Duke Nihak, Stabbing Friends in Both Ribs

"Respected Mr. Li Minghui, we are friends, aren't we?" Li Minghui, who had been sipping tea and watching a show in the presidential office, was suddenly hit with this bizarre crank call. He called it a crank call not because of who was on the other end, but because the fellow had dialed his direct internal extension just to ask such an inexplicable question. It was no different from his spouse suddenly texting him during working hours to ask if he still loved her. "Of course... Did something go wrong with the drill?" Li Minghui glanced instinctively at his schedule. Aside from an amphibious landing drill being conducted by the Alliance's Burning Corps on the northern beaches, there seemed to be nothing of note happening today. Yet Fang Chang's next words caught him completely off guard. "Not at all. The drill went very smoothly. It's just that I noticed you intend to sell a battleship similar to the *Haiya* to the Empire. Although this call might be redundant, I still wanted to confirm the matter of that main gun. The Shelter is a relief organization, and we don't want the technology we unearth to be used for—" "Oh—*that*," Li Minghui said, enlightenment dawning as he chuckled helplessly. "You don't need to worry about that. We have no interest in making trouble for ourselves." Speaking of which, wasn't this guy a board member of North Island Heavy Industries? How could he not know about such a massive arms sale? Was there any point in playing dumb like this— *Wait.* Li Minghui suddenly snapped to attention. *Could it actually be the Alliance's manager asking through him?* The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Given Mr. Fang Chang's intelligence, he wouldn't fail to see something so obvious. After all, this transaction wasn't something the Southern Sea Alliance could decide on its own. The administration here had merely acted as the intermediary to broker the massive deal and skimmed a cut of tax off the down payment. When it would be delivered, whether it would be delivered at all, or if the hull ended up leaking like a sieve—wasn't all of that entirely up to the shipyard? And to take a step back: once the survivors of Brahma Province truly formed a united front, what would it matter even if they actually delivered the ship? By that time, the ones truly having headaches ought to be the enemies of all survivors—such as the Wilante dreaming of conquering the world—rather than the survivors of River Valley Province and the Southern Sea, who had already joined hands. With that thought, he immediately adopted an official tone, clearing his throat and speaking solemnly. "To us, the Empire's reputation sits somewhere between Torch and Zhalas. We have zero reason to deliver any equipment to the current Empire that might pose a threat to ourselves. However, from where I stand, it's hard to turn down money brought straight to our doorstep. We need money; it's as simple as that... In addition, please pass along my regards to your manager. The survivors of the Southern Sea Alliance welcome him to visit the Southern Sea at any time." Fang Chang had a rough idea of what Li Minghui was misunderstanding, but he did not burst his bubble. He simply smiled faintly and replied, "Understood. Have a pleasant day. And I will certainly pass along your regards to the manager. He has always wanted to come see this place, though I'm afraid it will have to wait until after the war ends." The call disconnected. Smiling, Fang Chang picked up the newspaper with its sensationalist headline, tossed it back to the dumbfounded Mosquito, and tapped his forefinger on his VM to end the voice synchronization. "The NPCs in this game are more lifelike than you imagine, and much smarter... Of course, Duke Nihak is an exception. He's realistic in a different way." Remembering that not all NPCs were sharp, Fang Chang tacked on a qualifier to his statement and gave a light cough. "Maybe it's a matter of education, or maybe the slaves of Brahma Province spoiled him rotten. In any case, he temporarily fails to understand that civilization is the product of strategic games; instead, he regards civilization as something taken for granted. He thinks nobody can see through his petty cleverness and treats everyone else like fools. In truth, anyone can see right through him—they just can't be bothered to call him out, and quietly pay him back in kind... It's as simple as that." He had recorded the call. Although he felt certain the manager already knew everything, making an active report was the best way to prevent unnecessary misunderstandings. After all, he really didn't want to get summoned back by Xiao Yu for questioning. Mosquito stood dazed for a good while before finally giving a heartfelt thumbs-up. "Badass! That's so fucking dirty..." "I'll take that as a compliment." Fang Chang smiled faintly, thanked the waiter who handed him a mojito, and leisurely continued, "To answer your earlier question: I never intended to become their daddy, but the facts are right before your eyes... At least until their wings have fully grown, they're going to have to call me daddy." Just as the manager had declared that day: the Alliance's currency could buy any commodity, but no currency was ever permitted to purchase honor and dignity. Thought you were hot shit again? Then step right up and try. ... To Nihak, thirty billion Xilan coins and fifty million silver coins were minor matters. Even after losing Golden Gallon Port, he remained an honorable duke. At most, he had merely lost the hat of governor-general. Yet for the survivors of Tiger State and Leopard State—especially the workshop owners who had bought Alliance-brand sewing machines and the day laborers and long-term workers who pumped the treadles until the machines smoked—these two savage thrusts brought agonizing misery, making both kidneys bleed profusely. The cloth market in White Tiger City. The normally bustling stalls were now even more "lively." Before an empty stall, a crowd of middle-aged men and young lads in long coats and short shirts jostled together. Some were proprietors of nearby tailor shops, some were tailors working for masters on nearby estates, and others were hands from local garment factories. Among them were tall and short, fat and thin, with differences in clothing, skin tone, and temperament greater than those between cattle and men. Yet the expressions on their faces were strikingly identical: every pair of angry eyes burned with righteous indignation. An elderly man of seemingly considerable standing walked at the forefront, pointing at the white chalk on the blackboard, his index finger and beard trembling with rage. "Fifty Xilan for a single kilogram of cotton cloth?! Have you lost your damn minds for money?!" Seeing someone take the lead, the crowd behind him joined in the shouting. "Exactly!" "This is too outrageous!" "We're all running honest businesses here! How can you be so unreasonable!" The clerk sitting behind the stall wore a face full of dismissive apathy. Casting a sidelong glance at the old tailor shop owner and looking past him at the clamoring mob, he said impatiently, "Reasonable? Heh, today you think fifty is expensive. Tomorrow when it hits sixty, let's see what you have to say. That's the price—take it or leave it!" A collective uproar rippled through the crowd pressed around the stall. Yet the clerk showed not the slightest hint of fear, casually picking at his earwax instead. Two burly brutes stood beside the stall like ferocious tigers, their glares intimidating the survivors so thoroughly that none dared say more. White Tiger City was the largest settlement in Tiger State, and this cloth market established within it was the premier fabric trading hub of all of Tiger State. Could anyone open a business here without some backing from the bosses in the Tiger Army? Keep dreaming! Still, it truly was bizarre. Fabric prices had never been so ridiculous before. A kilogram of raw cotton used to cost only ten to fifteen Xilan. Processing it into cotton cloth doubled that to twenty or thirty Xilan, which was then sold to traveling merchants from Golden Gallon Port for sixteen to twenty-four gallons, or occasionally settled in silver coins. That meant one kilogram of cotton cloth went for 1.6 to 2.4 silver coins. The textile industry was the very first trade to flow from Golden Gallon Port into Tiger State, and the cheap, high-quality cotton cloth produced here had propped up half the prosperity of Golden Gallon Port's export trade. Yet recently, for reasons nobody understood, a horde of merchants had suddenly rushed over from Golden Gallon Port, shoving sack after sack of Xilan coins into his boss's hands. They hadn't just cleaned out the textile mill's entire warehouse; they had even booked orders through the following year. Those fellows acted as if they were possessed, tossing money around as though it weren't their own, but had been snatched up through some incredible bargain. While the survivors of Tiger State had always known the merchants of Golden Gallon Port were dripping in wealth, they had never seen them act this crazy. There was an unwritten yet universally acknowledged exchange rate between gallons and Xilan coins, roughly four gallons to five Xilan. Those merchants' Xilan coins were also obtained by converting gallons, unless they had scored a much cheaper rate from the banks or elsewhere. Being just a clerk, he naturally had no idea where the merchants had gotten so many Xilan coins. He had only heard that the money was indeed genuine currency issued by the imperial royal family. Terrified that the mills might refuse the cash, those traveling merchants had even brought along promissory notes issued by the lending banks, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the money was clean and legitimate. Though strange, business walking straight through the door was business that couldn't be turned away. Consequently, the inventory of every textile mill in all of Tiger State was wiped clean. Generally speaking, the fabric that trickled from the textile mills into the cloth market consisted of leftover remnants passed over by the garment factories. But this time, every major textile mill had been squeezed bone-dry by the flood of Xilan coins, leaving the market price of circulating cloth with nowhere to go but up. The crowd pressed before the stall shouted and shoved, but none dared run wild on warlord territory in the end. They had no choice but to swallow their wrath. Some servants tasked with making clothes for their masters paid up briskly. It wasn't their money they were spending anyway, and their lords certainly didn't lack funds. Other small shop owners counted on their fingers, realized that buying materials at this price to make clothes would guarantee a loss no matter what, and stormed off cursing. Still others, hearing that cloth prices were set to rise further, figured they could speculate and hastily whipped out their Xilan coins to buy before it climbed again. Even more passersby murmured among themselves, wondering if something catastrophic had happened in Mammoth City. A few were even spreading panicked rumors that Alaiyang had suffered a crushing defeat, claiming that shroud cloth and bandages on the front lines were in critically short supply, sending the price of fabric into the stratosphere. Yet that analysis seemed far too narrow. After all, it wasn't just cloth. Sugarcane, white sugar, soybeans, corn, and all manner of other commodities were shooting up in price at breakneck speed. Some cursed the Moon Clan, believing their unclean blood had cursed the Empire's fortunes and that only a great ritual drawn in their blood could dispel it. Others cursed the merchants of Golden Gallon Port; after all, those opportunists profiting from disaster were truly unscrupulous, and their Xilan coins had surely come from disreputable origins. A few perceptive individuals vaguely directed their curses toward Chu Guang, the Alliance manager presiding over operations on the front lines of Haiya Province. They were considered perceptive because anyone who hadn't read a few secondhand newspapers wouldn't even know the Alliance manager's name. Such was the bitterness of living in an information cocoon. Due to a total lack of channels for news, when people took a beating, they only saw the hand, never knowing where the blow had landed. They didn't even know which direction the slap had come from. Meanwhile, on the outskirts of White Tiger City. Inside a workshop spanning a dozen mu, hundreds of treadle sewing machines were packed together, filling the factory with a continuous, rhythmic whirring. This garment factory, named "Farhan," had been established by a Tiger merchant of the same name. It was not only the largest garment factory in White Tiger City, but also the very first factory in all of Tiger State. Two months ago, the supreme commander of the Tiger Army, Myriarch Jeha, had purchased the factory for a modest sum. He followed that up with an additional ten-million-gallon investment to procure equipment from Golden Gallon Port and expand production. And the factory had certainly lived up to General Jeha's expectations. Today, one-fifth of all the towels, curtains, bedding, and shirts used by the residents of Golden Gallon Port were produced here. The Tiger merchant who had sold the factory must have had his intestines twist green with regret. The entire factory operated like a money-printing machine, continuously supplying cash milk to the Tiger Army. As a result, the Tiger Army had followed the Golden Gallon Port garrison's lead and equipped themselves with Scythe assault rifles dripping with Alliance flavor, outfitting themselves far better than the Gray Wolf Army. While the long-term workers pumped their sewing machines so fast they nearly took flight, the head accountant was tapping away on his calculator with equal speed, meticulously checking his ledgers. Although goods exported from Tiger State to Golden Gallon Port earned gallons—foreign exchange—those gallons could not be spent directly within Tiger State. Whether dinars, silver coins, or gallons, funds had to undergo foreign exchange settlement before they could legitimately be deposited into the factory's accounts at the native money houses or banks of White Tiger City. After all, the Empire was not like the Southern Sea Alliance, whose local currency had collapsed. Legally speaking, neither gallons nor silver coins could circulate directly within imperial borders; at best, people used them in private transactions. The factory could use its surplus foreign exchange to purchase equipment from Golden Gallon Port, but it had to convert gallons into Xilan coins to procure raw materials and pay workers' wages inside the Empire. Thus, part of the accountant's monthly routine was matching bank remittance records to determine which portion of gallons to settle into local currency, and which portion to retain for equipment purchases or hiring outside technical personnel. The banks in White Tiger City were fairly lenient with foreign exchange controls, mainly because the warlords didn't understand the system and simply tossed it down to subordinates to manage. The subordinates didn't understand it either, so they blindly copied Golden Gallon Port's model, doing whatever the newly enriched merchants did. Because of this, business owners were generally allowed to decide when and how much to settle, sparing them the trouble of submitting reports to the bank every time they needed silver coins. Yet this month had been exceedingly bizarre. First, the payments received by the garment factory were forcibly settled into Xilan coins at the previous month's exchange rate. Then, the profits on the ledger went from over ten million Xilan coins at the start of the month to negative two million, scaring the old accountant half to death. The first issue was actually manageable. The garment factory was an asset of the warlords, and the money houses handling settlement were also run by Tiger State's military brass. It was just moving money from their left hand to their right, so he couldn't care less. Whatever pocket it ended up in belonged to the masters anyway; as long as he knew where it went, it was fine. The ones who should truly panic were the small workshops. The gallons and silver coins sitting unsettled in the banks belonged to them, and the White Tiger City banks' stunt essentially confiscated the silver coins in their accounts—a complete abandonment of any financial credibility. Yet what was truly killing him was the second problem. Where had the profits gone? "Strange... Where's the money?" How could they produce more and end up poorer? Dumbfounded, the old man dabbed spit onto his index finger, feigned composure, and flipped through the ledger again and again before finally spotting the culprit under raw materials. In just one short month, the price of cotton cloth had literally doubled, and even linen, known for having the most stable pricing, had jumped eighty percent. The profits earned in the first half of the month had been completely swallowed by raw material price spikes in the second half. No wonder they had toiled all the way to month's end only to come out two million Xilan coins in the red. This was no minor problem. At least the first half of the month had yielded some profit, keeping the total loss this small. If this trend continued, they were likely to lose twenty million Xilan coins next month. At this rate, they would go bankrupt within half a year! Sweating profusely from panic, the accountant was just about to get up and find the plant manager when the foreman on duty knocked and stepped into the room. Looking timidly at the man behind the desk, the foreman said cautiously, "Master... The workers are clamoring for their wages. Do you think we could settle their pay first?" Normally, delaying wages by a week or two was nothing unusual. The freemen working long-term shifts were capable of enduring hardship and quite considerate of their masters. Recently, however, for reasons unknown, everything in White Tiger City had spiked in price except red mud—even the soybean meal used to feed livestock had gone up. The accountant froze, sat his backside right back down into his chair, and glared darkly at the foreman. "My accounts aren't finished yet! What's your rush?!" The foreman pleaded with a bitter face, "Master, I'm not rushing you. I'm in no hurry myself... It's the workers on the floor who are getting desperate." The accountant waved his pen irritably, pretending to still be busy. "Tell them to get back to work. General Jeha runs such a massive estate—would he cheat them out of this pocket change? Work if they want to, get lost if they don't, and quit disturbing my tallying!" Stifling his indignation, the foreman felt immense misery in his heart, but dared not say another word. He could only lower his head and leave the office. For a full day, it seemed as though all of White Tiger City had fallen under a foul spell. A chorus of lamentation stretched from the cloth stalls running petty business to the factories conducting massive operations. Workers toiled from dawn till dusk; accountants calculated from dusk till dawn; yet not a single soul could see where all those Xilan coins had vanished to. Except, of course, the plantation owners selling cash crops like cotton and sugarcane, along with the nobility in their estates. Sitting upstream at the source of the supply chain, they were the least impacted. In fact, one could call them the greatest beneficiaries of this wave of "engineered inflation." Naturally, that was only true for now. Soon they would discover that fertilizer formerly priced at a hundred Xilan coins had skyrocketed two to threefold, while the artworks and cosmetics purchased by their second wives had inflated several times over. For the time being, all those goods had to be imported from Golden Gallon Port using foreign exchange. Below the plantations sat the weavers and sugar refiners. These relatively upstream large factories fared reasonably well, as they could pass part of their costs downstream to the garment-making and food-processing sectors. Yet this dealt agony to the lower tiers. The further down the ladder one went, the more piercing the bitter cold became. For small shop owners who needed silver coins to expand production and compete with Golden Gallon Port merchants for export orders, this period of growing pains would prove excruciatingly drawn out. After all, the thirty-billion-Xilan loan was merely Duke Nihak's first self-inflicted slash; the fifty-million-silver-coin down payment for the warship was the truly lethal blow, completely wiping out six months of hard work by the small shop owners in Tiger and Leopard States who were still in their initial phase of capital accumulation. Nihak's act of "charity" had directly emptied the foreign reserves of the Imperial Royal Mint, with an estimated ongoing outflow of ten million silver coins per month. Unable to produce sufficient silver coins, the Imperial Royal Mint had no choice but to tighten the faucet by cutting costs and reducing the silver-coin exchange quotas allocated to native banks and money houses along the Everflowing River. Unable to convert Xilan coins into silver coins, the banks of White Tiger City couldn't even meet the exchange demands of the warlord masters' own factories, let alone those of Tiger State's small workshops and shop owners. Not only did they slam shut the silver conversion window for these small sparrows, but they also confiscated the silver coins in their pockets, forcibly converting them into Xilan coins. Several slightly technical workshops on the verge of evolving into proper factories blew up on the spot before they could even begin competing with Golden Gallon Port factories or get their peaches plucked by the warlords. A handful of bankrupt entrepreneurs turned their gazes toward distant Mammoth State. Word was that, just like Golden Gallon Port, it was issuing its own currency and welcoming investments from merchants everywhere. Those who brought machinery could use it as collateral to secure loans at dirt-cheap interest rates. They could even borrow silver coins. Although it too was warlord territory, the region possessed its own unique advantages: it was closer to Silver Moon Bay, and it hosted parishes of the Church of the Silver Moon. Those cat-loving folks didn't just build chapels in their parishes; they ran banks as well. Even though Mammoth State faced the uncertainties of ongoing war and had just suffered a flood, being able to secure loans in silver coins against equipment collateral was simply too enticing... When all was said and done, the Empire's foundation was simply too fragile. The embargo had been lifted barely months ago. Had they spent decades accumulating reserves before stirring up trouble, things might not have exploded so swiftly. Even if it were destined to collapse, it would have taken ten or twenty years to unravel gradually. Just as the industrial ecosystem suffered this shock, so too did the "food chain." Big fish swallowed little fish when hungry, little fish devoured shrimp, and ultimately, it was the microbes and mayflies that suffered. Serfs could at least scrape up some leftover soup alongside their masters, but freemen working in the factories couldn't even find land to farm if they wanted to go back. Red mud, which had nearly stagnated in sales, became a hot commodity once more, and a few more scavengers appeared on the barren wastes, picking up soil. They were actually the lucky ones. As for the conditions in the states beyond Tiger and Leopard, even the residents of Golden Gallon Port at the terminus of the Everflowing River could hardly know. Yet none of this had the slightest impact on the bright and sunny Southern Sea Alliance. The generous Grand Duke Nihak had become the hottest celebrity on North Island. The newly launched *Survivor Daily* ran a dedicated column about him, heaping lavish praise on his thirty-billion donation and holding up his refusal to leave his ship as an exemplary model of thrift and diligence. Li Minghui went so far as to dub him the "Fang Chang of Brahma Province." However, after receiving a protest from the ID holder himself, the newspaper revised the moniker to the "General MacLaren of Brahma Province." Presumably the Wilante wouldn't bother traveling to the distant east to pick a fight over such nonsense. Besides, the survivors of Brahma Province were obsessed with the Wilante, making this flattery ring even louder than the previous version. A man always enjoyed a brief spell of glory before being lowered into the ground, and the Empire's grand duke was naturally no exception. Nihak was ecstatic every single day during this period. His face flushed with vigor as though pumped full of chicken blood, and he no longer felt fear even when crossing paths with the fellows who had once arrested him. Though winter had barely revealed its tail, he felt as though spring had arrived simultaneously for both himself and the Empire. While the warlords of Tiger and Leopard States scratched their heads in utter bewilderment, unable to fathom where their precious money had flown off to, Alaiyang—dutifully serving the Empire on the front lines of Mammoth State—was equally dumbfounded. His confusion, however, did not stem from lost funds, but from his troops being beaten so senseless by elusive guerrillas that they couldn't tell north from south. The ferocious firepower had once led him to believe the Alliance had entered the fray in person! And it wasn't just the firepower. The resistance forces seemed to multiply with every battle, growing more spirited and cunning each time. At first, they had only waged guerrilla skirmishes along the border of Mammoth State. Later on, traces of guerrilla bands began appearing in both Ma State and Bird State. These people specifically targeted the Gray Wolf Army's supply lines, terrifying supply convoys to the point where they dared not travel by night, let alone fly the royal twin-saber flag. Worse still, his scouts discovered that these rebels were building a deep-water port in Mammoth City, along with a railway connecting directly to it. Alaiyang nearly vomited blood upon hearing the news. Where on earth were these mangy curs getting steel and cement?! Could the Alliance have gifted that as well? Was that son of a bitch Laxi the Alliance manager's bastard son?! Just as fury consumed him, his confidant handed him a secret missive, explaining that patrol soldiers had discovered it on the front lines. *...To General Alaiyang:* *With your talents, General, you could easily carve out territory and crown yourself king. Why squander your prime years on a moribund empire?* *The Empire is already in a dead end, and Wutuo has brought all of this upon himself.* *If you defect to me, not only will I spare your life, but I will make you a myriarch of the resistance army. If you do not trust me, you may choose any state and depart freely. As long as you do not touch me, I guarantee my forces will never set foot in your territory.* Alaiyang unfolded the letter, read it, and ground his teeth so hard they clicked. "That scoundrel!" To act this arrogant over a few lucky victories! He crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it savagely at the candlestick. He didn't expect it to knock the candlestick over, nearly setting the command tent on fire. The blaze was extinguished, but panic rippled through the Gray Wolf Army. An ever-growing number of incomprehensible puzzles tormented everyone in the Empire, from the front lines to the rear. In stark contrast, the rallying cries printed in Golden Gallon Port's *Survivor Daily* grew increasingly passionate. A massive, unprecedented wave was gathering momentum amid the bustling roar of the people—a force more potent and majestic than nuclear weapons. The power of progress! Even Yodu, who had once urged Laxi to stay, had to admit after reading the news that he might have truly misjudged the man. How could a man who stood tall when everyone else kept their heads down and barely dared breathe—a man who reached for a rifle when everyone else submissively endured exploitation—possibly be a reckless brute with no real talent? Just like what the Alliance officers had said when mocking them: "Gentlemen, you weep by day and weep by night—can your weeping curse Wutuo to death?" In the end, it was he who had stepped forward. Perhaps he had been too harsh on him. Whenever the night fell quiet, Yodu couldn't help thinking this way, regretting that he hadn't shared a farewell drink with him. A province of four million square kilometers was now teetering in the wind and rain. Yet before that ultimate storm arrived, an even fiercer tempest with a far wider reach struck first. After two months of preparation, the horn for the southern offensive finally sounded once again!