On the outskirts of West Sail Port, across a stretch of red dirt bordering the coastline.
A dozen or so Wilante carried their rifles over their shoulders, smoking cigarettes as they watched the crowd digging pits in the distance.
Among them were men, women, the elderly, and even young children.
Clearly, the Wilante had no intention of measuring their height against a wagon wheel. Instead, they had chosen the most indiscriminate approach of all.
Clutching shovels in their hands, their bodies trembling as they sobbed, the captives kept their heads down and dug into the blood-red earth.
Although most of them knew full well who these pits were intended to bury, not a single person dared to stop.
After all, compliance bought them a little more time to live.
Stopping meant a vicious beating before death.
As for resisting...
The Wilante would have welcomed nothing more.
Firing on unarmed people, after all, still carried a faint prick of guilt.
"Keep at it, you mud-bugs! Finish up early and you can lie down inside to rest! Haha!"
Walking along the edge of the crowd, a Wilante soldier carrying a rifle cursed fiercely, making no effort to conceal the contempt dripping from his words.
Hearing that curse—sounding as if it came straight from hell—the bowed shoulders of the crowd flinched uncontrollably, and their muffled weeping grew only harder to restrain.
At last, someone could endure no longer. His vision blurred, and he collapsed limp onto the ground.
Only when he saw the Wilante soldier striding toward him did the half-conscious man show terror on his face, rolling over to kneel in the dirt and plead.
"Lord... I'm starving... Could I... could I eat something before digging?"
"Hungry? Then eat!" The soldier grabbed him by the head, pinning him to the ground like a slippery loach, and sneered with a vicious curse. "It's everywhere on the ground. You want me to spoon-feed you?"
Pinned to the dirt, the man struggled and begged for mercy, but no coherent words could escape his mouth. Instead, he swallowed mouthfuls of mud and sand, barely catching a gasp of air only after choking them down.
"N-No, I wouldn't dare... my lord..."
"Then get back to work, you useless piece of trash!"
Disgusted by the filth, the soldier couldn't even be bothered to torture the dying wretch any further. Cursing, he smashed him once with his rifle butt, then turned away and ignored his half-dead form.
The surrounding people watched with bated breath, looking at the figure squirming like an earthworm, yet not one dared to make a sound, let alone resist.
This wasn't an assembly of only the weak, sick, and elderly; there was no shortage of able-bodied young men, and a few soldiers from the city defense force that had broken in defeat two days prior were even mingled among them.
Yet confronted by these brutal Wilante soldiers, these men who were only used to fighting when victory was assured lacked even the nerve to pick up a gun and fight back.
Besides those weeping while they toiled, there were also those who threw every ounce of their strength into the work.
Not only did they possess endless stamina, but they also harbored a "broader perspective" that ordinary folk lacked.
Sweat poured off them like rain as they strained to dig the pits wider, striving to prove they could endure more suffering than the rest, as though this alone might somehow keep them alive.
Yet they had no idea that their futile eagerness looked like nothing more than clownish buffoonery in the eyes of the big-noses, serving only to deepen the contempt in those disdainful gazes.
The Wilante didn't even bother distinguishing who among them were Lion Clan, who were Sun Clan or Bull Clan, or who belonged to the lowly snakes, rats, bugs, and birds.
They were all equally beyond salvation anyway.
To think they wouldn't rebel even after being pushed to this point. Truly, being buried alive was far too merciful for them; they ought to have been handed over to the "Greys" to handle.
In truth, that had been the original plan. Unfortunately, no Grey mercenaries had accompanied the expeditionary forces, and calling some in would have been too inefficient, so their commander had ultimately abandoned the idea.
One batch had already been buried yesterday, and today was the second. Two months of this would probably suffice.
Watching the people sweating profusely over the red earth, Pete casually flicked away the spent cigarette butt between his fingers, then pulled out his pack and lit another.
From dawn to dusk, this was already his second pack today.
"...Sometimes I really feel like we were put into this world just to handle the filthy, grueling grunt work."
Standing nearby, a burly soldier looked at his decurion, muttering under his breath in a low voice.
"All this?"
Pete curled his lips, offering a self-deprecating chuckle amidst the drifting ash.
"That's right. Cleaning up slime mold, hauling away garbage, and purging rotten, tainted blood. The work the old fogies from the Era of Prosperity didn't want to do, the work they couldn't physically do—it was all dumped on us. We're like that machine that does renal dialysis, responsible for scrubbing these foul things clean. Only then can this moldering world return to normal... Don't you think?"
Just like scavengers.
And once all of it was over, it would surely be time for them to be swept into the dustbin of history.
The new era held no future for the Wilante. Their fate had been sealed from the very moment of their creation: they were destined to be swept into the rubbish heap as the last flecks of dust from the Wasteland Era, the final wastelanders.
Yet it was precisely because of this that the Marshal's greatness shone so brightly.
That noble lord had seen right through the filth harboring in the hearts of those perched high above from the very beginning. Without hesitation, he had united them, leading them to overthrow that hypocritical collusion.
Though Pete was only a lowly decurion, his reverence for that lord came straight from the heart.
"I don't know about that. But they have to die." The burly man's face was etched with hatred, the brutal flesh of his cheeks trembling faintly in fury.
"I agree..."
Pete curled his lips around his cigarette butt and cast his gaze toward the distant horizon, his eyes narrowing slightly as he did.
Out where the sea met the sky, several faint black specks had appeared.
They looked like freighters.
Unclipping the walkie-talkie from his shoulder, he pressed the button and spoke.
"...Ships incoming."
"Yeah, from the east."
***
Arman's fleet practically charged toward the harbor, carrying so much momentum that it nearly slammed into the wharf.
The fleet had arrived a full twenty-four hours ahead of schedule.
Under Arman's near-frenzied urging, his crew had nearly capsized the vessels on the way.
Staring at the devastated, trash-strewn harbor before him, Arman lunged toward the edge of the deck like a madman.
"Let go of me! Let me off!"
Seeing their boss preparing to leap from the deck four or five meters above the ground, the captain and several nearby sailors rushed forward to grab him, pinning him tightly against the railing.
"Boss, calm down! At least wait until the gangway is lowered! Are you trying to break your neck!"
"Then let me die! Let me go down to be with them!" Arman roared hysterically, struggling against the hands restraining him.
The sailors around him were terrified, blurting out in alarm:
"You can't do that! What will we do if you die?"
"My entire life savings are tied up in your ships!"
"We haven't even been paid for this run yet—"
"Shut up!" Roaring at the callous crew, the captain turned back to Arman, swallowed hard, and said hurriedly, "...Open your eyes and look closely! Our own men are on the shore! Your family might still be alive! What would they think if they found out you dashed your brains out on the dock?"
Those words finally brought Arman a measure of sanity, and his taut shoulders ceased their trembling.
The captain shot a glance at the sailors nearby, signaling them to keep a tight hold on the boss and only let him disembark once the gangway was securely lowered.
Looking at the devastated man, Brother Dog, standing on the deck, felt a pang of pity and sighed.
"Cheer up, buddy. Life is full of rough patches... Uh, I mean, every cloud has a silver lining... Bah! Fine, look on the bright side—at least you won't have to pay back the bank..."
Watching this guy fail so miserably at saying anything comforting, Shit-Stirring Stick couldn't help snapping at him.
"Can you shut your damn mouth for once?"
Channeling Dog grumbled indignantly, "What's the big deal? It's not like he can understand what I'm saying anyway."
Farsighted Eagle abruptly chimed in.
"That might not be true."
Channeling Dog: "???"
Warlike Wolf remained silent for a moment. Gazing at the man's back, he finally shook his head.
"...My condolences."
Showing no reaction to the clamor behind him, Arman pressed his ashen face against the damp deck, looking as though his very soul had been hollowed out.
Only when the anchor chains rattled down, the gangway was extended, and the ship came to a complete halt did he finally stir. Tearing himself free from the hands holding him, he stumbled frantically down the ramp.
Having noticed the vessels long ago, a squad of Wilante soldiers with slung rifles marched over.
Arman staggered up to them and grabbed one of the young soldiers by the arm.
His pale lips trembled, parting repeatedly, yet no words could form.
Even so, everyone present understood what he wanted to say, as clearly as if they had heard the words aloud.
Seeing the pitiful wretch, pity showed on the soldiers' faces.
One of the decurions stepped forward, resting a hand firmly on his shoulder, and spoke in a soothing tone.
"...We found some survivors, but we aren't sure if your family is among them."
A spark of hope flared in Arman's dull eyes, and his voice shook.
"Where are they?"
The decurion turned to the young man whose arm Arman was clutching.
"Take him over."
"Yes, sir!" The young soldier snapped to attention, then turned to Arman. "Please follow me."
Arman released his grip on the soldier's arm and followed closely on his heels.
The decurion then turned his attention to the four figures who had stepped off the ship, none of whom were Wilante. His brows knitted slightly.
He had a vague idea of who they were.
"Alliance?"
"Yes."
The decurion's expression cooled.
"What are you doing here?"
Channeling Dog was just about to say, "We're here to break up the fight," when Brother Wolf reacted with lightning speed, clapping a hand over his mouth.
Farsighted Eagle stepped forward smoothly to take over, explaining in reasonably fluent Human Alliance language:
"We're his business partners... well, you could consider us friends as well. Would it be alright if we accompanied him? We're worried something might happen to him."
The centurion looked him up and down, his gaze carrying an unspoken warning to mind their own business.
"Don't cause any unnecessary trouble... not if you don't want problems."
He knew this man was from the Alliance, and he knew Triumph City and the Alliance had numerous cooperative agreements regarding the Mutual Aid Community, but that hardly meant he feared them.
Farsighted Eagle voiced his thanks and hurried after Arman.
Catching up to his pace, Shit-Stirring Stick asked in confusion, "Aren't we supposed to mediate?"
Farsighted Eagle rolled his eyes.
"Mediate what, you idiot? Look how few of us there are! The Administrator told us to act according to the situation, not commit suicide, and certainly not screw everything up... The top priority right now is gathering intel to figure out what happened here first."
They knew nothing about the local situation; their most urgent task was piecing together what had unfolded.
Since there were survivors, they might as well see what condition those people were in...
Watching the four walk away, the decurion unclipped the walkie-talkie from his shoulder, pressed the button, and spoke.
"...Four of the people who just came off the ship are from the Alliance."
A response came back through the channel almost immediately.
"Oh."
Hearing that indifferent reply, the decurion hesitated slightly. "Should we just leave them be?"
The voice on the other end answered without a second thought.
"Aren't they heading my way anyway? Leave the rest to me."
Seeing that his superior had spoken, the decurion hesitated no further.
"Understood!"
***
Inside the church of the Silver Moon Sect.
Trash and dust were strewn across the floor, looking just as dilapidated as the port itself.
Seated on a pew, General MacLaren set his communicator aside, picked up the newspaper spread across his knees, and resumed flipping through it with mild interest.
This was a treasure he had salvaged from the ruins, titled the *Silver Gospel*.
Judging from the name, the publisher had exercised considerable care, treading cautiously to spare the fragile pride of the locals while avoiding any taboos that only Wilante were permitted to breach.
Perhaps it was precisely because of this discretion that, despite having entered and exited West Sail Port countless times before, he had never once noticed this church adorned with a moon, let alone realized it published such an intriguing newspaper.
The paper contained very little in the way of news or Silver Moon doctrine. Instead, a massive portion of its print was dedicated to serializing a novel called *Awakened Pol*.
He had actually heard of the story before; supposedly, it had been penned by the people of Boulder City during the ceasefire between the Legion and the Alliance.
Now, with the rise of cross-regional trade, this romanticized novel had been brought to this "primeval jungle" called West Sail Port by a priest named Melchior.
Since he had time on his hands anyway, MacLaren had ordered his men to collect the issues.
Such material was far too advanced for slaves, but for a man with time to kill, it was just right.
Coincidentally, he was also rather curious about what kind of entity this Alliance was—a faction that had managed to defeat him with nothing more than a pile of scrap metal.
That question had plagued him for far too long; he had been turning it over in his mind for ages.
Perhaps this newspaper could offer a spark of inspiration...
Just then, the church doors were pushed open, and a flustered man hurried in behind a soldier.
"My family..."
MacLaren said nothing and didn't even turn his head. He merely nodded to the elderly nun standing to the side, then continued perusing the old newspaper in his hands.
A complex look crossed the nun's face as she walked up to the gentleman.
"May I ask what your child's name is?"
Arman froze, answering instinctively in a trembling voice:
"Ruby..."
"Please wait a moment." The old nun nodded slightly and turned toward an adjacent side hall.
A short while later, she emerged leading a little girl.
Arman's eyes reddened instantly, and he pressed his clasped hands against his nose.
The dark brown hair that should have been sleek and supple now hung in tangled disarray over her shoulders, resembling a pilled woolen sweater. What squeezed his heart with even sharper agony, however, was her pale, lifeless face and hollow eyes.
Standing in this ruined church, she looked like a piece of porcelain retrieved from beneath the rubble, making one ache for her while thanking the heavens all at once.
She was alive!
Praise the Silver Moon Goddess!
He had never believed in any deities, placing his faith solely in the great Marshal, yet at this moment, he offered up the most sincere prayer of his life and rushed forward heedless of everything.
"Ruby!!"
Arman scooped Ruby into his arms, unable to hold back the tears that burst from his eyes.
The burly man broke down into a sobbing mess in an instant.
Hearing that familiar voice, Ruby finally reacted. A faint glimmer of light returned to her hollow eyes, and she reached out a small hand to gently stroke the head pressed against her shoulder.
"Daddy..."
"...I'm sorry... Daddy came back too late... I failed you both..."
Feeling those scalding tears, Ruby's eyes began to redden as well.
Yet as though recalling something her mother had once told her, she held back her tears in the end, resting her tender hand on the hair that was just as messy as her own.
"It's okay, Daddy... Ruby is okay, don't cry... Mama said Wilante don't cry..."
"Yes! My Ruby, you're right... I'm sorry you had to see your father looking so pathetic..."
"It's okay... it's all okay now."
Ruby forced a faint smile onto her face, as if trying to comfort him.
Yet that sensible demeanor only made Arman's heart ache all the more.
Even so, not wanting his daughter to worry, he wiped away the tears on his face, pulled Ruby tightly against his chest, and rose to his feet.
Right now, all he wanted was to take his child and leave this godforsaken place as fast as possible.
Before that, however, there was still one more thing he had to ask...
Looking at the old nun standing before him, Arman spoke in a trembling voice.
"...What about the child's mother? Her name is Margot. Please... where is she?"
In truth, before the words even left his mouth, he already had his answer.
It was self-evident.
If Margot were still here, she would never have allowed Ruby's hair to become such a tangled mess, let alone left her all alone in the church...
The old nun looked at him with profound sorrow, then glanced at the heartbreakingly brave child in his arms. Finally, she parted her lips, speaking in a raspy voice.
"I remember the name Margot. Your wife was a very brave mother..."
***
Outside the church entrance.
Brother Wolf, who had remained silent all this time, suddenly spoke up.
"I don't get it."
The others turned to look at him.
Noticing his friends' gazes, he paused before continuing:
"...How do they manage it? Making people feel both pity and disgust toward them."
He didn't like the Legion; in fact, his feelings toward them could be summed up with the word disgust.
This wasn't merely because of the Alliance's faction alignment and the stance of civilized folk, but because most of the NPCs he knew were survivors from River Valley Province.
Every single person who had helped him during his newbie days remembered what the Legion had done.
Those bastards had stopped at nothing to achieve their ends, not only supplying weapons to marauders, but even dispatching officers to marauder tribes as military advisors, teaching them how to pilot the Legion's war machines to slaughter River Valley Province with greater efficiency.
Though they had ultimately pinned all the blame on the East Expansion faction, hadn't they been the ones who indulged that expansion in the first place?
Now they were playing the exact same tricks again, and sure enough, they had dropped the rock on their own feet.
He felt not a shred of sympathy for what the slaveholders had suffered, yet the strange thing was that he couldn't summon any goodwill for the slaves here either.
He sympathized with the suffering these people had endured, and he acknowledged their innocence, yet he also felt they had brought it upon themselves.
He even felt that doing nothing at all—just standing by and watching them tear each other apart—would be fine too.
"I don't really care..." Channeling Dog shrugged. "They're just a bunch of NPCs. Why overthink it? The wasteland is huge; what kind of weirdos doesn't it have?"
Shit-Stirring Stick blew a whistle.
"Honestly, I don't care much either... But if we're really going to dissect this, what about the kids in this settlement? Are they supposed to blame themselves for not having the foresight to be born in a vault?"
Brother Wolf looked away in silence, at a loss for how to answer.
"Alright, alright, stop shooting the breeze. What's the point of all this nonsense? Let's get on with the quest..." Farsighted Eagle sighed, cutting off his buddies' conversation before the discussion could devolve into an argument.
Crude concepts of good and evil were not the same as morality, and morality itself was divided into collective morality and individual morality.
The Alliance was far more than just Vault 404. Countless vault dwellers—even people from Ideal City and the Academy—had traveled thousands of miles to join them, clearly not because they yearned for the Alliance's comfortable life, but because they believed the Alliance could bring an end to the wasteland.
If they betrayed their own vows, even if they weren't knocked back to square one, their best-case outcome would be degenerating into a scaled-down version of "Cyber-Xilan."
Because of that, he could understand Chu Guang's reasoning.
On this wasteland, almost every faction besides Xilan had its own bottom line and stance.
Even a place as tiny as Mafu Town did.
So he didn't think Brother Wolf was entirely wrong; the empire truly had it coming for suffering this disaster, but that phrase shouldn't be applied to its common people.
At the very least, the survivors who had likewise suffered persecution at the hands of the rioters were innocent.
And what he had to do was preserve as many of these people as possible, which was also how he interpreted the task the Administrator had assigned them.
Seeing Brother Eagle chime in, Brother Dog, a professional free-rider, chimed in at once:
"Your Human Alliance language is the best. We leave it to you."
Farsighted Eagle rolled his eyes.
"No shit. If I don't go, should I let you go instead?"
The moment that guy opened his mouth, he'd probably conjure trouble out of thin air.
***
When Farsighted Eagle stepped into the church, he found that Arman and his daughter had already departed.
The old nun was gone as well.
At that moment, only one person remained inside: MacLaren, sitting on the pew and leafing through his newspaper.
Having seen plenty of memes about this fellow on the forums before, Eagle nearly failed to stifle a laugh.
Fortunately, Old Mac wasn't paying attention.
Hearing the sound behind him, he gave the paper in his hands a light shake and remarked offhandedly:
"A very interesting novel... It actually coincides with our way of thinking."
Surprised that the general would initiate a conversation about a novel, Eagle walked over and sat down beside him.
"In what regard?"
MacLaren offered a faint smile and read aloud what he saw on the page:
"...'It was not Pol who saved Boulder City, but the survivors of Boulder City who chose Pol. The workers protected innocent children, the soldiers raised their gun barrels an inch higher, and they finally realized these were compatriots, not enemies. Then, issuing a joint declaration, they turned their weapons on the true foe...'
"The same holds true for the Wilante. Created as slaves, we refused to bow to fate and authority, bravely breaking our chains... The Marshal has told us more than once that it was not he who led us to victory, but our own struggle that won it."
Eagle nearly lost his composure.
"And then you turned around and enslaved everyone else?"
"Yes." MacLaren admitted it frankly and without hesitation, showing not the slightest hint of shame. "Wasn't it precisely to conquer something that you created us in the first place? We are merely fulfilling the mission written into our very DNA."
Turning a page in the paper, MacLaren continued in an indifferent tone:
"Besides, once those people have had enough, they will naturally fight for their own freedom... Isn't that how you won against me?"
Eagle glanced at him in surprise, caught off guard that he would actually concede the Alliance had won.
How rare.
Although the East Expansion faction wasn't particularly well-regarded within the Legion, to this day, not a single Wilante had ever admitted that they had lost that unjust and reckless war.
Still, debating subjective notions of winning and losing was entirely meaningless; both sides had plenty of excuses to argue, and the debate would inevitably end with neither convincing the other.
Not wanting to create needless friction, Eagle gave a soft cough and pressed on:
"General MacLaren, about West Sail Port... let's talk."
He had expected the haughty general to flatly refuse, only to receive an answer contrary to his expectations.
"Very well, let's talk. In your current position, you indeed possess the right to do so."
That unexpected response caught Eagle somewhat off guard. The roundabout approach he had prepared was now completely unnecessary.
However, his mind worked fast, and he immediately shifted his negotiating strategy.
"...Your retaliation might seem thorough, but to us, it looks more like throwing a childish tantrum."
MacLaren didn't care about the provocation, saying indifferently:
"We don't care how others see us."
Eagle didn't give up, continuing, "Then you should at least care about your own compatriots! The ones who died."
MacLaren casually corrected him:
"The Wilante who died."
Eagle pressed on:
"That's precisely who I'm talking about! West Sail Port was their life's blood! For the sake of your revered Marshal and other Wilante yearning for land beneath the sun, they crossed the vast ocean to carve out a new home in an unfamiliar land... Granted, I don't care for the idea of stealing someone else's house, but this settlement built from nothing was their accomplishment, wasn't it?"
MacLaren let out a faint chuckle.
"Doesn't matter. Once we bleed this place dry, we'll build a new West Sail Port."
Eagle swallowed hard and continued:
"And what about them? Aside from carrying the name West Sail Port, what trace of them will remain in this new settlement? In my view, what you're doing is no different from the Enlightenment Society! In the new West Sail Port, no one will remember those who died. Aside from the scarlet mud beneath your feet, no one will remember what transpired here. Down the road, no one will stop to reflect on why things came to this—and then, one day in the future, it will happen all over again!"
Hearing those words, MacLaren's expression finally showed a flicker of change.
He set the newspaper on his knees, drew a cigar from his coat, clipped the tip, and held it between his lips. Striking a lighter, he said:
"Then you tell me, what should be done about this?... Heh, let me hear what the great Alliance philanthropist has to suggest."
Seeing a glimmer of hope, Eagle said immediately:
"That's simple... Let vengeance fall where it belongs! You can put them on trial!"
Hearing such a whimsical idea, MacLaren couldn't help letting out a scornful scoff.
"We don't have that many judges."
Eagle braced himself and called out:
"Then hold public trials! Have them identify each other!"
In truth, he hated proposing such an idea, but there was no better alternative at hand.
Wrongful killings were inevitable.
Yet no matter how many innocents were wrongly executed in the end, it was still better than slaughtering everyone.
Hearing the suggestion, MacLaren froze with the cigar between his teeth, then burst into uproarious laughter.
He laughed for half a minute before stopping. Turning to face Eagle, he curled his lips into a grin.
"I'll be blunt: watching you plead for these wretches is genuinely amusing. As for me, I don't consider the rest of the people in this city innocent in the slightest. In our philosophy, silence is also a crime—the crime of mediocrity—and it is utterly unforgivable.
"They turned a blind eye, letting that mob run wild and drive the Wilante out, expecting they could sit back as victims, reap the rewards, and emerge unscathed... Tsk, tsk. What gave them the delusion that they could remain untouched? Do we look like reasonable people to you?
"We already gave them their chance. They could have chosen to die honorably on the battlefield like heroes fighting for freedom, and we might have considered sparing their families. Yet they would rather dig the pits meant to bury themselves than pick up the guns they cast aside, even hiding behind their own families. We are merely granting their wish."
Pausing there, MacLaren looked toward the front of the church.
"Still, I am inclined to consider your proposal. On one hand, you made a bit of sense: someone needs to remember what happened here. On the other... this sounds far more amusing than having the Greys torture them."
A smile spread across MacLaren's face, making him look very much like a demon.
"How about this: street by street, every person must identify 'one' person. Then the rest of the district will decide whether the identified individual deserves to die.
"Let me think... We've already killed twenty thousand. Picking out another ten thousand should suffice. If there are extra, we won't return them; if there are too few, we'll fill the quota in order. What do you think of these rules? Look, I've given them another chance. Heh."
Watching this man decide the life and death of tens of thousands so casually, Eagle took a deep breath.
"Then... can we begin?"
Both sides had conceded a step from their respective stances; this was already the best possible outcome.
He remembered that a group was still digging pits on the outskirts, with children barely older than Ruby. Those little kids who hadn't even grown their feathers couldn't possibly be murderers.
If he delayed any longer, the Wilante might already start shoveling dirt over them.
At the very least... he had to save those children!
Seeing the vault dweller urging him on, MacLaren suddenly found it hilarious and chuckled aloud.
"I'm actually quite curious: what benefit do you get from sticking your nose into this mess?
"Or let me put it another way—isn't it entertaining watching us destroy our own colony?"
Farsighted Eagle was about to say there was nothing fun about it at all, and that his quest would go down the drain.
Just then, however, he recalled the contents of the Player Handbook, and the words on the tip of his tongue shifted.
"...Since we've already raised the banner of 'Survivors of the World, Unite!', we can hardly turn around and say the survivors of Bolo Province don't count, or that whether they live or die is none of our damn business."
MacLaren paused at the reply, then erupted into thunderous laughter.
The laughter echoed through the cavernous church like the tolling of a raspy bell.
"...Hahaha! Fascinating! You call that a 'benefit'?"
Farsighted Eagle gestured with his hands, explaining:
"Naturally. Benefits come in many forms; it's not just about making money or painting the map..."
"Tsk."
MacLaren curled his lip and unclipped the walkie-talkie from his shoulder.
"Ross, have your men halt. A better idea just occurred to me... Bring those survivors to the harbor to assemble."
***
At the very moment General MacLaren issued that order, a massive battle erupted in the central region of Lion State.
The attacking force was the main host of the Heavenly Army, led personally by Janusz—roughly fifty thousand men, proclaiming themselves an army of a million.
The defending force was Grand Duke Sanjay, lord of Lion City, commanding forty thousand men: half were serfs conscripted from various estates, and the other half were city defense troops.
The disparity in numbers between the two sides wasn't actually that vast, and their training, organization, and equipment were evenly matched. Sanjay had even absorbed some noble officers newly trained by MacLaren, so on paper, the local army should have held the advantage.
Yet the moment Janusz proclaimed his slogans—demanding the abolition of slavery and the division of the nobles' land and property—half of Sanjay's forces shattered instantly.
Although the battle raged from dawn until dusk, the outcome was never in doubt.
In the end, Grand Duke Sanjay was overtaken and shot dead by Janusz's royal guard during his flight.
Upon entering the city, Janusz not only slaughtered every noble holding the rank of count or higher along with their families, but also piled their severed heads outside the city gates to construct a gruesome tower.
Only the attractive female kin were spared, either kept for himself or bestowed upon his subordinates.
Such bloody measures terrified everyone, plunging all of Lion City into sheer panic.
And not just Lion City.
The moment news of Sanjay's defeat reached Tiandu, the imperial capital fell into absolute chaos. Roads leading out of the city were jammed solid by convoys of fleeing refugees.
Bull State lay right next to Lion State, and Tiandu was situated in Bull State!
Above all, the route from Lion City to Tiandu was entirely flat terrain, offering virtually no natural defenses to hold!
This time, Wutuo completely lost his nerve.
Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that a horde of rebelling slaves could whip up such a monstrous tempest!
Inside the palace of Tiandu.
Watching Wutuo pacing like an ant on a hot pan, Prince Dilip carefully wiped the sweat from his forehead, making a trembling suggestion:
"Your Majesty... there is no time left to hesitate! Please, prepare the royal carriage to depart at once!"
Wutuo's eyes bulged, and he roared in sheer shock and fury:
"Depart?! Where would you have me go?! There are lions to the west and ravenous wolves to the south! That Alaiyang can't be trusted either! He belongs to the Wolf Clan, the same clan as that Janusz!"
Rumor even had it that Janusz was his former subordinate! For all anyone knew, this whole uprising was orchestrated by him!
Wutuo's whiskers trembled in rage. He ground his teeth so hard that his gums threatened to bleed, itching to chew up these treacherous wretches who harbored rebellion in their bones and swallow them whole.
Traitors! Every last one of them!
Not a shred of loyalty!
Prince Dilip was equally anxious. After all, their fates were tied together; they rose and fell as one.
If the royal house collapsed, his end wouldn't be any better than Wutuo's.
"Snake State, Tiger State, Leopard State, Bird State, Horse State... none of them can be trusted either. The local powers are growing restless. If Your Majesty goes to any of those lands, leaving will prove difficult."
"Then tell me what to do!" Wutuo bellowed.
Though he had done plenty of foolish things in his life, Prince Dilip finally showed a flash of wit when his very survival was on the line, thinking of a location in a sudden burst of desperation.
"...There is still one place we can go."
Wutuo asked frantically:
"Where?!"
"Golden Gallon Port..."
Seeing Wutuo freeze, Prince Dilip swallowed hard and continued with the utmost care, "Although that is Alliance territory, they adhere to rules, and finding food won't be an issue.
"Right now, the Wilante are in a towering fury... That place might just be the only haven that can guarantee our safety."
Chapter 826