The Power of 1.5 Billion Silver Coins

Thanks to the roaring sales of the 28-inch bicycles, Lasov's factory finally resumed production. Even though the promised cafeteria had vanished into thin air, every young lad along the banks of the Lavinka River considered him a decent man, generously praising Mr. Lasov's benevolence without holding any grudges. After all, this generous magnate from Golden Gallon Port had given his employees a twenty percent discount on the bikes. He even allowed them to keep their prized possessions locked up in a spare warehouse so bicycle thieves from other tribes couldn't make off with them, promising to grease the chains before handing them back at the end of each shift. Whether any oil actually touched their chains was anyone's guess, but at least there was always a repairman sitting by the warehouse doors keeping watch. Naturally, if these young lads ever found out that bicycles selling for two hundred silver coins had a wholesale price of just thirty, the next crowd blockading the factory might not be Wilante, but Brahmins. Yet they would never know. Lasov and the other members of the Federation of Industry and Commerce had already reached an understanding, establishing guideline pricing for several major categories of goods. Everyone would get rich together. Brahmins wouldn't cheat Brahmins, and under no circumstances would anyone start a price war. Selling bicycles was merely an interlude. Lasov had no desire to get bogged down chasing quick cash. Once he sent off the bicycle mechanics who had made a fortune in bonuses, he poured all his energy back into his original trade. The first order arrived soon enough. The client was a traveling merchant from Evernight Port named Mehta. This man spent lavishly, placing an order worth five million silver coins at ten percent above the going market rate. Over the dinner table, Lasov sized up the man, feeling that he seemed less like an ordinary merchant and more like a broker for some warlord. Sure enough, after three glasses of vodka, this fellow named Mehta casually revealed his affiliation with the Family Association. Lasov offered a flurry of compliments, expressing courtesy and admiration for the Family Association and tossing out a few flattering, costless pleasantries. Deep down, however, he did not take it too seriously. His client list included General Jha of Tiger State and warlords from the Black Panther Army. Compared to them, a lackey kept by a lackey's lackey under Absaik hardly warranted being treated as some great hero. A merchant had to navigate between various factions; so long as proper etiquette was observed and the business went smoothly, that was all that mattered. He truly didn't care who became supreme commander—they were all equally foolish anyway. When it came to genuinely saving the Brahmins, it would take industrialists like them. At least, that was his view. While Lasov was observing this Blue Family member, Mehta was watching him from across the table just as intently. Yet compared to the former's elaborate internal calculations, the latter's assessment was far sharper and more penetrating. This gentleman was a pure man. Or rather, a simple one. Knowing he had found the right person, Mehta set down his glass, a warm smile spreading across his face as though he were facing a member of his own kin. "Our Family Association and the Union are one family. With continuous victories on the front lines, this war will soon be over. Industrialists like you are precisely what we need most—what our family needs most. We would like to invite you to open a factory in Snake State. What do you think?" This understated compliment was far more effective than lavish flattery, and it didn't feel out of place at all. To be fair, Lasov was very receptive to such talk, though he wasn't about to let vanity cloud his judgment. Open a factory in Snake State... Only someone with more money than sense would do that. He would much rather donate funds and supplies, which was a win-win for everyone involved. "Setting up a factory isn't that simple. There are strict requirements for local infrastructure and industrial support. It's not as if you can just ship the machines over and start producing immediately." Seeing that Mehta looked ready to press further, Lasov smiled and added, "Rest assured, though. Even if my factory is overseas, whenever Brahma Province needs me, I will never withhold my help!" He phrased his response smoothly, leaving room to maneuver in any direction. The man opposite him looked troubled for a moment, but sure enough, he dropped the subject of opening a factory. What Lasov didn't realize, however, was that he had already walked right into a trap. How could Mehta not know what conditions were like in Snake State? He had never expected to convince this big boss to go there in the first place; it had merely been a shot in the dark to test the waters. His real objective was to take a step back in order to advance, nudging this earnest industrialist into handling something else for him. "We understand your difficulties. Bringing up the factory was thoughtless of me—just pretend I never mentioned it." Mehta raised his glass to toast him, then drained it in one gulp. Having turned down the man's enthusiastic invitation, Lasov felt a twinge of guilt and softened his tone. "It's not that I don't want to build up our homeland, but even the best cook can't make porridge out of pebbles. There's only so much I can do on my own. Still, the possibility isn't completely off the table. For instance, I think Lion State has a decent industrial base. When the timing is right, I will definitely pay a visit to inspect it." Mehta beamed. "Of course! When the time comes, we will give you our warmest welcome!" Lasov smiled without replying. Clearly, he didn't believe the Family Association had the standing to extend such an invitation, though he kept that thought off his face. Mehta paused for a moment, then continued, "Let's set the factory aside for now... By the way, I hear the Lavinka Industrial Zone has armor production lines left behind by the Southern Legion. Could you find a way to get us the blueprints for the Conqueror 10?" Lasov froze, hesitating. "That... might be rather difficult." He had toyed with the thought before, but only as an idle daydream. While it wasn't some top-secret technology, the Lavinka Industrial Zone Autonomous Committee had never said anyone could just take it for free. His business was currently thriving, and he had no desire to take such a massive risk—neither legally nor in terms of his reputation. This time, Mehta did not back down. Looking at him with utter sincerity, he urged, "Please, this is extremely important to us! We know you're an industrialist who loves his homeland. All we ask is that you help us make this happen. We will never treat you unfairly. If there are any difficulties, just tell us, and we'll resolve them for you!" With things put so earnestly, and having already turned them down once, Lasov hesitated for a moment before sighing. "Let me think... The blueprints might be tricky. The Federation of Industry and Commerce carries some weight with the Autonomous Committee, but our organization is just getting off the ground, so our influence is limited after all." "Give me some time on the blueprints. However, there's a batch of nearly finished tanks sitting on the assembly line. If you're interested, you could buy those instead. I've looked into it—they've been reviewed and approved for liquidation by the Autonomous Committee and the Development Foundation." Mehta's eyes lit up with delight. "Could you introduce me to the person in charge?" Lasov chuckled. "Of course. That's a small favor—I can settle it for you directly." Mehta raised his glass, downed another hearty drink, and looked at him solemnly. "We will remember your kindness today... By the way, please keep an eye out for the blueprints as well. Whether it's for entertaining guests or other expenses, we will cover whatever it costs." Lasov hastily replied, "You're far too kind. Please, let me do my part for the Brahmin cause as well!" Mehta shook his head. "It's a matter of principle. Mr. Zayed said that we are here to secure benefits for our family, and we will never let family spend an extra coin." Looking at this principled man, Lasov couldn't help sighing inwardly. Comparisons truly were odious. If only their esteemed Supreme Commander possessed such grace and vision, perhaps the Union back in Tiandu wouldn't be mocked by so many as 'a wife cake without a wife'... *** Meanwhile, on the other side of things, having secured approval from the Alliance representatives, Hope immediately launched into sweeping reforms. He pressed the Autonomous Committee to draft a master plan while simultaneously injecting seven hundred million silver coins to establish the Lavinka Industrial Zone Development Bank to support the committee's bidding processes. In certain matters, the people who controlled the money were indeed far more driven than those who held political authority. Former Administrator Antoine was the type who wouldn't lift a finger without the Alliance representative nodding first. Hope, on the other hand, was quick-witted and highly executive. In just three days, he plowed through a full week's worth of work, presenting an irrefutable development blueprint at the second conference. In his blueprint, high-rises would sprout along the banks of the Lavinka River and stretch from the industrial zone along the highway straight toward the Great Desert. The undeniable prosperity would draw every envious wastelander into their ranks. Furthermore, the railway network spanning 2.7 million square kilometers of land would serve as the backbone for their grand vision, providing an endless stream of resources to sustain their crusade to end the Wasteland Era. Though it was ostensibly an economic work conference, Hope had cleverly devised an entire ideological framework and aligned it seamlessly with the Alliance's initiatives. Fang Chang didn't particularly care how big of a pie the man drew; he only watched what he actually delivered. At least for now, Hope's capabilities were worthy of recognition. Of course, seven hundred million silver coins was far from enough to realize the entire blueprint, but capital possessed a snowball effect. So long as the money wasn't squandered and was instead used to purchase assets or develop properties, those assets could be pledged as collateral to secure further loans from the Alliance's banks. This was standard operational procedure. After all, the Alliance's banks had to pay interest to depositors, yield returns on wealth management products, and settle interbank rates; money in their vaults needed an outlet. If the Lavinka Industrial Zone offered promising investment targets, they would naturally have no objection to lending the funds, keeping the snowball rolling on their end as well. Hope had planned for everything, but his deputy raised an objection on a single point. "It's a magnificent plan, but it will also generate a massive wealth gap... You and I both know the nature of the locals. They might start running because of your incentives, but by the time they come to their senses, the Wilante will have lapped them several times over. If the Workers' Association shows up at that moment, what do we do?" His name was Nash. Like Chairman Hope, he was a Wilante, and he also supported the 'Evernight Port model' proposed by Hope. Yet agreeing in principle was one thing; he still had to weigh the problems the model might create. Hope had anticipated Nash's concern long ago, and he replied with utter confidence, "As long as we don't let the locals get too poor, the Workers' Association won't be able to do a thing even if they come. Golden Gallon Port is the best example." Hearing this, Nash gave a wry smile. "Not letting the locals get too poor... Unless we confiscate their bank cards, handing them free money won't do any good—they'll blow through every coin by the next morning." "We must distribute money to them, but we cannot let them hold cash. Use your head, Mr. Nash. We're working for the Alliance now; we can't be as rigid as we used to be." Hope tapped his temple with his forefinger, then pointed out the window toward the vast oasis. This was the only oasis for a hundred li around. A meandering river swept sharply down from the northwest toward the south, flowing across a ravine-carved alluvial plain before emptying into the sea. "High-rises will rise there. We'll take the lion's share of the profits and move into the largest, tallest buildings, then allocate second-tier housing to the natives, turning them into our moat. We will prosper together and suffer together." "You mean... compensating them with fixed assets instead of cash?" Nash frowned, confused. "What if they just turn around and sell the houses?" "Trust me, no one sells an asset that keeps appreciating. In that process, wealth and poverty can coexist," Hope said, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile. "As long as survivors from the Great Desert keep pouring into our settlement, we can maintain this virtuous cycle indefinitely, bringing more and more animals into our farm. As for the operational details, we can impose restrictions on transaction thresholds—all of that is adjustable." "Either way, our top priority remains one thing: getting the animals to run!" Nash stared at Hope in shock, unable to fathom how this former low-level accountant could think through so many angles, while the Southern Legion had previously failed to notice his talent entirely. Was this the power of 1.5 billion silver coins? Compared to Hope, who looked as if he had downed a fistful of stimulants, former district chief Antoine—who couldn't even manage to raise his hand—looked like a castrated rooster. Before long, the entire Autonomous Committee might become a puppet under the 'ambitious Mr. Hope.' Perhaps this wasn't the Golden Gallon Port model or the Evernight Port model at all, but rather the model of the early Free State. Regardless of which model it was, there was one consensus across the entire Autonomous Committee: If they didn't want the 'wild animals' here to become prey for outsiders, they had to make them run. "...You don't need to worry about things that far off right now; leave that headache to me." Hope patted Nash's shoulder and thrust a document into his hands. "There are a hundred Conqueror tanks here. If it weren't for the Alliance's planes, they would have made it straight to the front lines... According to the Alliance engineers, selling them as tanks is far better than scrapping them for raw iron. Any offer above thirty million silver coins is reasonable." "The war in Brahma Province isn't over yet, and General Gulion is still putting up a dying struggle. The Alliance has only one condition: they cannot be sold to the Southern Legion. That means we can sell them to anyone else. Find a buyer before the war wraps up and show me what you're made of." *Would anyone actually want tanks from the losing side?* Nash wondered inwardly, but he nodded dutifully. "I'll do my best to sell them." *** Transitioning production capacity and liquidating backlogged inventory were the two most urgent tasks facing the Lavinka Industrial Zone. As for how to divide the 2.7 million square kilometers of land, or whether the Lavinka Industrial Zone and Evernight Port should merge, those questions could wait until the war concluded. Nash took the inventory list from Hope and headed to the warehouses. Looking at the piles of unwanted junk, he couldn't help fretting over where to find a sucker willing to cough up thirty million silver coins for this lot. He had met representatives from the State of Brahma and Mammoth State, but contrary to Hope's expectations, neither was foolish. Almost as if by prior agreement, both declared they would not pursue further arms purchases, showing interest only in the obsolete production lines instead. The Lavinka Industrial Zone was indeed interested in offloading those outdated capacities, but that wasn't Nash's department. He had no choice but to introduce the envoys to the officials in charge. Just as he was fretting, however, Brahmins from the Federation of Industry and Commerce came knocking on his door, introducing a mysterious buyer. Not only was this buyer willing to take the entire lot off his hands, but he also proposed an offer that made Nash's jaw drop— They were willing to purchase all the tanks at ten percent above the market rate. The sole condition was that the Lavinka Autonomous Committee include the technical specifications and manufacturing data for the Conqueror 10. Nash agreed almost without thinking. What a joke. The Legion was already going to hell; he had no obligation to carry their secrets to the grave. Not to mention, these people were enemies of General Gulion! Without the slightest hesitation, he stamped the documents and went to the factory floor in person to receive this big-spending client. While Nash was beaming as he introduced the Southern Legion's 'doomsday weapon' to Mehta, Wilante engineers from neighboring factories gathered around, watching the spectacle with keen curiosity. "Who's that guy? He's putting on quite a show." The business owners from the Federation of Industry and Commerce had all showed up to support him. Looking at Nash's deferential posture, one would think he wanted to roll out a red carpet right at the factory gates to welcome him. An engineer working under Lasov squinted, taking a drag from his cigarette. "That man is named Mehta. Word is he's with the Family Association." An engineer from the adjacent tank assembly plant looked at him blankly. "The Homeowners' Committee? What the hell is that?" Lasov's engineer clarified, "The Family Association. A lackey of a lackey under Absaik, an offshoot of an offshoot of the Union. It's complicated to explain... Just take it as that." An engineer from the aluminum plant asked with a frown, "What's he doing here?" Lasov's engineer explained, "They want to buy up the entire finished batch of Conqueror 10s to fight Gulion." He didn't care who the tanks would be used against. He wasn't making armor steel anymore anyway; he had switched to producing gas cylinders. As for why he knew so much about the Family Association, it was mostly because Mehta kept coming to their factory. Every time Mehta finished cozying up to their boss, he would try to build rapport with the workers, constantly talking up how wonderful the Family Association was and trying to coax them into moving to Snake State. He wasn't stupid, though. How could he let a Brahmin lead him by the nose with a few sweet words? As a Wilante, he knew all too well what his kin had done in Brahma Province. He had every reason to believe that what had happened in the Lavinka Industrial Zone could very well repeat itself in West Sail Port—and when that happened, there wouldn't be anyone from the Alliance around to save them. He wasn't the only one who thought so; his boss had privately frightened them with similar warnings, hinting that Brahma Province was crawling with hungry wolves eager to tear their flesh off. He could tell his boss wanted to stay on good terms with Mehta, but that hardly meant his boss was generous enough to empty his own pockets. This steel mill was his boss's wallet, and it was visibly turning into a cash cow. After hearing his explanation, the group of engineers burst out laughing in unison. "Is that guy out of his mind?" "You need this to deal with Gulion?" "By the time this batch of tanks reaches them, the war will probably be over before they even learn how to drive the damn things." Lasov's engineer chuckled along. "Who cares what they're thinking? As long as they offer a high enough price. They're paying 1.1 million per unit—a hundred thousand over market price—and they've agreed to pay in silver coins. We were only going to convert them into tractors anyway. We might as well sell them off. The money from one tank is enough to buy three tractors." In fact, it was more than three. The Alliance offered cheap tractors priced under fifty thousand silver coins—early wood-burning models that were also the best-selling variant across the wasteland. Selling a single Conqueror 10 for 1.1 million silver coins... A hundred of them... wouldn't that be over a hundred million silver coins?! Where did a petty local faction get that kind of money?! Once they did the math, everyone was stunned. The engineer from the aluminum plant swallowed hard, his face filled with disbelief. "Where the hell did they get so much cash?!" Lasov's engineer shook his head indifferently. "Who knows? Who cares? Maybe savings scraped together from trading, or maybe donations from other Brahmins. Either way, they're determined to get their hands on these Conqueror 10s. There might be other deals going on behind the scenes." Watching the Brahmin standing tall and barking orders in front of Vice Chairman Nash, the Wilante engineers shook their heads, sighed, and marveled. Times had truly changed. The aluminum plant engineer was practically green with envy, suddenly filled with the drive to chase money. "Damn it, they're too filthy rich..." While the crowd gossiped, Mehta of the Blue Family and Vice Chairman Nash had already completed the exchange of funds and goods. The two parties moved from the factory floor to the banquet table, where the former showed off his impressive tolerance for liquor to the latter. Those invited to the banquet included not only the Lavinka Industrial Zone Development Foundation officials involved in the arms contract, but also non-Wilante workers and engineers who normally never had a seat at the table. Most of these skilled workers possessing core technical know-how were not local natives, but survivors from Batoya Province who had followed the Wilante to the banks of the Lavinka River. Yet as Mehta put it, two centuries ago, everyone had been citizens of the Human Alliance—they were all family. There was certainly truth to that statement. Though the Wilante had never seen the Era of Prosperity, their lineage was likewise a product of the Human Alliance's technology, and it remained their greatest source of pride. Unlike the aloof Wilante, the foreign workers were moved to tears. Having lived under the thumb of the Wilante for so long, when had they ever experienced such respect? Forget them—not even ordinary Wilante in the Southern Legion enjoyed such treatment. Because of this, after a few glasses of vodka, they thumped their chests one by one, swearing they would hold nothing back from the technicians sent by the Family Association, pledging to teach them everything about the production and maintenance of the Conqueror 10. The machines were of no use to them anymore anyway. Letting the Brahmins use them to defeat General Gulion felt like a way to atone for their past role as accomplices to the invaders. In truth, the real vessel of a great technology was never a few sheets of paper, but the people who mastered that core knowledge. Such expertise could never be imparted through a few casual words or a hard drive—not unless one group of people genuinely and wholeheartedly taught another. Watching these generous workers, Mehta was moved to tears at the banquet table, downing his vodka in one gulp. Regardless of whether he would honor this debt later, he had achieved what he came for, and the Lavinka Autonomous Committee had secured the money they needed most. With the deal struck and the atmosphere jovial, Mehta even began eyeing the shallow-water monitors. Still, curry had to be eaten one bite at a time. Taking too large a bite would burn one's mouth and easily arouse suspicion... *** At that moment, while the transition of industrial capacity and the infrastructure boom in the Lavinka Industrial Zone were in full swing, the war on the front lines continued. After a month of bitter fighting, the Enterprise's 100th and 101st Divisions finally dealt a crushing blow to the Southern Legion forces sent to the front. Following a three-day encirclement, they completely annihilated the Southern Legion's 177th Legion. This unit appeared to have been formed only recently. From the officers down to the rank-and-file, the average age barely reached eighteen, with some kids as young as eleven or twelve. The Wilante were natural-born warriors; a twelve-year-old child could already shoulder a rifle, possessing combat capability on par with a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old wastelander. Looking at the grimy youths squatting against the wall with their hands behind their heads, Tang Feng—a Rick 5 cigarette dangling from his lips—felt a surge of mixed emotions. He was a battalion commander now, no longer the green recruit who was clumsy yet eager to show off. Seeing these young lads, he couldn't help recalling his younger self on Ten Peaks Mountain. The deputy battalion commander walked up to him, squinting at the prisoners of war crouched along the wall. "Their Julius turned them into humans, and they turned themselves right back." Tang Feng shook his head. "I don't think it's their fault. The fault lies with the bastards who brainwashed these children." Rather than debating the point, the deputy cut straight to the matter at hand. "What do we do with them?" Tang Feng pondered for a moment. "Send them by train to the Lavinka Industrial Zone. Our allies seem to be running things quite well over there." This was also what headquarters had recommended. This 2.7-million-square-kilometer colony was vast and sparsely populated; setting up a prisoner-of-war camp on the spot would be tantamount to leaving them to fend for themselves. The deputy chuckled. "True enough. Handing them over to the Alliance saves us a lot of trouble. That's what they do best." By now, half of the Southern Legion's 2.7-million-square-kilometer colony had been liberated. The coalition forces had pushed to the equator and were about to enter the Northern Hemisphere. This was a narrow strip of territory stretching along the coastline. Supported by the South Sea Alliance fleet offshore and roaring fighter jets overhead, they were virtually invincible. Yet seeing those young, tender faces, Tang Feng felt not the slightest hint of joy. All he wanted was to push into the Southern Legion's homeland as fast as possible and bring an end to this madness of a war... *** Days slipped by, and late December soon arrived. At the turn of the year between 214 and 215 of the Wasteland Era, a conference that would decide the fate of the wasteland opened in the Great Rift Valley. Attending the conference were not only the Academy's Chief Technology Officer, the representative appointed by the Supreme Council, the Alliance's manager, and the archon of Triumph City, but also the leaders of various major survivor factions. The Great Rift Valley promised to guarantee the safety of all participating parties, even offering transport services to faction leaders or foreign ministers who found it inconvenient to travel there on their own. This conference had originally been slated to convene three months ago, but various circumstances had repeatedly delayed it. Now, at long last, there were no more delays...