Chapter 823: Reinforcements on the Way (3/3)

Chapter 823: Reinforcements on the Way (3/3)

"You should focus on your work, don't let us distract you. I have my lovely niece to keep us company... Even if we can't celebrate this year's Birthday together, there will be plenty of time ahead."

Penny looked at her aunt and said helplessly.

"Are you assuming I won't be able to catch a flight back in time?"

Demi smiled faintly.

"It's probably too late for you to go back now. Instead of spending the holiday on a ship, why not celebrate with us this year?"

If there were a ship within these three days, she could actually make it back before the second weekend after New Year's.

Penny muttered a quiet complaint in her mind, but she didn't hold out much hope.

All civilian vessels had been dispatched east by her father, and they had probably only just reached the Death Coast now. When transport would return to normal was anyone's guess.

"Then I'll trouble my lovely niece to keep my wife company. Sorry, I'll bring you gifts."

Fork in hand, little Bill cheered happily.

"Wow! I want a mutant's eye! A green one!"

Demi shot the restless little one a stern glare.

"What do you want that for? It's filthy!"

Ross laughed heartily, reaching out his broad hand to ruffle his son's hair affectionately.

"Haha! Dad will look for one, but there are no mutants in the Brahmin Province... How about a mammoth tusk?"

Watching the harmonious family, a genuine smile crept across Penny's face.

Suddenly, she didn't feel so eager to leave.

As long as her family was safe, it didn't matter where she spent the holiday...

After a quick dinner, Ross picked up the suitcase the maid had packed, kissed his wife goodbye, and strode out of the house, climbing into the off-road vehicle waiting at the door.

A thousand Valiant soldiers had already donned their uniforms, slung their rifles and packs, and assembled at the docks of Eternal Night Port.

Unlike the cops of West Sail Port, they were true soldiers, hardened by endless battles in the desert against those gray-black-skinned mutants, exuding a chilling aura of slaughter.

It wasn't just their straight backs; the weapons they carried were the same.

From automatic and semi-automatic rifles to light machine guns and rotary machine guns, even grenade launchers and flamethrowers—all showcased their fierce combat prowess!

Unlike the Eastern Legion, which downplayed the role of infantry, the Southern Legion had invested heavily in support equipment and light weapons, since the latter lacked the former's airships and the vast fields for armored charges.

Now, the bustling port was completely shrouded in night.

Ross, now in uniform, walked before a group of soldiers and bellowed in a thunderous voice.

"A bunch of gutter rats have not only knocked over our oil lamps and stolen our cheese, but they also want to bite our fingers! We'll show them they picked the wrong opponent! Now! Move out—!!"

"Kill!!!"

In response came roars of high morale. The soldiers, laden with gear, calmly boarded the transport ship's deck.

They had no doubt.

Once ashore, a single charge would be enough to beat those weaklings into submission.

The dock's horn blared, and the stranded passengers onshore exchanged bewildered glances.

"...Where are they off to fight?"

Someone suddenly spoke.

"I heard something happened at West Sail Port..."

"West Sail Port?!" A man clutching a suitcase suddenly showed panic on his face, his voice trembling. "My wife and kids are there..."

The crowd around exchanged looks.

A passenger patted his shoulder and offered sympathetic comfort.

"Don't be so tense. Our ties with the Empire are solid. Even if something's wrong, it can't be that bad."

Others chimed in with similar reassurances.

"Yeah."

"It'll be fine."

"Besides, those rebels are only fighting the Empire. I haven't heard of them bothering us or the Alliance."

The man gave a bitter smile, but his pale face didn't change.

"I hope so..."

For some reason, his eyelid twitched violently, and his heart pounded with a dizzying unease...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Brahmin Sea, West Sail Port was engulfed in flames.

From the docks to the sea, it was a bloody mess, littered with scattered luggage and corpses.

From shattered shop windows and marble buildings came unrestrained laughter and pitiful screams. The stench of blood and sea mingled, impossible to dispel even by the constant sea breeze blowing toward the port.

A disheveled Valiant woman crawled dazedly toward the dock, her hoarse voice murmuring repeatedly, as if calling someone's name.

The seawater at the dock's edge was murky, but it was the only place left to wash away the filth on her.

She wasn't afraid of death.

She only regretted not jumping into the sea from the start, instead clinging to the illusion that those beasts would calm down and treat the Valiants here as hostages for negotiation with the Legion.

When they obediently followed orders and entered different rooms in batches, those men immediately tore off their masks.

"I'm sorry..." She sobbed uncontrollably, gritting her teeth as she reached out a bloodstained hand, crawling toward the blood-red dock.

But just as she was about to reach it, a hand grabbed her ankle, dragging her back into that bloody hell with a hoarse scream.

"Hey hey! You've got the wrong guy. Your husband's right here."

"Hahaha!"

"The interrogation isn't over. Who said you could leave? Come back here!"

"Ahhh!"

The pitiful screams soon faded into the evening breeze, insignificant compared to the cacophony rising and falling across the port.

The victims weren't just Valiants.

There were Lionfolk, Horsefolk, Sunfolk, Oxfolk... even Ratfolk and Snakefolk.

Not all of them were nobles; most were commoners.

But bullets don't distinguish between high and low, and the men with guns had no interest in making such distinctions.

Most had already been blinded by bloodlust.

As for Yanush, who had become the king, he was just one among them.

In the face of the tide of history, an individual's choice meant nothing.

After all, the former was the collective choice of countless people, even if those making the choice were unaware.

Ishar wanted to step forward and do something, like "Boll" of Megalith City.

But alas, he ultimately lacked Boll's strength.

His cries were utterly insignificant; no matter how much he pleaded, people cared not a whit, and in the end even the listeners of the *Silver Gospel News* began to waver, doubting whether they had followed the wrong man and taken the wrong path.

Helpless, he could only lead those followers still standing with him to retreat into the church.

If those rioters still harbored any hope of winning the Alliance's support, at least they would not dare to attack the temple of the Silver Moon Sect.

If there remained even a shred of rationality in their minds...

Compared to the remorseful Ishar, the driftwood-like Govinda sailed smoothly.

Though thrown onto the battlefield as cannon fodder, he was fortunate enough not to die in the initial assault; instead, his "valiant fighting" earned him acceptance among the rioters, and he became one of them.

A decurion.

Never in his life had he imagined he could become a decurion!

He was so excited he nearly cried out, wishing the whole street could know!

Yet, perhaps out of fear of the Valiants and nobles, or worry about future reckoning, he ultimately did not go as mad as those fellows, nor did he dare to touch the Valiant or Lion-woman girls.

He was a man easily satisfied, or rather, simple and honest.

Even when Naji slashed his rightful 8 dinars down to 6, he never once thought of burning the warehouse; he just spat on the ground.

Though glad he had bet correctly, he did not stay in the dock district for a victory feast; instead, he "quit while ahead," shouldered his rifle, and went home to find the widow in the shack across the way.

He had coveted that woman for ages, each time glimpsing her fair skin sending his mind into fantasies, but he never had the courage to speak out, only daring to think it in his head.

But times had changed.

He had made it big!

"What are you crying for... look at you, all pathetic—what's wrong with following me to eat and drink well?"

Glaring at the weeping woman, Govinda, still fastening his trousers, cursed under his breath, hastily counted out four dinars in small change from his pocket, tossed them on the table, and, feeling it insufficient, added a 10-dinar coin.

"Take it... from now on, as long as I have a bite to eat, you'll have yours too."

As if saying so brought some comfort, he threw out the words carelessly, then grabbed the rifle leaning against the wall and rushed out the door.

Fourteen dinars...

Damn it!

He'd have to work two or three days at the docks to earn that much!

Afterward, Govinda felt a pang of regret, but he couldn't bring himself to take back the money he'd given, so he quickened his pace toward the brightly lit harbor.

Before the "victory feast" ended, he had to go there to pick up—no, rather, snatch a bit more!

Thinking thus, the simple, honest man tried his best to put on a ferocious expression.

The world had turned.

He had to learn to think in a new way...