Chapter 818: Someone Beat Us to It?

Chapter 818: Someone Else Got There First?

If one were to rank the moral standards of the various factions within the Legion, the civilian officials stationed by the Marshal would undoubtedly top the list.

While the Eastern Legion was still figuring out how to squeeze the last drop of oil from indentured slaves, the civilian officials had already devised a "systematic" method for converting indentured slaves into debt slaves, drawing on the colonial management practices of the Southern Legion.

Don’t think of this as something evil. In the context of the wasteland era, transforming people from beasts of burden into commodities could well be considered a "benevolent act."

The poor of the Brugar Free State might grumble about the overly long ad breaks for refrigerators or the inhumane iris scanning devices, but the slaves of the Brahmin Province, upon hearing their complaints, would likely feel no sympathy—instead, they’d be baffled, asking what a refrigerator or an ad was, and why wasting 75 seconds of one’s life meant not having to spend money.

In any case, the civilian officials of Triumph City hadn’t given the survivors of West Sailport refrigerators, but they had at least opened a window in their otherwise hopeless lives.

These officials first collaborated with the nobles of Lion Province, renting slaves from them at 50 dinars a month. Then, at the end of each month, they gave those slaves an additional 50 to 150 dinars as a "reward."

How much they got depended purely on their work performance.

Of course, that money didn’t go into the slaves’ pockets, but it was recorded in their accounts. Once they saved enough, they could buy their own freedom and that of their families.

And once these slaves had redeemed themselves, they were already skilled workers—not only with rich experience but also with greater enthusiasm for their work.

The Legion would continue to hire them for labor, and the original reward became their monthly wages.

For the Vlandrians, the wages they paid these people didn’t change; instead, they saved the 50-dinar monthly rent they’d been paying the nobles, effectively hiring a more skilled workforce at a lower cost.

For the nobles, how much the slaves worked didn’t affect their income. Though selling off skilled workers was a bit regrettable, the 1,000-dinar redemption fee wasn’t a loss—it was like cashing out 20 months of income in one go.

Moreover, they could still make a profit through the Labor Registration Office, a polished labor brokerage.

The only ones who lost out were the freemen themselves.

Before, they had food and lodging on the nobles’ estates; now, everything depended on them…

…

West Sailport.

Unlike the usual bustling, sweat-soaked activity, the atmosphere at the docks today was eerily strange.

A dark, dense crowd packed the harbor, blocking the entire road from the docks to the warehouses, their faces etched with suppressed fury.

They were among the first laborers to arrive at West Sailport. Every brick in this port was stained with their blood and sweat, yet these people weren’t content just to trample those bricks underfoot—they wanted to crush what little dignity and hope the laborers had left.

Orissa wasn’t the first coolie to die at West Sailport, nor even the first freeman to die on the job. But his death was like the last straw that broke the camel’s back, igniting the fury of every freeman in the port!

Why did they live like donkeys, enduring hardship without complaint?

Wasn’t it to earn that slip of paper proving they were freemen?

Humans are creatures that live on hope. When there’s hope, they can survive even on dirt.

“If you work diligently, you’ll earn your freedom”—that was like a carrot dangled before them. For that carrot, and to let their families taste it too, they endured the overseers’ whips and curses, ruined their health, and even broke their backs…

But the masters of West Sailport snatched that dangling carrot away, dashing their last shred of hope to the ground.

So what if they got it?

Did having that paper mean they couldn’t be controlled anymore?

In the end, it was the same. The truly free people of West Sailport were only those who never needed a paper slip to prove their freedom.

No one would ask a Vlandrian for one, nor a noble. Even the priests of Silver Moon Bay and the merchants of the Southern Sea didn’t need them—apparently due to some Compact agreements.

Orissa spent 1,000 dinars to redeem himself, and who knows how much for his family—maybe he even borrowed a bit from the Vlandrians.

Yet his death compensation was a paltry 800 dinars!

Eight hundred!

At the worst exchange rate of 1:5, that wasn’t even 200 silver coins!

That sum couldn’t pay off his debts, nor sustain his family for long.

Once he was buried, his family would either follow in his footsteps or walk the same fate.

Or else—

They’d have to sell themselves, starting another cycle of despair.

If the new winds of the wasteland never blew here, these people might have endured it all without complaint, only waking up at the moment they were laid in the ground—and that fleeting pain might even be a kind of happiness.

But as luck would have it, the merchant ships from the east brought not only wealth and technology.

But also the ideas that enlightened all this.

The freemen standing here might not know many words, but from the priests of Silver Moon Bay, they’d already heard that thousands of kilometers away, there was a settlement called Megacity and a awakened named Bohr.

One person’s strength is feeble, but when half a million survivors unite, even those hundred-meter-high walls tremble, and thousand-meter towers collapse!

The survivors of West Sailport numbered not just half a million, but a full million!

Inspired by that example, the people who used to scatter at the first gunshot had united once more…

They were fed up with the lies.

They would fight for their rights with their own hands.

Facing the ever-growing crowd, Naji broke out in a cold sweat, but he still mustered the courage to shout at them.

“What are you all crowding here for? Get back to work! Itching for a beating again, are you?”

The people said nothing, nor did they provoke the Vlandrian soldiers like last time. They just stood there in silence, staring at him.

Unnerved by those eyes, Naji swallowed nervously. His right hand, clutching the whip, trembled uncontrollably, as if struck by muscle weakness—he simply couldn’t bring himself to strike.

At least twenty or thirty thousand people had gathered here—dozens of times more than the day before yesterday.

Not only were they refusing to work, but they were also blocking the road back to the warehouses.

Now the entire port was like a broken clock; loading and unloading had ground to a halt.

If he couldn’t get all the cargo off the docks before dark, the Vlandrian shipowners and the local nobles would all come after him!

At the thought, sweat beaded on Naji’s forehead. He looked helplessly at the harbor guards nearby.

The guards were whispering among themselves, apparently discussing a plan.

“Maybe we should disperse them first?”

“But the port still needs them to work.”

“They’re just getting in the way now.”

“And without them? Relying on those slack-off slaves, we’d be at it till tomorrow and still not finish.”

“The Governor’s orders are to maintain production order here… We need to get them back to work, and make sure they work properly.”

The guard captain glanced at the crowd of laborers, his brow deeply furrowed.

He had underestimated these people before. They might be timid as mice, but they weren’t entirely useless.

For instance, they were cunning enough.

Strikes by “freemen” had occurred in other Vlandrian colonies, but usually only when debt interest and income were completely out of balance—rarely in the early stages of transitioning from indentured slaves to debt slaves.

This was supposed to be a honeymoon period for both sides.

Yet it was as if someone had told them exactly where this scam was headed, and they suddenly woke from their illusory dream.

And they’d learned the worst, most troublesome habit of all: striking.

They could drive these people from one cage to another with their guns, but they couldn't force them to muster any enthusiasm for work.

And at times like this, even the Vellant had to weigh the pros and cons and make some compromises.

Unfortunately, the Governor had gone back to Triumph City for the New Year and was probably still adrift at sea by now.

The guard captain strode briskly up to Nagy, and looking at the latter's pale face, spoke in a tone of command.

"...This stalemate won't do. Talk to them, see how you can get them back to work."

Nagy hurried back to face the crowd, trying to muster his usual domineering expression, but he couldn't summon any vicious confidence, and in the end, he lowered his stance and pleaded earnestly.

"What's the point of just standing here? What do you want? You have to give me an answer!"

With the support of his companions, a laborer stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Nagy.

"We lost an Orissa."

Nagy gritted his teeth and said.

"We've already paid compensation. What more do you want?"

The laborer shouted angrily.

"...It's too little! Eight hundred dinars isn't enough for his family to survive in West Sailport!"

"Then go back to the countryside—" Nagy opened his mouth to retort, but was furiously cut off.

"Stop playing dumb! The fertile lands of Lion Province are covered with plantations. Where is there land for them to live on?"

This remark struck a chord with many, especially those who had originally worked on plantations.

If they had a choice, they wouldn't have come to this godforsaken place to sell their labor.

They had farming skills, but no land to farm.

"That's right! They have no home to go back to!"

"Should Orissa's wife and children go back to his former master's plantation?"

"Then what did we redeem ourselves for? In the end, it's the same!"

The noise grew louder, and the people's emotions became more heated.

Nagy panicked and shouted recklessly.

"Then what do you want? Do you expect us to support them for life? On what grounds?"

At these words, the crowd erupted in uproar, their eyes burning with even more anger.

"On what grounds!"

"On the grounds that Orissa died while working for you!"

"We've shed blood and sweat for this port. Why isn't there a place for us here?"

"That's right! We're not just demanding justice for Orissa! We're demanding justice for ourselves!"

"Our wages must be raised!"

"Either give us at least ten dinars a day, or let us organize ourselves to contract the docks! Fair competition—we'll earn what we work for, and we won't leech off you!"

The entire dock echoed with the laborers' furious roars, and even the slaves trying to push through the crowd couldn't help but stop in their tracks.

Listening to these increasingly outrageous demands, Nagy felt his scalp tingle.

These people were asking for the sky!

Ten dinars a day!

That's three hundred a month! Double the previous maximum wage!

For moving a few crates, they wanted that much? Why not just rob them?

As for letting them organize themselves to contract the docks, that was absolutely out of the question.

It wasn't just a matter of profit; there were other, thornier issues involved.

Neither the Vellant nor the nobles would ever agree to let these lower-class people organize.

If they dared to demand contracting the docks today, tomorrow they'd demand contracting the city hall, the bank, the post office!

Then whose name would West Sailport bear? Would it be named after these rats?

Nagy's brow twitched violently, and he shouted at the crowd with all his might.

"Are you mad? Do you even know what you're asking? You might as well ask us to hand over this port to you!"

"Then give it to us!"

The laborer standing at the front of the crowd showed no sign of backing down, nor any intention of yielding.

As if hearing a very funny joke, Nagy sneered.

"Give it to you? You'd ruin everything here in a day!"

The dockworker glared at him.

"Then let it be ruined. After all, none of this has ever belonged to us!"

Seeing the crowd's emotions growing more intense, the Vellant guards standing by finally couldn't stand it any longer.

The guard captain walked up to Nagy, pulled him aside, and stared into his eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"Are you a pig? I told you to negotiate with them, to coax them back to their posts, not to argue with them! Do I need to teach you how to do it?"

Seeing the Vellant angry, Nagy quickly began to complain and explain.

"Sir, sir, you don't understand... You can't be nice to them! Once they get a taste of something good, they'll slither up your baton like snakes."

"I don't understand?" The guard captain sneered, patting his head with a laugh. "How many colonies have you been to? How many days have you been a foreman, and you dare speak to me like that?"

Nagy broke out in a cold sweat, his face pale as he lowered his head.

"I wouldn't dare..."

The guard captain looked contemptuously at this flustered fool, his expression growing more disdainful.

He didn't mind an obedient dog, but at least the dog had to be useful, didn't it?

In his dozen years as a guard in the Southern Legion, he'd dealt plenty with the local natives around the colonies. Though he hadn't directly participated in the games of the big shots, he understood some basic principles.

Whether it was the Southern Legion, the civil officials, or the local native chiefs and nobles, they all preferred to fatten the cow before milking it.

That was better for everyone.

But these people, as if they'd never seen money, were eager to slit the cow's throat, skip the milking, and drink the blood straight from the vein.

Not having the patience to wait for this fool to wise up, the guard captain said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Raise the death compensation standard, increase their wages, but don't give them everything at once—you can haggle with them... That's up to you. I have only one request: get back to work quickly and don't blow this out of proportion. Otherwise, if the Governor finds out, you'll all be in for it!"

Hearing this, Nagy's face fell, and he pleaded.

"But sir, our profits are already razor-thin. If we raise their wages, how will we make any money..."

"Don't you fucking play me for a fool!"

Seeing that this idiot was still trying to act clever and treat him like a fool, the guard captain couldn't hold back and spat, pointing at his nose.

"You charge by the weight of the goods! The wages you pay them are less than a tenth of what you earn! What harm would it do to give them a tenth? The time and money you've wasted here already far exceed that amount! Do I need to teach you how to do business?"

Watching the foreman, who dared not even breathe under the scolding, the guard captain sighed and softened his tone.

"...Be a little kinder to your own kind. Don't push them too hard. Don't always try to squeeze out the last dinar. Otherwise, it'll be bad for everyone."

"Yes..."

Naji replied reluctantly, though in his heart he didn't consider these snakes, rats, birds, and insects his kin at all.

He was, after all, a Lionman.

Even if not a noble, he was far nobler than this lot.

Urged on by the guard captain, he had no choice but to step back before the crowd.

"...Thank the merciful Governor! We can raise your wages! But don't get too greedy. How about eight dinars a day? That's 240 a month! Damn, I'm jealous of your wages—work five months and you could buy a concubine!"

Hearing the wages rise to eight gold coins a day, the once-angry crowd began to show signs of division. Some eyes regained a glimmer of hope for life.

As Naji said, 240 dinars a month was no small sum!

But not everyone was so easily bought.

Many still glared indignantly at the foreman pushed to the front.

"What about Orisa?"

Naji gritted his teeth, thinking that since he'd already thrown out so much money, a little more wouldn't hurt. So he steeled himself and said.

"The Labor Registry will give his family an extra 3,000 dinars... But this isn't compensation—it's a donation out of pure goodwill and mercy! We can't let those who shed blood and sweat for Westport feel abandoned. His family deserves Westport's support!"

Three thousand dinars was decent!

Even at the raised wages, that was a year's salary!

Hope finally flickered in the crowd's eyes. Some even thought these nobles weren't all bad. A few couldn't help whistling and clapping in approval.

This time, even those who had been furious began to waver, leaving only a small handful still glaring.

Seeing the crowd shaken, Naji continued in a soothing tone.

"Alright, disperse. If you still want today's pay, get back to work. Or do you expect gold coins to fall from the sky?"

The crowd gradually scattered, and Naji finally breathed a sigh of relief. But thinking of the money spent, his heart still ached.

He hoped the master wouldn't be angry...

If he was, Naji could only use the Valiants as a shield.

He'd say he'd held the line, but those Valiant guards forced him to raise wages.

Seeing the troublemakers return to work, the Valiant guards lined up at the port also disbanded and went about their own business.

The year's end was near, and after that came the Founder's Day. None of them really felt like working, let alone causing trouble. Their minds had long drifted home.

The guard captain returned to the station, first sending a telegram to Everport saying [Crisis Averted], then reporting the whole affair to the Governor's office secretary.

Governor Huye had returned to Triumph City, taking half the Governor's guard with him. General MacLennan and the other instructors had gone to Everport to board ships. Westport's military now consisted only of the port guard and a local city defense force—its defenses were unprecedentedly weak.

If possible, the guard captain hoped the Governor's office could borrow a squad from the Southern Legion.

Even auxiliary troops would do.

But the trouble was, not a single ship was on the route. All available vessels had been sent east by the civilian officials. Moving men here wouldn't be easy...

Meanwhile, Naji, having finally settled things, returned to the Labor Registry and reported the port situation and wage increase to the major shareholders one by one.

After being cursed out, he hadn't even caught his breath when he saw his subordinate running frantically, shouting.

"Sir, something terrible has happened!"

Naji, who had barely warmed his chair, felt his heart skip a beat. He stood up again, cursing.

"What now? Didn't I raise their wages!?"

His subordinate, pale with urgency, spoke quickly.

"Th-this time it's not the docks—it's the steel mill... and the cement plant. The factory workers heard about the dock wage hike, and now none of them are working. They're demanding raises too."

Hearing this, Naji nearly spat blood. He roared.

"Those greedy vultures!"

Just as he'd expected.

He knew it would come to this!

Those Valiants didn't understand the Boro Province at all. You couldn't spoil those peasants—once they got comfortable, they'd start all this trouble.

Once factory wages went up, the dockworkers would start complaining again, saying hauling cargo was harder, so how could they earn the same as steelworkers?

Back and forth, they'd make no profit. Might as well shut down all the port factories!

Naji broke out in a cold sweat. The Labor Registry director, standing nearby, frowned and muttered.

"I keep feeling something's off about this. Like someone's fanning the flames."

Naji jolted.

"You mean the Alliance?"

The director shook his head.

"Doesn't seem like it. Too far-fetched."

Alliance merchant ships also came here to buy steel and cement. Goldport and Friesport had huge demand for building materials, and so did the rebuilding Southern Sea and Coastal provinces.

Turning Westport into chaos wouldn't benefit them either—at most, it would give the Legion and the Empire a headache.

Just then, the messenger who'd brought the news suddenly had an idea and spoke up.

"Oh, I heard the ringleaders are all followers of the Silver Moon Church! And the loudest ones earlier too!"

Naji's temper flared. He cursed.

"Have those priests gone mad!?"

The Labor Registry director's eyes flickered thoughtfully.

"The Silver Moon faith preaches mutual aid. This whole mess... might well be tied to them."

The messenger quickly added.

"Right! I always thought those priests were no good. And I heard that Orisa was a Silver Moon follower. The ones who started the ruckus often prayed with him."

Naji's eyes narrowed, a glint of barely concealed malice flickering in the slits.

"So that's the root of it..."

He'd been careless.

He'd almost forgotten—the church was also an organization.

Especially this Silver Moon sect, which wasn't content just teaching believers to read and write—they even ran some kind of newspaper.

As if grasping the problem's source, he immediately began scheming.

"...I need to find a way to get rid of that church."

The director shook his head after hearing that.

"This is not easy... We cannot touch the people of Silvermoon Bay; they are residents of the Hump Kingdom, protected by the relevant treaties of the Sticky Commonwealth. If we act against them without a reason, who knows what major trouble might arise."

"Why do it ourselves..."

Naji suddenly let out a sinister chuckle, and in the astonished gazes of the two, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

"It was the residents of West Sail Port themselves who drove that charlatan away; we can't be blamed for that, can we?"

...

Although the steel mill had no shortage of orders, the work was not as urgent as that at the port.

Before the guards raised by the Verant lords at the port could make a move, Naji, with a hundred or so slaves borrowed from the Labor Office, formed a "Long Stick Squad," promising them not only freedom and rewards in Dinar but also that they would not be mistreated in the future.

As soon as these slaves heard there was money to be made and that they would gain the favor of the master, without a second word they grabbed their clubs and scattered the workers who had gathered together and refused to work.

Watching those rabble flee with their heads in their hands, a triumphant sneer spread across Naji's face.

Fine, don't work then!

At worst, the steel mill will shut down for two days—let's see who starves first!

With the lesson from the port, he understood that this was no time for hesitation; when it was time to be tough, one must be tough, and when it was time to act, one must be decisive.

Striking first is always better than striking later!

Even if a few people died, it was still better than having the Verant lords step in and give everyone a beating.

After settling the trouble at the steel mill, Naji repeated the same tactic, leading his men to the cement factory, where he directed his loyal club-wielders to teach the troublemakers a lesson as well.

Under his swift and forceful actions, West Sail Port, which had been a powder keg, seemed to finally return to its former calm, yet it also seemed to be brewing an even greater crisis amid the endless greed...

In three days, with the dockworkers' strenuous efforts, the cargo ships that had been clogging the port finally unloaded all their goods, and the docks were at last empty.

The lightly equipped caravans, each carrying authorization letters from the Governor's Office, charged toward that legendary land of dreams—the distant eastern province of Haiya!

Meanwhile, Naji, who had been driven to his wit's end by those dockworkers, finally breathed a sigh of relief.

The hardest days were over; he could finally free up his hands to do some things.

Whether it was the striking laborers or the Silver Moon Sect that had incited those laborers to be lazy and gluttonous...

He swore he would make them pay!

As days passed, West Sail Port seemed to fall silent for a time.

At the same time, the first caravans to set out from West Sail Port for the Death Coast finally began to arrive, one after another, at that coast of their dreams.

After drifting at sea for eleven whole days, Yarman, standing on the deck, saw the port appear on the coastline, and an excited expression finally spread across his face.

It's the port!

They had finally arrived!

The nearest unit of the Eastern Legion was stationed in Haibei City, a hundred kilometers from the coast; as long as they presented the letters from the Governor's Office to those people, they could obtain the weapons sold by the pound!

"Quick! Bring the ship alongside!"

Yarman shouted to the crew behind him while eagerly pulling out his telescope.

But the moment he raised the telescope and looked toward the coastline, he was utterly dumbfounded.

There, rows of pitch-black war chariots were neatly parked beside the containers, waiting for professional hoisting equipment to load them onto ships.

Those models—

Why did they look so familiar?