"...Dear residents of Evernight Port, good morning. I am Yahui, Governor of Evernight Port."
"I sincerely apologize for taking up your valuable time, but maintaining order and peace in Evernight Port is our inescapable duty. Therefore, please give me two minutes to explain the situation we currently face..."
"A few days ago, Myriarch Willoughby of the garrison approved and executed the Hornet Project, the purpose of which was to extract the intelligence we need from Alliance spies."
"Objectively speaking, it was a good plan, and we were on the verge of success. Unfortunately, at the critical moment, the project's key operative, Kant, was turned by Alliance spies, orchestrating a tragedy in our settlement that brought grief to our friends and joy to our enemies."
"This is a shameful betrayal! Not only a betrayal of the Wilante people, but also a betrayal of the Lord Marshal! However, I cannot place all the blame on the Alliance's wickedness. I must admit that the Governor's Mansion also bears a certain responsibility."
"The Hornet Project had severe security hazards, and Myriarch Willoughby, who acted rashly in disregard of the lives and property of the residents of Evernight Port, cannot escape blame. I hereby solemnly announce that the Governor's Mansion has relieved him of his post as garrison chief commander. Following his dismissal, he will be transferred back to the Colonial Affairs Bureau in Avent City to await further judgment."
"Additionally, starting tomorrow, I will suspend myself from duty for one month for self-reflection. The office of governor will temporarily be assumed by my deputy, Myriarch Amirs..."
Beyond the removal of Myriarch Willoughby and the governor's self-suspension, the Governor's Mansion announced a series of measures.
These included classifying snake oil as an illegal contraband drug and prohibiting the private resale of "Sharon" freely rationed by the logistics department, among others.
Furthermore, to hunt down Alliance spies hiding within Evernight Port, the garrison's blockade of the northwestern district was expanded across Evernight Port.
During the blockade, Evernight Port's passenger terminals, post offices, and other facilities would be temporarily closed. Anyone wishing to leave the settlement for the Great Desert would require a clearance permit stamped by the Governor's Mansion.
The authority to issue those permits rested squarely in the hands of the acting governor, Myriarch Amirs.
And that was not all.
Given that unlawful elements harbored in Blackwater Lane had engaged in looting during the "broadcast station turmoil," the Governor's Mansion seized the opportunity to announce a purge of Blackwater Lane, placing full operational authority in the hands of the 40th Mechanized Infantry Myriary.
Reading mechanically from his script, Yahui never specified what looting had actually taken place, though both overtly and covertly, he tied it to the residents who had died near the broadcast station.
Yet perhaps fully aware of how unconvincing his words sounded, while he denounced the thugs of Blackwater Lane, he did not dare state just how many people those thugs had killed, glossing over the matter with vague evasions.
Though he had initially claimed he would take up only two minutes, by the time Governor Yahui finally finished reading through all the resolutions of the Governor's Mansion, a full half hour had passed.
In a sense, this also foreshadowed how the announcement itself was a masterclass in irony.
Not a single word that came out of the man's mouth was true.
In fact, he had been lying from the very first word: "Dear."
However, while the honorable governor had told plenty of lies over the airwaves, the fact that the Southern Legion was playing for keeps was indisputable.
The moment the broadcast aired, the 40th Myriary surrounding Blackwater Lane received orders from headquarters.
Covered by armored vehicles, twenty centuries pushed deep into this slum devoid of street numbers from five directions, conducting house-to-house searches.
Anyone found with weapons in their home was thrown into Katnode Prison, and when the prison ran out of room, prisoners were hauled straight to the outskirts.
With each crack of gunfire, rows of bodies fell. Truckload after truckload of living people went in, but not a single living person came out.
Among them, there were certainly those who deserved to die, but the vast majority of the innocent became targets for venting fury.
Thanks to the documents signed by the Governor's Mansion, the power of judgment had been handed over to headquarters alongside command of the purge.
And the young men of the 40th Myriary carrying out the orders had worked themselves into a killing frenzy. From their initial hesitation, they progressed to not even batting an eye.
If they could be so ruthless toward their own kin, there was even less need for restraint when dealing with other races.
Just as the Wilante of Evernight Port were united in shared hatred alongside the authorities and garrison, the other races' hatred for the Wilante soared to unprecedented heights.
Meanwhile, the man depicted on the wanted posters plastered across every street and alley unwittingly became an idol in the hearts of countless young men in Blackwater Lane.
Rumor had it that this man named Morse had taken on an entire purge team single-handedly.
And he had even slaughtered a millurion!
Those Wilante didn't seem so invincible after all.
Now it wasn't just the Brahma people who felt this way; the survivors from the Great Desert were gradually starting to feel the same...
...
A tavern in the harbor district.
Despite everything that had transpired over the past two days, business here had not suffered in the slightest.
After all, most of the patrons drinking here were soldiers about to deploy to the front lines. Answering to frontline headquarters, they were unbound by the rules and restrictions of the Governor's Mansion.
If anything, the recent events had piled on so much stress that they drank more heavily than usual, driving up liquor sales across the entire harbor.
Of course, public order was another matter entirely.
In a dimly lit corner, Mehta glanced out the window at the drunks communicating with their fists and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you people were getting serious."
The Wilante sitting across from him gave a faint smile.
"We are getting serious. It's just that we are more lenient with our own kin. If you don't believe me, you can take a look around Blackwater Lane. I'm sure you'll come away with a much deeper appreciation."
His name was Sewell, and he served as section chief of the Equipment Management Section under the logistics department. Tony, the "informant," had been groomed by his own hand.
Now Peter was dead, and Tony was dead too. Sewell had become the only person capable of tying the broken threads back together.
Although the head of the General Affairs Department hadn't said a word, the vacant secretary position spoke volumes—
Department Head Dickens had no suitable candidate at the moment.
Whoever could settle matters cleanly and shoulder all the risks for the leadership would be the undisputed choice for the next secretary.
Sewell had no intention of passing up this chance to soar through the ranks.
In terms of political maneuverings, General Gulion was indeed no match for Myriarch Dickens. While the latter had made a series of promises to the general, those promises were essentially worthless.
If one had never done something before, how could one speak of never doing it again?
Hearing Sewell's words, Mehta burst out laughing.
"You people? Lenient with your kin? Did I hear that right?"
He had watched everything that happened over the past two days, and it had only deepened his contempt for this hypocritical bunch.
Wilante supremacy?
That was nothing more than a lie to trick Wilante into marching to their deaths.
Things that truly mattered didn't need to be chanted like sutras day in and day out. These racists were the very ones who cared least about whether their own people lived or died.
By contrast, the Family Association, which had transcended racial boundaries, was the one that genuinely cared for its brothers and sisters. In fact, not just kin—they treated every family member with warmth like spring, looking after them as their own children, addressing them with affection, and truly caring for them.
Faced with Mehta's ridicule, Sewell merely smiled dismissively and retorted with a sneer.
"You heard correctly. Compared to the people of River Valley Province who died at the hands of River Valley survivors, or the Brahma people who died at the hands of Brahma survivors, the Wilante who died at the hands of Wilante amount to pocket change at most... Do you need me to refresh your memory on what your own people have done?"
Mehta narrowed his eyes.
"No need. We remember our own history far better than you do. And don't pin the stupid stunts pulled by swine like Laxi and Absaik on our heads. We aren't like them."
A playful smirk curled at the corner of Sewell's mouth.
"Is that so? Then let's pretend that's the case."
He hadn't come here to shoot the breeze with this Brahma.
Still, if this guy had half a brain, he ought to have wondered why he was able to sit here talking at all—and realized a few things.
They had arrested even the Alliance's people first without hesitation, so why would they care about a mere identity from Golden Gallon Port?
While Sewell didn't believe his superior, Department Head Dickens, was any sort of saint, one thing was beyond doubt: winning the current war was in the shared interest of all factions within the Southern Legion. At most, there were minor disagreements over the path to victory and personal gain.
If Shahrukh were genuinely smarter than Laxi and Absaik, Department Head Dickens would never have touched this money.
After all, if that were true, General Gulion wouldn't have stopped at warnings; bombers and ground forces would have struck long ago.
No matter how mountainous Snake State was, it was no match for the northern three states linked to the Zhobar Mountains and blanketed in tropical forests. The tougher the nut, the harder it had to be cracked.
In other words, Myriarch Dickens and General Gulion were in complete agreement on one point: Shahrukh was an empty-headed fool who only looked tough on the outside.
Of course, Snake State wasn't entirely lacking in capable figures.
For instance, the former Gray Wolf Army staff officer, subordinate to the Empire's "God of War" Alaiyang, and current commander of the border troops in the Snake State theater, Gopal, was a ruthless operator.
But that was a matter for another day.
"Mr. Mehta, let us return to business."
Seeing Sewell turn serious, Mehta's expression sobered as well.
"Go ahead."
Taking a sip of ice water from his glass, Sewell continued unhurriedly.
"The terms Tony offered you remain unchanged. However, illegal goods are far more expensive than legal ones. You must give us a twenty percent discount on your original supply price."
Mehta said in a low voice, "I can't make that call. I'll report it to my superiors. Anything else?"
Setting down his glass, Sewell continued calmly, "Also, Tony is dead. We need a new partner to handle distribution. Given the current state of Blackwater Lane, it will be difficult for us to work with the local non-Wilante, and they won't necessarily trust us either."
A flash of excitement flickered in Mehta's eyes, though he carefully concealed it.
"You plan to hand it over to us?"
Sewell smiled meaningfully, pulled a public bidding document from inside his coat, and tossed it in front of him.
Watching Mehta reach out to take the document, Sewell continued succinctly, "We plan to renovate Blackwater Lane. The entire project will require roughly ten to twenty thousand laborers. Since violent syndicates are bound to incubate in such an environment anyway, why not keep that organization under our control? What do you say?"
"Leave the laborers to me," Mehta said, carefully putting away the document before looking back at Sewell intently. "By the way, what about Customs? What did that Kuluan say? Do you need me to make contact with him?"
It was merely a polite inquiry; in truth, he far preferred to hear "no," as he genuinely despised dealing with the Wilante.
However, the answer caught him off guard.
"He's out."
"Out?" Mehta's eyes widened in astonishment, disbelief written all over his face.
Sewell's expression grew complicated, as though reluctant to bring up the subject.
"...That's right. To be precise, he resigned and intends to leave Evernight Port for good, along with his friends."
Mehta's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Where to?"
Sewell shrugged.
"Who knows? The port is on lockdown; there isn't a single scheduled voyage... Honestly, I'm more curious about how he plans to get out of here."
"That guy knows about our dealings. Is it really wise to let him go?" Mehta lowered his voice, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes. "If it's inconvenient for you to act, I can—"
"Mr. Mehta, you're a smart man, but this isn't Xilan. Make sure you don't get too clever for your own good, or you won't even know how you died."
Sewell pulled out a cigarette, struck a match, and lit it.
Looking at the stunned eyes through the swirling smoke, he set the matchbox on the table, gently slid it in front of Mehta, and continued in a completely serious tone.
"Peter botched things, and he deserved to die. But as you can see, this matter isn't over. We will still avenge him."
"The fact that he's Wilante is only one part of it. More importantly, you and I will both retire one day... so don't push things to extremes."
"He left without wronging anyone. The matter ends here."
...
Kant died in the early hours of the first weekend of August.
Due to the Legion's blockade of the northwestern district, the public never saw his body or his face.
Yet within less than three days of his death, his name appeared across the streets and alleys of Evernight Port.
The stranded veterans in Evernight Port and all the citizens who sympathized with him left his name on the walls in the form of graffiti.
He was a true hero.
Even in death, he would live forever in the hearts of Evernight Port's residents.
The Evernight Port authorities and the garrison's lapdogs scrubbed the walls time and again, yet the graffiti and words were painted right back on, spreading outward beyond the northwestern district in ways people could never have anticipated.
For instance, carried through deeply stirring music.
The Wilante were not all muscle-brained brutes; they possessed their own artistic sensibilities and humanistic spirit. Otherwise, they would never have evolved from a bunch of cannon fodder into a united people.
And remarkably, the glorious transformation a century and a half ago seemed to have begun with the death of a Wilante as well.
The light of dawn always breaks when the night is at its darkest. One could only wonder whether this time, they would still need an outsider to save them.
On Third Street in the blockaded northwestern district, right next to the broadcast station.
Carver stared at the offensive slogans on the wall, feeling needles at his back.
In truth, rather than feeling insulted, he felt mostly confused.
He had thought he was the pride of the Wilante.
Yet more and more of his own kin viewed them as a disgrace.
"These bastards... how much money were they paid to do something so humiliating?" the gunner cursed, unclipping a white spray can from his waist and painting over the insulting slogan.
The vehicle commander surveyed their surroundings and stuck a lit cigarette between his lips.
"You're wasting your time. This place is covered in eyesores... I bet the moment we turn our backs, someone will spray a new one."
The radio operator whistled and quipped, "The folks at headquarters aren't too bright. If you ask me, they should have issued us bright-colored spray guns."
The commander grinned.
"Useless. Even if you paint it black, they'll write over it in white."
Finishing his work, the gunner tucked the spray can back into his belt and grumbled, "Then let's pretend to leave and double back... I want to see which little punk is crossing us."
"Then you'll have your hands full. At least half the settlement can't stand the sight of us," the commander said with a faint smile, glancing at the tightly shuttered windows nearby. "I bet there are at least ten pairs of eyes watching us right now..."
"Be glad that what's hiding behind the curtains isn't gun muzzles. At least things haven't gotten that bad yet. I don't want to fight my own people."
Carver didn't say a word, listening silently to his teammates' banter while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
He was thinking of his tractor.
For some reason, he suddenly felt that farming wasn't so bad after all. At least on his farm, he would never run into so many infuriating messes.
He had never missed home so much.
Or perhaps he didn't miss home at all, but simply wanted to escape this place that made him doubt his own faith...
...
The northwestern district of Evernight Port was crawling with armed soldiers on patrol, and Carver's squad was just one unremarkable unit among them.
While long lines snaked across the boundaries between districts, the docks of Evernight Port were likewise packed with a bustling crowd.
Among them were large families traveling together, newlyweds, and solitary young people.
Their professions, social classes, and backgrounds varied wildly, yet without exception, they all carried bags and luggage, looking as though they had no intention of ever returning.
A similar scene seemed to have occurred eight months ago.
Only this time was different. The Wilante of Evernight Port were not leaving the colony to reunite with family; rather, the series of measures adopted by the authorities had made them uneasy, and they had completely lost faith in the Southern Legion.
It was worth noting that aside from enlisted soldiers and officers who had to obey orders, Wilante citizens not holding positions within the Legion system were free to migrate across Legion territory—a right granted to them by the Marshal long ago.
However, due to the executive order signed overnight by the governor before his suspension, all passenger voyages from the port had been canceled.
Watching the crowd choking the dock, the passenger transit officials broke out in a cold sweat, shouting at the crowd held back by security personnel.
"Go home, all of you! There are no departures anytime soon! Once services resume, an announcement will be broadcast!"
A man clutching a suitcase pointed toward a passenger vessel moored by the pier and shouted angrily, "Then why are those ships allowed to leave?!"
The passenger official yelled back in exasperation, "Those are supply transports! They're heading back east shortly! Do you plan on going with them?! Go ask that captain then! As long as you don't regret it!"
Hearing that the ships were heading east, the man shut his mouth at once.
The east...
That was the wasteland.
No matter how shameful the actions of the Evernight Port authorities were, he wasn't about to run off to the wasteland to face deathclaws that swallowed people whole just to escape a bunch of hypocrites.
Facing the envious gazes from the shore, Arman felt a mixture of shame and relief.
What he felt ashamed of needed no explanation. As for his relief, it stemmed from his earlier worry that the Evernight Port authorities might requisition his fleet, which had prompted him to specifically request a departure clearance document from the logistics department before arriving.
Although his worries had proven unfounded—the Evernight Port authorities had no shortage of supply vessels and had no need to requisition his passenger ships—no one could have predicted the chain of events that followed.
In short, thanks to the permit issued by the frontline logistics department, he didn't need to heed the executive order signed by the governor of Evernight Port, allowing him to leave unhindered through the freight corridor.
However, port transit officials had also warned him that once he left the port, he could not return until the blockade was lifted.
As for when it would end, he would have to check at post offices or port passenger bureaus in other colonies.
Besides Arman and his family, there were other passengers aboard who weren't picky about their destination.
Most were residents of the northwestern district.
To the majority of Evernight Port's residents, Governor Yahui and Myriarch Willoughby were petty, hypocritical schemers at most. But to these people, they were not just schemers—they were murderers!
Many of them had lost friends and family that night, yet after waiting so long, they hadn't received a single straight answer.
Rather than face those smiling butchers, they would rather face man-eating mutants and marauders—even though Arman had told them it wasn't nearly that bad, and while there were indeed more mutants in the eastern provinces than in the west, it was no more dangerous than the Great Desert.
It was worth mentioning that while most of the fleeing passengers were far from wealthy, a few were rolling in riches.
For example, a fellow named Phili, a local jeweler in Evernight Port whose business was reportedly quite substantial.
Word was that both of his sons had died that night, leaving him and his wife completely disillusioned with the men who had betrayed the Marshal.
Leaving this time, he had not only brought all his belongings, but had also withdrawn two hundred million dinars and eight million silver coins from Evernight Port's banks to load onto the ships.
Arman considered himself a man of the world, yet this was the first time he had ever seen such a glittering mountain of dinars stacked before him.
Even without counting the other assets, the gold coins alone weighed a thousand tons!
It was a minor miracle the banks in Evernight Port could actually pay it out!
To transport these assets, the man had not only hired two security teams, but had also chartered an entire ship from Arman's fleet.
For the sake of their shared blood and the Silver Moon Goddess, Arman harbored no greedy urge to take advantage of the crisis; he simply signed the transport contract at one hundred and twenty percent of the market rate.
This had actually been proposed by Phili himself.
After all, these were extraordinary times, and paying extra bought peace of mind. Seeing that Phili had made up his mind, Arman gladly accepted.
Yet the passenger who surprised him most was neither the jeweler Phili nor the others, but a certain peg-legged customs officer.
The fleet sounded its horns and cast off from the harbor under the watchful eyes of the crowd.
Looking at Kuluan standing beside him, Arman said with clear surprise in his voice, "...I didn't expect you to board my ship."
"Never mind you, I didn't expect it myself. Damn it, I still remember when I was a centurion," Kuluan said with a self-deprecating chuckle, his expression complex.
The Legion was beyond saving.
Even if they conquered a thousand worlds, ten thousand worlds, the plight of the Wilante would not change in the slightest.
They would systematically produce parasites, and those parasites, like horsehair worms, would control them, systematically conjuring public enemies for them while draining their flesh and blood.
The Marshal had shattered the chains placed upon them by the War Reconstruction Committee, yet their own shackles were something they ultimately had to face themselves.
If the survivors oppressed by the Wilante were not liberated, the Wilante would never attain true liberation either.
"...By the way, will the Alliance lock me up?"
After all, not long ago, they had thrown a bunch of the Alliance's blue moles into prison.
Hearing this, Arman chuckled.
"I don't think they're that petty. If they really do, I'll definitely find a way to bail you out..."
Pausing, he added in a serious tone, "Of course, if you're worried, you could always disembark at Golden Gallon Port or the South Sea Alliance. The people there are quite decent too."
Kuluan grinned broadly and said with casual ease, "No need. I was joking."
As he spoke, he narrowed his eyes at the receding port and the Wilante compatriots standing on the docks watching them leave.
"I want to follow you to see that place called Settlement No. 1."
Everyone believed the storm in Evernight Port had settled and that the Southern Legion had successfully brought the situation under control, but he didn't think so.
This war wasn't over. In fact, it had only just begun.
He had remembered more than just one name.
He would return...
Chapter 899