Reinforcements on the Way

“BOOM—!!” Scalding lava surged into the sky, sending dense plumes of smoke and grit scattering over several hundred meters. The distant sand dunes had been leveled flat, leaving behind only radiating ripples in the sand. This was the northern proving ground of Evernight Port. And the terrifying explosion just now had been the handiwork of the 902mm heavy cannon! As the proud symbol of the Southern Legion's might, this heavy artillery piece was said to have displayed tremendous power during the War in Heaven... Though anyone who truly understood the situation knew that the monstrosity had really only made an appearance before entering Haiya Province. After all, its lack of mobility was fatal. Only a train could bear the weight of the gun and its shells. And it was not until after the War in Heaven had ended that the Alliance's railways and highways managed to cut through Ten Peaks Mountain. With his palm resting over his wine glass, General MacLaren sat in the observation stands of the proving ground, resting his chin in his hand in utter boredom as he watched the auxiliary troops charging forward with total apathy. Not until the billowing dust finally settled did he draw his palm back from the glass and take a calm sip of fine wine. Whether in combat doctrine or administrative philosophy, the Southern Legion differed radically from the Eastern Legion. They relied far too heavily on caliber and infantry, disregarding mobility altogether. The Eastern Legion, by contrast, placed its faith in the steel torrent—both in the skies and on the ground! It was precisely for this reason that he had little enthusiasm for this "toy" that tortured logistics personnel. Even if its destructive power was truly astonishing, it was utterly useless out in the open wilderness controlled by the Eastern Legion. No marauder tribe or resistance force would be foolish enough to sit around and wait for it to fire. Stupid as those bastards were, even they knew to fire a shot and change positions. In stark contrast to his disinterest, however, Myriarch Olette, sitting beside him, wore an expression of excited pride, a radiant smile plastered across his face. "Nothing can withstand a hit from the 902! Especially against mutants—this thing works even better than tactical nukes!" Mutant organisms possessed a certain degree of radiation resistance. Creatures like split-claw crabs or deathclaws would even build their nests right next to radioactive sources. Mutants could be considered a form of artificial mutant organism. While pure radiation damage could not be called entirely ineffective against them, it simply could not keep pace with their regeneration speed. For that reason, at the same explosive yield, high-detonation-velocity explosives were often far more effective than nuclear weapons. And far easier to clean up afterward. Listening to the one-star myriarch brag, MacLaren offered a faint smile and remarked nonchalantly, "Have even the 'gray men' in the Great Desert begun building fortresses?" Olette paused for a moment, then chuckled. "Not quite... but they have learned to build villages like the marauder tribes. I've even heard that some enlightened mutant tribes trade with human merchants." He figured MacLaren shouldn't be unfamiliar with such things. Mutant mercenaries had appeared during the war in Sunset Province, even if only in small numbers. The mutants of the Great Desert and those of the East Coast had different origins. Although they were strikingly similar in habits—equally bloodthirsty and violent—the latter were slightly more civilized, just by a hair. The Southern Legion also employed a very small number of mutant mercenaries, referring to them as "gray man soldiers." For the majority of gray mutant tribes that refused to cooperate, however, the Southern Legion's primary policy remained extermination. After all, those savages were constantly raiding all over the place, disrupting trade between the colonies and the native tribes of the Great Desert. Those gray man mercenaries harbored no qualms about slaughtering their own kin, either. At their core, they were still unevolved primitives who had merely learned how to use human firearms. Paying no mind to his explanation, MacLaren remarked indifferently, "Then isn't using a monster like this swatting a fly with a cannon? Or do mutants even possess something like morale? To my mind, you'd be better off fielding a few more 100mm guns. Not only would they cover a wider area, but the strain on logistics would be far lighter." Hearing his thunder stolen, Olette's brow twitched sharply, and he couldn't resist a sarcastic retort: "That may be so, but we never fight beyond the reach of our supply ships, so our frontline troops never face supply shortages. Besides, what use is all that land anyway? It's all ruins out there. The one thing we have no shortage of is mud and sand. Is the glory of the Wilante supposed to be shown by coloring in a map?" Detecting the cynical sarcasm in the tone, MacLaren's brow twitched, and his face instantly darkened. "What do you mean by that?" Seeing MacLaren's displeasure, Olette promptly changed the subject, knowing when to stop. There was no helping it. Rank could crush a man, even if the fellow had fallen from grace. "Ahem. No offense intended, General MacLaren... But back to the point. While those gray-skinned savages haven't erected solid concrete fortresses, they've certainly become much tougher to deal with lately." MacLaren frowned slightly. "In what way?" Olette lowered his voice with a conspiratorial air. "Undying..." "Undying?!" MacLaren's eyes widened slightly, sheer disbelief written in his pupils. Seeing his expression, Olette quickly explained, "Of course, not truly immortal in the absolute sense... Rather, even with their heads blown off and hearts destroyed, they can still fight. Only when their physical functions are utterly demolished do they truly fall." MacLaren fell into thought for a moment before speaking thoughtfully: "...That sounds somewhat similar to what happened at Ten Peaks Mountain." Although he had been training new-model troops and officers in the empire for the past stretch of time, he was hardly ignorant of the War in Heaven. Particularly after the post office in West Sail Port opened, telegraph communications were essentially linked with Triumph City. Once undersea cables were laid from Evernight Port in the future, even real-time communications would be no problem. Hearing MacLaren's words, Olette rubbed his chin. "Mm... Indeed. I read about it in the Triumph Gazette. There's something there called a 'zombified mutant,' right? Some kind of memory caching in neurons distributed throughout the body, allowing them to regrow even if their heads are cut off. It was supposedly discovered by the Alliance." MacLaren asked in puzzlement, "How could something like that appear in the Great Desert? Did some mutants flee into the Great Desert?" Olette shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe remnants of the Torch slipped in... People are far easier to hide than mutants, after all." At that, MacLaren's face immediately took on a look of keen interest. "That is no trivial piece of intelligence... Have you had someone verify it?" "I'm actually in the middle of doing just that..." Olette smiled, then abruptly grew serious. "General MacLaren, don't you think this is an opportunity?" Without waiting for MacLaren to press for details, he continued eagerly: "The Slime Mold Consortium refuses to hand over technology related to the 'gestalt lifeform' to us. You could talk until your lips wore out at the conference table, and it wouldn't do any good. They fear us Wilante to their very bones... We don't actually need them. As long as we can capture the one who fled into the Great Desert, we can get everything we want." Gestalt lifeform technology held extraordinary significance for the Wilante. After all, the latter had been born from the former. The Wilante had always believed that a certain "shackle" existed within their DNA, continuing to enslave them. And to completely unlock that shackle, the "gestalt lifeform" technology had to be thoroughly cracked. Therefore, leaving aside the military value of the technology itself, there was ample political drive pushing them to pursue it. General MacLaren narrowed his eyes slightly, a spark of intrigue gleaming between his lashes. "That does sound interesting... I'll have the Eastern Legion keep an eye out." The Eastern Legion's eastern territories bordered the northern and parts of the northwestern Great Desert, while its client states extended all the way to Sunset Province to the east of the desert. If the Eastern and Southern Legions joined hands, it would be enough to encircle the entire Great Desert. The Alliance, by contrast, possessed only a single Pioneer City established in the eastern part of the Great Desert. Hearing General MacLaren's promise, Olette's face instantly lit up with a delighted grin. "That's fantastic. With your cooperation, this matter is much more secure." "Let's hope something comes of it... It is, after all, the long-cherished wish of all Wilante." MacLaren smiled faintly and took a sip of red wine. At this moment, the exercise in the distance had drawn to a close. Native soldiers carrying rifles were withdrawing from the craters. With a bright smile on his face, Olette suddenly thought of something and added, "Oh, right. Speaking of which, would you be interested in buying a 902mm heavy cannon to take back and play with?" MacLaren declined without batting an eye: "No need. That thing would crush the highways we worked so hard to build." Realizing he had misunderstood, Olette waved his hands hurriedly: "No, no, no. I meant selling it to Xilan... Aren't they fretting over Mammoth State to the east? With this thing, no matter what kind of fortress it is, just one shot—" Before he could finish his sentence, an officer jogged up, snapped to attention before him, and saluted. "Reporting to the general! A distress call has come from West Sail Port! They report a severe uprising! The situation is critical!" Olette froze, a look of astonishment on his face. But even more astonished was General MacLaren beside him, whose hands gripped the armrests of his chair as he nearly sprang to his feet. "West Sail Port? An uprising?" Those cowardly rats—they had the guts for that?! No one knew better than MacLaren how submissive the people there were toward their superiors. The "human centipede" he had witnessed was not confined to Wu Tuo's palace; it permeated the empire's entire power structure, transmitting downward rank by rank. To please their superiors, they would sacrifice all dignity, trampling their own humanity into the dirt, betraying vows, faith, soul, and even sacred matrimony, comforting themselves that it was all for profit, and then cruelly taking what they had lost out on those weaker than themselves. The Wilante didn't always keep their word either, but at least there were lines that could not be crossed. For creatures like that to rebel was nothing short of a fairy tale! The officer shot a hurried glance at General MacLaren, then looked toward his direct superior, Olette. Only when Olette nodded did he speak rapidly: "Yes, sir... Taking advantage of Governor Huye's absence with his personal guard, the locals raided the munitions warehouse in the port district. Right now, over three thousand Wilante residents living there are in dire peril. Both the local security bureau and the governor's manor have sent distress signals, pleading for us to immediately dispatch troops and ships to reinforce them and assist in evacuating the local Wilante." Olette frowned. "What's the fastest we can get there from here?" The officer answered immediately: "Three days should be enough!" After a moment's contemplation, Olette tapped his index finger against his knee and swiftly made his decision: "Have Chiliarch Ross lead a thousand-man cohort over." The fact that West Sail Port had not called upon the empire for help, but had instead reached out all the way to Evernight Port, showed that the situation was exceptionally critical. It was precisely why he did not hesitate to dispatch his finest commander. "Yes, sir!" The officer straightened with a stern look, saluted, and prepared to leave, but General MacLaren called out to him from his seat: "Hold on. I'll go along as well." Lowering his boots from where they had been propped on his knee, MacLaren rose from his chair, picked up his officer's cap from the table, and put it on. Sitting beside him, Olette was taken aback and looked up in surprise. "You're not returning to Triumph City?" MacLaren said offhandedly, "Returning or not makes no difference. I have nothing to triumph over anyway, so I won't go back this year... Don't worry, I'm just going to observe. I won't interfere with your command." He was simply curious to see what an uprising by that pack of rats looked like. Seeing his subordinate looking to him for a decision, Olette hesitated for half a second before ultimately nodding. "Very well... Then we'll trouble you to oversee the battle." MacLaren nodded without a word and followed behind the officer as he walked away... ... Near the docks of Evernight Port, inside a quiet, elegantly appointed manor, Penny sat at her desk, slipping a freshly written letter into an envelope. This was her uncle's home. Because there were no ships heading back to Triumph City, she had no choice but to remain here. With nothing to do, she had felt the urge to write. She had two letters to send, both addressed to Dawn City. One was to her father, Myriarch Bannister, while the other was for Mr. Pangolin. Ever since he had accompanied her father to Dawn City, it had been quite some time since they last saw each other. She wondered how he was doing. Penny glanced out the window at the setting sun and placed the two letters into a drawer. The post office was probably closed by this hour. She planned to go in person tomorrow morning to drop them off and check whether any ships at the harbor were bound for home. Just then, her aunt's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Penny, dinner is ready!" "Oh! Coming!" Penny called back, tidied the pens and paper on her desk, and hurried downstairs. When she reached the ground floor, her aunt Demi was already seated at the dining table, beside her youngest cousin—six-year-old Bill. Her aunt Demi was a very traditional Wilante woman. From her elegant, gentle demeanor to her dark brown hair and high-bridged nose, she embodied the standard. Penny enjoyed chatting with her. Though she didn't always agree with Demi's views, that pure Triumph City accent sounded pleasant, bringing a comforting warmth like a spring breeze. A slightly darker-skinned maid was setting dishes on the table. Seeing Penny descend the stairs, she bowed slightly before heading to the side room to take her meal. Compared to the Eastern Legion, the Southern Legion took a relatively milder stance toward slaves, and the civil-aristocrat class from Triumph City had brought more of the capital's traditions to the colonies. Her uncle Ross served in the Southern Legion, but his background bore the imprint of the civil bureaucracy; consequently, the family treated servants rather gently. After all, in Triumph City, tormenting slaves was neither legal nor respectable. Most civil aristocrats took pride in having servants who were well-mannered and educated in aristocratic etiquette. Sitting down at the table, Penny noticed Uncle Ross was absent and looked toward Aunt Demi. "Where's Uncle? Isn't he eating with us today?" Demi shook her head slightly, a helpless look on her face. "He's probably still busy with military affairs... I heard the mutants in the Great Desert have become active again lately, and some tribes on good terms with us have sent distress signals." Those beasts... Penny knitted her brow. "Won't there be any serious trouble?" Noticing the worry on her niece's face, Demi smiled gently to reassure her: "What trouble could there be? We have a ten-thousand-man legion stationed right here... It's you I'm worried about, my dear Penny." At that, a trace of concern clouded her face. "I hear Brahma Province isn't safe at all. There's fighting everywhere, yet we don't have any garrison stationed there. I truly don't know how that Huye manages to control so many people. If possible, once you return home this time, try to get transferred back to Triumph City—or come stay with us." Penny couldn't help a helpless look. Her aunt sounded identical to her own mother. Still, she didn't believe West Sail Port was in any real danger; quite a few Wilante lived there. Besides, she had watched that port develop step by step from nothing. As part of her father's political achievements, it was something she felt great pride in. "Brahma Province is vast, and most states are actually safe—only Mammoth State to the east is dangerous. And the people there have a very peaceful mindset; they treat others politely, especially outsiders... If you actually went there, you'd see it isn't as bad as you think." Looking at her stubborn niece, Demi wore a resigned expression, at a loss for how to persuade her. Though Penny was not her biological daughter, Demi and Penny's mother were close friends, and she had always treated this independent-minded girl like her own. Because of that, she worried about her all the more. Even though the Triumph Gazette was the Legion's largest newspaper, and being a reporter for it was an immensely prestigious position, she still wished Penny would find a more stable job and marry into a reliable, respectable family. "Is that so... Still, it's always better to be cautious. You're a girl, after all, and war is a man's business." "I'm not a child anymore, and... I don't think it's just a man's business. It's the business of every Wilante. We ought to know where our front line is, whom we are fighting, and what victory or defeat means for us." Penny gave a soft huff, none too pleased with her aunt's remark. Though she had never traded blows with enemies on the front lines, she had ventured into forward areas to gather firsthand material. Even without a military rank, she didn't consider her work any less important. Right then, the sound of a door opening came from the entryway. Shortly after, a strapping middle-aged man walked into the dining room from the living room. It was Penny's uncle Ross, a chiliarch serving under General Olette. He had a deep scar across his face and eyes sharp as daggers, giving him a rather intimidating appearance. But Penny knew well that he was truly a polite gentleman—far more gentlemanly than some of those clumsy brutes in the Eastern Legion. "Sorry, something came up with the military. I'm a bit late... Could someone fix me a plate?" "Right away, master." Hearing the commotion, the maid emerged from the side room, bowed respectfully, and went into the kitchen. Seeing his father return, little Bill gleefully shouted, "Papa!" Ross smiled and stepped forward, about to fondly pat his son's head, only for Demi to swat his hand away. "Go wash your hands first. I can smell the sand from across the room." "Right, right." Ross gave a wry smile, scratched the back of his head, and headed to the washroom. Seated nearby, Penny couldn't help a chuckle. Once her uncle returned to the table, curiosity got the better of her: "What kept you so long? May I know?" Sitting down, Ross laughed heartily and teased, "If a Triumph Gazette reporter wishes to know, I naturally have nothing to hide... Ahem, don't glare at me, I'm just joking with my niece." Seeing his wife glaring at him, Ross shrank his neck, cleared his throat, and adopted a serious expression before continuing: "Something happened in West Sail Port." Penny froze. Seated across from her, her aunt was equally stunned; the two of them had just been discussing West Sail Port. "West Sail Port?" Ross nodded, picking up a slice of bread, spreading some meat paste over it, and eating as he spoke: "Mm. The specifics aren't clear. Some reports say the Alliance incited the locals to revolt, while others say that Laxi fellow was behind it. People had been tracing that batch of munitions, and that was precisely what caused the trouble." Demi frowned slightly. "That monster who slaughtered a million people?" She had heard the name. Supposedly, to halt the imperial regular army, he had carried out a scorched-earth policy along the borders of Mammoth State, slaughtering a full million people. She had nothing but contempt for someone who could turn on his own people with such cruelty. Ross shrugged and quickly began working through a second slice of bread, this time spread with minced tuna. "Who knows? In any case, we won't know the situation until we get there... I only came back to pack my bags. The warship has already entered the port, and I'll be boarding in two hours." Both Penny and Demi stared in shock, speaking almost in unison: "So urgently?" "You have to leave today?" Ross nodded. "Mm. Word is the situation is critical... It'll take us three days to get there. The Nativity is right around the corner; let's hope nothing major happens." Little Bill blinked up at him. "Papa, will you be back before the Nativity?" Ross stroked little Bill's head tenderly. "...Don't worry. On such an important holiday, Papa definitely won't leave you two alone at home." Demi looked at Ross with concern and said solemnly, "Focus on your duties and don't get distracted because of us. We have my lovely niece here to keep us company... Even if we can't spend this year's Nativity together, there will be plenty of days ahead." Penny turned to her aunt and said helplessly, "Have you already assumed I won't be able to catch a ship home?" Demi smiled warmly. "It's probably too late for you to head back now anyway. Rather than spending the holiday on a boat, you might as well celebrate with us this year." If there was a ship within the next three days, she could actually make it back before the second weekend after New Year's. Penny muttered inwardly, though she didn't harbor much hope either. All civilian vessels had been requisitioned by her father to head east; by now, they had probably only just reached Death Coast, and there was no telling when shipping capacity would return to normal. "Then I'll have to trouble my lovely niece to keep my wife company. My apologies—I'll bring back gifts for all of you." Holding his fork, little Bill squealed with delight: "Yay! I want mutant eyes! Green ones!" Demi glared sternly at the unruly little boy. "What do you want that for? Filthy thing!" Ross laughed heartily, reaching out with his broad hand to ruffle his son's hair affectionately. "Hahaha! Papa will look around, but there aren't any mutants in Brahma Province... How about mammoth ivory?" Watching the warm, harmonious family, Penny couldn't help a heartfelt smile. All of a sudden, she wasn't in such a rush to leave. As long as family was safe, celebrating the holiday anywhere was the same... After hastily finishing dinner, Ross picked up the suitcase the maid had packed for him, kissed his wife goodbye, and strode out the door to climb into the off-road vehicle waiting outside. A thousand Wilante soldiers had already donned their uniforms, shouldered their rifles and kit, and assembled at the docks of Evernight Port. Unlike the cops in West Sail Port, these were real soldiers who fought day in and day out against the grayish-black-skinned mutants in the desert, radiating a solemn aura of lethal intent. It wasn't just their straight spines; the gear resting on their shoulders told the same story. From automatic and semi-automatic rifles to light machine guns and rotary guns, even grenade launchers and flamethrowers—everything proclaimed their formidable firepower! Unlike the Eastern Legion, which downplayed the role of infantry, the Southern Legion had poured immense effort into support equipment and small arms. After all, the latter didn't possess as many airships as the former, nor did they have battlefields where steel torrents could gallop freely. By now, the bustling port was completely shrouded in darkness. Having donned his combat uniform, Ross strode before the troops and bellowed at the top of his lungs: "A pack of sewer rats has not only knocked over our oil lamp and stolen our cheese, but now they dare to bite at our fingers! We will show them that they picked the wrong fight! Now—move out!!" "KILL!!!" What answered him was a roar of soaring morale as the equipped soldiers boarded the deck of the transport ship with steady composure. They harbored not the slightest doubt. Once ashore, it would take just a single charge to beat those spineless cowards into the dirt. The ship's horn blared across the wharf, leaving the stranded travelers on shore exchanging uneasy glances. "...Where are they off to fight?" Someone suddenly spoke up: "I heard something happened in West Sail Port..." "West Sail Port?!" A man holding a suitcase suddenly turned pale with panic, trembling as he muttered, "My wife and child are still over there..." Those around him looked at one another. A traveler patted his shoulder and consoled him sympathetically: "Don't be so anxious. Our ties with the empire are rock solid. Even if something happened, it probably won't amount to much." Others chimed in to comfort him as well: "That's right." "Everything will be fine." "Besides, those rebels are only fighting the empire. We haven't heard of them causing trouble for us or the Alliance." The man managed a bitter smile, though his pale face did not improve. "Let's hope so..." For some reason, his eyelid twitched violently, and his heart fluttered with a gnawing dread... Meanwhile, across the Polo Sea, West Sail Port was engulfed in a sea of flames. From the wharves to the water, the scene was one of bloody carnage, littered with scattered luggage and corpses. From behind shattered storefronts and marble buildings came the faint sound of wanton laughter and agonizing screams. The stench of blood mingled with the briny smell of the sea, refusing to disperse even beneath the onshore gale. A disheveled Wilante woman crawled toward the dock in a daze, her hoarse voice muttering continuously, as if calling someone's name. The seawater beside the pier was murky and foul, yet only there could she wash away the filth clinging to her body. She was not afraid of death. Her only regret was that she hadn't jumped into the sea from the very start, instead harboring delusions that these beasts would calm down and use the Wilante here as hostages to negotiate with the Legion. Yet the moment they had meekly followed those men's instructions and filed into separate buildings in groups, those monsters had instantly torn away their disguises. "I'm sorry..." she sobbed, weeping through gritted teeth as she reached out with blood-soaked hands, crawling toward the blood-stained pier. Just as she was about to reach the edge, a hand grabbed her ankle, dragging her back into that bloody hell amidst her hoarse screams. "Hey, hey! You're calling the wrong name—your husband is right here!" "Hahahaha!" "The interrogation isn't over yet! Who said you could leave? Get back here!" "Aaaaah!" The wretched screams were quickly swallowed by the evening wind, utterly insignificant against the backdrop of noise echoing across the port. It was not only the Wilante who suffered. There were also members of the Lion Clan, the Horse Clan, the Sun Clan, the Bull Clan... even the Rat Clan and Snake Clan. Not all of them were aristocrats; in fact, the vast majority were commoners. Yet bullets did not distinguish between highborn and lowborn, and the men bearing rifles had no interest in discerning the difference. Most had been gripped by bloodlust. As for Yanush, who had become the king, he was merely one among them. Before the torrent of the times, the choices of an individual were entirely inconsequential. For the torrent was the collective choice of countless people, even if those making the choices remained unaware. Isher wanted to stand up and do something, just like "Boer" of Boulder City. Unfortunately, he ultimately lacked Boer's strength. His shouting meant nothing. No matter how much breath he wasted, people couldn't care less. In the end, even the listeners of the Silver Gospel began to waver, wondering if they had followed the wrong man and taken the wrong path. Left with no choice, he had to lead the believers who still stood with him into the church to take shelter. If those thugs still dreamed of securing the Alliance's support, they should at least refrain from attacking the Silver Moon Church. If they still possessed even a shred of sanity in their heads... In contrast to the regret-plagued Isher, Govinda, who simply drifted with the tide, found smooth sailing. Though thrust onto the battlefield as cannon fodder, he had been fortunate enough not to die in the initial assault. Instead, because of his "valiant fighting," he had been accepted by the rioters and made one of their own. A decurion. Never in his life had he imagined he could become a decurion! He was so excited he could burst into shouts, wishing every neighbor on the street could know! However, perhaps out of fear of the Wilante and aristocrats, or perhaps dreading future retribution, he hadn't gone as mad as the rest, nor had he dared lay a hand on the Wilante or Lion Clan women. He was a man easily satisfied—or rather, simple and honest. Even when Naji had docked his pay from eight dinars down to six, he had never entertained the thought of burning down the warehouse, merely spitting on the ground in contempt. Though thrilled that his gamble had paid off, he didn't linger in the port district for the victory feast. Instead, "knowing when to quit," he slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed home to find the widow in the shack opposite his. He had coveted that woman for a long time. Every time he caught sight of her fair skin, his imagination ran wild, but he had never possessed the courage to speak up, daring only to dream in his head. Now, things were different. He was a man of status! "What are you crying for... Look at you! What's so bad about following me to live the good life?" Looking at the weeping woman, Govinda hitched up his trousers and cursed under his breath. He hurriedly counted four dinars in loose change from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. Feeling that wasn't quite right, he added a ten-dinar note. "Take it... From now on, as long as I have a bite to eat, you won't go hungry." As if saying this brought him some form of comfort, he threw down the words carelessly, grabbed the rifle leaning against the wall, and rushed out the door. Fourteen dinars... Damn it all! He'd have to work two or three days at the docks to earn that much! After the deed, Govinda felt a twinge of regret, but he couldn't very well bring himself to take back the money he'd given away. He could only quicken his pace toward the brightly lit port. Before the "victory feast" ended, he needed to scavenge—no, plunder a bit more! With that in mind, the once-honest laborer strained to contort his face into a fierce, menacing scowl. Times had changed. He had to learn to think differently now...