Chapter 814: How Is This Enemy More Conscientious Than Our Own Brothers?

Chapter 814: How Is This Enemy More Conscientious Than One’s Own Brothers?

“A… a space elevator?! Are you serious?”

The rickety open-top truck jolted along the rugged mountain road, the rusted iron plates and railings clanging and banging with every bump of the axle.

It seemed as if it might fall apart at any moment.

About twenty or so people were crammed into the truck’s cargo bed, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief, all fixed on the man with mud-stained boots and a travel pack slung over his back.

They had no idea where he came from, only that his name was Zhang Ze, a wandering merchant drifting across the wasteland.

The pack on his back was his entire fortune, filled with odd trinkets and some junk picked up along the way.

This was a common sight.

There were even more wandering merchants on the wasteland than mercenaries; not everyone ran a business as big as Mr. Lister’s—most scraped by for just one or two silver coins.

“Of course it’s true! Do you think I’d lie to you?”

Thoroughly pleased with the naive looks on their faces, Zhang Ze’s face beamed with pride.

Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out a crumpled, wrinkled newspaper, shook it out flat in front of him, cleared his throat, and began reading the news article with great emotion.

“…Year 213—the Wasteland Era has lasted a full 213 years, and soon the calendar will turn to a new year. If we don’t make some new changes starting now, the coming year 214 will be no different. So we’ve decided to do something—to light a torch on this barren ruin that can truly dispel the cold night, and not at the cost of sacrificing the silent majority.”

That was the Administrator’s speech from the broadcast.

Though he couldn’t mimic the precise, resonant broadcasting tone, his hoarse voice was close enough to the crackling static of a radio.

Starting from the part about the space elevator, he read on and on, all the way to the Alliance’s plan for ten settlements along the eastern coastal provinces of the Central Plains.

The hopeful, longing gazes grew brighter and brighter.

Food that would never run out, and jobs that even illiterate wastelanders could do!

Not only that—

But hospitals and schools too!

The Alliance’s Refugee Home even generously promised to offer interest-free loans to disabled survivors for installing non-combat prosthetics from Boulder Military Industries—and payments could be deferred until the third year!

That Administrator was truly a venerable lord!

He didn’t just look up at the sky; he also noticed the dust at his feet—the people struggling to survive on the wasteland.

Compared to the paradise depicted by the Torch Church, the Alliance he led was undoubtedly the true paradise!

If anyone else had said these words, they would have been warily dismissed as a sugar-coated trap.

But that lord was different.

Though he never boasted of his good deeds, every survivor on the wasteland saw everything he did.

Whether they lived in the Alliance or had only visited it.

That was why, when his voice appeared on the wilderness broadcasts, almost every survivor yearning for the Alliance packed their bags and set out.

Since the dissolution of the War Construction Committee, people finally had a broadcast they could trust again!

“…That’s all for today’s Survivor Daily. And right now, we’re heading to the first of those ten settlements—‘Settlement One.’”

Hearing the merchant finally finish, the mercenary squatting across from him couldn’t help asking.

“Doesn’t this settlement have a nicer name?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Zhang Ze said, folding the newspaper and stuffing it back into his pack. “But there’s nothing to regret. Like the paper says… the esteemed Administrator hopes we’ll name it ourselves. It’ll be our new home for a long time.”

Just then, a wastelander raised an arm fitted with a prosthetic and laughed.

“Don’t count me in—I’ve got my own home. I’m just going there to earn some silver coins.”

His name was Renault, a scavenger from Garbage City. He’d heard that soon there’d be endless junk to pick up in the southern seas, so he came to try his luck.

Even if no junk fell from the sky, it didn’t matter—at least the scrap in Haiya Province hadn’t been picked over yet, let alone what previous survivors had left behind.

The Alliance’s railway had only just crossed the Ten Peaks Mountains; from River Valley Province to here was a long way, and he’d spent at least a day and a night on the train.

Clearly, this guy was obsessed with junk.

Zhang Ze shrugged indifferently.

“Sure, that’s your freedom.”

Not everyone craved a stable life, but he himself had wandered the wasteland too long. Sometimes he thought settling down wouldn’t be so bad.

Whether driven by dreams of a home or a hunger for silver coins, a group of people from all corners of the wasteland now sat together on the same truck.

After a bumpy ride, a trace of human habitation finally appeared ahead.

Anywhere else, seeing people would make most refugees wary.

But not here.

The most famous survivor faction on the wasteland was right here—at least until its order rotted, no raider tribe would be foolish enough to camp nearby.

A checkpoint appeared at the road ahead.

The driver drove straight up, pulling the handbrake as he neared it.

A Valorian officer, flanked by two soldiers, stepped forward and looked at the people on the truck.

“Who are you?”

The driver stuck his head out the window, a harmless smile on his weathered face.

“Officers, we’re survivors heading to the Death Coast. May I ask where this is?”

The Valorian officer glanced at him, saw nothing noteworthy on the truck, and waved to the checkpoint to open the barrier.

“This is the ruins of Haibei City. You’ll need to go another hundred or two hundred kilometers south to reach the Death Coast.”

“Thanks,” the driver said, relieved as the barrier lifted. He thanked the officer and pulled his head back inside.

“You’re welcome.”

The officer watched the truck start moving again, then suddenly seemed to remember something and called out.

“…Oh, wait a moment.”

The driver froze, quickly pulling the handbrake again.

“Something else?”

Everyone on the truck tensed up.

Even Renault with the prosthetic had his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

Sensing the tension, the officer didn’t seem bothered. He just looked at the people in the truck bed and said.

“If you’re looking for work there, we’ve got work here too.”

A mercenary with ammo belts wrapped around his jacket spoke warily.

“We don’t take dinars.”

The officer’s brow twitched in irritation, but he suppressed his anger and replied.

“We pay in silver coins.”

These ungrateful wretches actually have the nerve to be picky—infuriating!

Pity the Union’s trains refuse to carry slaves, and the ships and ports of the southern seas deny all convenience to the slave trade, while clone troopers can’t do the work—otherwise he wouldn’t bother with these paupers.

Hearing that these Verlanders were offering silver coins, many eyes on the truck lit up.

“How much are you paying? No, wait—I need to ask what the job is first!” Renault’s small eyes narrowed to slits, fixed unblinkingly on the Verlander officer.

Seeing their interest, the officer cleared his throat and began.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Antony, centurion of the 37th Myriad, overseer of this worksite… The job is simple: excavate ruins. Twenty silver coins a day for those who can use a shovel, fifty for those who can operate a goblin excavator—how’s that?”

Though they hadn’t found the legendary entrance to Vault 20 or the Torch’s complete-lifeform project files, they’d recently dug up plenty of valuable goods.

After all, the residents of Vault 20 and the Torch Church had both operated in the area for a long time, and these folks had not only excavated relics from the Prosperity Era but also created and improved upon them.

In short, the Union’s scientific expedition had set up a substation nearby, and their leader had agreed to sell some less critical wreckage and relics to the Union’s team to raise military funds.

After all, hauling these things back to the Legion’s homeland was too costly, not to mention that no one might want them there—their own territory had vast ruins to develop, so they had no need for these.

They were only interested in the Torch Church’s research on the “complete-lifeform project.”

Hearing Antony’s offer, the crowd exchanged glances and burst into laughter in unison.

“Twenty silver coins a day? You think we’re beggars?”

“Exactly!”

“Back in Dawn City, doing the most unskilled, most common labor, we still get four silver an hour!”

“Eight silver an hour! And at least two meals! Don’t try to fob us off with nutrient paste! We’ll eat from the same pot as you—or forget it!”

The tense atmosphere on site dissipated instantly.

Seeing that the Legion wasn’t here to rob but to hire, the crowd grew bold, shouting over each other, making Antony, standing by the truck, twitch with irritation.

These greedy hyenas!

Antony cursed inwardly.

If these guys dared to point their noses at him back home, he’d have them whipped by now!

“Fine! As you say… eight silver an hour for common labor, double for excavator operators!”

Three shifts of rotating excavation, eight hours a day, that’s 1,920 silver a month.

For a hundred people, that’s 192,000.

The yield from this ruin far exceeds that—just yesterday, the batch of “junk dragged from the Vault 20 settlement site” they handed to the Union’s expedition was worth a million silver!

The excavation was less than 10% complete; who knew how many treasures were still hidden inside.

Hearing Antony’s words, Renault didn’t hesitate. Gripping the railing with his right hand, he jumped straight off the truck.

“I’m in!”

Not just Renault, but four others hesitantly stood up and jumped off as well.

Scavenging for such high pay was already good, and they got room and board here.

Scavengers were the lowest of the low on the wasteland; many ended up sick from garbage—mold infections, radiation sickness, and the mental illnesses from losing all sanity went without saying.

Working under the Verlanders wasn’t as secure as under the Union, but it was still more reliable than working for some shady survivor group.

At least the wages they agreed on would be paid.

“Take care, brothers! See you later, haha!” Renault waved cheerfully at those still on the truck.

Seeing his beaming face, the people on the truck hesitated but ultimately didn’t get off.

What if the Union offered more?

And even if the Union paid less, if the price gap was small, they’d still prefer working for the Union.

One was safety, the other a sense of belonging—two things the Legion couldn’t provide.

“Good luck to you.” Zhang Ze didn’t hesitate, just offered a blessing to the scavengers he’d briefly met, then leaned against the truck’s railing, waiting for departure.

From the moment he set out, he’d decided his destination; unless absolutely necessary, he wouldn’t get off midway.

Watching the truck fade into the distance, Antony waved to his men.

“Assign them work, relieve the brothers down in the ruins… And when a convoy passes by, ask them—eight silver an hour, negotiable for those who can use engineering equipment.”

“Yes, sir!” The soldier stood at attention, saluted, then looked at the five excited yet nervous scavengers. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the worksite.”

After the group left, Antony checked his watch, then looked toward the checkpoint, frowning.

He wasn’t waiting here just to settle work for a few scavengers; he had an appointment with some big shot from the Union.

But it seemed this guy was late.

Just then, dust rose in the distance, and two large off-road vehicles appeared in his view.

His furrowed brow relaxed instantly, and Antony quickly waved to the side.

“Open the checkpoint!”

A soldier hurried over and lifted the barrier.

Soon, the two vehicles passed through and stopped before him. Several soldiers in exoskeletons jumped out.

Seeing the gleaming exoskeletons, the Verlanders by the roadside couldn’t hide their envy.

Though the Legion had its own exoskeletons, they were usually only issued to elite units.

After all, they put a heavy strain on logistics.

Even the Union’s all-awakened brigades, which could shut off power to save energy when not in combat, still needed at least one or two maintenance companies per regiment for repairs and daily upkeep.

As for the Corporation, repair battalions were standard in every mountain division; they spent no less on equipment maintenance than on ammunition.

“Sorry, we were delayed on the road. Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long…”

Mosquito stepped out of the vehicle with a smile, walking toward Antony and extending his right hand warmly.

The latter gave a faint smile, shook his extended hand, and gave it a brief pump.

“Hope you’ll be more punctual next time.”

“Absolutely, absolutely!”

Mosquito’s smile grew even brighter, especially when he noticed the insignia on the employer’s shoulder—a hint of surprise crept into his grin.

“Good heavens, a centurion? Congratulations!”

“Thanks to you as well.” Antony curled the corner of his mouth, his expression restrained but unable to hide the pride in his brows.

A centurion in the Legion was akin to a company commander in the Union’s military, one of the highest frontline command ranks—no easy feat to rise from decurion.

His rapid promotion, from decurion to centurion not long after, was largely due to the arms deal he’d brokered, saving the frontline forces millions of denars in maintenance costs and even earning a tidy sum for military funds.

Seeing Antony’s barely concealed pride, Mosquito grinned, handed him a cigarette, and continued.

“No need to credit me—with your talent, promotion was only a matter of time.”

Taking the cigarette and lighting it, Antony blew a puff of smoke, looking at the arms dealer before him with a smile.

“Spare me the pleasantries. It’s a long way for you to come here—let’s get straight to business.”

The mosquito said with a smile.

“Then I won’t waste the general’s time any longer. I’ll be straightforward—we still need a batch of arms here.”

Anthony frowned and asked,

“Wasn’t the previous batch enough?”

The mosquito sighed and replied,

“How could it be enough? Our clients aren’t just arms dealers from Tiger Province. Recently, clients from Leopard Province have come sniffing around too. If I’d known demand was so high there, I’d have sold our own products.”

Anthony looked a bit bewildered.

“What Tiger Province, Leopard Province…”

The mosquito quickly said,

“Those are place names in the Boro Province.”

Anthony nodded in sudden understanding. No wonder they called it a zoo—turns out that was the reason.

“So… your clients are the Empire?”

The mosquito nodded repeatedly.

“Yes, who else could it be? Other small settlements can barely afford a single cannon; only they can swallow this much stock.”

Hearing this, Anthony’s face grew even more puzzled.

“But… I heard you and the Empire are rivals?”

At that, the mosquito nearly choked on his own spit, coughing several times before saying,

“Cough… Well, that’s an insult to us.”

Anthony quickly apologized.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way… I’m just a bit curious, since you just fought a war with the Empire. Aren’t you afraid they’ll use the equipment to retaliate against you?”

The mosquito waved his hand and said,

“That’s not my concern. As long as our esteemed Manager hasn’t said we can’t do business with them, I’ll sell them as much as they want.”

Anthony nodded blankly.

“I think I get it… So how much do you need?”

The mosquito immediately replied,

“We’ll take as much as you have!”

Anthony shook his head.

“I can’t give you all of it. At most, half of what you got last time is the limit. The civilian officials in Triumph City are very interested in this batch of arms too. Their ships have already set sail from West Sailport, and I hear they’ll arrive in two weeks.”

Hearing there was only that much, the mosquito frowned.

The warlords of Leopard Province were paying no less than those of Tiger Province.

After all, there was Banana Bay there, ranked in the top three on the “Big Eye Tourist Recommendation List,” and those tough guys were far richer than General Jeha of Tiger Province.

The client who came to negotiate this time even said outright: whatever arms Tiger Province bought, they’d buy double!

And they were paying in silver coins!

If the contract hadn’t already been signed and the exchange bank lined up, he’d have been tempted to cancel the Tiger Province deal entirely.

“How much are they paying you?”

“Uh, I don’t know… But probably not as much as you. I heard they’re getting it at cost,” Anthony said guiltily.

The mosquito grew anxious at once.

“Then why not sell to us? Do you have a grudge against money?”

Anthony smiled wryly.

“There’s a strategic need involved… I don’t know if I should say this, but you’ve been too tough in the Conclave. We need to arm our friends to share some of the pressure from you. It’s not about money.”

Hearing this, the mosquito quickly said,

“That’s easy! You plan to arm that Empire with these weapons, right? The merchants from West Sailport take them and sell them to the Empire; we take them and sell them to the Empire too. What’s the difference?”

Before Anthony could speak, the mosquito pressed on, spinning his tale without pause.

“The only difference is that the merchants under your civilian officials are exploiting your strategic needs, buying cheap and making a fat profit! We’d rather let you earn that money!”

“Let me be blunt—can you really stand by and let those profiteers take the profits that should be yours?”

Anthony was stunned. He wanted to argue, but as he mulled it over, it seemed to make sense.

Goblin Tech’s equipment in their hands would go to the Empire; the civilian officials’ merchants would also sell to the Empire. In the end, there really was no difference.

So why not sell to the higher bidder?

And what infuriated him most were those profiteers in the civilian faction!

The brothers of the Eastern Legion fought on the front lines for His Majesty the Marshal, yet these people schemed to skim money from them!

But what baffled him was how this fellow made the enemy seem more conscientious than their own people.

Anthony hesitated a moment and said,

“This… I’ll have to report back to my superiors. I can’t decide this on my own.”

The mosquito replied smoothly,

“Go ahead. Your commander will understand my good intentions.”

After all, Corvey would ask the pangolin for his opinion, and the mosquito had already spoken to the latter.

This game was an open book to him.

Those cargo ships from West Sailport would take at least two to three weeks to get here, possibly dragging into early next year.

If the strategic effect was roughly the same, and his side paid promptly and could swallow their entire stock, these Vlandrians had no reason not to choose him.

Since he needed to report to his superiors, Anthony invited the mosquito back to a nearby camp for hospitality.

Noticing a few survivors carrying shovels who weren’t Vlandrians but looked more like faces from the Eastern Provinces, the mosquito asked curiously,

“Who are those people?”

Following his gaze, Anthony smiled and said,

“Those? They’re scavengers we hired to dig up ruins. Having soldiers do excavation work is a bit clumsy; this kind of thing really needs professionals.”

“I see…” The mosquito nodded, stroking his chin, but his mind was already wandering to other matters.

So the Vlandrians had spare cash to hire labor for this—there must be plenty of treasures dug up from beneath those ruins…

Perhaps—

He could use his connections here to do something.

Just as the mosquito was thinking this, the truck that had passed them on the road earlier finally reached the edge of Death Coast before falling apart.

Catching sight of that blue shimmer, the survivors in the truck bed excitedly craned their necks, gazing toward the coastline.

"It's the coastline!"

"Settlement One!!"

"Hahaha! We've arrived! We've made it!"

"Wah... a full thousand kilometers! I finally made it, damn it!"

At the edge of the narrow, elongated coastline sat a military camp.

To the south of the camp were rows of floating docks rising and falling with the tide, with broad cargo ships moored alongside. Under the pull of lifting equipment, containers were continuously unloaded from the ships.

To the north of the camp stood rows upon rows of container barracks, neatly arranged like blocks of tofu.

That must be the legendary Settlement One!

They were not the first to arrive here; long before they came, many survivors had already reached this place, even moving into the new homes the Alliance had prepared for them.

Though those containers looked a bit crude, they were still better than the tents they had lived in along the journey.

Compared to the beautiful life ahead, the hardships of the moment were utterly insignificant.

Everything was just the beginning.

They wouldn't stay forever in those rusty containers; they would build their own home with their own hands!

"Great Elk God above!"

"Thank the great God of Radiation for his blessing! The shimmering light guided me here!"

"Praise the Alliance! Praise the Administrator!"

The crowd babbled incoherently in excitement, each muttering their own prayers.

And some, too impatient to wait, had already grabbed their luggage, jumped off the vehicle, and dashed toward the coastline.

Especially that young merchant who had been reading the newspaper in the carriage—he nearly lost his mud-caked boots as he ran, cheering all the while.

In the eyes of these survivors, there shone without exception a light of devotion and exhilaration.

Like the followers of the Great Elk God, they too held their own faith, and now the object of that faith lay before their eyes.

At this moment, they only wanted to go faster, ever faster, to reach the home of their dreams!

The fare had been collected before boarding, so the driver didn't stop these reckless madmen; instead, he cooperatively slowed the vehicle.

Meanwhile, several officers of the Southern Construction Corps standing at the entrance of Settlement One also noticed the group of refugees rushing toward them.

"Another batch of newcomers," Xiao Yue whistled, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth. "At this rate, we're going to run out of containers soon."

Li Jinrong, the commander of the Southern Construction Corps, nodded.

"That's easy to handle. I'll contact North Island to ship another batch over."

"...Have them send more concrete prefab panels instead. These tin houses can't stand a typhoon—one gust and everything's gone."

Xiao Yue said this with a laugh, then turned his gaze to the bustling settlement before him.

Now, over thirty thousand survivors had settled here.

Some had been rescued from the mutant nests, others were dumped on them by the Legion, and still others had come on their own after hearing their broadcasts.

Like the dozen or so who had just arrived.

Community workers received those refugees, led them—luggage in hand—to the newly opened container barracks, and introduced them to the facilities here.

Everything was moving in a good direction.

Perhaps before long, Haiya Province could return to its former state, even livelier than when the Iron Tower Organization was still around!

But the only pity was...

That beautiful scene would never be seen by the people who once lived on this land.

A trace of melancholy crept across Xiao Yue's face, and he suddenly sighed.

"I suddenly miss my parents. I don't really remember them, but I just feel... if only they were still here."

Li Jinrong didn't know how to comfort him. After a moment of silence, he spoke slowly.

"Once this settlement is on track, we'll build a park for them."

Xiao Yue shot him a puzzled look.

"A park?"

"Yes, and a monument, or something like that..."

Li Jinrong paused for a moment, then continued.

"We need to tell those who come later what happened here, what price we paid, and how it all ended."

"Those who sacrificed for this will watch over us in another form. As long as we remember them, our future will be bright."