A World Where Only the Empire Gets Hurt

Xilan Empire, Tiandu Imperial Palace. Lately, Wutuo had been in a foul mood. The Alliance had made outrageous demands in the ceasefire negotiations, demanding that the Empire withdraw the Governor of Golden Gallon Port along with all the aristocratic bureaucrats appointed by Tiandu. Not only that, they demanded that once the ceasefire agreement took effect, control of Golden Gallon Port be transferred to the local survivors until the marauder threat in the region was completely eliminated. To be honest, he could make reasonable concessions regarding tariffs and reparations, but he could never agree to those two terms under any circumstances. Especially the latter. It sickened him even more than if the Alliance had directly severed the territory from his domain. After all, this meant that for the first time in the Xilan Empire's history, a patch of land would exist where imperial authority could not reach. It would not only undermine the crown's prestige, but even the legitimacy of his rule would be called into question by the nobility and the merchant class. For now, Wutuo could only pin his hopes on the three-hundred-thousand-strong army along the border. He hoped their embargo on Golden Gallon Port would crush the settlement's fragile economy. If the place turned into a scorched wasteland breeding famine, plague, and death, perhaps the Alliance would discard that tasteless, useless chicken rib of a land. He had heard from men at the front. The Alliance was paying out of its own pocket, shipping boatloads of corn purchased from Silver Moon Bay directly to Golden Gallon Port. If things continued like this, between the red soil on the outskirts of Golden Gallon Port and the Alliance's coffers, one of them was bound to run dry first. Taking a bite of a grape held to his lips by a beauty, Wutuo was squinting and just about to doze off when hurried footsteps echoed from outside the hall. A chamberlain strode into the great hall and dropped to his knees at the foot of the dais. "Your Majesty, Myriarch Huye has arrived." Wutuo, who had been lounging across the beauty's lap, sat up in pleasant surprise. He shoved aside the beauties and fruit platters crowding around him, his beard bristling with excitement as he stood up and stepped forward. "Has he come to Tiandu?" The chamberlain kneeling below the steps looked somewhat awkward, but hurried to answer. "Not... not yet, Your Majesty. After disembarking at West Sail Port, he summoned the nobility from the surrounding area of West Sail City." Wutuo froze for a moment, faintly sensing something was amiss, yet a gratified smile appeared on his face nonetheless. "Good. A man who gets things done." The chamberlain pressed his forehead to the floor, a bitter expression on his face, but dared not say another word. Who in the entire court didn't know that the Wilantes were His Majesty's honored guests? No one dared utter a single disparaging word against them. Especially these days, with Duke Garava's negotiations with the Alliance at a critical juncture, His Majesty needed the Legion's might to intimidate both the Alliance and the Enterprise standing behind it. Even if a Wilante officer slapped a Sun clansman across the face in the street or bedded a nobleman's daughter, it would be celebrated as applause for the eternal friendship between the Legion and the Empire. "Where is General MacLaren?" Wutuo asked. The chamberlain replied timidly in a hushed voice. "He took a carriage to West Sail Port yesterday." Wutuo frowned. "Aaron is still here, surely?" Dripping with cold sweat, the chamberlain said: "...He went along with General MacLaren." Wutuo fell silent. He paced before his divan for a long while, his brow furrowed in thought, but after a moment he smoothed his brow and sat back down. "Send a telegram for me. Say that I appreciate the general taking trouble over the Empire's affairs. Furthermore, in a week's time, there will be an imperial court officer selection assessment. I hear the general is quite interested in the Empire's wargames; if he happens not to be busy, he is welcome to observe at court." That was the general gist. As for the precise wording of the telegram, his subordinates would naturally divine his intent. Seeing that His Majesty had not directed his wrath at him, the chamberlain finally breathed a sigh of relief and struck his head against the ground. "As you command!" ... At the same time, before the docks of West Sail Port, elaborately adorned carriages crowded the already narrow muddy road. A crowd of people dressed in sumptuous garments stood in the open space before the pier, gazing with unease at the tall, strapping Wilante soldiers surrounding them. No one knew what bewitching draught these big-noses had fed His Majesty to make him wave his hand and grant West Sail Port directly to the Legion, even warning the nobility across the entirety of Naxite State that any request from the Legion had to be fully complied with, or it would be deemed treason against the Empire. Although this place was nominally still His Majesty's territory, in reality it had become Wilante turf. They had not only ousted the original governor, but had even dispatched a new "governor" here. Standing at the ship's bow, Huye looked down at the ants on the dock. Rather than mere contempt and mockery in his gaze, it was more that he did not regard these creatures as human beings at all. A bunch of creatures who didn't even care about their own kind didn't deserve a shred of respect from the Wilantes. Even clad in silks and satins, they were nothing more than dogs trotting at the front of a herd of livestock. Refusing to pass up an opportunity to flaunt his authority, he cleared his throat, raised his voice, and bellowed: "Listen up! No matter whom you pledged loyalty to before, I am the one riding over your heads now. I am your master, and the rules here are whatever I say they are. If anyone has objections, you'd better speak up right now so we don't waste everyone's time!" Watching the crowd stir with disbelief, Huye waited quietly for half a minute. Seeing that no one spoke up, he continued: "I want you to pick able-bodied workers from your estates and hand them over to me... Let's say this: at least one able-bodied male from every slave household." The moment the words left his mouth, an uproar swept through the crowd on the dock. The nobles, who had previously dared not make a peep, were suddenly as agitated as dogs whose tails had been stepped on. Just as Huye was wondering whether he had asked for too much, Aaron, standing beside him, coughed softly. "General, the slaves here don't have families." Huye froze, turning to him in surprise. "What do you mean?" Aaron explained patiently: "Literally what it sounds like. You can think of them as weeds growing from the red soil. Plants have no concept of kin... Even if those weeds know who their fathers and mothers are, the nobles raising them wouldn't care to ask." "Then how do they know who was birthed by whom?" Huye couldn't help asking. "They still have to count how many people they have, don't they?" "Everyone's born from a mother—what does it matter whose?" Aaron shrugged. "They take a headcount once a year, or maybe every two or three years. As long as the number of laborers doesn't change much, no one cares. If there are too many, they sell off a few to cut costs. As for fewer... that situation doesn't seem to happen." Huye pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly troubled by this unforeseen complication. MacLaren, arms crossed, watched him with keen interest, curious to see how this bunch of bureaucrats would handle the problem. In the Falcon Kingdom, General Klaas's approach had been to abolish the enslavement of native peoples and establish a military aristocracy tied to martial merit, encouraging them to plunder foreign lands and slaves from the outside world. General Griffin had then used the freemen liberated by Klaas to establish a Legion-style industrial center, securing the expeditionary force's logistics in the Far East. Accomplishing such tasks required a powerful military and resolute execution, whereas the bureaucrats from Triumph City happened to be a bunch of "weak and incompetent" softies. Sure enough, after pondering for a moment, the governor merely came up with a compromise. He cleared his throat and bellowed at the native aristocrats: "Silence!" The deafening volume from the loudspeaker stunned the crowd, and the throng gathered on the dock obediently fell quiet. Pausing for a beat, Huye spoke again: "Your management methods are far too inefficient. Fine, let's do it another way... You provide me with slaves on a regular schedule, and we'll pay you per head. For every head that works a full month, we'll pay you fifty dinars." His words had barely fallen when the atmosphere on the dock erupted. Faces that had just been fraught with dread were suddenly brimming with delight, looking as if they couldn't wait to empty out everything they owned. "No problem, my lord!" "I—I have over a thousand head at home! I can move them here tomorrow!" "Does everyone get that much, or only the able-bodied men?" Fifty a month meant six hundred dinars a year! In the Xilan Empire, even the petty nobility had hundreds of souls in hand, while the estates and plantations of high nobles held tens of thousands! Farming was not busy all year round; during the off-season, those people mostly idled around the fields, staring blankly. Now, if they drove them into the Wilantes' factories, they could pull in tens of thousands, or even millions, in extra income every year! That was even more lucrative than the yields of their plantations! Some were already scheming how to hike land rents or find other excuses to turn their tenant farmers into slaves as well. Or figure out ways to force them to sell their sons and daughters. "Quiet! Quiet!" Huye roared twice more before the chattering crows finally shut their traps. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "When we need to hire, we'll post the labor requirements right here! If you don't want to miss out, station your servants here to keep watch! Now, go home and count how many heads you have, how old they are, and whether they're male or female. I don't want a bunch of old men on crutches dumped on me when the time comes!" Having said what needed to be said, Huye ordered his soldiers to drive off the nobles blocking the dock, while directing subordinates to assign tasks to the laborers His Majesty had allocated to them. In truth, if they were merely producing light industrial goods needed by Triumph City, there was no need to mobilize plantation slaves. The wretches living in the shacks of West Sail Port would have been plenty. Yet Huye harbored his own plans and ambitions for the future of this "treaty port." He was not content with scraping meager profits from exporting clothes and canned food; he wanted to rake in far more for the civil faction behind him and everyone back in Triumph City. Lacking military command, this was the only way they could expand their influence within the Legion. "...The Alliance is producing steel and cement in Golden Gallon Port. We will produce those things too, and in greater quantities than them." MacLaren asked offhandedly: "And what will you use them for?" Huye smiled and replied: "Mining, building roads—there will always be uses for them. And if there's any left over, we can always sell it to the emperor here." MacLaren shrugged noncommittally. He didn't know much about commerce, but he had a feeling that the emperor living aboard that "flying palace" would have little use for such things. Aaron cleared his throat and reminded him: "Respected General, I must remind you that Mr. Wutuo is only interested in guns and cannons. It's enough for us to sell them a few firearms and artillery." He was actually putting it very tactfully. The steel and cement required to build factories in West Sail Port could easily be shipped in from ports on the west coast of the Central Continent, just like the manufacturing equipment. If they built steel and cement mills here, the output would most likely sit unsold. The locals already had plenty of shacks; until those docile beasts started complaining, there was no need whatsoever to upgrade their pens into structures of steel and cement. Clearly, however, Governor Huye had his own ideas. "How much can one make from guns and cannons? Besides, they're about to sign a ceasefire with the Alliance anyway. An arms trade can't last forever." Aaron made a helpless gesture, giving up on trying to persuade the man. In any case, their labor costs were practically zero. Producing those materials would at most waste a bit of resources; losing money was hardly likely. MacLaren picked up the thread and asked: "There's just one thing I don't quite get... No offense, but since you don't have the firepower to seize them by force, why not simply buy those slaves outright?" Huye chuckled. "That's too inefficient. Besides, if we buy them, don't they become our own slaves? Eight square meters of living space, three meals a day, living in health until fifty... I'd even have to damn well provide pensions for these inferiors! Far better to let the local nobles deal with them. The fifty dinars a month can just be considered a management fee." If someone slacked off, he would send them back. Seeing the fate of those returned, the other slaves would naturally work themselves to the bone! MacLaren looked at him in astonishment. He was naturally well aware of the "Eight Square Meters" law decreed personally by the Marshal. Yet someone was actually enforcing that rubbish outside of Triumph City? Paying no heed to the shock on MacLaren's face, Huye smiled and continued: "Of course, on top of having those nobles keep them in line, I'll give them something to strive for, encouraging them to work even harder on top of being diligent. For instance, crediting a monthly bonus to their accounts; once they save up a thousand dinars, they can use the money to redeem their freedom." Anyone who lasted two years would be a skilled worker. Letting them go back to the plantations would be a waste. Aaron, however, shook his head. "Slaves capable of earning six hundred dinars a year won't be sold to you for just a thousand dinars by those nobles." "Then write it into the contract, or give them a little more," Huye said nonchalantly. "This isn't a negotiation. It's an order." "And after they buy their freedom?" MacLaren asked, looking at him. "They'll be freemen. There won't be any nobles to manage them for you." "They will be landless freemen who have passed occupational skill screenings," Huye corrected his sloppy phrasing, his smile unwavering as he went on. "You think I'm giving them freedom? There's no such charity in this world. They're merely moving from one cage into another." "There are no screws for them to turn in the plantations. With nowhere else to go, they will only become more dependent on us, working even harder than the slaves... and all we need to give them is a meager wage just enough to survive." Only then did a contemplative look cross Aaron's face; he finally understood why the big figures back in Triumph City had sent this gentleman here. MacLaren was equally astounded, his initial stereotypes about the man shattered. The fellow was quite something. Just as MacLaren was marveling, the governor suddenly turned around, walked up to him with a smile, and patted his arm. "General MacLaren, you are the only officer among us who graduated from an orthodox military academy, unlike us folks who wear ranks but have never set foot on a battlefield. And most crucially, you have fought the Alliance before... No offense intended; I know a minor mishap occurred in that engagement, but that wasn't your fault." MacLaren's brow twitched involuntarily. With a dark expression, he forced out: "Is there a point to this?" Seeing the shift in his expression, Huye quickly explained with a laugh: "Not at all! You happen to be the very talent we need most right now. I'd like to trouble you to help our friends train some halfway decent officers. After all, as you know... we are complete amateurs in that regard, and our friends have barely learned how to shoot." Hearing this modest phrasing, MacLaren's brow finally relaxed slightly, though he couldn't resist a sneer. "You finally remember what my job is?" He had been bored out of his mind here for nearly two months, doing nothing all day but watching those swine playing in the sand at the imperial palace. He would have been better off spending that time learning how to swim. Still, turning to him only after suffering defeat was a bit too late. Hearing this, Huye blinked, then chuckled wryly. "You... might have misunderstood something, General MacLaren. We never intended to neglect you. You have always been the most vital link in our plan. In fact, from the moment you set foot on this soil, you were already playing a pivotal role. And the fact that I can stand here today is largely thanks to your contribution... For that, I truly must express my gratitude." With that, the flamboyant man placed his right hand over his chest and gave a slight bow. MacLaren was stunned. A sudden feeling of having been kept in the dark washed over him, and he turned swiftly toward his adjutant, Aaron. Yet he saw the latter nod gently. "It is just as the Governor said... If we hadn't shown such warmth toward the Empire, they wouldn't have been 'thrilled' enough to curry favor with us by taking the initiative to 'teach the Alliance a lesson.'" Pausing, Aaron continued: "As for the defeat of the Gray Wolf Army, that was entirely within our expectations. It's just that the speed of their collapse exceeded our forecasts a bit... We never anticipated Wutuo would be foolish enough to send a prince to supervise the front lines, let alone that the prince would usurp General Arayan's command, leading to over ten thousand being captured." "Still, the outcome makes no difference," Governor Huye chimed in with a smile. "I still got the part we wanted." MacLaren narrowed his eyes, glaring at these people who had used him. Fury flared inside him, yet he could find no valid ground to lose his temper. Just as they said, the final result was favorable. Considering the Legion's interests, they had devised a strategy and achieved the projected outcome at minimal cost... He ought to be happy about it. Yet right now, he couldn't bring himself to feel pleased in the slightest. "...No wonder Corps Commander Salen dislikes you people," MacLaren sneered, his mouth twitching in a humorless smirk. A troubled expression crossed Huye's face, and he said with slight regret: "Is that so? Even so, I am deeply grateful to him for conquering such vast territories for our Legion and planting our banner in Sunset Province east of the Great Desert... If you have the chance, please convey my respects to him." "I will," MacLaren said, giving Huye a pointed look. He paused before adding, "And another thing: I hope this is the last time." Watching MacLaren turn and walk toward the cabin, Huye nodded pleasantly in agreement. "I give you my word." ... On the other side, far away in Golden Gallon Port. After a full month, under the supervision of Police Chief Bihari, the settlement's police stations had finally completed the registration of identity information for all residents within their jurisdiction. And the final result of the census took Fang Chang by surprise. If newborn infants who had not yet learned to speak and the half-dead lying on planks were counted, the actual population of this settlement reached an astounding 1.7 million! Hearing earlier that a million people lived here had been astonishing enough, but the actual count was even greater than the word-of-mouth estimates! "I thought having nine hundred thousand in a settlement with zero industrial base would already be huge, but the actual population exceeds estimates by nearly seventy percent..." Massaging his aching brow, Fang Chang gazed out the window at the dusty construction site, musing aloud: "Is it because of the red soil?" He suddenly recalled Ms. Han's research. When studying the civilizational ecology of settlements across the wasteland, the technological remnants of the Era of Prosperity were an undeniable variable. For example, although Baiyue Province was sparsely populated and seemingly had little left from the Era of Prosperity, it suffered from "ecological contamination" caused by Singularity-grade technology, making it practically impossible to carry out industrialization at low cost and forcing survivors to migrate out to sea. In Bolo Province, meanwhile, while red soil could hardly be considered advanced technology and owed much of its emergence to chance, it was in fact the single variable on this land that was "easiest to overlook, yet impossible to ignore"! It was like a natural nutrient paste. While it couldn't be eaten for every meal, 365 days a year, like the nutrient paste developed by Boulder City, even if it replaced fifty percent of food sources, it would exert an undeniable impact on the local ecosystem and social structure. Many survivors who couldn't possibly have survived elsewhere on the wasteland not only endured on this land, but with incredible environmental adaptability, swiftly outcompeted the first-generation survivors who failed to adapt to the Wasteland Era, establishing a unique civilizational ecology. And that red soil, born out of Lowell Camp, was both a boon left behind by their ancestors and a curse... Just then, a soft knock came from the door. Putting the research report in his hands into a drawer, Fang Chang looked toward the door and cleared his throat: "Come in." The door opened, and a young man clutching a thick stack of documents hurried into the office from outside. He had a slender frame with prominent cheekbones and deep dark circles under his eyes, yet his bright eyes shone with spirit, giving off a vibrant aura of youthful energy. His name was Yodu. He was one of the two hundred civil servants newly recruited by City Hall, and also one of the few Snakefolk who had passed the literacy examination. According to his own account, he used to do odd jobs at the port, picking up reading and writing by frequently dealing with merchants and sailors from Silver Moon Bay, running errands and acting as a guide for them. Literate Snakefolk were a rarity, especially self-taught ones. Fang Chang had promptly transferred the young man from City Hall to the Governor's Office to serve as governor's secretary, grooming him as a key talent. And the young man had not disappointed his expectations; in his work, he was both diligent and meticulous, coordinating very smoothly with both Rasi's side and Bihari's side. Fang Chang had only recently discovered it. Once liberated, those who had previously been shackled to the bottom rung of society by "factors unrelated to ability" displayed an enthusiasm for life and work that far eclipsed that of the folks who had already been doing quite well under Governor Nihark's reign. "...Respected sir, the household registration census is largely complete, encompassing both the port district and the more complicated urban wards. I have organized all the materials for you. As for establishing individual files for every resident, that will likely take some time yet to finish. "Furthermore, based on my personal observations, every police branch except the port precinct is extremely unfamiliar with operations in their jurisdictions. While that isn't entirely their fault, omissions were inevitable during the census of survivors in the slums. I fear a second screening will be needed before the files are officially created." Looking at the stack of documents piled on his desk, Fang Chang nodded approvingly. "Well done. I have the picture now, and for the time being, achieving this much is enough. Afterward, I'll have Chief Bihari produce identification documents based on these rosters... Actually, why don't you go notify him for me?" "Happy to be of service, sir." Yodu nodded slightly, then paused before continuing, "In addition, regarding the displaced persons along the Everflowing River that you mentioned earlier, I have sent people to make inquiries. According to the refugees themselves, they were originally residents living along the upper reaches of the Everflowing River. The imperial army drove them out of their native villages, violently plundering their grain and livestock." Fang Chang frowned slightly. "Which side of the ceasefire line were they living on?" "The Empire's side, outside our area of actual control," Yodu said with a serious expression. "If we allow them to pour into the port unchecked, I fear it will disrupt the order we worked so hard to stabilize. Yet leaving them to fend for themselves isn't an option either; unless we completely shut down the shadow port on the Everflowing River, those people will always find a way to swim across." Fang Chang looked at him with interest. Intuition told him the fellow already had an idea. "So what is your suggestion?" Sure enough, just as he expected, Yodu stood respectfully before his desk and continued: "I have discussed it with the people at City Hall. They agreed to allocate part of the budget to build a shelter next to the POW camp in the suburbs, providing temporary lodging for the refugees fleeing from the Empire to Golden Gallon Port. However, this requires your approval." Fearing Fang Chang might disagree, Yodu quickly pressed on: "The threat of famine in Golden Gallon Port has passed. All we need to expend is some inexpensive food to keep them obediently outside the settlement awaiting resettlement, and they can even help us build roads and bridges... In truth, taking in those refugees isn't a bad thing. The Everflowing River filtered out part of the population for us; those capable of swimming to Golden Gallon Port are all able-bodied youths. "And once the ceasefire agreement takes effect, we can incorporate the POW camp directly into the shelter complex, merging the two into a new district and gradually absorbing this population through industries expanding from the settlement into the suburbs." Fang Chang looked at the young man standing before his desk with slight astonishment—or more accurately, with pleasant surprise. It felt just like pulling an SSSR card in a gacha pull. Damn. Impressive work. Coming up with ideas wasn't hard, but thinking through every step of a project—what to do first, what to do next—required real brainpower. To organize matters so methodically and simplify the leadership's workload down to merely signing a piece of paper—having this fellow work as a mere secretary was practically squandering his talents. Still, pleasant surprise aside, whether he truly had the capability depended on how well things were executed. Without showing his inner thoughts on his face, Fang Chang simply nodded. "I'm very satisfied with your proposal. Proceed as you suggested. I'll give City Hall and the militia a heads-up so they can cooperate with your work within their capacity." Delighted, Yodu nodded with tacit understanding. "Please leave it to me, sir. I won't disappoint you." Hearing the phrase "within their capacity," he already had a rough sense of how to navigate the matter. Just as he bowed to leave, he suddenly recalled something, pausing in his steps. "Right, there's one more thing. Although you may have already heard rumors, I felt I should report it just in case..." Fang Chang leaned back in his chair, picking up the teacup on his desk and taking a sip. "Speak." "Concerning West Sail Port on the west coast of Bolo Province," Yodu weighed his words for a moment before proceeding cautiously, "rumors at the port say that the Legion dispatched a governor there recently, and by now he ought to have arrived. Perhaps this isn't my place to worry about, but as things stand... the Legion seems intent on intervening in Bolo Province's situation. I fear this might introduce unknown variables into our ceasefire negotiations with the Empire." The Legion's governor? Fang Chang frowned slightly, but his brow soon cleared, and he said softly: "Mr. Yodu, you are my secretary, and you are also a survivor of this settlement. As long as it concerns the personal safety and vital interests of the local survivors, I don't believe there is anything you shouldn't concern yourself with." "You are right, sir." Watching Yodu bow his head, Fang Chang nodded gently. "I'm aware of the situation. Go attend to the tasks I gave you first." He had indeed already heard about the Legion's moves; he had even asked Captain Chen to take the nuclear submarine Dolphin over for a look. What landed was merely some industrial equipment and a small detachment of Wilante infantry and officers. While it called for vigilance, it didn't warrant undue concern. Against the broader backdrop of the "Bonded Nations" negotiations underway in Dawn City, the Legion was unlikely to enter into direct conflict with the Alliance. At most, the Wilantes would help the Empire train a couple more Gray Wolf Armies. By comparison, the warlord factions burgeoning along the border were far more worthy of his attention. "Understood." Yodu bowed respectfully, turned, and left the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Fang Chang glanced at the time in the upper-right corner of his VM. Less than ten minutes had passed from the moment Yodu entered to when he left. In those ten minutes, he had not only reported everything he needed to report, but had also presented a complete solution to the problem. It was evident he had prepared thoroughly. Working with someone like this was remarkably pleasant. Perhaps he could step down from his role as Acting Governor of Golden Gallon Port even earlier than expected. "...Seems this place isn't entirely devoid of capable people after all. It just takes time to find them." Casting his gaze back upon the dusty construction site outside the office window, watching the busy laborers and the foremen directing them, a faint smile curved at the corners of Fang Chang's lips. The situation here wasn't actually as dire as they had imagined when they first arrived. The curse the red soil brought upon the local survivors wasn't entirely a debuff. Although traits like "submissiveness" and even "docile obedience" had turned these people into natural-born slaves—to the point where they could carve a pig into a totem, raise it above their heads, and revere it as a deity—they were not entirely without the chance to bring an end to their wasteland. Just like the people sweating profusely outside his window as they rebuilt their homes. If someone were willing to point out a path slightly more reliable than reincarnating into an imperial family, they were willing to budge their feet forward. And if someone was willing to give them a pull or push them a couple of steps forward, once they pushed open the door to a new world, they might run even faster than Boss Xia from Boulder City. Just like the Moon clan girls building a new homeland along the Baiyue Strait—their performance after coming ashore was the best proof. An extraordinary endurance for their environment had carried them through dire straits that ordinary people could scarcely bear, and their docile obedience, placed in a different context, translated into resilience and hard work. The notion of a natural-born slave was a false premise to begin with. No slave was ever born that way. And thinking of the thighs—er, girls—on the beaches of the Baiyue Strait, Fang Chang suddenly realized that this "counter-offensive in self-defense" had been going on for nearly two months. "Time flies so damn fast..." he couldn't help musing. In another two days, the freshwater pipeline in the Southern Sea would probably be finished...