Chapter 815: Seeds of Hatred

Chapter 815: Seeds of Hatred

"Hurry up!"

"Useless lot!"

"Did you all skip breakfast?!"

The docks echoed with the overseer's coarse roar and the sharp crack of whips.

The laborers carrying crates moved like upright donkeys, trudging tirelessly back and forth between the ship's deck and the warehouse on the pier.

Forget about a wage of eight silver coins an hour or sharing a meal from the same pot—even stopping for a brief rest was a luxury here. To use the latrine or take a sip of water, they had to beg the overseer for permission.

This was West Sailport.

What players jokingly called West Port.

Here, a healthy slave cost just 1,000 dinars.

Yet even with prices this low, merchants from Triumph City still preferred to lease them.

In the eastern part of the Central Continent, many survivors harbored a "fantasy" born of distance about the Legion, believing the Legion to be quite disciplined.

But in truth, that was only because they had encountered too few Varantians and didn't yet understand their true nature.

Every old resident of Fallen Leaf City knew well what the Varantians were like when they first arrived in the Valley Province, and how they behaved after being beaten into submission.

The reason they acted so orderly in the eastern Central Continent was simply because they had been hurt.

In West Sailport, far beyond the Alliance's sphere of influence, they didn't even bother to put on an act.

Yet ironically, no matter how hard they tried to squeeze the locals, compared to the native nobles of the Brahmin Province, their efforts were still child's play.

So much so that General McCullen, whenever passing through, couldn't help but lament that he had been too merciful in the Valley Province, failing to wring out the full potential of the local survivors.

The residents here were mainly Varantians, followed by itinerant merchants from places like Silver Moon Bay, along with local nobles and a few freemen from the Brahmin Province.

Since the slave trade was not banned here, after the fall of Golden Port, some nobles from Rowell State had migrated to this place.

As for players, they were almost nowhere to be seen.

After all, there was no airport here, nor any save point set up by big shots. A trip from an Alliance port here meant drifting at sea for ten to twenty days, and another ten to twenty days to return.

If you died here even once, not only would your unsaved experience points reset to zero, but all your equipment and property would be lost. The risk and reward were utterly disproportionate!

Still, while this place was a dead end for players, it held a completely different meaning for the Varantians.

Ever since the civil officials of Triumph City borrowed this territory from the Empire, they had brought clean streets, beautiful houses, and bright streetlights along with them.

Benoit and the other officials held high hopes for the region's development prospects.

Even if the Empire's nobles had grown stubborn to the point of obstinacy, surely no one could refuse the dignified life of civilized people.

Through the affluent life of West Sailport, they could influence the nobles of Lion State, and through Lion State, the nobles of the Celestial Capital.

They didn't expect to civilize the locals much, nor were they interested in charity, but they needed a sufficiently intimidating ally to share the pressure from the Alliance.

On the pier paved with sandstone bricks.

A bearded Varantian kept glancing at his diamond-studded pocket watch, his face etched with anxiety.

His name was Yarman, a merchant dealing in sugar and tea, whose main business was shipping the sugar and black tea produced in West Sailport to Triumph City and the ports controlled by the Southern Legion, occasionally dabbling as a slave trader.

According to the original plan, his fleet should have set sail that morning for the Southern Legion's "Eternal Night Port" at the southernmost edge of the Great Desert, then detour to the western Central Continent, bringing fine tea and cube sugar back to Triumph City's harbor.

But plans changed.

Just yesterday, a notice from the Governor's Office sent the Varantian merchants of West Sailport into a frenzy!

The Legion's expedition to the Seashore Province had ended, and a large quantity of equipment stranded at the front was being sold at a discount!

For just 10,000 dinars, one could buy a certificate from the Governor's Office, pay a certain deposit, and then, at an ultra-low price of less than 10,000 dinars per ton, pack up and ship away those treasures piled up in the Seashore Province!

The only requirement from the West Sailport Governor's Office was that the arms purchased with these certificates must be shipped back to West Sailport!

And the buyers must be the West Sailport Arms Reserve Bureau or the Empire!

Although this condition meant the selling price would be somewhat suppressed, it still couldn't dampen the enthusiasm of the Varantian merchants in West Sailport.

After all, a price of less than 10,000 dinars per ton was simply too tempting—it was practically free!

In all their years of trading, they had never seen arms sold by weight!

Even if all the good stuff had been picked over and only bullets remained, that still meant a profit margin of over 50%.

And if they could get their hands on the Eastern Legion's Conqueror tanks, the profits would multiply!

Such a lucrative deal—Yarman certainly wasn't going to miss it. Though he had no connections in the arms trade, did a deal this easy require any connections?

Besides, if worst came to worst, he could sell it to the West Sailport Arms Reserve Bureau; there was no fear of being stuck with the goods.

Praise be to the Marshal!

Praise be to Governor Huye!

It was practically a New Year's gift handed to them by the West Sailport Governor's Office!

But as luck would have it, Yarman was far from the only one thinking this way.

The entire West Sailport had gone mad, with every dock berth packed to capacity.

The dock workers had barely finished loading a ship, not even having time to grab a bite of dry food, before the overseers were driving them to unload the warehouses. Any slowness earned them a lash.

Yet even so, faced with the overwhelming demand for loading and unloading, the laborers' desperate efforts were still a drop in the bucket.

Blame the slaves themselves, for they were too enduring and too cheap, so much so that the port of West Sailport had no need for electric loading equipment. When such peak demand hit, they could only push themselves harder.

With too many ships eager to unload, the harbor office and the "labor brokers" had to summon more slaves and serfs from nearby estates and plantations.

Watching the bustling docks, the bearded captain frowned with worry.

"At this rate, we probably won't set sail until tomorrow morning."

Yarman was adamant.

"Too slow. We must set sail today, no matter what!"

The captain's brow twitched sharply, and he gave a bitter smile.

"I understand your eagerness to get rich, but... you have to consider the reality."

"Reality?" Yarman lowered his rolled-up sleeve, his sharp eyes fixed on the captain. "Let me tell you what reality is! Crates and bundles of arms are piled up in the Seashore Province—and these are regular army weapons! Those fools in the east have never been this generous! Every merchant ship on the route is racing there. If we're late, we won't even get a sip of the soup!"

Faced with that aggressive stare, the captain swallowed hard.

"Alright, even if these coolies can finish unloading before dark, are we going there with an empty ship—"

"Exactly, we go with an empty ship!" Yarman cut him off without hesitation, his expression excited as he continued, "Apart from supplies, we don't need to bring anything! There's no time to dither and dawdle. We're not going to do business—we're going to pick up money! Pick up money, you understand?"

At this point, Yarman softened his tone and patted the captain on the shoulder.

"Prepare as I say. This trip will be good for you... I can promise you, your share from this deal will be at least a million dinars!"

Hearing that generous reward, the captain instinctively held his breath, his neck nodding downward.

"Alright..."

A million dinars!

Not even a Centurion's ransom could reach such a height!

Compared to this vast fortune, going home for the New Year was utterly beneath consideration.

Watching the captain depart, Armand shifted his gaze toward the nearby Leo-kin foreman, and that spring-breeze of a smile instantly withered from his face.

"Just how much longer is it going to take to empty my fleet?"

Faced with the pressing urgency of this Wilenite master, Najib wiped the sweat from his brow, his face a mask of subservient smiles.

"I will have the overseers push them harder, to finish before tomorrow if possible—"

"If possible?"

Armand raised an eyebrow, his eyes drilling relentlessly into the man as he spaced out each word, "I do not care what means you employ, you will have every last crate of cargo unloaded before dusk!"

Hearing this, the sweat Najib had just wiped away burst forth anew across his forehead.

"B-before dusk? But milord, there are scarcely three hours remaining until nightfall—"

"That is your affair." Armand spared him not even a glance, his expression freezing into a chill detachment. "I will grant you until eight o'clock tonight at the absolute latest. If you cannot manage it, I shall simply have a word with your employer—or rather, my partner."

At those words, Najib felt an insidious chill creep down his spine.

Though he belonged to the Leo-kin, he was nothing more than a commoner, a mere speck of dust compared to those titled dignitaries.

Thus, however tyrannical the demand sounded, he could only grit his teeth and steel himself to answer.

"I shall recruit more men..."

"Go on, then."

Armand waved his hand with a flash of impatience, shooing the man away as if ridding himself of a persistent fly.

As it turned out, a bit of pressure yielded results.

Spurred on by the desperate, relentless shouting of the overseers, the slaves threw every ounce of their strength into the labor, miraculously emptying the final two vessels just as the sun began to submerge beneath the sea's horizon.

Najib, burning with frantic urgency, was about to hurry off to claim credit before Lord Armand when his path was blocked by a crowd gathering at the front of the pier.

A throng of coolies had formed a tight ring on the cramped dock; in their midst lay a skeletal figure on the ground, twitching violently with foam bubbling from his lips.

The fellow was wretchedly thin, his skin baked to a dark, reddish-black by the sun, resembling nothing so much as a smoked sausage.

Najib shoved his way into the center of the crowd and delivered a swift kick to the fallen man. Seeing no movement, he turned to the surrounding dockworkers.

"What happened to him?"

A tall, gaunt man lowered his head and spoke.

"His name is Orissa—"

Before he could finish his sentence, a whip cracked across his forehead. He staggered back several paces, and it was only because his fellow laborers caught his arms that he avoided tumbling into the sea.

Blood welled from the split flesh, blinding his eyes and masking half his face in a gruesome sight.

The man seemed utterly dazed by the blow, touching his brow as he stood frozen, unable to process what had happened.

"Who gives a damn about his name? Drag him off the pier for me! Damn it all! Do you not realize how busy we are today? Stop blocking the bloody way!" Najib cursed and shouted, brandishing his whip wildly in all directions to scatter the surrounding laborers.

With the crowd blocking the pier finally dispersed, the port resumed its usual, frantic bustle.

Glancing down at a wooden crate that had already sunk into the sea, Najib's mouth twitched with a pang of vicarious agony.

What a waste of that fine tea...

A single package of it was worth half his monthly wages.

Fortunately, he would not be held liable for the damaged goods; those high-born gentlemen had long anticipated the clumsiness of these brutes, and the loss of a crate or two fell well within acceptable margins.

Otherwise, he could not have afforded the recompense even if he sold his own soul...

The scolded laborers carried the wretched soul named Orissa toward the labor registry. It was standard protocol; the names of the deceased had to be struck from the records, lest they be marked as runaway slaves, bringing ruin upon their entire families.

The clerk at the registry cross-referenced the manifest, only to be struck by a sudden surprise: this fellow was no slave at all, but a freeman.

Of course, his astonishment lasted but a fleeting moment.

After all, a landless freeman did not necessarily live a life more comfortable than a slave.

Especially if the former had a family to feed, their bellies might well be filled with nothing but dirt.

"Does he have any kin here?"

The men exchanged glances and shook their heads one after another, none knowing where the poor wretch resided.

The clerk had no desire to waste his energy; upon hearing that no relatives were present, he snapped the ledger shut.

"Have his family come."

One laborer, unable to bear the cruelty, asked in a low, submissive tone.

"...What should be done with the body?"

The clerk rolled his eyes.

"He is dead, is he not? Find a patch of ground and bury him. It is not as if he will spring back to life."

With that, he continued to urge them along.

"Move him out quickly, do not stand there blocking the way."

With two guards staring intently in their direction, the laborers who had carried Orissa there had no choice but to bear the corpse back outside.

The group stood aimlessly on the street, lost as to where to turn, murmuring amongst themselves whether to search for his family first or simply find a place to lay him to rest.

In the end, everyone required burial, and was that patch of red clay on the outskirts of town not destined for exactly this purpose?

While the men pitied Orissa's fate, they could not help but feel astonished that this quiet old fellow, who never uttered a word, was actually a freeman who had bought his own liberty.

No wonder he had labored with such desperate fervor!

An expression of envy crept onto a few faces.

To die as a slave meant leaving nothing behind. Yet when a freeman perished, his family could at least claim a sum of compensation.

Eight hundred dinars was not a king's ransom, but to them, it was an unimaginable fortune.

This was one of the few meager benefits the Wilenites had secured for them.

Yet, while some looked on with envy, others glared toward the harbor with eyes burning with hatred.

Most of these men were converts to the Silver Moon sect.

They were avid listeners to the Silver Gospel newspaper, and most had heard "Pol the Awakened," translated and recited by Mr. Melchior, the priest from Silver Moon Bay.

That text had been their primer for literacy.

Though they had never set foot in Boulder City, they remembered with absolute clarity what the people there had done.

Perhaps because their fury had reached its absolute zenith, a spark of fire finally erupted from the suffocating silence.

"Look at that, behold the so-called 'freeman'..."

A raspy voice drifted from the crowd as a tall, gaunt man stepped forward.

It was the very same man who had taken the whip to his forehead upon the pier.

The gruesome scar was etched deep into his brow, staining the white bandage a vivid crimson.

Looking at that ferocious visage, people involuntarily stepped back two paces, fear etched across their faces.

The man did not stop; his hoarse voice gradually turned hysterical, unleashing all the fury in his chest.

"They took everything from us and slapped a label on it! One thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand... Xilan coins or dinars—go buy it! With our blood, with our sweat, buy what was already ours! To build their greatness and wisdom!"

"And then... when we've finally bought back what was ours, when they've squeezed out our last drop of blood, we'll lie in the red earth like Orissa."

Silence reigned around.

That hopeless fate was suffocatingly oppressive.

If in the end there was nothing left worth mourning, what meaning was there in their endless toil?

Those so-called freemen...

That fat bait had been a lie from the start!

Perhaps the crowd's silence gave him the courage to continue; he clenched his fists tightly and hurled a soul-searing question at the onlookers.

"Tell me! Why should we buy what is already ours!"

"But what can we do..."

A stifled complaint finally broke the dead silence from the crowd.

Watching the restless mob, the man did not back down; instead, his blood boiling, he shouted out.

"What can we do! Pol has told us what to do! We must unite!"

"And then?"

This time he did not speak, because someone in the crowd shouted for him.

"Is there any need to ask! Of course, we take back what is ours!"

Furious roars rose and fell, the emotion of vengeance spreading and compounding.

The growing numbers dulled their fear; the thousand pillars that had sealed their courage seemed to vanish.

Even the most timid among them now wore expressions of uncontrollable rage—

And hatred!

"This isn't over!"

"Damn right!"

"Orissa didn't die for nothing!"

"They must pay!"

The clamor grew louder and louder, finally drawing the attention of the dock district guards.

These guards rarely ventured into the slums beyond the docks, but this was a special time—the entire wharf was short-handed, and they couldn't allow such a crowd to gather and stir up trouble.

Leading the guards was the foreman Nagi, his hand gripping the whip he had used earlier, shouting at the gathered laborers.

"What are you all doing here! It takes that long to carry one man? Get back to work, now!"

The crowd was already heated, and someone yelled from among them.

"We quit!"

"Quit? Hah! You're asking for it!" Nagi's brows shot up, and his whip cracked through the air, but instead of hitting the instigator, it lashed a random bystander, bursting his eyeball.

The man fell to his knees in agony, clutching his eye as blood gushed to the ground.

At the sight of blood, the crowd erupted; a thousand people surged onto the street, shouting as they closed in on Nagi.

Never having seen such a scene, Nagi was startled and couldn't help stepping back.

But he soon realized he had flinched too soon.

A gunshot cracked behind him—"Bang!"—and the guard holding a breech-loading rifle fired several shots into the air without a word.

"Bang! Bang!"

The gunfire was like cold water on a hot iron, sizzling away the fiery emotions in an instant.

This wasn't Boulder City after all.

And Pol wasn't from the Boro Province.

The crowd, moments ago seething with passion, now showed fear, scattering in all directions until the street was empty in moments.

Nagi was stunned for a second, then smirked sheepishly, turning to the tall-nosed officer behind him.

"Heh heh... sir, I told you, these rats are too timid to cause real trouble."

The Vlandian officer glanced at him with disdain, silently reloading his rifle.

He was a man of the Southern Legion, a colonial guard for over a decade, having suppressed riots at least two or three times—the worst of which had forced them to bring out 902mm heavy artillery.

This situation was indeed unusual; with a few shots, it ended without a single death.

He was certainly satisfied.

But still—

It made him look down on them all the same.

...

The night over West Sailport deepened, the evening breeze from the sea carrying a slight chill.

The commotion at the labor registration office had not disturbed the bustle here in the slightest.

The docks remained busy with comings and goings; the glittering shop windows still shone resplendently.

That cry of "We quit!" seemed like a joke.

Only the poor bystander with the burst eye was left, with no one to hear his grievance.

Finally ready for departure, Yarman stood at the harbor, bidding a reluctant farewell to his family.

"...It's almost Founders' Day—can't you wait until after the holiday?" The little girl in the floral dress pouted slightly, her dark brown hair tied in a princess braid, like a true princess.

The second weekend of January every year was Founders' Day, a holiday more important than New Year for the Vlandians.

It was said to be the day of their birth, and also the beginning of all glory and legend.

For that reason, no matter how busy, Vlandians would set that day aside to be with their families.

Yarman had planned the same, even scheduling a trip back to Triumph City for the Founders' Day celebration.

But unfortunately, the big shots in Triumph City had offered far too much...

Yarman patted his daughter's head, speaking with doting affection.

"Be good, Daddy will bring you a gift when he returns."

"Hmm..." Ruby pouted reluctantly. "Your taste is too unique—who gives their daughter a mutant's head as a souvenir?"

"Haha! Sorry! Daddy didn't think it through!"

Yarman laughed and scooped up his adorable daughter, making her giggle as he spun her around in the air several times before setting her down.

He gently tapped her nose and continued in a fond tone.

“Then what gift does my lovely Ruby want?”

Ruby’s eyes sparkled as she immediately spoke.

“I want to go play with Sister Ansuya!”

Ansuya was the daughter of Count Sharma.

The latter was a man of considerable renown in Lion State, owning a plantation of over a hundred thousand acres in the far outskirts of Westwind Port, possessing an extensive social circle in Heavenly Capital, and also being Yarman’s business partner.

Every time he discussed business, Yarman would bring his daughter along.

Ruby wasn’t sure how big Ansuya’s family estate was, nor did she much care, but she was deeply impressed by its maze-like garden.

Whenever she went there with her father, she would drag Ansuya and the other children in the estate into games of hide-and-seek.

Hearing such a simple request, Yarman fondly ruffled his daughter’s hair.

“Alright! When I get back, Daddy will take you there!”

After a pause, he added with a smile.

“Of course, I’ll still bring a gift… My lovely Ruby just wait at home and look forward to it!”

Speaking of which, after this trip, he was planning to contact Count Sharma anyway, to see if he could leverage some political influence to make this shipment yield more than its worth.

Then he’d bring his daughter along to bother that fellow.

“Come back soon!”

The little girl stood on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek, then ran back to her mother’s side.

Gently patting her daughter’s hand, Margaret gazed affectionately at her husband, a radiant smile on her face.

“Take care on the road.”

“Don’t worry! It’s not my first time on this route! Wait for my good news!”

He gave his wife a kiss, grinned, picked up his suitcase, and stood back on the dock.

“See you next month! Wait for me!”

With that, he turned back every few steps as he followed his captain and crew onto the deck, gradually fading away with the drawn-out whistle of the ship.

At the same time, on a street less than five hundred meters from the dock, a mother and daughter arrived at the entrance of the Labor Registration Office.

Since the docks didn’t hire women, few women ever appeared here.

Unless it was one particular situation…

People instinctively made way. The stooped woman murmured thanks, tightly gripping the little girl’s hand, and hurried to the counter.

The previous shift worker had already left; now a young man with slicked-back hair sat there, cracking melon seeds and chatting with his colleague.

Many minor nobles, too proud for lowly work but not skilled enough for high positions, liked to place their children in jobs like this.

After all, Heavenly Capital was too far for them, but the Wilant people in the port district were right before their eyes.

Especially the Labor Registration Office—it often dealt with Wilant people.

If one could earn the favor of a Wilant, it would be like leaping to the heavens!

The little girl stood on tiptoe, poked her head above the counter, and spoke before her mother could.

“Where’s my daddy?”

Hearing the timid voice, the young man smiled and turned his head.

“Your daddy? Who’s your daddy?”

The little girl continued.

“Orissa… He’s very tanned. The pastor at Moon Church said his lungs aren’t good, and he always coughs.”

Afraid the worker wouldn’t know what her father looked like, she gestured earnestly, trying to draw his portrait with her hands.

But her description was too vague, and the only effect was to make the young man behind the counter increasingly impatient.

“Sorry… for bothering you.”

The stooped woman was much more silent. First, she tugged her daughter to signal her to stop talking, then fished out a crumpled paper slip and placed it hastily on the counter.

It was an identity certificate.

Her husband had earned it with his whole body of ailments—the only thing that proved they had no master.

Seeing the document, the young man’s impatience eased a little. He flipped through a register, matching the name on the certificate, and indeed found the name Orissa.

“He’s a laborer registered here last month.”

“That name sounds familiar… Oh, right, the one who was just brought in!”

The colleague sitting next to him recalled, then smiled, pulled open a drawer, took out a pre-wrapped money pouch, and tossed it onto the counter.

“I was just telling you about that! That old fellow who worked himself to death…”

Hearing the “clink,” both mother and daughter froze, their ears ringing.

The stooped woman’s lips trembled, but in the end, she silently picked up the money pouch and clutched it tightly in her hand.

In that moment, she seemed to shrink even more.

Not wanting to stay there a second longer, she took her daughter’s hand and hurried away from the counter, escaping the suffocating atmosphere into the street outside.

The evening wind blowing from the port district was especially cold.

With her dark, round eyes fixed on her mother, the little girl asked softly.

“Dad…?”

Her mother, who always answered her, said nothing this time. She only quickened her pace, pulling her daughter toward home, her shoulders trembling faintly as if holding something back.

As if she finally understood where her father had gone, the little girl lowered her head and fell silent. She didn’t cry, but held tightly to her mother’s calloused hand.

Her father had always hoped she would grow up soon. She had always wondered what “growing up” really meant. Now, she seemed to understand a little.

She still had two younger brothers, far younger than herself.

She had to learn to be strong.

The mother and daughter passed by the Silver Moon Church, like a single drop of rain before a storm, silently melting into the quiet night.

Standing at the humble church entrance, Melchior watched the injured laborers and sighed softly, joining the other pastors in bandaging their wounds.

He wanted to help these poor souls.

But he worried he might have harmed them instead.

“Silver Moon Goddess above… please bless your poor believers, keep them from misfortune and disaster.”

And also protect me, that I may not commit a mistake I will regret…

His finger touched the silver moon hanging from his chest, his lips moving softly, praying devoutly in his heart.

He had a foreboding feeling.

Something big was about to happen in Westwind Port…