Chapter 824: The End of Blood

Chapter 824: The End of Blood

“M-Master... it's my fault, I deserve to die... I shouldn't...”

By the docks of Westsail Port.

Naji, bound hand and foot, knelt trembling on the ground, his trousers soaked, his mouth stammering pleas, cursing himself for being such a worthless wretch.

But as luck would have it, just as he reached the crucial point of his 'deserving to die,' his tongue tied itself in knots, and for a moment he forgot where to start his litany of 'shouldn't's.

The firelight beside him flickered, and after a moment he finally adjusted to the darkness there.

It was then that he saw the thick blood on the ground, the intestines hanging from a broken crate, and the pale flesh discarded in the street... His stomach churned, and he barely held back a vomit.

“Ugh—!”

After a bout of dry heaving, he immediately resumed his trembling pleas for mercy.

Janusz watched his expression with mockery, as if admiring a wild dog with its limbs broken.

“Right, right... Orissa,” Naji finally remembered the name, looking around at those surrounding him with a pleading face, “It's my fault... I caused his death! I beg you to give me a chance to atone...”

Whether or not he had caused the death, he had no choice but to take the blame.

He knew.

These people were beyond reason; only by appeasing their anger could things calm down.

As if tired of his performance, or perhaps not yet sated with the taste of Vellant, Janusz yawned and beckoned to someone beside him.

“String up this villain, using that flagpole in front of the Governor's mansion.”

Naji, still on his knees, hadn't yet come to his senses, nor had the laborers gathered around.

But some quick-witted ones caught on, their faces immediately breaking into sneers or other vivid expressions.

“Great idea!”

“Brilliant!”

“As expected of the boss!”

In the end, it seemed only Naji was left in the dark, staring in bewilderment and terror at the people closing in on him.

“You, you... what are you doing... Aaaah! No—! Let me go!”

The people paid no heed to his screams and pleas, grabbing him by the arms without a word and dragging him toward the Governor's mansion...

...

After the Vellant defeat, the chiliarch of Westsail Port's city defense force vanished without a trace.

He knew better than anyone the true nature of his own men.

Moreover, they only had a single cohort, and their weapons and equipment were hardly better than the guard's—at most a few cannons and such.

None of that was of any use; the explosion had come from inside the fortress.

Not only was their firepower completely suppressed by the rebels, but in terms of numbers they were utterly outmatched.

Not to mention that among the rebels were veterans of the Grey Wolf Army.

Janusz personally led his men into the city defense force's garrison, and only after having 'finished his business.'

He had expected a hard battle, but to his surprise, the chiliarch had simply fled, and the remaining men, seeing the sea of people outside, promptly raised the white flag and surrendered.

After disarming these leaderless men, Janusz did not treat them as he had the Lionfolk at the port; instead, he dispersed them into his own ranks, instructing the decurions and centurions to keep an eye on these former city guards, then returned to the port district to continue the unfinished 'carnival.'

This 'carnival' lasted until three in the morning, when the sound of snoring finally replaced the hoarse screams.

The rioters had finally had their fill, and all of Westsail Port fell silent as if asleep.

And the silence was terrifying.

All residents shut their windows and doors tight, afraid to make the slightest sound that might attract those 'insurgents' with cloth bands tied around their arms.

Their slogans were loud and clear: not only would they kill all Vellant, but also all nobles and lackeys who collaborated with them, to build a nation of total equality... yet in the end, they killed more than just Vellant.

That Naji was the first to be settled.

Of course, the bastard had it coming.

And ironically, the one who betrayed him was a fellow from the Long Stick Squad—a slave he had recently redeemed.

In truth, even without betrayal, it's hard to say whether he would have survived.

After all, the place he chose to hide was most unfortunate; seeing trouble brewing, he actually slipped into an empty Vellant house.

He thought the mob wouldn't dare touch Vellant property, but he never imagined they had grown so reckless as to kick down the door and barge in.

The furious crowd ignored his shouts, dragged him to the port, humiliated him first, then impaled him on the charred flagpole.

And they impaled him from bottom to top.

It was said that at first he could still cry out, but later, from the unbearable pain, he bit through his own tongue and passed out.

As for the few 'long sticks' who betrayed Naji, they didn't fare well either.

The enraged insurgents, settling old scores, took the very long sticks that had once beaten them and beat those men nearly into pulp.

This was not the end.

The true reckoning had only just begun!

Those who wore Vellant clothes, used Vellant things, or had worked for the Vellant, or had dinars in their pockets but no cloth band on their arms, or even those completely unrelated, were also caught by the butcher's blade.

For instance, Govinda's neighbor.

But that fellow was too timid, so the 'bayonet' didn't draw blood.

Everyone was terrified by these bloodthirsty madmen.

Perhaps some among them were even startled by themselves, but now, they could only tighten the bandages on their sleeves a bit more.

Otherwise, not to mention Vellant retaliation, they might first be caught in friendly fire.

Yet those who were splattered with blood but still clear-headed were actually a minority.

Most of the bloodshot-eyed fools didn't think that far; drunk on victory, they even thought, if the Legion won't negotiate, then fine—we'll take the Celestial Capital and then march all the way to Triumph City!

This wasn't Janusz's deception; they genuinely believed it.

After all, the hundreds or thousands of cannon fodder dead in the streets—what were they but people?

As for the Vellant guards who fell in the port district, they counted them clearly—exactly sixty-one, all beaten to death in a miserable state.

The rest were either citizens of Westsail Port or servants from other Legion colonies, adding up to less than two hundred.

Some of them probably stripped off their clothes and fled; they couldn't be bothered to count carefully.

What Legion.

Nothing special!

...

The church of the Silver Moon Sect.

Ishir, hidden behind the curtain, quietly gazed outside, his brows tightly furrowed.

The believer crouching beside him swallowed hard and spoke with a trembling voice.

“……These people have gone mad.”

He had just witnessed with his own eyes several men with cloth bands tied around their arms kick open a door and drag a family out from inside.

The man seemed to be a security guard from the labor registry—he had a vague impression of him, perhaps a Ma tribesman.

Yet precisely because of that impression, he knew the man absolutely did not deserve to die…

But those people clearly didn’t care about that. Soon from the room came the sound of things being smashed, a man’s roar, a child’s cries, a woman’s screams, and then the gunshot that cut everything short.

Watching those demons emerge from the doorway, Isher clenched his teeth so hard he wished he could bite his gums until they bled.

He couldn’t believe these people were his own countrymen—even if they were persecuting Verlanders, it would have made him feel just a little bit better…

But what tormented him even more was that the towering, stalwart image in his heart was crumbling bit by bit.

He had once worshipped “Borr” with all his being.

He had once believed that people could unite, even a crowd with nothing—not even the ability to read a single word.

Yet reality had dealt him a harsh slap across the face.

In the end, he suddenly realized that he himself, spouting nonsense, was the clown driven into a corner by the crowd with sticks—the very “Ken” from *The Awakened Borr*.

The snow of Boulder City fell in his heart again and again, burying all hope and beauty.

He wrote all his hatred into his eyes.

He hated the Legion, he hated the Empire, but he hated these vermin before him even more!

If someday in the future, the survivors of the Brahmin Province could finally walk out of this humiliating memory, the one who led them out of the wasteland would surely trample these fiends underfoot and bury every last one of them in that red earth!

Surely it would happen!

The leader clearly noticed his gaze, but smiled carelessly, even gesturing provocatively at him, as if to say, “Come out and talk if you dare.”

Perhaps his superiors had ordered that this church, hung with the moon, was not to be touched for now. Patrols had passed by several times, and not one had come to knock.

Yet even so, no one dared to relax—no one could say how long this order would hold.

After all, these people were unreasonable; they did whatever came to mind, went wherever they pleased, and changed their minds with a mere slap on the forehead.

“……There are too many Verlanders left here. We shouldn’t be sheltering them.”

A believer looked back, swallowed hard, and spoke with a trembling voice.

The Verlanders hiding here numbered over two hundred—even more than the believers themselves.

Most were women, with some children, and every pair of eyes was filled with terror.

“It has nothing to do with who they are… What we need to abolish is the privilege of the nobles, the privilege of outsiders—not slaughter the unarmed. Otherwise… we will sooner or later become the very fiends we once feared.”

Isher’s words suddenly stopped, because he realized this argument couldn’t convince anyone.

He was still trying to imitate those people.

And at that moment, he suddenly understood what Mr. Melchior had said to him before the sun set.

This couldn’t go on…

Taking a deep breath, he changed his tone and continued in a narrative that every Brahmin Province native could understand.

“……Think about it carefully. The Verlander colonies aren’t far from here. Once the Legion’s troops arrive, those people outside will die sooner or later. And if we want to survive, we must prove we are innocent… They are the best evidence. If they die, not one of us will live. But as long as they remain, not only we survive, but our families too.”

At last, a look of understanding appeared in those eyes, and those who had been struggling or hesitating finally calmed down, no longer mentioning driving those people away.

Even if just one person remembered—someone had to remember that this city wasn’t full of madmen.

Otherwise, as Isher said, they would all be buried in the earth, buried alongside those madmen…

Sitting at the edge of the crowd, Marguerite’s face was pale, her forehead covered in sweat, still not recovered from the earlier terror.

At the time, she hadn’t thought twice—hadn’t even taken her luggage—grabbed Ruby’s hand and ran, fleeing the port district before the fighting ended, and hiding in this church.

There were many who thought the same as her, but only about a hundred succeeded.

She dared not imagine…

If she had taken one wrong step then, what miserable fate would have befallen her and Ruby…

“Mom…”

“Don’t be afraid,” Marguerite held Ruby’s little hand, forcing her voice not to tremble as she comforted her softly. “It’ll be okay… Aren’t you going to play with Ansuya? You’ll see her soon. Do you want her to see a Ruby who cries at the first sign of trouble? She looks up to you, you know.”

With red-rimmed eyes, Ruby nodded, then shook her head, and finally held back the tears swirling in her eyes, not letting out a sob.

Marguerite forced a smile onto her face and gently wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.

“Good girl…”

“Verlanders don’t cry—our tears dried up the moment we were born.”

The church was silent.

Apart from whispers and soft sobs, not a single person cried aloud.

Looking at the Verlanders hiding in the church, Melchior’s face was etched with worry.

The old nun standing beside him looked at him and spoke in a very low, soft voice.

“Our food isn’t enough for so many people—not even for one meal. And if the rebels find out there are so many Verlanders hidden here… they will tear everyone in this place apart.”

“I know…”

Melchior glanced gloomily at the bright moonlight outside the window and sighed softly.

“But I can’t just abandon these poor people…”

Though he hadn’t been to the port, just from the piercing screams, he could easily imagine what had happened there.

Even though he didn’t like Verlanders—even loathed their noses—he still couldn’t push these innocent people into the fire… even if he himself stood at the edge of that fire.

It wasn’t just because of the teachings of the Silver Moon Goddess and the Spirit of the Sand Sea, but also because of the conscience in his heart.

“I know… we can’t abandon them, but letting them stay here forever isn’t a solution either,” the old nun said with a bitter expression, lowering her voice. “We need to find a way to get them out of the city… Only outside the city can they be truly safe.”

The rebels had only just taken control of the port and hadn’t yet fully seized the entire settlement.

If they wanted to leave the city, now was probably the only chance…

But how could so many Verlanders get out?

Melchior’s face was full of worry, and just then, a knock came at the door, instantly making everyone in the church’s hearts leap into their throats.

“Thump—thump—”

The clear knocking sounded like the footsteps of death itself.

Sitting on the bench, Marguerite, like her compatriots here, involuntarily held her breath and gripped her daughter’s little hand tightly.

But at that moment, a low, gentle call drifted in from outside the tightly shut door.

“Excuse me… Is Miss Marguerite inside? This old servant is the steward of Sharma… If you are inside, please answer.”

Hearing that voice, Marguerite covered her mouth in excitement, then raised her hand to signal that the caller was for her.

A pair of eyes turned toward her, including Isher’s, who stood by the door.

Ischer could not make up his mind either, and looked toward Pastor Melchior standing in the church.

The latter was silent for a moment, then finally nodded.

“……Open the door.”

Hiding here would surely lead to death; perhaps the one entering might have a way out.

As the church door opened, an old man of still sturdy build walked in, accompanied by a man with a cloth band wrapped around his arm.

Seeing the cloth band on the arm, Ischer’s eyes widened in an instant, and everyone nearby grasped their weapons.

One of Yanush’s men!

This man must not be allowed to return alive!

As if sensing the murderous intent in those eyes, the old man quickly raised his hand.

“Don’t be agitated… Sahadu, servant of Lord Sharma. This is my nephew, named Pavin. He may have done something foolish, but I can vouch with my life that he is different from those outside—he came to his senses in time.”

The young man called Pavin was clearly frightened, but upon seeing Sahadu’s gaze, he pulled himself together and hurriedly explained.

“I… I was forced too. Those people kill anyone they see…”

“How can I trust you?” Ischer lowered his voice, tightening his grip on the knife.

Pavin swallowed hard and spoke tremblingly.

“I can’t make you trust me… but anyone not mad should know those people are doomed. Not only will the Alliance not help them, even that demon Rasi won’t lift a finger for them. I don’t want to die… Is that reason enough?”

“Enough, clear enough,” Ischer said, stepping forward to pat his shoulder, then pulled him aside. “Forgive my earlier rudeness. We, like you, have no choice.”

He paused, then continued.

“Do you have a way out?”

Pavin nodded hastily, speaking rapidly.

“I do… I’m sort of a decurion. In about ten or fifteen minutes, around four in the morning, this street will be under my command. Then I’ll think of a way to divert the men. Many have been carousing all night at the port; I reckon four o’clock is when the patrol is most lax.”

Noticing the eager gazes fixed on him, Pavin felt his scalp tingle and muttered.

“…It’s just that escaping everyone isn’t realistic, but a few people shouldn’t be a problem.”

The old steward named Sahadu also spoke quickly.

“I have a carriage waiting outside the city… to take Lady Marguerite and Miss Ruby back.”

Marguerite asked anxiously.

“Can you get more carriages?”

Sahadu swallowed hard and nodded hastily.

“It should be possible… but only after returning to the lord’s estate. I can’t contact him now.”

In truth, he wanted no further complications; entering the city at this critical juncture was risky enough, and one misstep could cost him and his nephew their lives.

Marguerite gritted her teeth, tightened her grip on Ruby’s little hand, then gave a glance to the maid beside her and rose from her chair.

“Wait for me here… Once I get out, I will surely bring people to rescue you!”

She would not abandon these compatriots.

She would do her utmost to persuade Count Sharma.

Hadn’t that man always yearned to ascend to the core power circles of the Celestial Capital with the help of the Vellandians?

This opportunity was right before him!

If he could save even a few—a dozen or twenty—once the situation calmed, he would at least be made a duke!

“The Silver Moon Goddess witnesses your oath… Go, my lady,” Melchior said softly. “I believe you will not forget your own people.”

Marguerite nodded earnestly.

“That is certain. I swear by my little Ruby—”

Her words had barely fallen when a voice, like that of a demon, drifted in abruptly from outside the door.

Everyone’s heart froze in an instant, as if struck by some enchantment.

“Ruby? Tsk tsk… What a lovely name.”

…

The Celestial Capital’s palace.

Wuto was snoring soundly in his bedchamber, dreaming of battleships and Xilan coins.

But just then, a rush of hurried footsteps and an urgent report jolted him from his slumber.

“Your Majesty! Terrible news! Rebels, rebels—”

“Rebels?” Wuto sat up with a start, hastily straightening his attire, glaring at the eunuch kneeling on one knee. “Where now?”

The eunuch dared not breathe heavily, his head pressed firmly against the gold-trimmed woolen carpet.

“…West Sailport! It’s West Sailport!”

West Sailport?

Wuto blinked, the interrupted drowsiness creeping back, and rubbed his brow.

“Isn’t that Vellandian territory… I already handed it over to them to manage.”

The eunuch continued with a bitter expression.

“That’s true… but the trouble lies with those Vellandians. Those laborers somehow grew bold as lions, seized the weapons stored in the Vellandian warehouse at the port, and captured West Sailport!”

Wuto’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. His mouth fell open, and he sat frozen on the bed.

They…

Captured the Vellandian port?!

He himself had no idea his own underlings possessed such skill!

No—

If they were truly that formidable, how had they fared so miserably at Ten Peaks Mountain?

Because that expeditionary force was so disgraceful, he hadn’t even bothered to summon them back, leaving them to rot on that tiny exclave of the empire in the Haiya Province.

Seeing the stunned emperor, the eunuch stammered.

“The rebels have taken the port… The Vellandians living there are in grave danger. I fear the Legion will blame us; we’d best find a way to rescue those people.”

Coming to his senses, Wuto’s first instinct was to seek help from the Legion, but he quickly recalled that both Governor Huye and General MacLenn had gone home for the New Year.

More precisely, it was the “Birthday” on the second weekend after the New Year’s passage.

Wuto got out of bed, pacing anxiously back and forth.

Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he hurried to the eunuch, looking down at him.

“What about the soldiers General MacLenn trained? Aren’t some still in Lion Province?”

The eunuch said with a mournful face.

"Those are all officers and sergeants, barely over a thousand in total—no match for the rebels at all..."

Wu Tuo asked urgently.

"Just how many rebels are there?!"

"I... I don't know... the exact number is hard to say; some reports say fifty or sixty thousand, others say a hundred thousand." The eunuch swallowed his saliva and stammered, "Your Majesty... issue the decree—only by sending your Imperial Guard can we possibly deal with those bastards!"

Thoughts raced through Wu Tuo's mind—he absolutely could not ignore this matter.

If he stood by and did nothing, the Vallant would surely settle accounts with him afterward.

Yet he had to consider not only the Vallant's safety but also his own!

With the Gray Wolf Army fighting in Mammoth Province, the Imperial Guard was the only card left in his hand.

If he sent out his Imperial Guard, who would protect him?

Rely on the Heavenly Capital's city defense forces?

The most disgraceful lot in the Xilan Empire was those bastards—those mud-stinking paupers were utterly useless!

Sending the city defense forces was also out of the question; it would be almost like feeding the enemy.

Choosing the lesser of evils, Wu Tuo gritted his teeth and made a decisive choice.

"Order the Lion Province local army to assemble!"

The eunuch was taken aback; he recalled that not long ago, His Majesty had repeatedly stressed not only to guard against the Alliance but also to prevent local forces from seizing the opportunity to grow strong.

Both would harm the empire's very foundation.

If the Lion Province local army was assembled, wouldn't that be like creating another Tiger Province or Leopard Province in the west?!

The local nobles would, of course, be happy to recruit troops and buy horses, but getting those soldiers to lay down their arms and return to farming would be difficult.

"But—"

"Lion Province has the Vallant; even if local forces grow strong, they're nothing to fear. No more arguments—just do as I say!" Wu Tuo's eyes gleamed with sharp light, and his resolute tone made the kneeling eunuch sway.

It wasn't that he was scared shitless by His Majesty's kingly aura—even without a catheter, he'd have trouble pissing—but every time his revered Majesty made a snap decision, it always led to disaster, and he feared this time would be no different.

Maybe he should discuss it with the cabinet before deciding?

That was what he thought, but he dared not speak up, only nodding meekly.

"Yes..."

Just as Wu Tuo's decree and messengers were racing toward Lion Province, the next day's sun had already risen over the blood-soaked harbor.

The stench of decay filled the entire dock, attracting countless flies and rats, as well as vultures soaring in the sky...

How many had died last night could no longer be counted, but one thing was certain: this purge was thorough enough that even Kent of Boulder City, who despised the Workers' Union from the bottom of his heart and thought them no different from the inner-city nobles, would be struck silent.

This time, enough had died.

Thorough enough, too.

But somehow... something felt off.

And so, the bloody revelry lasted two days and two nights.

Until the morning of the third day, when Yanush finally seemed to remember what he was supposed to do, and finished recognizing his supporters. He raised his arm and led the slaves who had broken their shackles and chains out of the city, saying they would go save more slaves.

Slavery had to be abolished—the examples of West Sail Port and Golden Gallon Port proved that there was a chain stronger than any contract in this world, and the new empire would need to use it too.

Thinking of what he was about to do, he trembled with excitement, his face glowing.

It was then that he suddenly felt the title "Great King" was too small, utterly insufficient to sum up his achievements.

So he bestowed it upon his underlings, creating a full thirteen Great Kings, each corresponding to the thirteen provinces of Bolo.

As for himself, he declared himself the Heavenly King—the one and only king under heaven!

To make his title sound more imposing, he fused it with legends of the Heavenly Wolf devouring the sun, saying the wolf tribe had waited long for this moment, and he was the one chosen by the Wolf God.

As for the future new empire's Heavenly Capital, it would be set in Wolf Province, his homeland.

Gathered under his command were fully two hundred thousand men, mostly slaves and serfs.

Not all were from West Sail Port; some came from nearby estates.

As for the dockworkers who had first lit the flame, they had become a minority in the ranks...

That was inevitable.

After all, though West Sail Port held 99% of Lion Province's wealth, its population was barely more than a ninth of the entire province.

Everyone in the rebellion knew that relying on just those people would not stir up much trouble; they had to drag more people in, spread the fire farther, only then could they hope to survive!

Moreover, since they had decided to rise up, they could not call themselves rebels.

Yanush quickly named his organization the Heavenly King Salvation Army, abbreviated as the Heavenly Army!

It sounded rustic, but as long as it was imposing enough, that was fine—his men weren't scholars anyway.

And most crucially, he couldn't figure out anything better himself, so he just stuffed in something intimidating.

To be honest, the name actually fooled a certain man who had just returned to Dawn City from the southern seas for the New Year.

Heavenly Army!

What kind of name was that—sounding all "heavenly and earthly"?

By the time intelligence on the "Heavenly Army" reached Chu Guang through various channels, it was already the fourth morning after the "West Sail Port Massacre."

That is, New Year's Day of the year 214 in the Wasteland Era.

At the same time, Ross's thousand-man force finally neared West Sail Port, ready to begin support.

The transport mission consisted of two transport ships, one supply ship, and one shallow-water heavy gunboat.

That thing was called a coastal vessel, but it could actually sail a bit in the open sea.

The Legion had not mastered psychic interference technology, but by emitting sound waves of specific frequencies from sonar devices, they could drive away some dangerous mutants.

After unloading supplies, the two transports and the supply ship would immediately begin evacuation operations.

The heavy gunboat would remain ashore for support.

The plan was perfect.

The only pity was that, no matter how you looked at it, they were too late...

Gazing at the harbor, a scene of chaos and blood, Ross felt his vision go dark and nearly fainted.

His hands gripped the ship's railing tightly to steady himself, the paint chips digging into his flesh.

Beside him, MacLenn's face was equally grim; he held a telescope, his eyes coldly fixed on the harbor.

On the roof of the governor's mansion stood a charred flagpole, impaling a corpse that had been pecked and gnawed by crows until only bones and scraps of flesh remained...

And on the open ground, there were even more; blood had painted every brick red.

It seemed like a provocation to the Legion.

What was even more ridiculous was that on the harbor sat several 100mm cannons they had given to the locals.

Those toothpicks just stood there, motionless, pointing at them.

The artillerymen and soldiers crouching on the harbor seemed to pay no heed at all to their four ships.

“Bastards...”

Having chewed on that word a thousand times in his mouth, Ross finally released the nearly twisted railing and cast his gaze behind him.

He was not alone.

Every soldier on the deck was kindled with rage, their pupils glaring as if about to split, their livid faces as cold as blades.

“It’s the raiders...”

Ross extended a trembling index finger toward the harbor, his expression gradually contorting.

Then, he snatched the walkie-talkie from his shoulder and roared in a voice nearly a bellow.

“Ship guns! Load!”

“Blast them for me—!!!”

“Blast until I say stop!!”