"Hurry it up!"
"A bunch of useless trash!"
"Did you bastards not eat today?!"
The crude roars of foremen and the sharp cracks of whips echoed across the docks.
Shouldering heavy crates, laborers trotted tirelessly back and forth between the cargo ship decks and harbor warehouses like bipedal donkeys.
Never mind wages of eight silver coins an hour or eating out of the same pot as the bosses; here, even stopping to rest for a moment was a luxury, and begging an overseer was required just to use the latrine or take a sip of water.
This was West Sail Port.
Or, as the players jokingly called it, West Port.
Here, a healthy slave cost a mere thousand dinars.
Yet even with human lives this cheap, merchants from Triumph City still preferred to rent.
In the eastern Mid-Continent, many survivors held a romanticized illusion about the Legion born of distance, believing they were actually quite orderly and law-abiding.
In reality, that was only because they had interacted with too few Wilantes to understand their true nature.
Every veteran resident of Luoye City knew all too well how the Wilantes had acted when they first arrived in River Valley Province—and how they behaved once they were beaten black and blue.
The only reason they appeared so civilized in the eastern Mid-Continent was that they had been pounded into submission.
In a place like West Sail Port, far beyond the reach of the Alliance's power projection, they didn't even bother pretending.
Amusingly enough, despite exploiting the locals with all their might, their cruelty paled in comparison to the native nobility of Brahma Province.
So much so that whenever General MacLaren passed through, he couldn't help remarking that he had been far too lenient back in River Valley Province, having completely failed to wring out the full potential of the local survivors.
The local population consisted mostly of Wilantes, followed by traveling merchants from places like Silver Moon Bay, native nobility from Brahma Province, and some freemen.
Because the slave trade was legal here, a portion of the Lowell State nobility had relocated here after the fall of Golden Gallon Port.
As for players, they were practically nonexistent here.
After all, the area possessed neither an airfield nor any save points established by top-tier players. A journey here by sea from Alliance ports took ten to twenty days, and another ten to twenty days back.
Dying even once meant losing all unsaved experience and dropping all gear and belongings. The risk and reward were completely out of proportion!
Yet while this place was useless dead weight to players, it held a completely different significance for the Wilantes.
Ever since Triumph City's civil officials "borrowed" this territory from the Empire, they had brought clean streets, handsome houses, and bright streetlamps along with them.
Civil officials like Bannote placed high hopes on its development prospects.
Even if the Empire's nobility was stubborn and conservative to the point of utter obstinacy, surely no one could refuse the dignified life of a civilized person.
Through the opulent lifestyle of West Sail Port, they could influence the nobility of Lion State, and through them, influence the nobles in Tiandu.
They never expected to civilize the locals, nor did they care about charity; what they needed was a sufficiently intimidating ally to share the pressure bearing down from the Alliance.
On the docks paved with sandstone bricks, a bearded Wilante repeatedly checked the diamond-encrusted pocket watch in his hand, anxiety written all over his face.
His name was Yarman, a merchant dealing in cane sugar and tea. His primary business was shipping sugar and black tea produced in West Sail Port to Triumph City and ports controlled by the Southern Legion, occasionally dabbling as a slave trader on the side.
According to the original plan, his fleet should have set sail that morning for Evernight Port, the Southern Legion's southernmost base in the Great Desert, before rounding the western Mid-Continent to bring premium tea and sugar cubes back to Triumph City's harbors.
However, plans could never keep up with changes.
Just yesterday, an announcement from the Governor's Office set all the Wilante merchants in West Sail Port abuzz!
The Legion's expedition in Haiya Province had ended, and vast stockpiles of equipment stranded on the frontline were being sold off at massive discounts!
For just ten thousand dinars to buy a voucher from the Governor's Office and a certain security deposit, one could haul away those treasures stacked in Haiya Province at a rock-bottom price of under ten thousand dinars per ton!
The West Sail Port Governor's Office had only one requirement: the munitions purchased with the voucher had to be shipped back to West Sail Port!
And they had to be sold exclusively to either the West Sail Port Arms Reserve Bureau or the Empire!
Though this condition meant selling prices would face some downward pressure, it did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the Wilante merchants.
After all, under ten thousand dinars a ton was practically giving it away!
In all their years of commerce, they had never seen military hardware sold by weight!
Even if all the best items were picked clean, leaving only ammunition, that was still a profit margin of fifty percent or more.
And if one could get their hands on Conqueror tanks from the Eastern Legion, profits would double or triple!
Yarman would never pass up such easy money. Though he lacked connections in the arms trade, did a no-brainer deal like this require connections?
Besides, worst came to worst, he could dump it on the West Sail Port Arms Reserve Bureau without fearing stuck inventory.
Praise His Excellency the Marshal!
Praise Governor Huye!
This was practically a New Year's gift handed to them directly by the Governor's Office!
As luck would have it, Yarman was far from the only one with this idea.
All of West Sail Port seemed to have gone mad. Every single dock berth was packed to the brim.
Dockworkers had barely finished loading a ship before overseers rushed them to unload cargo into warehouses before they could even take a bite of their dry rations; any hesitation brought a lash of the whip.
Even so, faced with the surging demand for cargo handling, the coolies' desperate efforts remained a drop in the bucket.
To be fair, the slaves had only themselves to blame: they endured too much hardship and came too cheaply, making electrified handling equipment completely unnecessary at West Sail Port's docks. In the rare event of a demand spike like this, they could only be driven harder.
With too many ships clamoring to unload, the Port Affairs Office and labor brokers had to requisition another wave of slaves and serfs from nearby estates and plantations.
Watching the chaotic docks, a bearded ship captain frowned deeply and said, "At this rate, I'm afraid we won't be able to depart until tomorrow morning."
Yarman brooked no argument. "Too slow! We must get underway today, no matter what!"
The captain's eyebrow twitched violently as he looked at him with a wry smile. "I understand your eagerness to strike it rich, but... you have to be realistic."
"Realistic?" Yarman pulled down his rolled-up sleeves, his sharp gaze fixing on the captain. "Let me tell you what's realistic! Crates and bundles of arms are piled up in Haiya Province, and they're regular army equipment! Those useless bums in the east have never been this generous! Merchant ships along the entire sea lane are racing there. If we're late, we won't even get scraps!"
Under that aggressive glare, the captain swallowed hard.
"Fine. Even assuming these coolies can finish unloading before dark, are we supposed to sail empty—"
"That's right, sail empty!" Yarman cut him off without hesitation, his expression feverish. "Aside from supplies, we bring nothing! We don't have time to dilly-dally. We aren't going there to trade; we're going to pick up free money! Free money, understand?"
At this point, Yarman's tone softened, and he clapped the captain on the shoulder.
"Just prepare as I say. You'll get your fair share from this trip... I promise you, your cut alone will be at least a million dinars!"
Hearing such a lavish payout, the captain held his breath involuntarily, nodding his head.
"All right..."
A million dinars!
Even a Centurion's ransom wasn't that high!
Compared to a fortune like that, going home for the holidays was utterly negligible.
Watching the captain leave, Yarman turned his gaze toward the nearby Lion Clan foreman, his spring-breeze smile instantly vanishing.
"Just how much longer until my fleet is cleared out?"
Faced with the Wilante master's urging, Naji wiped the sweat from his forehead and offered a fawning smile.
"I'll have the overseers push them harder and try our best to wrap up before tomorrow—"
"Try your best?"
Yarman raised an eyebrow, glaring at him with icy precision. "I don't care how you do it, but all the cargo must be unloaded before nightfall!"
Hearing this, sweat broke out afresh on Naji's newly wiped forehead.
"B-before nightfall? But sir, there's only three hours left until dark—"
"That's your problem," Yarman said coldly, not even looking at him. "Eight tonight at the absolute latest. If you can't manage it, I'll have to speak with your boss—or rather, my business partner."
Naji felt a chill run down his spine.
Though a Lion Clansman, he was merely a commoner, a nobody compared to those titled dignitaries.
So even though the demand was extortionate, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to comply.
"I'll find more men..."
"Get to it."
Yarman waved his hand dismissively, shooing him away like a fly.
As it turned out, cracking down did produce results.
Under the frantic badgering of overseers, the slaves gave everything they had, managing to empty the last two ships just before the sun sank below the horizon.
Naji was hurrying to claim credit before Lord Yarman when a crowd blocked his way on the wharf.
A ring of coolies had formed on the narrow dock. In the center lay an emaciated figure on the ground, twitching and foaming at the mouth.
The fellow was skin and bones, his skin baked dark red by the sun, resembling a smoked sausage.
Shoving his way into the middle of the crowd, Naji kicked the man on the ground. Seeing no movement, he turned to the dockworkers nearby.
"What happened to him?"
A tall, scrawny man kept his head down and said, "His name is Orissa—"
Before he could finish, a whip slashed across his forehead. He stumbled back several paces, saved from falling into the sea only by fellow workers catching his arms.
Blood welled from the split flesh, blinding his eye and covering half his face in a gruesome smear.
Stunned by the blow, the man touched his forehead, standing dazed and unable to process what had just happened.
"Who gives a damn what his name is?! Drag him off the docks! Damn it! Don't you know how busy today is?! Don't clutter up the place!" Naji cursed loudly, waving his whip wildly to drive back the surrounding laborers.
The crowd finally dispersed, and the harbor resumed its usual frenzy.
Glancing at a wooden crate that had dropped into the sea, Naji winced with painful regret.
What a waste of good tea...
A single pack was worth half a month of his wages.
Fortunately, he wouldn't have to pay for lost cargo; those great figures had already anticipated the clumsiness of these brutes, so losing a crate or two was within acceptable tolerance.
Otherwise, even selling himself wouldn't cover the cost...
The reprimanded laborers carried the poor man named Orissa to the Labor Registry. It was standard procedure; a deceased person's name had to be crossed off, or else they would be classified as an escaped slave, bringing disaster upon their entire family.
The registry clerk checked the ledger, only to discover that the fellow wasn't a slave at all—he was actually a freeman.
Of course, it was only a fleeting surprise.
A landless freeman didn't necessarily live any better than a slave.
Especially if he had an entire family to feed; he might well have nothing but dirt in his belly.
"Do any of his family members live here?"
The workers exchanged glances and shook their heads, none of them knowing where the poor man lived.
Unwilling to bother, the clerk shut the register upon hearing there were no relatives present.
"Have his family come."
One laborer couldn't bear it and asked meekly, "...What about the body?"
The clerk rolled his eyes.
"He's dead, so go find somewhere to bury him. What, do you think he's going to come back to life?"
With that, he waved them off impatiently. "Get him out of here fast. Don't block the way."
With two guards staring sternly in their direction, the laborers who had carried Orissa had no choice but to carry the corpse back out.
The group stood aimlessly on the street, murmuring among themselves about whether to find his family first or find a spot to bury him.
He would have to be buried eventually anyway. Wasn't that patch of red soil on the outskirts meant for precisely this?
While sympathizing with Orissa's fate, everyone was amazed that this quiet old man had actually been a freeman who had redeemed his freedom.
No wonder he had worked so hard!
Envy crept onto several faces.
Dying as a slave meant leaving nothing behind. But if a freeman died, his family could receive compensation.
Eight hundred dinars wasn't a huge sum, but to them it was a fortune.
It was one of the few benefits the Wilantes had secured for them.
Yet while some felt envy, others glared toward the harbor with burning hatred.
Most of them were converts of the Silver Moon Church.
Many had listened to the Silver Gospel, and most had heard Awakened Boer, translated and recited by Mr. Melchior, the priest from Silver Moon Bay.
It had been the primer that taught them how to read.
Though they had never visited Boulder City, they remembered vividly what the people there had done.
Perhaps pushed to the absolute brink of fury, a spark finally ignited within the suffocating silence.
"Look at that... this is what they call a 'freeman'..."
A raspy voice drifted from the crowd, and a tall, scrawny man stepped forward.
It was the very man who had taken a lash to the face on the docks.
A sickening gash marked his forehead, soaking the white gauze in red.
Confronted by that gruesome sight, people stepped back instinctively, fear showing on their faces.
Yet the man didn't stop. His raspy voice turned hysterical, venting all the rage locked inside his chest.
"They took everything from us, then slapped a price tag on it! One thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand... in Xilan coins or dinars, go buy it! Use our blood, use our sweat, to buy back what was ours to begin with! All to glorify their greatness and wisdom!"
"And then... once we've finally bought back what was rightfully ours, once they've drained our last drop of blood, we get to lie in the red soil just like Orissa!"
Silence fell all around.
That hopeless fate was suffocatingly bleak.
If in the end there wasn't even a single thing left worth mourning, what was the point of working themselves to the bone?
What freeman...
That juicy bait was a lie from the start!
Perhaps emboldened by their silence, he clenched his fists tight and threw a soul-piercing question at the onlookers:
"Tell me! Why must we buy what was already ours?!"
"But what can we do...?"
A muffled lament finally broke the dead silence from within the crowd.
Gazing at the restless throng, the man didn't back down. Driven by a surge of blood to the head, he shouted:
"What can we do?! Boer already showed us what to do! We have to unite!"
"And then what?"
He didn't have to answer this time, for someone in the crowd shouted it for him:
"Is that even a question?! We take back what belongs to us!"
Furious roars erupted one after another, the thirst for vengeance spreading like wildfire.
Growing numbers dulled their fear; the thousand pillars that sealed away their courage seemed to vanish.
Even the most timid among them wore expressions of uncontainable fury—and hatred!
"This isn't over!"
"Damn right!"
"Orissa can't have died for nothing!"
"They must pay!"
The clamor grew louder and louder until it finally drew the harbor guards.
Although these guards rarely patrolled outside the harbor district into the slums, these were extraordinary times. The docks were desperately short of hands everywhere; how could they allow such a large mob to gather and cause trouble?
Leading the guards was none other than the foreman Naji, tightly clutching the whip he had used earlier. He yelled at the assembled laborers:
"What are you all doing gathered here?! How long does it take to move one corpse?! Get your asses back to work!"
Emotions were running high, and someone in the crowd shouted:
"We're on strike!"
"On strike? Ha! Trying to rebel, are you?!" Naji's brows shot up. His whip cracked through the air, but missed the troublemaker, striking an onlooker instead and bursting the bystander's eyeball.
The bystander fell to his knees in agony, clutching his eye as blood poured onto the ground.
At the sight of blood, uproar erupted. Over a thousand people surged forward onto the street, shouting and closing in around Naji.
Having never faced such a spectacle, Naji was terrified and stepped back in spite of himself.
Yet he soon realized he had panicked too early.
A loud crack echoed from behind him. A guard cradling a Ripper rifle fired several shots into the sky without uttering a word.
Crack! Crack!
The gunshots were like cold water splashed onto a red-hot iron, hissing away the fiery passion in an instant.
After all, this wasn't Boulder City.
And Boer wasn't a native of Brahma Province.
Terrified, the people who had been seething with fury just moments before scattered in every direction. Within moments, the street was deserted.
Naji stared blankly for a second, then grinned obsequiously at the sharp-nosed officer behind him.
"Hehe... Sir, like I said, these bastards are timid as mice. They can't stir up any real trouble."
The Wilante officer cast him a contemptuous glance, silently reloading his rifle.
He was from the Southern Legion and had served as a colonial guard for over a decade. He had suppressed riots at least two or three times; during the fiercest one, they had been forced to roll out 902mm heavy artillery.
The situation here was indeed rare: a gunshot sounded, nobody died, and it was over.
He was satisfied, of course.
Yet... it also left him with a touch of disdain.
...
Night deepened over West Sail Port, and the evening breeze blowing in from the sea carried a chill.
The brief disturbance outside the Labor Registry didn't affect the harbor's bustling activity in the slightest.
The docks remained a hive of constant movement, and the sparkling shop windows shone with golden splendor.
That cry of "We're on strike!" was treated as if it were a joke.
The only casualty was the bystander whose eye had been ruined, left with nowhere to plead his grievance.
Having finalized all preparations for departure, Yarman stood on the pier bidding a reluctant farewell to his family.
"...It's almost Birthday. Can't you wait until after the holiday to leave?" A little girl in a floral dress pouted slightly, her dark brown hair braided in princess braids, looking like a real princess.
The second weekend of January was Birthday, a holiday more important to the Wilantes than the New Year.
It was said to be the day of their race's genesis, the beginning of all their glory and legends.
For that reason, no matter how busy they were, Wilantes always set this day aside to spend with their families.
Yarman had originally planned to do the same, even intending to return to Triumph City for the Birthday celebration.
Unfortunately, the big shots in Triumph City were offering far too much money...
Yarman patted his daughter's head, saying dotingly, "Be good. Daddy will bring you a present when he returns."
"Hmph..." Ruby pouted reluctantly. "Your taste is so weird. Who gives their daughter a preserved mutant head?"
"Haha! Sorry! Daddy wasn't thinking!"
Yarman laughed and scooped his lovely daughter into his arms, making her giggle as he spun her around several times before setting her back down.
Gently pinching her nose, he continued in a fond tone, "Then what gift does my lovely Ruby want?"
Ruby's eyes shone brightly, and she blurted out, "I want to go play with little sister Ansuya!"
Ansuya was Count Sharma's daughter.
The count was a prominent noble in Lion State, owning a plantation spanning over ten thousand acres on the outskirts of West Sail Port as well as an extensive social circle in Tiandu, and was also Yarman's business partner.
Whenever Yarman went to talk business, he would bring his daughter along.
Ruby didn't know how large Count Sharma's estate was, nor did she care, but she had a deep impression of its labyrinthine garden.
Every time she accompanied her father there, she would pull Ansuya and the other children on the estate into games of hide-and-seek.
Hearing such a simple request, Yarman stroked his daughter's head fondly. "Deal! When Daddy gets back, I'll take you there!"
Pausing, he added with a smile, "Of course, Daddy will still bring you a present... My sweet Ruby can stay home and look forward to it!"
Come to think of it, once this trip was over, he intended to contact Count Sharma anyway to see if some political maneuvering could wring even more value out of the shipment.
Taking his daughter along to visit him would kill two birds with one stone.
"Come back soon!"
The little girl stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek, then ran back to her mother.
Patting her daughter's hand, Margot gazed tenderly at her husband, a radiant smile on her face.
"Safe travels."
"Don't worry! It's not my first time running this route! Wait for my good news!"
Giving his wife a kiss, Yarman grinned, picked up his briefcase, and stepped onto the pier.
"See you next month! Wait for me!"
With that, he boarded the ship with his captain and crew, looking back every three steps as the prolonged blare of the ship's horn carried them farther and farther away.
Meanwhile, less than five hundred meters from the docks, a mother and daughter arrived outside the Labor Registry.
Because the docks did not hire female laborers, women rarely appeared here.
Unless...
The crowd parted involuntarily. The stooped woman murmured her thanks, gripping the little girl's hand tightly as she hurried toward the counter.
The clerk who had been on duty earlier had already clocked out. Now, a young man with slicked-back hair sat behind the counter, cracking melon seeds and chatting and laughing with a colleague beside him.
Many minor nobles who were neither high nor low liked placing their children in jobs here.
After all, Tiandu was too far away for them, but the Wilantes in the port district were right before their eyes.
Jobs at the Labor Registry in particular frequently interacted with Wilantes.
Earning the favor of a Wilante was like taking a leap straight to heaven!
The little girl stood on tiptoe, poking her head above the counter and speaking before her mother could:
"Where's my papa?"
Hearing the timid voice, the young man turned around with a smile. "Your papa? Who's your papa?"
The girl continued, "Orissa... He has very dark skin from the sun. The priest at the Moon Church said his lungs aren't good, and he's always coughing."
Fearing the clerk wouldn't know what her father looked like, she gestured eagerly with her hands to describe him.
However, her description was far too vague, succeeding only in making the young man behind the counter grow increasingly impatient.
"Excuse us... sorry to bother you."
The stooped woman was far more reserved. She tugged her daughter to quiet her, then retrieved a crumpled slip of paper and placed it hastily on the counter.
It was a certificate of status.
Her husband had earned it with a lifetime of illness, and it was the only thing proving that they belonged to no master.
Seeing the document, the young man's irritation softened slightly. He opened the ledger, checked the name against the certificate, and indeed found Orissa's name.
"Registered as a laborer here last month."
"That name sounds familiar... Oh, right! The one brought in just a bit ago!"
His colleague recalled, smiled, opened a drawer, and tossed a pre-wrapped money pouch onto the counter.
"I was just telling you about that! That old guy who worked himself to death..."
Hearing the dull thud, mother and daughter froze, a ringing buzzing in their ears.
The stooped woman's lips trembled, but in the end, she silently picked up the pouch and clutched it tight in her hand.
At that moment, her frame seemed to shrink even smaller.
Not wanting to stay another second, she took her daughter's hand and hurried away from the counter, escaping the suffocating atmosphere into the street outside.
The evening wind from the harbor blew biting and cold.
Looking at her mother with dark, round eyes, the girl asked softly, "Where's Papa...?"
Her mother, who normally always replied, said nothing this time. She only quickened her pace, pulling her toward home, her trembling shoulders betraying something held desperately back.
As if finally understanding where her father had gone, the girl lowered her head and fell silent. She didn't cry either, only holding tight to her mother's calloused hand.
Her father had always hoped she would mature early. She had always wondered what being mature really meant, but now she seemed to finally grasp a little of it.
She had two younger brothers far smaller than her.
She had to learn to be strong.
Mother and daughter brushed past the Silver Moon Church, like a drop of rain falling before a storm, quietly blending into the silent night.
Standing at the entrance of the humble church, Melchior looked at the injured laborers and sighed softly, joining other priests in bandaging the poor souls' wounds.
He wanted to help these unfortunate people.
Yet he also worried whether he was only bringing harm upon them.
"Goddess of the Silver Moon above... please protect your poor believers, and keep them from misfortune and calamity."
And please guide me, lest I make mistakes I will regret forever...
Touching the silver crescent hanging on his chest with his index finger, he murmured softly, praying devoutly in his heart.
He had an ominous premonition.
Something terrible was about to happen in West Sail Port...
Chapter 814