Magnificent gantry cranes towered over the port, where concrete docks bridged land and sea.
Cargo vessels of various designs were moored along the quayside, intermingled with salvage ships. Workers in lightweight exoskeletons bustled constantly between them.
This was Settlement No. 1 on the Death Coast.
It was also the very place where the Alliance's Burning Corps had landed during the Battle of Torch.
Though that war had taken place only the year before, it felt as if an eternity had passed.
Across the entire coastline, no traces of war remained. Most of the people active ashore were survivors scraping by to make a living, not soldiers clutching rifles.
Their origins were diverse.
Some were wastelanders from the eastern provinces; some were refugees from Brahma Province; others were islanders from the Southern Sea, Wilante from the far west of the continent, or believers in the Spirit of the Sand Sea from Sunset Province.
Differing not only in identity, they also came for vastly different purposes.
Some had fled the pursuit of wasteland mutants, marauders, and plantation owners; some sought refuge from distant war, famine, and plague; others dreamed of striking it rich by seizing the opportunities surrounding the reconstruction of the space elevator, hoping to soar into the cosmos alongside the Alliance.
Every face walking through the docks carried a story—just like Henk, who had lost a fortune not long ago.
A spark of hope stirred in Henk's heart.
Before arriving, he had worried conditions might be dreadful, only to find the reality exceeding his expectations.
Perhaps this place could offer a fresh start...
If nothing went awry.
Standing beside Henk, Arman squinted slightly as he gazed toward the thriving district in the distance.
"...I remember the last time I came here, the district connected to the harbor was just a sprawl of shipping containers. Now it's all concrete prefab housing."
The settlement's footprint was steadily expanding outward along the port. The containers had likely been moved further inland.
After all, keeping hollow metal boxes right by the sea was unsafe to begin with; a single fierce gale could blow them away.
Perhaps when he visited next, even these prefab buildings would be dismantled and relocated to make room for taller, grander structures.
Just like what had happened in Boulder City.
Hearing Arman's comment, Henk wore a look of astonishment.
"Containers? They actually let wastelanders live in shipping containers?"
Arman grinned. "Emergency transitional housing for special times... Wastelanders of the Eastern Continent possess a unique knack for turning any material in sight into shelter. Take those containers: cut out a door and a window, and people can live inside."
"Well, I... I just think it's a bit wasteful," Henk said with a genuine sigh. "They're metal, after all. Even if you're done with them, they can still be recycled."
Arman's expression grew subtle.
He had assumed the fellow felt pity for the wastelanders, only to realize he was mourning the metal boxes.
"...Perhaps. But the local philosophy is to make the fullest use of everything."
Henk pressed further.
"Did the shipping companies just give them the containers for free?"
That was his primary concern.
While the authorities' care for wastelanders was admirable, if their method involved forced requisition or indulging wastelanders in seizing property, then no matter how prosperous this place appeared, it would not be a sound investment target.
After all, prosperity could be fabricated and packaged—just like the financial statements of his winery.
All it took was borrowing heavily.
Arman chuckled.
"Of course not. The local authorities pay the shipping companies a fee... Besides, local import demand is surging and storage space is at a premium. If they don't dispose of them promptly, they'd have to pay hefty rents for those empty containers occupying berths. The shipping companies are eager to run their next voyages anyway, so when the local authorities offer to buy the empty boxes, why wouldn't they jump at the chance?"
Of course, the biggest reason was that shipping containers from Silver Moon Bay and Golden Gallon Port were cheap enough.
Most of the light industrial goods and grain the region needed originated from those two places.
Another factor was the raw materials supplied by Port French Fries and the heavy industrial facilities on the North Island.
The Alliance's overseas investments were feeding back into mainland development.
Even from his standpoint as a Wilante, Arman had to admit that the Manager's layout across Sunset Province, Brahma Province, and the Southern Sea was a masterful stroke.
If these wastelanders hadn't genuinely yearned to join the Alliance, bringing their wealth and knowledge here, the ten settlements scattered along the coast of the eastern provinces could never have developed so rapidly.
Merely a few months ago, this entire coast had belonged to aquatic mutants and Torch.
As Arman reflected, a familiar figure strode over from the docks, calling out a greeting from a distance.
"Long time no see! My friend, you're finally back!"
Looking up at Arman on the deck, Zhang Ze was brimming with excitement.
He was excited not because he missed the big-nosed fellow so dearly, but because the man's ship carried pure gold mines!
Thousands of young laborers!
For Settlement No. 1 in its development phase, wasn't that precisely a gold mine?!
Over the past several months, through multiple angles of testimony and evidence, Zhang Ze had tracked down survivors of the West Sail Port tragedy and managed to obtain video footage of the Lion City massacre. He had finally rendered the local delegates speechless at the hearings, securing an expedited channel for refugees from Brahma Province to obtain "supervised status."
While supervised status wasn't particularly difficult to attain—requiring only an oath that one was not a marauder to enter an observation period and receive a temporary credential—conditions in the eastern provinces were unique.
A mere oath could not filter out marauders hidden among the displaced masses, and the settlements in Haiya Province lacked the mature institutions and comprehensive oversight mechanisms that River Valley Province enjoyed.
Consequently, the local authorities imposed certain restrictions on temporary status to suit local conditions, such as barring holders from taking out loans or working in designated industries.
In this way, the risks the settlement faced in absorbing these immigrants were kept to an absolute minimum—at least reducing the chances of a cannibal becoming a chief physician or an arsonist becoming a firefighter.
These rules targeted survivors whose backgrounds were complete blanks.
Survivors from Ideal City, Cloud Province, the South Sea Alliance, or Sunset Province faced no such restrictions.
The same applied to those from Port French Fries, Golden Gallon Port, and Wilante hailing from the west of the continent.
They could bypass temporary credentials and directly obtain supervised status; depending on their abilities, their supervision periods could even be compressed to within a few days, essentially equivalent to being issued an Alliance identity card.
Zhang Ze had not secured the same rights for the Brahma refugees as residents of Ideal City enjoyed; that was unrealistic and would never have garnered support.
Even so, to facilitate his operations, he had done everything in his power to win them the same rights as "survivors with recognized identities."
It was widely known that Brahma Province had virtually no marauders in the conventional sense.
The local survivors were hardworking and resilient; subjecting them to screening rules designed for marauders would be picking on honest folk.
After hearing opinions from all sides, the assembly of representatives finally conceded and passed Bill No. 10.
The bill permitted private institutions, upon posting an adequate deposit, to act as guarantors for undocumented survivors, allowing them to bypass the probationary phase of temporary status and directly assume supervised status.
If any such survivor committed a criminal offense during the probationary period, not only would the individual face prosecution, but the authorities would also confiscate the private agency's deposit to compensate victims.
This shifted the risk previously borne by society as a whole onto private entities eager to make a profit. Naturally, the local authorities raised no objections.
With legal hurdles cleared, Zhang Ze had promptly registered the Guabi Labor Agency according to the plan previously agreed upon with his partners, waiting for those beasts of burden—er, refugees—to disembark.
Watching the young man waving excitedly from the pier, Henk turned to Arman in confusion. "Who is that?"
Arman waved back toward the pier while explaining to his compatriot, "Zhang Ze, one of the shareholders in Guabi Labor Agency and my partner on the Death Coast... I'll introduce you in a moment."
Arman briefly outlined the situation at Settlement No. 1, along with the nature and profit model of the Guabi Labor Agency.
Though he had only just pulled into port himself, he had maintained telegraph communications with Zhang Ze throughout the voyage and understood the situation here quite well.
Henk listened in stunned silence, thinking, *You can actually do that?!* Still, eager to gather more information, he kept his opinions to himself and listened intently.
Just as Arman concluded the brief overview of their business, Zhang Ze came up the gangway onto the deck, squeezed past the passengers eager to disembark, and reached the bow.
Beside him was a staff member from the settlement's Residents' Office, carrying a slim tablet tucked under his arm.
"This is Mr. Arman, another partner in our company!"
The staff member shook Arman's hand, speaking in a strictly businesslike tone.
"Greetings, Mr. Arman. I'm the officer in charge here... Please provide the passenger roster. We need to register everyone before issuing their documents."
"No problem, the roster is already prepared. Please, have a look."
With that, Arman took a ledger from his assistant and handed it to the Residents' Office clerk.
Henk stared at the ledger, finding the procedure increasingly familiar.
It looked like it—
It looked far too similar!
He could do this line of work too!
Though Arman had spent the whole voyage explaining how this differed fundamentally from the slave trade, in Henk's eyes there was little real difference: it merely swapped slave contracts for debt contracts.
Even so, Henk had no intention of snatching business from his savior, nor was it his style to scavenge someone else's leftovers.
Looking at the bustling crowd and the sea of yearning eyes, he swiftly spotted another massive business opportunity.
Once the handover procedures were complete, Zhang Ze led the Brahma passengers ashore, agreeing to meet Arman at the tavern later.
Seeing that everyone was done with business, Henk immediately pulled Arman aside and said with shining eyes, "I want to stay here."
Seeing Arman's startled look, Henk didn't wait for him to speak and continued without pause.
"...Of course, I won't ask you to guarantee me for nothing. I can pay the passage from West Sail Port to here, just like those people."
Looking at the eager Henk, Arman collected himself and spoke.
"The Alliance and the Legion maintain diplomatic relations, so you don't actually need a guarantee—or rather, the Triumph City Embassy in Dawn City has already guaranteed you... But are you really not going back to West Sail Port with me?"
Henk made a helpless gesture.
"What's the point of going back? My winery has probably already been auctioned off by now, and I bet the insurance company will never pay out on my lost shipment unless the South Sea Alliance publicly admits to sinking the cargo vessel."
That would turn into a protracted legal battle. He wouldn't waive his right to pursue the insurance claim, but that didn't mean he intended to throw his life away waiting for it.
Pick yourself up where you fell; that was his creed.
Arman took a closer look at him, a trace of admiration creeping into his eyes.
"You certainly take things in stride."
Henk grinned. "What else can I do? Cry tears toward where the ship sank? That's not my style."
Arman patted his shoulder in encouragement. "I'll take you to the office in a bit to get your status sorted out. By the way, have you figured out what you want to do?"
Henk smiled with confidence. "Not entirely certain yet, but I have a general direction."
Raising his brows slightly in surprise, Arman asked curiously, "Care to share?"
"Nothing to hide; my cards are practically face-up," Henk said with a slight shrug. He turned back toward the deck, looking at the apprehensive yet eager faces, and grinned. "As you said, these people won't live in shipping containers forever."
"I'm willing to bet the moment they earn some money, the first thing they'll do is upgrade to a bigger place."
Arman stared in surprise at the revitalized man. He hadn't expected the fellow, who didn't even have a roof over his own head yet, to already be plotting how to solve housing for others.
"That's a massive venture..."
"Exactly. So I need to find a job first to rebuild my credit, then go borrow money from a bank to launch my plan."
Seeing Arman's stunned expression, Henk smiled confidently and added, "Just you wait and see. I'll make back every coin I lost... Down the road, we might even have a chance to collaborate."
In truth, Arman had little confidence in this ambitious dreamer, but he refrained from dampening his compatriot's spirits, offering only polite encouragement with a smile.
"Then I'll look forward to your good news."
Knowing his benefactor wasn't taking his words entirely seriously, Henk didn't take offense, simply replying with a smile, "When you return next time, you'll know I wasn't joking."
...
With the assistance of the Guabi Labor Agency, two thousand seven hundred new immigrants from West Sail Port smoothly completed their registration at the Settlement No. 1 office, obtaining supervised status.
From this day forward, they would serve as "quasi-citizens" of the Alliance, striving to bring an end to the Wasteland Era and liberate all suffering survivors.
Of course, that did not conflict with the loans they had to repay.
Even if they intended to liberate aliens, they still had to get their own lives in order first.
The Alliance was no utopia; it helped only those who helped themselves.
Anyone expecting it to be Ideal City would certainly be disappointed, but if all one sought was fairness, they wouldn't walk away disillusioned.
Given the diligence of the Rat Clan and Snake Clan folk, however, living a good life was merely a matter of time. Rather than worrying about them struggling, one might worry that their hard work would drive the wastelanders of the eastern provinces into an endless race to the bottom.
While these "newbies" followed the labor agents toward the construction sites and docks with nervous excitement, their homeland presented an entirely different scene.
In Akale County, western Niu State, Brahma Province, where the Everflowing River bent, soldiers on the eastern defensive positions were chewing on nutrient paste.
Brother Edge would have loved to share instant noodles with the allied brothers, but reality simply would not allow it.
Planes roared overhead from time to time—first Legion aircraft, then Alliance aircraft. Neither side could secure complete air superiority.
Under these conditions, let alone lighting fires to cook food or boil water, the Wilante across the way didn't dare do so either.
After all, things were different now.
The State of Brahma's 11th Myriad had captured fifty-two "Fire Crossbow" self-propelled howitzers and nearly an entire thousand-man unit's worth of artillery shells.
The psychological dread that 200 mm shells inflicted on the Wilante far exceeded that of 155 mm.
Even if, in actual combat, the latter had inflicted an order of magnitude more casualties on the Wilante...
The war had ground into a stalemate.
After receiving reinforcements via airship, the Wilante had not launched a reckless offensive. Instead, altering their previous aggressive tactics, they broadened the frontline from a mere tens of kilometers to several hundred kilometers, transforming their sharp dagger into a broad-bladed ax.
This posed a grave problem for the State of Brahma, which lacked logistical equipment.
Though the State of Brahma held an overwhelming advantage in manpower, the sheer difficulty of mutual reinforcement between dispersed positions was a fatal weakness.
A single misstep could send them tumbling into the same disaster they had suffered in Lion State.
Namely: the Legion, concentrating strength through mobility, would pierce a single point, after which the entire frontline would lose cohesion, collapsing into chaos during retreats and redeployments, ultimately defeating itself.
Yet, even with the frontline stretched across hundreds of kilometers, Akale County remained a checkpoint neither side could ignore.
Whether in geographical or psychological strategic significance, the Southern Legion was determined to take it.
For that very reason, both the players of the Death Corps and the State of Brahma soldiers stationed here were prepared to fight the Legion to the death.
To ensure prisoners would not drag them down when battle erupted, they had deliberately sent earlier captives to the rear.
Under an agreement reached between the Alliance and the Triumph City ambassador, those Wilante would travel to Golden Gallon Port upon reaching Tiandu.
Only there was there space and capacity to accommodate them.
Speaking of the prisoners' destination, Ishel had even teased Brother Edge, remarking that the shore Brahma survivors dreamed of reaching their entire lives might never be theirs, while those big-nosed fellows had only to raise their hands in surrender to get there.
"...So I always feel Janusz was wrong, yet not entirely wrong. Maybe true fairness doesn't exist in this world after all. I could save those innocent civilians in the church, but I can't save myself, nor can I save my people."
Brother Edge had been left speechless for a moment.
It was difficult to explain to someone who had never stepped beyond this soil what the outside world was truly like, or what logic and rules governed it.
Though war between the Legion and the Alliance had effectively begun, relations between the Alliance and Triumph City were not entirely severed.
Bannote had continually tried to cool the flames, and the Manager had no desire to turn this war against imperialism into a war against all Wilante.
After all, doing so would mean retracing the failed footsteps of the Wartime Reconstruction Committee.
Yet every person had their own limitations.
Both the man sitting before him and Brother Edge himself.
"...I don't think reaching Golden Gallon Port means they've truly reached the shore. Their shore is in Triumph City. If they don't bring back what they've seen, they will never reach shore."
Pausing, Brother Edge had added, "The same goes for you... I don't believe reaching Golden Gallon Port or anywhere else means reaching shore either."
Ishel had smiled, asking casually, "Then where is our shore?"
Brother Edge had said in a low voice, "It's right beneath your feet... But I know that even if I say that, you'll probably think it's easy for me to talk when it's not my back that's breaking."
"I don't think that, brother. I'm not that petty," Ishel had sighed, glancing up at the starry sky, then down at the mud caked on his boots. "I just feel... this road is too damn long. I wonder if my great-great-grandson will live to see it for me."
Looking at that gloomy face, Brother Edge had rested a hand on his shoulder.
"He will... And I believe you won't have to wait for your great-great-grandson. You'll see it yourself."
Ishel had laughed out loud.
"I'll take your blessing, then!"
How could it ever be that easy?
Yet he hadn't spoken that aloud to his good brother, keeping the thought to himself.
Right then, an officer walked over, came to a halt, and saluted.
"Report! A telegram from Tiandu!"
Ishel sprang up, patted the dirt off his trousers, took the telegram from the officer, and scanned it from start to finish, his lips curling.
"That Absaik... Heh."
Seeing Ishel's wry expression, Brother Edge dusted off his trouser legs, stood up, walked over, and asked, "What does it say?"
"Nothing much, just a transfer order," seeing that the Alliance brother was curious, Ishel passed the telegram over. "Our Grand Commander wants to form a field army to support the State of Mammoth's three northern states... After all, Laxi helped us quite a bit, so we have to return the favor."
Brother Edge wore a strange expression.
"...You guys still have the spare capacity to reinforce someone else?"
The State of Mammoth's army had undergone a full rearmament and reorganization; though still no match for the Legion in pitched battles, they at least didn't cause the Alliance too much trouble.
Because of that, Alliance aid to the State of Mammoth was primarily financial, while volunteers had mostly come to Brahma Province.
He truly couldn't fathom what this move was supposed to achieve.
Ishel grinned.
"You wouldn't understand. The philosophy of Brahma isn't the art of speaking; it's the art of not speaking."
Brother Edge stared blankly. "The art of not speaking?"
Ishel nodded.
"Nothing is said, yet everything is said. Take this transfer order, for example. On the surface, it tells us to reinforce the north, but in reality, it's letting us take shelter."
As for what they were taking shelter from, Ishel didn't state it outright. Not because of any art of silence, but out of tact.
Brother Edge remained quiet for a while before letting out a long, heavy sigh.
"...Damn, talk about a shallow pond crawling with bastards."
"Tzeentch! It's Tzeentch!" Nearby, In Debt God and Construction Bro were eavesdropping and whispering together, eyes shining with excitement.
Khorne, Nurgle, and Tzeentch were all accounted for!
Could Slaanesh be far behind?
He was already looking forward to the next expansion pack!
Ishel offered a wry smile and shrugged.
"In any case... as you people put it, every household has its own cross to bear. Absaik has his own troubles; Shahrukh the 'Horse King' is watching him closely, and Absaik has demons in his own heart he can't escape. But looking at it from another angle, that's actually a good thing. If Shahrukh weren't such a slippery fox, Absaik might have become one instead."
Brother Edge was momentarily at a loss for words.
He had thought the Academy possessed the most scheming minds on the wasteland, never expecting another master schemer tucked away south of the Zhuobar Mountains.
Yet the Academy's conspiracies were mostly aimed outward and at self-preservation, whereas the people here seemed to direct all their cunning toward internal cannibalism, even developing a unique philosophy out of it.
Hailing from a civilized society, Edge could not understand it, yet he was deeply astounded.
Seeing the bewildered expression on his Alliance brother's face, Ishel gave a light cough.
"Right, don't worry, we won't leave you to hold this position alone... Two myriads will arrive later to relieve us. We just have to trouble you to teach them everything you taught us."
Brother Edge steadied his thoughts and looked at him.
"I'm not worried about that. Whether anyone stands with us or not, we'll do our utmost to hold the line... so long as you haven't given up resisting."
Ishel chuckled.
"You don't need to worry about that. Absaik is a bastard, but he isn't an idiot. If he dared surrender, I bet he wouldn't live to see tomorrow's sun."
Brother Edge smiled with him, then turned serious and cupped his fist.
"Take care, brother."
Ishel returned the gesture solemnly, his expression turning grave.
"Take care!"
Chapter 872