money." Akhtar pulled a coin from his pocket, jangled it, and tucked it back away. "Ever since the empire cut off supplies to this place, this stuff works way better than the old currency. Sure, two Gallons won't buy much, but it's better than nothing. By the way, I heard that if you're literate, they assign you lighter tasks and pay a bit more—maybe five or six coins a day." Though utterly baffled by this so-called new currency and having no interest in earning money, Kapil asked instinctively, "...How do they assign it?" "How? They assign it for you, of course! You think you get to pick and choose? Anyone who refuses gets sent to shovel shit. Don't go losing your head and talking back to them," Akhtar said, looking in astonishment at this fellow whose brains seemed scrambled by the explosion. "Still, you're different from the rest. The other guys who woke up like you went half-mad." "Maybe my head isn't quite right either," Kapil replied with a self-deprecating smile. After a long pause, he added, "I feel... as if I've already died once." Akhtar stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds before turning back—it was his turn to receive food. A bowl of fragrant corn porridge, a scoop of pickled beans, and two slices of steamed yellow bread—this was their dinner after a hard day's toil. Akhtar thanked the fellow inmate who filled his mess tin with a grin, then eagerly carried his portion to a corner to dig in with relish. He wasn't the only one. Everyone here was eating with ravenous delight. It wasn't merely because they had performed hard labor on construction sites and wastelands all day, but because they had never tasted such delicious food. Especially that soft, fluffy bread. Such a thing didn't even look like something that would appear on a commoner's table, yet these iron men were generously feeding it to prisoners of war! What kind souls! Akhtar practically wanted to drop to his knees and kowtow to the iron men who had freed them from the cages and fed them till they were full. Without exaggeration, the rations here were better than what they had eaten crouched in the trenches! Kapil stepped forward and had a bowl ladled out for himself. Perhaps because he had missed the ordeal of the preceding days, he wasn't quite as emotional as his former comrades. He simply carried his tin to an empty corner of the camp and sat down to eat in peace. Back in the Xilan Empire, his family belonged to the well-off citizen class; he had never lacked nutrition growing up. By all accounts, he shouldn't have had any extraordinary reaction to the flavor of food. Yet the moment he brought the rim to his lips and took his first sip, his eyes widened in sheer astonishment. A mellow, sweet flavor blossomed across his taste buds—a taste he had never experienced before, like milk blended with honey. While it wasn't extraordinarily exquisite, the unique flavor and texture made him swallow another mouthful almost reflexively. Before he knew it, he had polished off the entire bowl of corn porridge. The two slices of bread, likely fermented from cornmeal, were devoured down to the last crumb alongside the spicy, tangy pickled beans. His belly full, Kapil sat back on the ground. Looking down with lingering craving at the empty bowl he had licked clean, he lifted his head toward the stars emerging in the evening sky. *It's so good...* *I really want another bowl.* Resting his steel prosthetic across his bandaged abdomen, he leaned the back of his head against the tent canvas and closed his weary eyes for a moment. The gentle night breeze brushed his face, as if carrying the melodies of his homeland. The deafening roars of artillery felt like a distant dream, buried far away along with boiling blood and lost souls. For the first time since waking, he felt that being alive was truly wonderful... *** At this very moment, the wolves sitting in the POW camp were not the only ones finding the food irresistible; Prince Dilip, squatting in the holding cells of the Port District Police Station, felt the exact same way. Though he had fought the most foolish battle with the Xilan Emperor's prime assets, that didn't stop him from working up a ferocious appetite in his cell, polishing off one bowl and clamoring for another. To be fair, he had always been a man of refined tastes. When it came to dining, he could proudly boast that even the Wilante had to bow to his standards. Take roast mutton, for instance: he only ever ate weaned spring lamb, and only that small cut along the spine, bestowing the remainder upon his servants. Yet over the past few days, locked in this cell and forced to eat vegetarian "fasting fare" devoid of rich meats and fish, he discovered a whole new world. He had never imagined that beyond their formidable technology, the Alliance possessed such profound culinary expertise, able to turn humble ingredients and cooking methods into such distinctive delicacies! Passing his tray through the small cell hatch, Prince Dilip looked at Chief Mandal with longing, asking sheepishly, "Could I have another bowl?" "Are you a pig? You eat more than the men doing hard labor!" Glancing at the prince, who had noticeably put on a layer of fat, Port District Police Chief Mandal couldn't help but curse. It was precisely these pig-headed fools ruling the empire that had caused their faces to be slapped swollen again and again. Mandal felt both furious and gloating: furious that he had once been ridden roughshod over by pigs, yet delighted that he was now stepping on a pig's head. Even if only temporarily. He gestured with his index finger, arrogantly signaling his uniformed subordinate to ladle another bowl for the fawning prince. Watching the corn porridge pour into his bowl, Prince Dilip seemed somewhat embarrassed, his face turning red as a monkey's rump as he tried to salvage some dignity. "A bit more of that tangy stuff too... Cough, the board can be added to my ransom. I won't eat your food for free... I'll pay for it." "Talk after your Emperor signs the ceasefire agreement." Mandal rolled his eyes, treating the prince's words like hot air. Leaving the post to his men, he checked his wristwatch. It was already time to clock off. He had fed these "high-value prisoners," but his own stomach was still rumbling. Come to think of it, that corn porridge smelled genuinely fragrant... Mandal swallowed hard, but held back. It wasn't that he was too proud to eat prisoners' rations; rather, far grander delicacies awaited him at the banquet shortly. To express gratitude to the merchants supporting Golden Gallon Port's reconstruction, and to promote investment and trade, the Golden Gallon Port authorities were hosting an evening banquet at the most luxurious hotel in the Port District to fete the guests who had resolved the settlement's crisis. Not only would those traveling merchants be in attendance, but prominent figures from the settlement and key representatives of the iron men would also be there. While the food at the banquet was worth anticipating, what was served had never been the main point. Drawing closer to those iron men was what truly mattered. His path to wealth and glory depended entirely on them!