Chapter 947: Ideals Are Beautiful, Reality Is Harsh

Chapter 947: Ideals Are Beautiful, Reality Is Harsh

The young man, tanned dark by the sun, returned to his tent in the village beside the industrial zone and sat down on a stool, fuming with rage.

His anger was directed not only at the Wilant people but also at the Alliance folk who had stopped them from seeking revenge, and even partly at his own spineless self.

He was the bravest lad in the village, supposed to lead his people in standing up for their rights, yet now his shoulders still trembled uncontrollably.

He loathed his own cowardice, though he had no idea how to shed it.

Watching his grandson, the old man with a face full of wrinkles sighed and spoke in a slow, dragging voice.

"Bossaka, you're too impulsive."

Bossaka turned to glare at him, pouring out all the anger and complaints bottled inside.

"I don't get it—what are they trying to do? Aren't the Wilants their enemies? We could take care of their enemies for them, and we don't ask for much!"

The old man shook his head.

"In the desert, enemies and friends are clear-cut, but beyond the desert, there are more than just those two concepts. Your way works in the Great Wasteland, but it doesn't work outside it... There's a man named Rasi in the Boro Province; someone wrote his autobiography. I bought it from a merchant in Eternal Night Harbor and put it on your nightstand, but you've never even flipped through it. If you ask me, you should learn from him—see how he handled similar situations."

Bossaka's eyes were blank.

Rasi?

The world beyond the Great Wasteland?

What did that have to do with his confusion?

He had seen that book on the nightstand, but he could barely read a few words, and learning was too much trouble.

Seeing the boy still not catching on, the old man spoke earnestly.

"Anyway, the Alliance is the master here now. If you really don't know what to do, keep a low profile and follow behind someone you think is strong."

Bossaka grumbled resentfully.

"And then work for the Alliance? What's the difference from before they came?"

"The difference is, back then if you talked back to a Wilant, they'd whip you, tie you to a post, and torture you until you were barely breathing. Now no one does that... Though I reckon you were never afraid of their whips, or you wouldn't have provoked them time and again."

The old man glanced at the tent roof, tapped his pipe against his shoe, and suddenly let out a long sigh.

"Actually, you don't need to hate them so much. Before the Wilants came, did you think the Ravenca River was some fairy-tale paradise? Don't be naive. The richest land was never in our hands—it belonged to mutants and aberrations."

Bossaka sneered at the old man.

"You old geezer, speaking up for the Wilants—are you tired of living?"

The old man shook his head.

"I've been tired of living for a long time, but I don't want to see my only child miss the chance to become a good man and turn back into a beast."

"I don't want to be some 'good man'—that weak stuff only gets you bullied, turns you into a pathetic scavenger trailing behind others... But you're right, I should follow someone strong. Even if I don't get meat, I'll at least get some broth."

Bossaka clenched his fist, staring outside the tent, muttering under his breath.

"I wonder when the Alliance will pay wages."

The old man cautioned.

"Remember what you said—follow behind the strong. And don't skip work again; we're almost out of tobacco."

Looking at the old bastard, Bossaka said impatiently.

"Got it, I'll bring back some money. Don't act like I'm lazy."

...

With wave after wave of Alliance engineers, orders, and funds arriving, and the Enterprise 100th and 101st Divisions seizing multiple mines and power stations from the Southern Legion, the Ravenca Industrial Zone, having restored its former order, finally showed signs of recovery.

It was now December.

Under Fang Chang's coordination, the Ravenca Autonomous Committee started with property rights and introduced the first plan for "capacity transformation"—the "December Act."

According to the act, to raise funds for the Ravenca Development Fund, the Autonomous Committee would auction off 172 facilities in the industrial zone.

These facilities were mostly outdated, inefficient capacities with various problems: steel mills producing billets, aluminum plants processing aluminum, clothing factories making military uniforms, stamping workshops for shell casings, fuel power stations, and so on.

Alliance engineers concluded that if the Alliance funded the renovation of these 172 facilities, it would waste a huge amount of taxpayers' money and likely yield little benefit. Better to let the private sector figure out how to turn this junk into treasure.

These factories would be auctioned through the Dawn City Stock Exchange and the Alliance's five major banks.

The auctions would be fully public.

Any qualified individual or organization could bid at the exchange's branches.

Branches of the Dawn City Stock Exchange were located in Dawn City, Golden Port, Silver Moon Bay, Settlement No. 1, Fries Port, the North Island of the South Sea Alliance, Ring Island, Coral City, and even Ideal City on the far east coast—easy to participate.

Meanwhile, the Baiyue Company and the Niu Ma Group, involved in the ownership reform of the Ravenca Industrial Zone, would not participate in the first round of auctions, only bidding on unsold lots.

This was for fairness and to prevent the loss of Alliance citizens' wealth.

If Baiyue Company jumped in with Alliance citizens' money, the citizens wouldn't stand a chance.

Thus, the 172 facilities were quickly auctioned off. Though these assets had their issues, they were still snapped up by industrialists.

Buyers included players, Alliance citizens, wealthy individuals from Golden Port and the South Sea Alliance, and even bosses from Ideal City.

Some were betting on the post-war reconstruction dividends of the Batoya Province; others aimed at the space elevator in the southern seas.

Though Ideal City had plenty of factories, considering exchange rates and local labor costs, the Ravenca Industrial Zone's plants had their own advantages.

They just needed to bring a bit of Ideal City's technology over.

Anyway, thanks to these people rushing in with funds and technology, the Alliance integrated the Southern Legion's Ravenca Industrial Zone into its supply chain without spending a penny.

In the process, the Ravenca Industrial Zone raised nearly 1.5 billion silver coins in massive funds!

Even when Baiyue Company entered Golden Port, they hadn't raised that much.

With this huge sum, the Autonomous Committee's confidence and resolve for reform grew stronger. President Antoine even patted his chest and promised Fang Chang that they would turn the Ravenca Industrial Zone into the pearl of the Great Wasteland, the Golden Port of the entire central west coast of the Central Continent!

That was no small boast.

The man had already leaped beyond the Great Wasteland, benchmarking against Avint City and Triumph City.

But Fang Chang didn't think he was exaggerating; he even thought the estimate was conservative.

With a handful of bombs, post-war reconstruction, and the space elevator boom, he couldn't see any reason for failure.

In this great wave of "capacity transformation," everyone was gearing up for a big push.

Whether it was the Wilant factory directors and managers under new ownership, or the new bosses from the Alliance.

Take Lasov from Golden Port, for example.

In his early days, he made his first fortune demolishing buildings with Asin. Later, like most hot-blooded rat-folk, he poured that money into the manufacturing sector, driven by industrial salvation, setting up factories to produce natural gas canisters and propane tanks.

This industry seemed unremarkable, but profits were substantial and demand strong.

Though the Alliance was highly electrified, the Boro and Baiyue Provinces were completely different. Even in Golden Port and Fries Port, many restaurants still cooked with gas canisters.

As for the warlord-ridden territories, many warlords even bought his propane tanks as military stockpiles—after the gas was used up, they'd stuff them with explosives and haul them to the front lines as bombs.

In other words, his customers weren't just small restaurant owners but also military officers leading troops.

With such strong demand, he'd long wanted to open new factories, even picking a site near Banana Head Bay next to Golden Port, just short of paying up.

But just then, news that the Alliance had liberated the Ravenca Industrial Zone and that the Autonomous Committee was holding a public tender spread through every street and alley via the Survivor's Daily.

Seeing this cake falling from the sky, Lasov's heart instantly burned with excitement, and he fixed his eyes on one of the auction lots: a steel mill that had supplied billets for the Conqueror X tanks!

Though the Alliance looked down on this steel mill, even slapping a label of "obsolete capacity" on the thing, he didn't think it was obsolete at all—in fact, he gazed at it as if he'd spotted a divine artifact.

This thing supplied tank factories!

With this, wouldn't the output of his gas cylinder factory skyrocket?

This surprise was no less than when the Alliance's "legendary steel tycoon," Boss Sun, had used two million silver coins to scoop up the "Mighty" Steel Mill from the entrepreneur Fred in Boulder City.

And what Lasov coveted wasn't just the profit this steel mill could bring him, but also the technology it possessed—something the Bahr Province simply didn't have!

If he could bring the Legion's armor steel production techniques back to his homeland, wouldn't that be a wonderful thing?

Though Abusek was no good, Bahr wasn't his country alone—he still hoped to make his hometown better.

With that thought, he didn't hesitate to pull out nearly ten million silver coins, a huge sum, snatching the lot from his competitors, and after securing ownership of the factory, he rushed nonstop to the banks of the Ravenca River, less than a hundred kilometers from the front lines, and met the factory director who had just been released from an Alliance POW camp.

That director was a Vlandian named Glenkin, holding the rank of Centurion in the Southern Legion's General Affairs Logistics Office, formerly serving under District Chief Antoine.

Perhaps because the Alliance had beaten him into submission, the man didn't put on any Vlandian airs in front of him; after the meeting, he started organizing the resumption of production.

When word spread that "Glenkin's factory" was back in operation, a crowd of local native lads eagerly flocked to the recruitment point at the factory gate.

Seeing the long line of strapping young men, Lasov's face beamed with a brilliant smile.

He could already see the molten steel leaping in the furnaces, being cast into ingots, then pressed into uniform steel plates under high heat, and finally sent through assembly lines to the cutting and stamping workshops, shaped into whatever the customers needed!

Just as he'd read in the newspaper, this place would become the largest industrial base in the entire Western Sea!

Maybe he should consider buying a few properties nearby...

His first fortune had come from real estate, and if conditions allowed, he wouldn't mind making a few more.

But just as Lasov was dreaming of striking it rich, an argument at the recruitment point shattered his reverie.

A slightly darker-skinned lad stretched out his hand toward the staff at the registration desk and said with utter confidence.

"I've registered. When are you going to pay me?"

Never having heard such an absurd demand, Lasov was dumbfounded.

The employee from Golden Port Harbor was clearly stunned too.

He wasn't the type to look out for his boss; he worked for Lasov only for the money, but this guy asking for pay right after signing up was just too much.

Even the lunatics from the Workers' Union hadn't been this radical.

After a long pause, he finally squeezed out a sentence.

"...You just got hired and haven't done any work yet. Why would we pay you?"

Hearing that, the native lad bristled and snapped angrily.

"What kind of talk is that? If you don't pay us, how are we supposed to eat? We've got to eat, don't we? Are you saying we should work on empty stomachs? Are you even human?"

At those words, the natives queuing behind him also grew furious, shouting and clamoring.

The Bahr employee sitting at the registration desk was momentarily overwhelmed and shot a pleading look at the boss.

He'd seen people twist logic and make unreasonable fusses before, but this was the first time he'd met his match in his own strong suit.

Seeing the commotion, Lasov quickly stepped in to mediate, calling out to the registered workers.

"Everyone, we know you're in a tough spot, and we understand! In fact, we're just like you—we Bahr people were once enslaved by the Vlandians too... How about this: since we're all survivors, we'll solve your problem! We'll set up a staff canteen in the factory, and all employees can eat for free!"

The Bahr employee was stunned.

Since when was the boss so generous?!

At least his boss's factory in Golden Port Harbor didn't have anything like a staff canteen.

But he didn't know that this was Lasov's calculated decision.

Local labor costs were much lower than in Golden Port Harbor, and grain was cheap too—feeding all the employees wouldn't cost much.

Yet the lad wasn't satisfied and kept pressing aggressively.

"A staff canteen? What about our families? I've got an old mother, three younger brothers, and two younger sisters—can they eat in the canteen too?"

Staring at the brazen young man, Lasov's brow twitched, but to win hearts, he finally gritted his teeth.

"Fine! Bring them over—I'll feed them for a month! But only one month! Once you get your wages, this perk ends, and only you get it!"

The lad seemed surprised he'd agreed, stared at him blankly, then left without a word.

Lasov breathed a sigh of relief, proud of his cleverness, but before long, the lad returned with dozens of people.

Among them, the oldest was a man in his fifties or sixties, unsteady on his feet, leaning on a cane. The youngest was still in its mother's arms, babbling incoherently, not even able to speak yet.

This guy hadn't just called his own aunts and uncles—he'd brought the neighbors' too.

Before Lasov could speak, the lad started rattling off introductions, claiming every single person he'd brought was a relative.

And he wasn't the only one—the other registered natives seemed to have agreed, calling in friends and family, bringing a huge crowd.

The throng in front of the factory more than doubled; the freeloaders outnumbered the job applicants.

Seeing this spectacle, Lasov's knees nearly gave way, and he almost knelt to them.

He'd been quick to pay for the factory, dropping ten million silver coins without blinking.

But that was the bank's money—he'd borrowed it using his Golden Port Harbor factory as collateral!

If this newly bought factory turned into a white elephant, he'd lose his shirt to the bank!

As Lasov looked on the verge of tears, Factory Director Glenkin, standing nearby smoking a cigarette, seemed unfazed.

Finally finishing his smoke, he tossed the butt to the ground, crushed it, and walked over to Lasov.

"The natives here are like this—you have to pay them first before they work, or they'll slack off on the machines or even break them. Beating them with a whip won't help... And those relatives they brought? They're not really here to freeload. Just pay them their wages and treat everything you said earlier as hot air."

Lasov stared at him blankly, then finally forced out a sentence.

"Was it like this when you ran things here?"

Director Glenkin's face twisted into a knowing smile.

"Know why we went to the Bahr Province? When our people saw the laborers at West Sail Port working themselves to death on the docks without causing us a single bit of trouble, every officer in Avant City went mad. We were green with envy, drooling with jealousy, hating ourselves for not discovering that gold mine right under our noses sooner."

In the past, they'd bought slaves from the Wutuo, even at Golden Port Harbor, but the transport losses were too high, and they never thought those scrawny slaves could be useful in a factory.

And indeed, most Bahr people shipped to the Ravenca Industrial Zone ended up assimilated into the locals—after all, they were of the same stock.

It wasn't until the Triumph City civil officials opened a factory at West Sail Port that the Southern Legion's lords finally realized the proper way to use Bahr people.

The West Sail Port massacre was inevitable.

Blame the civil officials for being too weak to hold onto such a fortune...

The boss stood frozen for a long time, torn between anger, resentment, and helplessness, then let out a long sigh.

"Fine, I'll take the loss... Pay them their wages."

Director Glenkin nodded, a hint of mockery in his smile.

"Wise choice."

Just as the Vlandian factory manager had said, those native lads, after receiving their pay, indeed sent away the relatives they had called in.

Both sides had taken a step back.

Rasov withdrew his promise about the employee cafeteria, but pledged that in the future they could take the money before doing the work.

Though the native lads cursed him as a miser, they made no further move.

Gradually, Rasov felt he had grasped the knack of dealing with the locals.

But then something happened that left him dumbfounded: the lads who had taken the money scattered in all directions, every single one vanishing without a trace.

Staring at the deserted recruitment point, Rasov’s face flushed red with anger, his fists clenched tight.

“That’s too much!”

Glenkin, the factory manager, who had already lit his second cigarette, smiled faintly and said in a comforting tone.

“It’s like this.”

Looking at this Vlandian who seemed not at all surprised, Rasov couldn’t help complaining.

“Are you here to do charity? Is this how you spoil them?”

“Spoil them?” Glenkin narrowed his eyes slightly, smiling enigmatically. “If you’d seen how we treat them, you wouldn’t say that… But the fact is, even if we hang them from a post, whip their backsides with salt-soaked lashes, and single out the laziest to make an example of them, the next day they’re still the same.”

Rasov stared at him in incomprehension, unable to understand how the Vlandians could be bested by these people, nor why the locals were so lazy.

Seeing the confusion in his eyes, Glenkin said flatly.

“This isn’t laziness—it’s animal nature. You’ll understand once you’ve dealt with them long enough.”

He paused, then continued.

“Don’t be too discouraged. Once they’ve spent all their money, they’ll naturally come back to work… Don’t worry, it won’t take long—they never have the habit of saving. And since they already owe you money, they’ve no reason to ask for an advance on wages.”

“Then the debt becomes your rope. You can use it to control them—whether by whipping their backsides, sending a respected elder from their village to collect at their homes, or sleeping with their women right in front of them… as long as you can accept that most of them don’t brush their teeth. Of course, I’d recommend hiring some locals or mutants for that job, or simply selling the right to their neighbors.”

Rasov stared at him, a vein bulging on his forehead.

“I’m here to make money, not to pimp.”

Glenkin chuckled.

“Isn’t that what I’m teaching you? If you don’t learn to adapt to local customs, they’ll gang up on you. And besides the last option, I’ve offered other choices.”

He felt he was being quite generous, passing on the Southern Legion’s “core secrets” to this Brahmin.

They hadn’t conquered such a vast territory and made this barren land productive just by wielding clubs and whips.

Debt was the fundamental core of exploitation; everything else was merely a means.

The locals would put the rope of debt around their own necks, turning themselves from wild animals into livestock—and that was the only thing they did better than the Brahmins.

The Brahmins, though easy to manage, were too fond of saving money, tightening their belts to hoard a few coins, never slipping into that rope. So neither the Southern Legion nor the civil administration dared pay them too many dinars.

Nickel-and-diming on wages didn’t really exploit much—no chiliarch was short of two gold coins—the main purpose was to keep them in poverty.

The Southern Legion’s rule over West Sailport was too brief; the clever minds in Avint City hadn’t yet figured out how to put the debt rope around the Brahmins’ necks, so they continued the civil administration’s strategy of using poverty to keep them obedient.

And as it turned out, their method worked—give them twenty years, and Lion Province would surely develop into an industrial center larger than the Ravenca Industrial Zone.

But now, such a thing could only happen in imagination…

Seeing his boss still troubled, Glenkin continued.

“Also, if I were you, I’d buy some scissors, lighters, and nail clippers.”

Rasov was taken aback.

“What for?”

Glenkin smiled and enlightened him.

“The locals like to buy cheap little trinkets that are useless. Didn’t I say? Once they’ve spent their money, they’ll come back to work. You want them back quickly, don’t you?”

Too bad the Southern Legion’s light industry wasn’t developed—the trinkets they used to placate these fellows cost quite a few dinars.

But Glenkin had heard that the Alliance’s supply chain had no shortage of such things—a silver coin could buy a whole batch of nail clippers wholesale.

In his view, that was one reason silver coins had become hard currency on the wasteland.

The Alliance had not only established a stable supply chain on the wasteland but also provided an unimaginably rich array of light industrial goods to most chaotic zones.

Like the “scarcity” of Cr, the one who issued the silver coin knew exactly where his advantage lay and how to expand it.

As for the dinar, though it had its own strengths, its purchasing power was only evident when buying slaves or tanks—most people had no use for such things in daily life.

Perhaps breaking away from the dinar system and issuing a sovereign currency could sustain Avint City a little longer; precious metal currency was too heavy, and Triumph City, which controlled it, bore too much historical baggage…

This was Glenkin’s technical reflection, from the perspective of an industrialist, on the reasons for the Southern Legion’s failure.

Rasov was silent for a moment, pressing his index finger to his brow, speaking wearily.

“I know a bicycle factory owner in Jingalun Harbor—I can get a batch of bicycles over…”

Selling nail clippers would take forever.

Glenkin’s eyes lit up, and he gave an approving thumbs-up to his boss, who was catching on.

“Great idea! And it’ll cut down on the time they waste getting to work.”

Rasov stared at him blankly.

“Wait… are you saying they used to be late often?”

Glenkin chuckled.

“Late? Often? Let me think—which question should I answer first?”