Chapter 946: The Wonder of the Willant People

Chapter 946: The Wonder of the Vellant

Due to the terrifying manner in which Brother Chicken-Killer made his entrance, the natives surrounding the industrial zone quietly slipped away, and this farce of a siege finally came to an end.

A total of 471 civilians were trapped inside the factory warehouse.

Among them, besides those associated with the factory, there were also residents from nearby communities who had fled in when they sensed trouble.

After all, under normal circumstances, the Alliance’s forces would surely seize the industrial zone first, to prevent its production equipment from being destroyed.

No one knew better than them what those savages were like.

Falling into the hands of the Alliance was still better than falling into the hands of those natives.

“Thank you… thank you for saving us.”

Clutching his wife and daughter’s hands tightly, a pale-faced man emerged from the warehouse.

His name was Antoine, the district chief of the industrial zone, directly subordinate to the Legion’s General Affairs Department, holding the rank of a ten-thousand-man commander, equal to the chieftain of a nearby settlement.

It was worth noting that the Ravencar Industrial Zone was a special district within the Southern Legion; a vast expanse of industrial parks belonged to the Avant Central, while only the colonial lands along the Ravencar River were under local jurisdiction.

The Southern Legion’s tactics here were textbook—first, they firmly seized control of the water sources and farmland, and then the natives would automatically scurry off to the factories.

Fang Chang glanced at him, noticing his flat nose bridge, and couldn’t help but feel a bit surprised.

“You’re not a Vellant?”

Antoine bowed slightly and nodded, speaking nervously.

“I’m a native of the Bartoya Province. According to your classification habits, my ancestral home is in Avant City…”

This fellow was quite well-traveled.

Seems like he might be someone who can understand reason.

Fang Chang pondered for a moment, then spoke.

“How much do you know about the different tribes here?”

Antoine replied immediately.

“I’ve dealt with them for over a decade. I wouldn’t dare claim to know them inside out, but I’m basically familiar with them.”

Fang Chang nodded and continued.

“Then, aside from the survivors from Bartoya Province, how many tribes do you call ‘the different tribes,’ and which one is the most prominent?”

Antoine’s expression froze slightly, a hint of awkwardness creeping in. After hesitating for a moment, he answered in an uncertain tone.

“Uh… at least two thousand. No one has really counted them precisely.”

Hearing this number, Fang Chang was stunned.

“Two thousand?! What the hell, are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

Antoine quickly said.

“Absolutely not! I swear by Marshal Julius—the actual situation is definitely no less than what I’ve said!”

Fang Chang: “…”

You, a native of Avant City, swearing by Julius—what’s that even about?!

Old Na and Elf King Wealth, standing behind Fang Chang, exchanged glances and clicked their tongues in amazement.

“Good grief… that’s double the number in the Boro Province.”

“And the population there is smaller… Emmm, headache.”

In fact, Antoine hadn’t exaggerated.

Even the figure of two thousand tribes was a conservative estimate; the reality was far more extreme than he described.

The Southern Legion’s labor force came not only from the natives who originally lived along the Ravencar River but also from slaves bought from slave traders traveling north and south.

The backgrounds of those slave traders were incredibly diverse.

Some were raiders who had taken over and looted shelters, some were deserters from the Boro Province, some were private soldiers raised by nobles in the Luoxia Province beyond their borders, and there were even branches of the Chewbone Tribe that had migrated there, along with peddlers who frequently dealt with mutants.

Their footprints spanned the entire Great Wasteland, and the “species diversity” there was incredibly rich.

Given the chaotic ecological environment, even two survivor communities separated by just a single street could, over two hundred years of upheaval, evolve into two entirely different tribes.

It was precisely because of this complex ethnic situation that the Ravencar Industrial Zone, unlike Eternal Night Harbor, did not allow different tribes to live near their homes. Instead, they adopted an even more thorough racial segregation policy.

That is, the colonists—mainly Vellants and immigrants from Bartoya Province—lived in settlements with pleasant environments and abundant water, while the laborers bought from slave owners lived in the factory districts of the Ravencar Industrial Zone.

After listening to Antoine’s explanation, Fang Chang rubbed his temples, feeling a bit of a headache.

If the local situation was as complicated as this guy described, the Alliance’s methods might not work here.

But difficulties aside, the work still had to be done.

Once he had sorted out his thoughts, he spoke.

“I have a basic understanding of the situation… The top priority now is to restore order in this area.”

Antoine immediately said.

“Please, give your orders!”

Facing the attentive head of the Ravencar Industrial Zone, Fang Chang laid out the administrator’s arrangements and, based on his own judgment of the regional situation, refined some of the details.

“…We plan to establish the Ravencar Industrial Zone Autonomous Committee. You’re the top official here, so you’ll temporarily serve as the committee’s chairman. As for salary, we’ll base it on your original pay and pay you in silver coins.”

Antoine said with a bitter smile.

“I wouldn’t dare accept a salary… Just tell me what to do, and I’ll follow.”

“Take what’s yours, and don’t be polite with me. What you need to remember is to do your job well and not take what you shouldn’t.”

Fang Chang knew that free things were the most expensive; waiting for these guys to take things themselves was worse than offering them voluntarily.

He paused, then continued.

“Also, this money won’t come from us, but from the Ravencar Industrial Zone Development Fund.”

Antoine was taken aback.

“What is the Ravencar Industrial Zone Development Fund?”

He had been the top official here for so long, yet this was the first time he’d heard of such a term.

Looking at the puzzled Antoine, Fang Chang explained succinctly.

“You can think of it as the local budget department. Public expenditures, salary payments, and future pensions will temporarily come from here. Additionally, this department is responsible for disposing of the inventory assets in the Ravencar Industrial Zone and allocating funds for production capacity transformation projects.”

He paused, then continued.

“There should be plenty of industrial waste lying around in your warehouses and on the production lines, right? Sell off whatever can make money quickly, and if it can’t turn a profit, at least sell it as scrap metal.”

Hearing this last sentence, Antoine’s breathing quickened.

Asset disposal!

The output of the Ravencar Industrial Zone accounted for a full third of the Southern Legion’s total production!

This wasn’t just a huge sum of money—it was practically a goldmine!

Blinded by greed, he was about to take the job into his own hands when he met that half-smiling, half-mocking gaze.

In an instant, Antoine, holding his wife and daughter’s hands, felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head; his once restless heart suddenly calmed.

He could see the space for rent-seeking in this, and clearly the man standing before him could see it too.

Watching Antoine, who kept his mouth shut and suppressed his improper thoughts, Fang Chang nodded with some satisfaction and continued.

“I’ll find someone else for the foundation’s affairs. You just need to coordinate with their work. An engine costs what it costs—we’ll send professionals to help you oversee things. Don’t sell treasures as trash.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll do exactly as you say!” Antoine quickly nodded respectfully, and upon hearing that the Alliance would send professionals to oversee, he no longer dared to entertain any crooked thoughts.

Conversing with civilized people is always pleasant.

Having given his orders, Fang Chang didn’t make things difficult for Antoine; he let him take his wife and daughter back to rest, promising to assign two Vellant soldiers to ensure his safety.

Once the Ravenca Industrial Zone Autonomous Committee completed the transition from the old regime to the new, clarifying all regulations and organizational structures, he would naturally arrange for the former to establish a separate financial department and reorganize a fully functional government body.

As for the power vacuum during the transition, he would separate the knife handle, the pen handle, and the money bag from the autonomous committee to prevent them from mingling and causing chaos.

Besides the development foundation, he also planned to set up three departments: the legislative committee, the education committee, and the public security committee, and quickly establish a law enforcement core centered on the guard force, along with full-time schools and night schools for children and adults respectively.

This was the experience of Dawn City, and also the old tradition of the Alliance.

As for the representative assembly, that could be postponed.

After all, just a few minutes ago, he had seen what the locals here were like; even if they were to elect a representative, it would likely be some troublemaker like Bossaka.

The Vellants could be called civilized, but it was impossible to have a round table full of big noses without anyone to act as a counterbalance.

Then what kind of meeting would that be?

Even if these big noses had a change of heart and mended their ways, without using the intelligence of civilized people to toy with these natives dressed in civilized clothes, it would only lay the groundwork for future disasters.

Fang Chang briefly comforted the Vellant civilians affected by the war in the warehouse, telling them the Alliance had come to liberate them, not to take their lawful property, and then arranged for soldiers to escort them home.

After all, these big noses usually didn’t live with the natives; letting them stay in their own communities made management easier.

Having done this, Fang Chang returned to the group of Mole and Old Bai and shared his thoughts with them.

“…The local situation is far more complex than we imagined. I plan to transfer some people from Pioneer City—the survivors there are more familiar with the Great Wasteland and have experience dealing with locals.”

Seeing that someone had finally taken over the task, Mole quickly said,

“I’m with you!”

Before coming here, he had been ready to make a big move, but now he had completely given up on that idea.

He’d stick to fighting.

That was what he was good at.

Meeting Fang Chang’s gaze, Old Bai grinned and said,

“I’m with him—I trust you can handle it.”

Seeing these two shirk their responsibilities so cleanly, Fang Chang said with a wry smile,

“I was asking for your opinions. What use is it for you to just nod at me?”

“Haha! Nodding means… I don’t know what to do either,” Old Bai laughed. “Parachuting suits me better.”

Mole nodded in deep agreement, sighed with a mix of emotions, and said,

“Damn… shooting cannons is simpler. I’m never arguing with this guy again.”

Fang Chang looked at him helplessly.

He didn’t actually mind Mole undercutting him on the forum; after all, he had his own limitations and couldn’t think of everything.

Brother Mole might be a bit weak in practical experience, but he still had skills.

Just then, Midnight Chicken suddenly thought of something, raised his arm welded with a chainsaw, and said in a rumbling voice,

“By the way, I need to find some doctors for the people I rescued.”

Fang Chang immediately looked at him and said,

“Don’t we have medics?”

Midnight Chicken shook his head and said,

“No, they don’t have experience with childbirth… And you all know how lousy the quacks in our player regiments are.”

Childbirth…

The expressions on the faces of the several regiment commanders turned somewhat subtle.

It wasn’t that they were unwilling to spend on logistics; it was that most players approached the game with an attitude of “no need to treat serious illnesses, minor injuries aren’t wounds,” so they never needed skilled doctors.

Take the Jungle Regiment, for example.

Their few medics weren’t even proper doctors—they were cyborg doctors who had left Megastone Arms and found new jobs.

Old Bai scratched the back of his head.

“The Corporation should have some, right?”

Mole coughed.

“The 100th and 101st Divisions have gone north to intercept the Southern Legion’s reinforcements. Calling them back isn’t realistic.”

Old Bai continued,

“What about the Expeditionary Force?”

Mole paused, then slapped his forehead.

“Oh right, they should have some. I’ll go ask.”

With that, he raised his index finger to his ear and spoke a few words in the communication channel using the Common Language.

Fang Chang was waiting for his news when suddenly a young Vellant woman walked over from the side.

She was tall, about 1.8 meters, with long, light-golden hair, wearing a beige shirt and blue canvas pants.

Her face showed the panic of someone still shaken, but she tremblingly raised her hand and mustered the courage to say,

“Um… excuse me, are you looking for doctors?”

Hearing that voice, Fang Chang’s eyes lit up, and he looked at her and asked,

“Are you a doctor? What’s your name?”

“Jasmine…”

The girl nervously swallowed her saliva and spoke quickly, “My colleagues and I can treat them… but you must guarantee our safety.”

“No problem.”

Fang Chang snapped his fingers and looked at Brother Chicken.

“Take her over.”

Midnight Chicken knocked his fist against his steel breastplate, looked at the pale-faced girl, and said with a hearty laugh,

“Follow me—I’ll ensure your safety!”

Hearing that her bodyguard was this guy, the girl named Jasmine nearly burst into tears, looking like she had run into a chainsaw-wielding murderer… though thinking that wasn’t entirely off the mark.

No wonder she thought that way—the natives who looked at her like she was merchandise would think the same.

From that perspective, Fang Chang’s arrangement wasn’t exactly flawed.

In these chaotic times, only Brother Chicken could guarantee the safety of medical personnel who needed frequent contact with the natives...

...

With the establishment of the autonomous committee, the turmoil in the Ravencar Industrial Zone finally subsided.

Of course, everyone knew deep down that the reason this unrest had calmed so quickly had nothing to do with the autonomous committee—it was entirely thanks to Midnight Chicken-Killer’s extravagant getup.

This was a basement beneath the floorboards, where the local survivors were still in a state barely above primitive animals.

And these fellows were practically demonstrating to the sociologists of the Edge-Scrapers and the Alliance what the Rowell Brahmin Province might look like without Rowell.

At least for now, under the Alliance’s influence, most areas of the Brahmin Province had successfully transitioned from the late feudal era to the initial stage of “military governance.”

Regions like Golden Harbor, which were ahead of the curve, had already moved from “military governance” to “tutelage,” and were only one step away from the final “constitutional governance.”

Perhaps after this war ends, the survivors there could finally shed the thousand pillars pressing down on them.

Yet the survivors of the Ravencar Industrial Zone—and indeed the entire Great Wasteland—remained in a state barely better than primitive humans.

Facts proved that having no General Rowell was not better than having him.

It was like a person with a kidney problem: simply cutting out the kidney wouldn’t solve anything.

Normally, you’d need to replace it with a new one and also fix the bad habits from your old life.

If the Brahmin Kingdom or the Mammoth Kingdom delved deeply into the sociological issues of the Great Wasteland, they might accelerate their social progress.

But that was their own business.

The Alliance had its own matters to attend to; it couldn’t—and shouldn’t—force-feed them, shoving the food down their throats.

That would only backfire.

On the third day after order was restored in the industrial zone, the Alliance’s engineering team arrived at the zone’s airport aboard a “Tyrant” transport plane.

Among them were not only engineers from Boulder City, but also professors from Camp 101, and technical personnel from Ideal City.

Accompanied by Mayor Antoine, the group toured the entire industrial zone from end to end, getting a general feel for the core production lines in the park.

For instance, the Conqueror 10 tank, the 902mm railway gun, the fighter and heavy bomber assembly lines, and the shipyard for shallow-draft heavy gunboats...

That evening, during dinner.

Sitting in a restaurant run by Wastelanders, the Alliance engineers held tablets, flipping through photos taken during the day and copied documents, their faces filled with heartfelt admiration.

“Unbelievable...”

Fang Chang, eating at the same table, heard this and asked curiously,

“Is this place impressive?”

The old engineer chuckled and said,

“Depends on who you compare it to.”

Fang Chang wanted to ask how it compared to Golden Harbor, but quickly remembered that place mainly had light factories, with the few heavy factories serving the former, so he changed his question.

“Compared to Dawn City?”

“No comparison.”

The old engineer shook his head, flipping through photos on his tablet as he continued,

“Dawn City has pre-war reactors, Vault 101 and Camp 101, bionic experts from Vault 100, and engineers from Boulder City. One out of every three workers is a skilled technician who understands core technology—not to mention the experts from the Academy and corporations. With the administrators pouring unlimited funds into infrastructure, it’s hard for Dawn City’s industrial zone not to thrive.”

A hint of admiration crept into the old engineer’s eyes as he went on,

“But here, there’s literally nothing—just some complex garbage ores and uneducated slaves... Any conscientious Vault dweller would refuse to serve the Legion, let alone expect aid from the Academy or corporations.”

“They overcame quality issues with quantity. For example, the armor steel for the Conqueror 10: they couldn’t guarantee the furnace temperature stayed constant to the technical specifications, so they ran the production line nonstop, churning out a thousand slabs of steel, then picking the one that met quality standards.”

“Of course, that’s just a crude example; the actual operation isn’t as simple and brutal as I put it, but the overall production line design is pretty much what I described, and it’s everywhere in the industrial zone. If precision can’t be achieved, increase output; substandard products go back to the furnace; those meeting standards ship out... That’s what I saw.”

This was a purely professional assessment, free of any political bias.

But Fang Chang was confused by his evaluation, unsure whether it was good or bad.

It sounded like praising the Wastelanders for their brute strength, yet also like saying they strained every muscle only to squeeze out a turd.

Taking a sip of the black tea on the table, he pondered for a moment and said,

“So is this a positive or negative assessment? For our capacity transformation work?”

“It’s a mixed blessing,” the old engineer thought for a moment. “I’m just marveling that the Wastelanders did create a miracle, even if it’s like an ancient monarch’s tomb—built on the sweat and blood of slaves without regard for cost... Oh, and if I get the chance, I’d like to visit Arwen City. That should be the true end of the Southern Legion’s supply chain, the real essence.”

Fang Chang asked curiously,

“The production lines here aren’t complete?”

“Some are complete, some aren’t.”

Seeing the waiter bring the dishes, the old engineer waved his hand, as if unwilling to explain further.

“Forget it, don’t ask. You don’t have the basics—I can’t make it clear to you.”

Fang Chang made a helpless face.

He really didn’t understand these overly technical matters.

For someone in finance, a half-baked understanding was often the best state; knowing too much could be detrimental.

After all, knowing too much might lead to overconfidence and jumping into real industry, opening your own factory. At least among his acquaintances who did that, those who got out unscathed were thanking their lucky stars; very few didn’t lose their shirts.

Conversely, industrialists who dabbled in capital operations mostly ended up the same way—losing money they’d earned through skill, often through the same skill.

Just as he was about to end the topic, the old engineer suddenly spoke again.

“Speaking of which, there’s one thing I can’t figure out.”

Fang Chang: “What?”

The old engineer said hesitantly,

“I checked their production records and inventory lists, and found many discrepancies. Even though their production efficiency is low, the output shouldn’t be this meager.”

Fang Chang frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

The old engineer patiently explained,

“I mean, the theoretical output is three times higher than the actual output! If this industrial zone had been operating at its full capacity, you wouldn’t have won so easily—the Southern Legion could have held out for at least another three years!”

“I have to correct you—we didn’t win easily either.”

Fang Chang cleared his throat softly, wanting to defend his comrades.

But the old engineer paid him no attention, lost in his own thoughts again.

The old man rubbed his chin with his index finger, muttering to himself.

“The machines are good, the supply chain is fine, the management style has its flaws... but the impact shouldn’t be this severe.”

The more he thought, the more puzzled he became. He scratched the few remaining hairs on his head, his face a picture of baffled confusion.

“……How strange.”