Chapter 827: Punishment and Mediation

Chapter 827: Punishment and Mediation

On a stretch of red soil outside West Sailport, near the coastline.

A dozen or so Verlanders, rifles slung over their shoulders, smoked and watched the people digging pits in the distance.

Among them were men, women, the elderly, and even children who looked barely grown.

Clearly, the Verlanders had no intention of measuring their worth by the yard—they chose the most egalitarian method instead.

They clutched shovels, sobbing and trembling, digging into the blood-red earth with their heads down.

Though most knew in their hearts who these pits were meant for, not one dared to stop.

After all, cooperation bought them a few more moments of life.

If they stopped, they’d be beaten before they died.

As for resistance…

These Verlanders would have welcomed it.

After all, firing on the unarmed still carried a shred of guilt.

“Work hard, mudbugs. Finish early, and you’ll lie down early for a rest, haha.”

Pacing the edge of the crowd, a Verlander soldier with a rifle snarled curses, making no effort to hide the contempt in his words.

At the sound of that hellish abuse, the bowed shoulders of the diggers trembled uncontrollably, and their sobbing grew louder.

Finally, someone gave out. His vision blurred, and he collapsed to the ground.

Only when the Verlander soldier strode over did the half-conscious man’s face twist in fear. He rolled over, kneeling to beg.

“Sir… I’m hungry… Could I… eat something before I dig?”

“Hungry? Eat,” the soldier grabbed his head like a fish, shoved it into the dirt, and sneered. “The ground’s full of it. Need me to feed you?”

The pinned man struggled and pleaded, but no sound came out. Instead, he swallowed mud and grit, barely gasping for air after forcing it down.

“No, I dare not… sir…”

“Then get to work! Useless trash!”

Deeming him too filthy, the soldier tired of tormenting the dying wretch. He struck him once with the rifle butt and left him to his fate.

The onlookers watched in terror, staring at the man writhing like an earthworm. No one dared speak, let alone resist.

Not all here were weak or elderly—there were strong young men, even some from the defeated city garrison two days prior.

Yet faced with those savage Verlander soldiers, they lacked even the courage to pick up a rifle and fight.

Alongside those weeping as they worked, there were also those who dug with all their might.

They had endless strength and a “grand vision” others lacked.

Sweating profusely, they tried to dig the pits deeper, to prove they could endure more hardship, as if that might save them.

But they didn’t know their futile eagerness only made them clowns in the eyes of those big-nosed men, deepening the scorn in their gazes.

They didn’t even bother to distinguish among these people—who were Lionfolk, Sunfolk, Oxfolk, or the lowly Snake-Rat-Insect-Bird.

All were equally hopeless.

Even at this point, they wouldn’t fight back. Burial alive was too merciful for them; they should have been handed to the “Gray Men.”

In truth, that had been the plan, but no Gray mercenaries were with this unit, and summoning them was too inefficient, so the commander dropped the idea.

Yesterday, one batch was buried. Today, the second. Two months should suffice.

Watching the people sweat on the red soil, Pete flicked away a spent cigarette butt, then pulled out his pack to light another.

From dawn to dusk, this was his second pack of the day.

“Sometimes I really think we were born into this world just to do the dirty work.”

The big man beside him, his decurion, muttered in a low voice.

“This?”

Pete smirked, standing in the ash, laughing at himself.

“Yeah. Cleaning up slime mold, cleaning up trash, and rotting tainted blood. The old bastards from the Age of Prosperity wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it—so they left it all to us. We’re like that dialysis machine for kidneys, scrubbing this filth clean. Only then will this moldy world get back to normal… Don’t you think?”

Like scavengers.

And when it’s all over, it’ll be our turn to be swept into the trash heap.

The New Era holds no future for Verlanders. Their fate was sealed the moment they were born—they’ll be the last dust of the Wasteland Era, swept into the garbage, the final wastelanders.

But that’s precisely why the Marshal’s greatness shines.

That noble lord saw through the filth in the hearts of the high and mighty from the start, and without hesitation, he led them to unite and overthrow that hypocritical compromise.

Though he was just a lowly decurion, he respected that man from the bottom of his heart.

“I don’t know. But they have to die.” The big man’s face was etched with hatred, his fierce jowls trembling with rage.

“I agree…”

Pete, cigarette dangling from his lips, smirked and turned his gaze to the distant sea horizon. Then he narrowed his eyes.

There, where sea met sky, a few faint black dots appeared.

They looked like cargo ships.

He took the radio from his shoulder, pressed the button, and spoke.

“…Ships incoming.”

“Yeah, from the east.”

…

Yarman’s fleet practically charged into the harbor, nearly crashing into the dock from the speed.

The fleet arrived a full twenty-four hours earlier than expected.

Under Yarman’s frantic urging, his sailors had nearly capsized the ships.

Staring at the ravaged port before him, Yarman lunged toward the railing like a madman.

“Let me go! Let me down!”

Seeing their boss about to jump from the deck four or five meters high, the captain and several sailors rushed to grab him, pinning him against the railing.

“Boss, calm down! At least wait for the gangplank! Do you want to break your neck?”

“Then let me die! I’ll go down with them!” Yarman screamed hysterically, struggling against their grip.

The sailors were terrified and quickly shouted.

“You can’t! What about us if you die?”

“My whole fortune is on your ship!”

“You haven’t paid us for this trip yet—”

“Shut up!” The captain yelled at the heartless sailors, then turned to Yarman, swallowing hard. “Open your eyes and look—those are our people on the shore. Your family might still be alive. If they find out you broke your neck on the dock, what would they think?”

This remark did calm Yalman somewhat, the taut shoulders ceasing their trembling.

The captain shot a glance at the sailors nearby, signaling them to keep a close watch on the boss, and not let him disembark until the gangway was securely in place.

Watching that utterly dejected man, Brother Dog on the deck felt a pang of pity and let out a sigh.

"Cheer up, brother—life's bound to have its rough patches... uh, I mean, a blessing in disguise... bah! Well, at least you don't have to pay back the bank now..."

Seeing this creature who could never utter a sensible word, Stirring Stick couldn't help but snap.

"Will you just shut the hell up?"

Catheter Dog muttered back, unconvinced.

"What's it matter... he can't understand me anyway."

Far-Sighted Eagle suddenly blurted out.

"Don't be so sure."

Catheter Dog: "???"

War-Wise Wolf was silent for a moment, staring at the man's back, then finally shook his head.

"...My condolences."

Showing no reaction to the commotion behind him, Yalman pressed his ashen face against the damp deck, his whole being as if drained of soul.

Only when the anchor chain and gangway were lowered one after another and the ship finally came to rest did he stir, shaking off the hands that held him and stumbling down the gangway.

Having noticed these ships long before, a squad of Verrant soldiers carrying rifles approached.

Yalman staggered up to them and grabbed one young soldier by the arm.

His bluish lips trembled, opening and closing for a long time without a word.

Yet everyone there knew what he was trying to say, as if they could hear it.

Seeing this pitiful soul, the soldiers' faces showed expressions of sympathy.

One of the decurions stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it gently, and said in a comforting tone.

"...We found some survivors, but we're not sure if any are your family."

A glimmer of hope flickered in his dull eyes, and Yalman asked in a trembling voice.

"Where are they?"

The decurion looked at the young soldier whose arm he had grabbed.

"Take him there."

"Yes, sir!" The young soldier stood at attention, then looked at Yalman and said, "Please follow me."

Yalman released his grip on the soldier's arm and followed closely behind him.

The decurion then turned his gaze to the four figures descending from the ship, clearly not Verrants, and furrowed his brow slightly.

He had a vague suspicion of who these people were.