Chapter 820: The Pawns of the Big Shots

Chapter 820: The Pawns of the Big Shots

With a feeling of not shedding tears until seeing the coffin, Yarman took the shuttle from Settlement No. 1 to the ruins of Haibei City, completing the last hundred kilometers of this journey.

Without any surprises, when the centurion saw the paper in his hand, he simply rolled his eyes.

"Whoever wrote this for you, go find them, or go ask General Lium for it."

Ten thousand dinars for a ton of arms—at that rate, a tank would cost just over half a million!

The price offered by the Alliance, converted into dinars, was more than three times that!

This guy wanted to slash the price to a fraction with a piece of paper—dreaming of eating shit!

Yarman, still unwilling to give up, asked.

"Then... where is he?"

Antony said impatiently.

"On the airship 'Loyalty,' if not at Ten Peaks Mountain, then he's gone west for the New Year."

Actually, the question was entirely redundant—what victorious general wouldn't return to Triumph City to show off?

The legion had gained quite a bit from this battle.

Though they hadn't obtained the technical data on the "Complete Lifeform" held by the Torch, which they cared most about, the gene samples collected alone were enough to keep the technical officers in various research institutes busy for a while.

Barring any surprises, General Lium would likely be promoted to a three-star Myriarch this time.

The last hope had also been dashed.

Yarman's mouth twitched, but in the end, he put away the stack of useless paper in his hand.

He swore.

He would frame this thing, hang it in the most prominent spot in his study, and add his own family motto to pass it down through generations—

Only a pig believes the promises of a Vlandian!

If he hadn't heeded Governor Huye's call but instead done the opposite, letting his fleet follow the original route, sending tea and sugar to Triumph City, he might have made a killing on the premium from the delayed delivery of goods from the Brahmin Province!

And since it was a familiar route, he wouldn't have needed to go to sea himself. That way, he could have stayed with his family, peacefully spending the most important holiday of the year, instead of kowtowing to these grunts and being kicked around like a ball among the big shots.

He was about to turn and leave when he noticed that the exoskeletons he'd seen earlier at the dock were also here.

Not only that—

Those wearing the exoskeletons didn't seem to be Vlandian soldiers, but their kept servants.

Yarman stopped, curious, and asked.

"...How strange—you have so many exoskeletons here that you can give them to slaves?"

Such surplus would be better sold to him.

Antony's expression suddenly turned a bit embarrassed, and he coughed.

"...Those aren't slaves; they're hired."

Hired?

Yarman was taken aback and asked instinctively.

"...How much?"

Antony explained.

"Not expensive—8 silver coins an hour."

Hearing that number, Yarman's eyes nearly bulged out.

"What?! You're paying him 8 silver coins an hour?! Are you insane?!"

Even at the highest exchange rate between dinars and silver coins—three dinars for one silver coin—that's 24 dinars!

At that rate, a day's work here would earn more than a month's labor for workers in West Sailport?!

"Are you that short on people here?" Yarman's eyes lit up, and he pressed on without pause.

Seeing this fiery-eyed fellow, Antony felt a chill run down his spine.

"Short? Oh, we're terribly short... Ahem, calm down first. I know what you're thinking, but according to the Compact of the Adhesive, we can't use the Alliance's transport system to bring slaves here. So even if we're short, there's no way—"

"We have ships!" Yarman trembled with excitement. "How many do you need? I'll bring them over!"

Antony rolled his eyes.

"Do you think I haven't considered sea transport? It's useless. That whole area to the north is our 'exclave.' Unless you fly the slaves in by plane, they'll be seized if they pass through Alliance territory. And that's not the only trouble—they don't recognize the legality of contracts for buying and selling personal freedom. Once a slave escapes into their territory, they become a wastelander. You get what I mean?"

Yarman was stunned for a long moment before he said bitterly.

"You... just obey them like that?"

"What do you mean, 'obey them'?"

Displeased with the guy's phrasing, Antony shot him a sideways glance.

"It's called negotiation. Both sides give ground on mutually acceptable terms, resolving conflicts through dialogue. After all, a real fight benefits no one. But if you think we're afraid of them, you're sorely mistaken... Alright, if there's nothing else, you can piss off."

Yarman: "..."

...

Vlandians were relatively polite to their own kind—at least they wouldn't resort to rifle butts over a few unpleasant words.

Still, it was a fact that merchants held low status.

The civilian official group itself wasn't well-regarded, let alone the merchants they fostered.

Though Yarman wanted to try again, the centurion in charge of that area had no intention of wasting time with him and simply drove him away.

Yarman had no choice but to board the vehicle back to Death Coast.

The setting sun cast long shadows from the gate of Settlement No. 1.

The once-spacious dock was now packed with ships, stretching as far as the eye could see in a bustling scene.

But the empty decks told him that most who arrived today had come for nothing.

Dragging his weary body back to the port, Yarman happened to see his own crew carousing outside a bar by the docks, already drunk and leaning against walls in broad daylight.

Though most of the buildings here were shipping containers, many wastelanders ran small businesses—selling homemade cocktails or rolled cigarettes. As long as they weren't contraband, the Alliance guards didn't interfere much.

Yarman suddenly felt a bit envious of those drunken fools.

He used to think they had no future, spending their wages on booze or women within days, never able to marry, let alone achieve financial freedom... But now, at least they didn't have to worry about losing everything on the next deal.

Unlike him, they got paid as long as they went to sea, and once ashore, they could spend their money looking for fun. He, on the other hand, was always frowning, and in the end, his pockets were just as empty. What difference was there now?

Thinking of the bills waiting for him back home, Yarman felt a headache coming on. He didn't dare dwell on it, so he just muttered to his attendants and bodyguards.

"Damn it... let's go grab a drink!"

They exchanged glances, knowing the boss was in a bad mood but unsure how to comfort him, so they followed him to the liveliest bar nearby.

Unlike other wasteland-style dives, this was one of the few buildings made of brick and cement. Behind the bar stood a one-eyed robot, and the clock above the counter was a holographic projection. Clearly, the owner had taste.

Besides the dockworkers drinking here, there were also some crew members who had just come off their ships.

Seeing the dejected faces of this bunch, Yarman felt a flicker of solace—at least he wasn't the only fool taken for a ride.

The entire port was littered with Valyrians who had lost money, sitting at tables and downing mugs of beer one after another.

"Damn it!"

"That fucking Huye! And that Bennott—none of those bureaucrats are worth a damn!"

"Not a shred of loyalty!"

"Hope the mutants give his whole family hell!"

The more sycophantically they had praised before setting sail, the more venomously they cursed now.

Merchants like Yarman, who had their own crews, were rare; most had rented their ships.

Many had pinned all their hopes on this voyage for a comeback, mortgaging everything they could, borrowing a fortune from the banks of Westsail Port, and renting every available vessel in the harbor.

But now they had come up empty—all the unused equipment at the front had been monopolized by that thing called "Goblin Tech."

For these people, it was a death sentence.

Sitting at the bar, Yarman ordered a beer. Annoyed by the bodyguards and lackeys hovering behind him, he waved them off to the side.

Staring at the liter-sized mug on the table, he was about to toss it back in one gulp when a voice suddenly chimed in from beside him.

"Hey."

Yarman shot a sidelong glance at a stranger's face and frowned.

"Who the hell are you?"

The man was young, wearing a gray jacket made of rhino hide.

He flashed a grin, plopped down familiarly on the next stool, and began chatting easily.

"Zhang Ze. Got here a bit earlier than you, doing some work around the port."

Before Yarman could press him on what exactly he did, Zhang Ze barreled on.

"Valyrians are rare around here. Most of your countrymen are over in Northsea City. You here to take them home?"

Yarman snapped impatiently.

"None of your business?"

Zhang Ze chuckled.

"None at all. Just curious—empty ships coming here are unusual. This port's like a starving deathclaw, even swallows up shipping containers... You after some treasure?"

At that, Yarman's brow twitched violently. He slammed his hand on the bar and stood up.

"You looking for a fight?"

The moment his hand hit the counter, the lackeys and bodyguards at the next table rose too.

Seeing him flare up, Zhang Ze quickly stood and raised his hands, signaling no ill intent.

"Easy, brother... I know you probably took a loss, maybe a big one. But since it's already lost, why not hear me out?"

Though seething, Yarman noticed the whole bar watching him. He swallowed his anger, shot a glance at his guards, and sat back down, calming his heaving chest.

"Fine. Let's see what pearls of wisdom you've got."

Zhang Ze grinned, shamelessly settling back beside him, and lowered his voice.

"Pearls? Can't promise that. But I might have a way for you to earn back what you lost."

"Oh?" Yarman sneered, taking a mocking sip of his beer. "You gonna tell me to haul those busted containers to Westsail Port for a quick buck?"

Unfazed by the distrust, Zhang Ze shook his head lightly.

"Of course not... That wouldn't make much."

Yarman snorted again, lifting his mug for another drink.

"I don't see any high-profit specialties here."

Zhang Ze spoke patiently.

"True, there aren't. This place is still in its pioneering phase. But that's exactly why there's a huge demand for certain things—like, say, people."

Yarman's brow furrowed.

"People? I heard the Alliance bans the slave trade."

"You're right, but not entirely," Zhang Ze nodded, smiling. "The Alliance doesn't recognize slave contracts, but it doesn't forbid a more subtle way of restricting personal freedom."

Yarman grunted noncommittally.

"Such as?"

"Such as debt. Especially debt relationships within reasonable bounds—those the Alliance does recognize."

Caught off guard by this unexpected answer, Yarman froze.

"...What do you mean?"

Zhang Ze smiled and continued.

"I mean, if you just wave an IOU claiming someone owes you a lifetime's worth of money, the Alliance's relevant departments won't acknowledge it. They'd probably investigate you for being insane—what kind of lunatic lends money knowing the borrower can never repay it?"

"But in another scenario, if you produce an IOU along with a reasonable explanation of how the debt was incurred, and confirm the borrower can pay it off within 20 or 10 years without ruining their livelihood—then the Alliance will recognize that debt."

"I don't follow," Yarman frowned. "You in the loan business? I don't need a loan now, and I've got no spare cash for that kind of trade."

"No, no, not loans. But I am interested in another venture." Zhang Ze put a hand on his shoulder, coaxing. "Look, this place is short on people—desperately short. We need to build ports, railways, cities, streets—everywhere needs hands. And conveniently, thousands of miles away, there's a place with no shortage of people. If we buy them up—"

Yarman laughed mockingly.

"Can't trade slaves here. Buy them and set them free?"

"That's why you need to shift your thinking. We just turn their slave contracts into debt contracts, right? You that desperate to hear them call you 'master'?"

Seeing Yarman stunned, Zhang Ze patiently explained further.

"Operation's simple. We register a labor agency and a loan company in the Alliance, then a labor dispatch company in Westsail Port. We buy healthy slaves from the nobles, or help freedmen who've already bought their freedom."

"This isn't charity. We're offering them a second chance at life, and they pay for it themselves."

"A 1,000-dinar redemption fee, 3,000-dinar relocation allowance, 10,000-silver coin ticket plus travel expenses, with 3% interest—over 20 years, that's nearly 30,000 silver coins. Sounds scary, right? But spread out, it's only 125 silver coins a month!"

"I think that profit margin's enough. We can even waive the agency and service fees depending on the situation."

"And if they do well later and want to redeem their families or send money back, we can offer similar services."

"125 silver coins a month is still pretty steep..." Yarman clicked his tongue, swallowing a mouthful of rich beer. His tone had unconsciously grown more respectful.

If he shipped 10,000 people here, wouldn't that mean over 1.2 million silver coins every month?!

And for 20 years!

Not as good as arms dealing, but still terrifyingly lucrative.

Thinking Yarman worried the laborers couldn't afford it, Zhang Ze patted his shoulder with a smile.

"All the money in Westsail Port's been skimmed by you big-noses—they can't cough up that much. But this is our esteemed administrator's turf. Even if you're missing an arm or leg, you can borrow to get a new one. As long as you're willing to work, earning over a thousand silver coins a month is easy... So? In or out?"

Having already calculated the deal in his head, Yarman didn't hesitate long. He downed half his beer in one gulp and slammed the mug hard on the table.

Those decadent eyes seemed to have found a second spring, once again stamped with the light of ambition and determination.

"Damn it! Fuck... I at least have to earn back the capital for this deal."

If this deal goes through, maybe the bank in West Sail Port will loosen the noose around my neck!

Shit!

Once I make money, I swear I'll pay off all the loans!

Watching Yalman pull himself together, Zhang Ze finally let a cheerful smile spread across his face.

After these few days of working on the docks, he'd saved enough to register a company. If this thing worked out, reaching the peak of his life was just around the corner!

"Hold on a moment, my partner will be here soon..."

"Partner? You have another partner?" Yalman raised an eyebrow, showing interest.

Zhang Ze glanced at the holographic clock, then toward the door, and said with a smile.

"Of course, I can't handle a deal this big alone. And this labor export idea actually came from my partner over on North Island... They're already here, over there."

Yalman followed his gaze and saw four figures in blue coats standing at the door.

Seeing this, his face instantly showed surprise.

Blue Rats?!

Good heavens!

This deal was solid!

Though he didn't like the Alliance, and had just been screwed over by their goblin tech, it was a different story when it came to teammates.

No one would complain about having too reliable an ally.

The four scanned the bar, quickly spotted Zhang Ze waving at them, and walked straight over.

Yalman immediately put on a gracious smile and extended his right hand to the four friends approaching.

"I am Yalman, a merchant from West Sail Port. May I ask who you gentlemen are?"

The man in front wore an equally warm expression and firmly grasped his hand.

"I am Far-Sighted Eagle, and this beside me is Battle-Skilled Wolf... We're all residents of Vault 404. The names are a bit odd, please don't mind."

"Hello."

Battle-Skilled Wolf nodded, his taciturn demeanor making him look like a master hiding his skills.

But in truth, he acted this way simply because he hadn't learned much of the Human Union language.

That was the downside of the Strength build.

Early on, the Intelligence stat was too low—a pathetic three points—making it feel like playing as an idiot.

What strange names...

But thinking they came from a vault, Yalman wasn't so surprised.

"And... these two?"

His gaze fell on the two friends behind Eagle and Wolf.

They seemed to be vault residents too, so out of politeness, he asked their names.

Yet for some reason, all four of them wore the same subtle expression.

Far-Sighted Eagle cleared his throat.

"Don't ask about these two... Just pretend they don't exist."

"Fuck! What do you mean 'don't exist'?" [Stirring Stick] glared at him, then turned to the Vallant in front with a beaming smile, speaking haltingly but earnestly, "My name's Stick, the brothers call me Stick. That guy's Pipe—you can call him Pipe or Brother Pipe."

Catheter Dog: "???"

Yalman's brow twitched involuntarily. He felt these guys were all unreliable, but decided to observe before judging.

So he turned to Zhang Ze and spoke.

"When do we set off?"

Zhang Ze looked at Eagle, then at Yalman, and said with a smile.

"I'm fine anytime. I'm right here at the port. You all decide on the departure time."

Yalman looked at the four vault residents, and the leader, [Far-Sighted Eagle], immediately said.

"The sooner the better. I don't want to stay here a moment longer... If we head back now, we might still make next month's Founding Day."

Yalman suddenly remembered something.

"Oh, I need to buy a souvenir for my daughter... Is there a shop nearby?"

The four players were stunned by this, exchanging glances.

"A souvenir, huh... What souvenirs are there here?"

"How about a doll?" Dog suggested.

"That's too generic," Stick shook his head. "Better to bottle some sand and take it back."

Battle-Skilled Wolf tapped on his VM, checked the translation, and then stammered.

"How about a mutant specimen? The mutants here are pretty unique—the kind with long fins."

The other three were shocked.

"Good grief."

"Whoa."

"That's way too grotesque!"

"That won't do..." Having barely understood their exchange, Yalman said awkwardly, "I once gave a mutant head specimen, but my little Ruby didn't like it... My wife too, said it was too scary to see at night."

Far-Sighted Eagle: "...?"

Catheter Dog: "..."

Stirring Stick: "Badass..."

Listening to their chatter, Zhang Ze couldn't help but cover his forehead and pat it, then suddenly had an idea.

"How about taking some photos? Your kids have never been to the wasteland, right? The scenery here should be quite unique."

Yalman's eyes lit up at this, and he excitedly grabbed Zhang Ze's shoulders.

"My friend, you're brilliant! Why didn't I think of that!"

Far-Sighted Eagle patted his shoulder.

"Then go take one quickly. The sun's about to set. There aren't as many streetlights here as on North Island or in Fries Port. Once it's dark, you won't see a thing."

The group noisily left the bar, snapping several photos before the sun fully set, capturing the twilight scene of Settlement One.

Standing on the deck of the cargo ship about to set sail, Yalman fiddled with the Polaroid camera he'd bought from the port's general store, then let out a simple laugh and scratched the back of his head.

"Why didn't I ever think of this before... Photography, what a great idea."

Cameras are nothing special, and he had been to far more interesting settlements than this one.

If he had photographed them all, those pictures would have already covered an entire wall.

What a pity!

As he spoke, he snapped another shot of the sun sinking into the sea.

"It's all right, it's never too late to start recording from now on; life's road is still long..." Farseeing Eagle patted his shoulder with an air of old wisdom, putting on a profound act as he practiced his still-rough Union tongue.

"True enough..."

Yarman grinned and stowed the camera away.

He suddenly felt that these shelter dwellers weren't so bad after all; setting aside positions, making friends with them was actually quite fun.

Their minds were quick, and they always came up with wild ideas... including that legendary space elevator under construction.

He couldn't imagine them calling him "master," and if they did, it would probably be a real downer.

The crew, not yet fully satisfied with their drinks, filed up the gangway onto the deck. After the captain counted heads, he walked over to Yarman.

"We're ready to go anytime... but is it all right to head back empty? We've basically made two wasted trips."

Yarman said with high spirits.

"No problem, and this trip isn't a waste. Once we're back, we can soon start a more profitable new deal... ah, sorry, the dividend from this deal might—"

Watching his boss go from buoyant to stammering in an instant, the captain shrugged with an indifferent expression.

"It's fine. Honestly, when you mentioned such high profits, I knew there'd be a catch... No dividend, no problem. Right now I just hope I don't miss Founders' Day; my family's waiting for me."

Farseeing Eagle asked curiously.

"What's Founders' Day?"

"It's the day the Verant people were born, the start of a great legend."

Yarman's lips curled slightly as he gazed at the distant sea and bellowed.

"Set sail!"

The horn sounded.

While the disappointed cargo ships still lingered stubbornly in the harbor, a fleet of eight vessels chased the setting sun and embarked on a new journey.

Crimson light spilled across their path, and the sunset's afterglow filled the entire shimmering ocean.

That burning color.

As if stained with blood.