Bountiful Spoils!

Following the fall of the Zhalas regime, the residents of North Island had braced themselves for a harsh winter. Yet, to their surprise, the days ahead turned out far better than they had imagined, steadily improving instead. Needless to say, the navy of the Southern Sea Alliance considered them part of the same family and naturally had no intention of giving the islanders a hard time. Moreover, the discipline of the Alliance's military was a rarity in the wasteland. Far from disrupting the locals' lives, they actually lifted the curfews and wartime rationing systems that had been imposed during Zhalas's reign. Along the streets near the port district, people who had been hiding in their homes for days finally exhausted their stored provisions. Driven by hunger, they trickled back onto the streets one after another. Although the new postwar order had been announced over the radio days earlier, not everyone believed what was being broadcast, assuming instead that rebels had seized the station. Information warfare was standard practice in wartime, and the Zhalas regime had enforced strict curfews. Most people had consequently lived trapped in information cocoons; far from venturing outside, they didn't even dare crack open a window to peek out. Although the new authorities told them the war was over, they could hardly pry open people's doors and drag them out by force. In terms of enforcement costs, that was clearly not worth it. Besides, with so much to be done, they simply didn't have the spare hands to look after those still living in the past. At any rate, the Zhalas regime had fallen, and the new order was already established. Those still clinging to the past would face reality sooner or later. And when those among the last batch to return to normal life stepped cautiously onto the streets and saw that the local supermarkets had actually reopened, almost all of them widened their eyes in disbelief. "Bizarre... the supermarket's open again?" Muttering quietly to himself, a gaunt, middle-aged man suddenly remembered something. He sprinted back home, ignoring the startled looks of his wife and children as he rummaged through boxes and cabinets, pulled out a thick stack of banknotes, shoved them into his pocket, grabbed a plastic scavenging bag, and rushed toward the supermarket. Ever since the Zhalas regime implemented wartime rationing, Federation currency within the North Federation had turned into worthless paper that couldn't buy a thing, and supermarkets had shut down one after another because they couldn't restock. Now seeing the supermarket reopen, he had immediately pulled out all his savings, eager to exchange every last cent for powdered milk, bread, and canned food, terrified that if he was too slow, others would buy up everything. Yet the moment he dashed through the supermarket doors and laid eyes on the shelves lined with a dazzling array of goods, he froze in his tracks, as if hallucinating. The people queuing to pay took notice of him, but after a mere glance, none of them said a word. People like him had been turning up frequently these days. Everyone had lived through those arduous times, so no one felt inclined to mock him. The man's Adam's apple bobbed. He walked briskly to the shelves. Looking at the single-digit price tags, he held his breath, his heart thumping wildly. Without even looking closely, he scooped an armful into his plastic bag and hurried over to line up. When his turn finally came at the checkout counter, he pulled a handful of banknotes from his pocket and plunked them down. Seeing the crumpled pile of bills, the cashier sighed with an "as expected" look, pointed at the sign on the counter, and said, "...What you have there is Federation currency. Look closely at the price tags on the shelves. We only accept silver coins here." Silver coins? The man froze, his face flushing crimson. He stammered for a good while before finally blurting out, "What do I do if I don't have any silver coins...?" The cashier explained patiently, "Then go find some work. There's a Refugee Home relief station down at the port. Go fill out a job application, and you can collect relief food right away. Once a job is arranged, someone will notify you. Besides, some of the bigger employers will advance half a month or a full month's wages, and some even help you apply for living stipend loans. You can go ask around—my job was arranged by the Refugee Home too." Hearing this, the man hurriedly said his thanks and rushed out of the supermarket. He had previously worked in import-export trade; perhaps he could find a job to support his family at the port or with the Baiyue Company... ... With the lifting of wartime rationing, supermarket shelves were once again stocked with iron pots, kitchen knives, bread, grain, and other goods that had previously been nowhere to be found. Naturally, these supplies hadn't grown on the shelves by themselves. Some were produced in Sunset Province, some processed in Silver Moon Bay, and others came from Golden Gallon Port. Manufactured through their respective production chains, these goods were first transported to Port French Fries to be loaded onto ships, and ultimately distributed across the resource-scarce northern islands to be priced in silver coins and sold. In addition, Refugee Home relief stations had established branches on North Island, handing out relief food while registering the skills and educational backgrounds of unemployed residents, referring them to jobs, minimizing their wait times, and so on. The ocean current power station needed rebuilding, and North Island's facilities required reconstruction; there was no shortage of work needing hands. In tech-intensive positions especially, there were more job openings than available workers. For the local residents, the only fly in the ointment was that the Federation currency issued by the federal authorities had gone from being nominal scrap paper to literal scrap paper. Ever since the northern islands had failed to curb soaring inflation and declared rationing, the stuff had lost most of its monetary functions, but it had at least retained a tiny sliver of purchasing power. Now, with the collapse of the federal authorities, even its legal purchasing power had evaporated completely. Using it as toilet paper would just chafe your backside. The Southern Sea Alliance was planning to issue a new local currency to keep the economy running smoothly. At the present stage, however, because the settlements across the Southern Sea relied heavily on resource inputs from the Alliance, and the new authorities were operating entirely on loans from the Alliance Bank, everything from public expenditures to material procurement was temporarily settled in silver coins. At this moment, at North Island's military port, construction teams from Port French Fries were repairing damaged facilities, particularly the gantry cranes and automated cargo-handling systems installed along the docks. Just a short distance away at the pier, two large cargo ships laden with containers were docked, waiting to unload. Standing at the edge of the harbor, Chaning squinted as he gazed out over the war-torn port. In a conversational tone, he spoke to Commander Li Minghui beside him: "...This is what happens when the military meddles in politics. The stronger their executive ability, the greater their destructive capacity. We must never walk down the North Federation's old path. What do you think, Mr. Li Minghui?" Two weeks had passed since the end of the civil war, and it was now mid-October. During that time, Li Minghui had made a trip to Dawn City, meeting with the Alliance's Administrator in his capacity as the wartime president of the Southern Sea Alliance. It was rumored they had talked for three whole days. This matter drew intense scrutiny not only from the outside world, but also from the Southern Sea Alliance's own council of representatives. Although local and central affairs were divided into two distinct systems in the Southern Sea Alliance just as in the Alliance—and Chaning, as the highest local official of Ring Island, had neither the desire nor the standing to meddle in power struggles over central affairs—there was one matter on which he had to speak up on behalf of Ring Island's residents. Aligning with the Alliance did not run counter to the interests of the survivors in the Southern Sea. But if their general turned into a new Zhalas in the process, then all their sacrifices would be for naught. Sensing the probe in Chaning's tone, Li Minghui suddenly burst into laughter. "What a coincidence—I feel the exact same way. Professionals should stick to what they do best. A man like me is better suited to matching wits with enemies on the battlefield." Pausing, he added, "Once the war with Torch is over, I will resign from the office of wartime president and return all authority to the council that represents all survivors of the Southern Sea... That authority belonged to them in the first place. No one knows better than them how to navigate the road ahead." Seeing Chaning's astonished expression, Li Minghui chuckled softly and said, "Don't look so surprised. I'm only stepping down as wartime president and relinquishing command of the military. I never said I was retiring completely. Haha, if you don't find fault with my command capabilities, I'll continue serving as navy commander." In truth, before speaking with Captain Wick, he had hesitated more than once. Yet after witnessing that man's utter madness, the final spark of ambition in his own heart had been completely doused. Zhalas hadn't always been like that, nor had Wick... Both had once been passionately devoted to the future of the Southern Sea's survivors. No one had wanted more than them for the people here to live better lives and truly bring an end to the wasteland era across these waters. Yet once madness took root, it could no longer be stopped. To overthrow Shelter 70's rule, they turned a blind eye with their fleet, let the Church of the Torch in, and began concocting lies to coerce the skeptical and the blindly obedient alike. As the chips on the gambling table piled higher, they strayed further and further down the wrong path, every single one of them turning into demons in the end. And in the terminal stages of their madness, they would rather reduce two centuries of blood and sweat by the Southern Sea's survivors to ashes than admit they were wrong. Those who became madmen and those who indulged them had all gone to hell in the end. Now, the button to end this cycle rested right in his hands. All he had to do was press it to become a hero. There was no better choice. Just as that gentleman in Dawn City had told him: pursuing selfish gain brought pleasure only for a fleeting moment, but doing something that endured forever was the only path to true immortality. Gazing at Li Minghui's calm countenance, Chaning's astonishment gave way to profound respect, and he gave a slight nod. "...The survivors of Ring Island will be grateful for your choice. I believe the survivors across all the islands of the Southern Sea will feel the same." Looking out over the flourishing port, Li Minghui smiled easily and laughed. "Haha, you're too polite! That was what I ought to do all along!" ... At the same time reconstruction commenced, an inventory of the Zhalas regime's "legacy" was being carried out jointly by the Alliance and the Southern Sea Alliance. Below the headquarters of North Island Heavy Industries, two Chimera armored vehicles guarded the front and back doors, parked there for two full weeks. Initially, the employees working there had been frightened, but once they realized that only the company's senior executives were being taken away for questioning, they put their minds at ease and thought nothing more of it. Especially after their wages shifted from Zhalas's food coupons to silver coins—and quite generous pay at that—most employees had no complaints whatsoever. Except, that is, for those who had designed weapons for the mutants. Zhalas had once hoped to bridge the gap in ground forces between the North Federation and the Alliance by equipping mutants with technology from the Era of Prosperity, so he had ordered North Island Heavy Industries to establish a dedicated mutant equipment R&D department. These armaments had not only appeared on the battlefields of Sandbar Island, but had also surfaced in small numbers along the northern front and even across Yuema Province. Consequently, when they received the meeting notice, everyone—from project leaders down to design engineers—trembled in fear. To everyone's surprise, however, the Alliance representatives didn't give them a hard time. Standing in the conference room, Fang Chang addressed them: "...The Southern Sea Alliance does not intend to hold you accountable. After all, you are civilians who acted under duress. Our stance on this matter aligns with theirs: we also favor holding the primary decision-makers mainly responsible, and the decision-makers' accomplices secondarily responsible, rather than persecuting those coerced along with them." Hearing those words, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, from executives to grassroots employees. Given a choice, none of them would have designed weapons for mutants, but with Zhalas's guns pointed at their heads, they'd had no alternative. Looking at the relieved staff, Fang Chang paused before continuing: "Starting now, however, your department's organizational structure is dissolved. You will transfer with your current projects and data to a new institution, collaborating with Boulder Military-Industrial to produce 'anti-mutant' weaponry. "Of course, anyone unwilling may process their resignation or apply for a transfer back to their original department. We will not force you to do anything against your will like Zhalas did. The war with the Church of the Torch is certainly crucial, but we also respect your choices." The Alliance had no mutant soldiers, so naturally they had no need to develop weapons for mutant use. Nobody was surprised that their department, which should never have existed in the first place, was being disbanded. Hearing the follow-up arrangements, however, everyone began whispering among themselves. Fang Chang said nothing more, giving them ample time to discuss. At that moment, an executive raised his hand and, upon receiving a nod of permission, spoke up: "Excuse me... will we have to move to Boulder City to live?" This was his chief concern, as well as that of the engineers and experts under him. After all, they weren't vagrants or refugees; they had families, as well as established social circles and ties here. Relocating to a new settlement would mean having to adapt to local customs and living conditions, affecting everything including their children's education. Understanding their concerns, Fang Chang smiled and replied gently, "That won't be necessary. Our signal towers will soon be erected on North Island, followed by submarine cables. Communications between the Alliance's settlements will only become more convenient. The new institution will still be located on North Island; collaboration will primarily occur online and through regular exchange seminars." At this reassurance, everyone finally breathed easy, smiles of relief spreading across their faces. The salaries offered by the reorganized North Island Heavy Industries were quite generous; if possible, they naturally wanted to keep working here. Moreover, dedicating their knowledge and efforts to a just cause from now on would help alleviate the guilt of having once designed weapons for mutants. "Then I plan to stay!" The executive who asked the question was the first to raise his hand, and seeing this, the others raised theirs as well. "Me too!" "Count me in as well! Aside from designing gear, I'm not good at anything else anyway." There were thirty-five core personnel in the department in total. Aside from three who requested transfers back to their original departments and two who submitted resignations, the remaining thirty executives and engineers accepted all the conditions for transferring to the new department. The entire process went very smoothly. Having finished this meeting, Fang Chang quickly picked up the next roster to prepare for the next round. During Zhalas's reign, in order to concentrate limited resources and productivity on warfare, he had used administrative authority to consolidate the industrial facilities left behind on North Island from the Shelter 70 era, establishing a massive defense conglomerate named "North Island Heavy Industries." This enterprise was like a replica of Boulder Military-Industrial—perhaps even more extreme—with production lines spanning land, sea, air, and beyond. Everything from LB-1 jet fighters, anti-air missiles, and anti-ship missiles to "Alligator" amphibious armored vehicles, as well as the exoskeletons and assault rifles issued to the Federation Marines, was manufactured in workshops controlled by this single company. Such a degree of industrial supply chain concentration was almost unimaginable in normal reality, as the chips required for missiles alone were hardly something a single enterprise could handle. Yet for wasteland factions that inherited remnants of Era of Prosperity technology, manufacturing old-era equipment was not particularly difficult; many components and manufacturing processes that had been irreplaceable in the old era could find viable substitutes. For example, carbon-based semiconductors fundamentally upended traditional silicon semiconductors, and that was just one technical detail. It was like how ancients might spend nine-times-nine, eighty-one days forging a legendary weapon that still might not cut better than a modern stainless steel kitchen knife, whereas a modern person wanting to forge an ancient legendary blade could simply toss a steel ingot onto a lathe and machine it out in minutes—at most, it lacked "soul." Whether the Zhalas regime's industrial strategy was good or bad was hard to judge, but in any case, it made it remarkably convenient for those who came after to reap the spoils. The auditing firm commissioned by the Alliance authorities took merely seven days to examine all the accounts and deliver a more rational "spoils recovery plan." The Alliance's first step was to break up the colossal North Island Heavy Industries, converting part of its surplus capacity to civilian use while integrating the remaining capacity into the Alliance's production framework, making it an integral part of the Alliance's industrial ecosystem. In simple terms, it meant transforming North Island Heavy Industries from an outfit that "could build anything, but made everything mediocre" into three or more specialized industrial bases. Namely, shipbuilders would focus on figuring out how to build better ships, amphibious equipment builders would research amphibious vehicles, and guided weapon designers would concentrate on guided weapons. As for researching exoskeletons, rifles, aircraft, tanks, and the like, the Alliance already boasted a host of outstanding defense enterprises dedicated to developing those armaments; North Island Heavy Industries' manufacturing branches could simply focus on producing components for them. This was driven by the need for resource integration on one hand, and strategic considerations on the other. Once integrated into the Alliance's industrial framework, North Island's residents would enjoy a better life than before thanks to advanced production methods. Yet should they ever detach from the Alliance's industrial system, their lives would become worse than before. While Fang Chang was busy holding meetings with the staff of North Island Heavy Industries, Lao Bai led a group to the company's warehouse. The space here was immense, the size of a football field, filled with various heavy armaments parked in the center. A few were vehicles they had encountered on the battlefield, such as the two variants of the "Alligator" armored vehicle with different turrets, or the infantry landing craft that had appeared on Sandbar Island. Others were things that hadn't had the chance to see action, such as a main battle tank standing a full four meters tall. Its thick, elongated barrel had to be at least 120 millimeters, and the cockpit was absurdly spacious—hardly looking like it was meant for normal humans. Killing Dagger walked over to the tank, hopped onto the turret, peeked inside through the hatch, and concluded, "Ten to one, this thing was built for mutants to drive." Kidney Fighter sneered, "What good is it without air superiority? On the battlefield, it's just a sitting duck." All Good Names Taken by Dogs shook his head and said leisurely, "Not necessarily. It depends on which battlefield. It'd certainly be useless on the northern front, but not necessarily on the southern front. If the Federation fleet had secured command of the sea, our aircraft wouldn't have been able to fly in, and tackling this monster with power armor would have been quite a struggle." For instance, on terrain like Sandbar Island, if the mutants had possessed a few tanks, trying to stop them with man-portable infantry weapons alone would have been tricky. After climbing down from the tank's turret, Killing Dagger walked over to a square metal gantry. Seeing the humanoid suit of armor mounted in the center of the gantry, his face lit up as if he had discovered a new continent. "Holy crap, power armor?!" On the rear of the armor was an interface for a nuclear fusion core. From the overall styling and design details, it looked almost stamped from the same mold as the suit Lao Bai was wearing. The thing was unmistakably a knockoff of the "Dragoon" power armor. Seeing this big boss from the Burning Corps finally move on from the mutant tank, the accompanying technician hastily chimed in, "The Sea Lion power armor... This is an experimental prototype replicated by North Island Heavy Industries based on the Dragoon blueprints! We modified the electrical systems so it can run on deuterium-tritium fuel when helium-3 is scarce... But we lacked the resources to build a heavy water plant, so the armor's development had to be shelved." Listening to the technician's explanation, Kidney Fighter couldn't help marveling, "Holy mother of... there's an awful lot of good stuff here." Killing Dagger nodded in agreement. "...Thank goodness this Federation was stuck on small islands. If they had a whole continent or a few islands with slightly more resources, this civil war probably would have dragged on until the game servers shut down." All Good Names Taken by Dogs was unimpressed, merely curling his lip. "The worst students always carry the fanciest pencil cases." Every piece of gear was flashy as hell, but once deployed to the battlefield, weren't they blown to pieces one after another anyway? Lao Bai, who hadn't spoken until now, chuckled and patted the technician gently on the shoulder. "Follow us and you won't have to worry about those problems. We have more than enough resources. Whether you want to build a heavy water plant or any other facility, we have the means. Just keep this project going." Not only this "Sea Lion" power armor, but even that tank designed for mutants could actually be put to use with a few minor modifications. Add in that nearly completed next-generation destroyer docked in the shipyard, and Zhalas had truly dropped a massive haul of loot. This victory could only be described as a bumper harvest!