Chapter 948: Let the Animals Run

Chapter 948: Let the Animals Run

As it turned out, Factory Director Glenkin was right—those young lads who had collected their wages spent a whole week's pay in just three days, then trudged back to the factory with reluctance.

At first, Lasov grumbled about the "animalistic" nature of the locals, but he soon accepted this state of affairs and even took a contented delight in all their bad habits.

Because his new gas canister production line hadn't even started yet, but the bicycles he'd wholesaled from Golden Gallon Port had sold like wildfire!

When the locals laid eyes on this contraption—"two feet on the pedals, fast as the wind"—their eyes bulged like brass bells.

And when they heard that buying one didn't require the title of a ten-man leader or any official permit, just a few hundred silver coins, those native lads didn't hesitate a second—they reached into their pockets—

And found not a single coin.

No money... then they'd have to make some.

To live the dream of tearing down country dirt roads on a twenty-eight-inch bike, and to secure priority mating rights in their tribes, these most primitive yet most avant-garde young bucks of the wasteland eagerly signed up, reluctantly throwing themselves into the wave of industrial transformation.

At first, they tried to work two jobs, owing wages to two factories at once, but the shrewd merchants from the Moon Tribe had foreseen they'd try to fleece the system and plugged the loophole preemptively.

To protect the factories they'd bought at great expense, they voluntarily established the first civil organization in the Ravenka Industrial Zone—the Chamber of Commerce and Industry.

Unlike the two chambers in the Brahmin Province, this one did only one thing.

It registered the biometric data of their own employees and shared that information among themselves—essentially an early version of a "credit reporting system."

The technology wasn't all that hard.

The wasteland lacked the internet, but not computers or cameras.

In the Alliance, doing such a thing would get you shut down, but since the autonomous committee of the Ravenka Industrial Zone hadn't yet extended labor laws to protect workers' rights, there were far fewer obstacles.

This time, it was the locals of Ravenka who were left dumbfounded.

When they got paid at the first company and tried to go to a second, they were kicked out. The same happened at a third and a fourth.

The factory owners had united.

Now they had no choice but to work...

Fang Chang had originally thought the locals weren't ready to form social organizations, so he'd postponed plans for a representative council. But he never imagined that a bunch of Brahmin merchants—the least politically minded of all—would end up realizing that blueprint he'd put off for the future.

In truth, he'd fallen into the trap of empiricism. The Brahmin weren't entirely apolitical or incapable of unity—they just didn't bother when it didn't affect them.

But when the fire licked their own backsides, they'd stop crying to the King of Hell and start paying attention.

Like now.

If they didn't show some real skill, every last one of them would go bankrupt.

Yet the irony was this: once the fire wasn't so hot on their rears, they might turn around and praise how warm it was, calling the ones who complained about the heat a bunch of noisy fools.

But no matter what, humans were more advanced than animals.

The natives of Ravenka, with their "animalistic" ways, had given the Brahmin bosses who'd come ashore a good scare, but in the end, the latter—having stormed the beach—got the better of them.

Whether the Workers' Association would come after them next depended on how well the latter developed.

If they could replicate a success that even Fang Chang himself couldn't duplicate—making the "Golden Gallon Port model" shine in Ravenka and making the locals overlook the minor growing pains—then the radical faction in the Alliance wouldn't stand a chance.

But that was all for later.

In any case, the 3,000 bicycles Lasov had hauled from Golden Gallon Port were snatched up the moment they landed.

The native lads who'd found work lined up outside his factory, clutching wages still warm in their hands, eyes full of anticipation.

Workers brought in from Golden Gallon Port didn't rest for a second—they assembled bikes right at the factory gate, fitting chains, applying oil... practically selling one as soon as they built one!

Lasov stood nearby collecting money, a thick stack of bills in his hands, grinning from ear to ear.

At a wholesale cost of 300 gallons (about 30 silver coins), he could sell each bike for 200 silver coins, and demand far outstripped supply!

If all 3,000 bikes sold, the profit alone would be 510,000 silver coins!

It was sheer profiteering!

He'd not only recouped the wages he'd paid out but also pocketed the wages everyone else had paid!

The workers assembling the bikes watched with envious eyes, tempted to quit on the spot and become resellers themselves.

Factory Director Glenkin wasn't at all surprised the bikes sold like hotcakes, but he couldn't help casting an envious glance at the endless rows of bicycles.

The Southern Legion had no shortage of steel, rubber, or oil, and plenty of tech far more advanced.

Yet here, simple materials, assembled with uncomplicated techniques, became a "light luxury" item only affordable to those above the rank of ten-man leader.

Or you'd have to earn a lot of money and buy it with dinars on the market outside the supply system.

He had a bike, of course—his son and daughter did too—but he'd never seen anything like "selling bikes like selling nail clippers."

He'd never believed ordinary Alliance citizens could afford cars, regardless of rank, but now he did.

Thinking that one day he might buy one himself, his nostalgia for the Southern Legion faded just a little more...

After sunset, Lasov handed over the day's earnings to a clerk at the White Bear Bank branch.

Watching the money counter whir and click, his face beamed with joy. In high spirits, he handed out 1,000-silver-coin red envelopes to the assembly workers and finally stuffed a wad of bills into Glenkin's hand.

"Ha! Brother, your idea was pure genius! A small token—don't be shy!"

"Genius is yours," Glenkin said, having little concept of silver coins. He didn't count the bills, just stuffed them into his pocket, then sighed with emotion. "Less than two weeks... It takes that long for the Eternal Night Harbor troops to reach West Sail Harbor. Your containers got here faster than them."

Lasov shrugged off Glenkin's awe. After all, the containers' speed was the shipping company's doing.

If he was willing to spend, he could make it even faster.

Like air freight.

But shipping low-value goods by plane wasn't worth it.

"Nothing strange about that. To us, time is money. Stick with me a while and you'll see." Lasov winked at him, beaming. "Don't worry, I never shortchange my brothers. When I make money, you'll get your share."

Glenkin felt a stir of excitement.

He had no real sense of silver coins, but the bills in his pocket were heavy.

He suddenly wanted to pull them out and count, but didn't dare do it on the spot.

That stack was at least 5,000 silver coins...

He'd heard that in the Alliance, an LD-series assault rifle cost only 200 silver coins.

"So, are we still making gas canisters? I feel like bikes are more profitable."

"Of course we are. Don't let short-term gains cloud your judgment. This deal is just quick cash." Lasov patted Glenkin's shoulder with a laugh, then his eyes flickered. "But you've given me an idea. We can develop some production lines to meet local needs... How did they put it? Right—adapt to local conditions!"

Glenkin: "Like?"

Lasov grinned.

"Like pots and pans, three-wheelers for hauling, or furniture."

Glenkin frowned slightly.

"Iron furniture? The iron ore here is cheap, but wouldn't it be too heavy?"

Lasov shook his head like a rattle-drum.

"Wood, of course. What added value can you get from iron? Selling something worth 1 silver coin for 1.1—that's no skill. Making someone pay 10 silver coins and thank us for it—that's skill. We'll sell not just wooden sofas, but leather and cotton ones too."

Looking at the boss who was speaking with great eloquence, Glennkin let out a bitter laugh and said.

"I have to remind you, even though there are a few trees on the land by the Ravenca River, this place is still called the Great Wasteland after all."

Lasov laughed and said.

"Of course I know, but there's plenty of wood in Fries Port, and the lumber mill at Bun Port... I recall that factory there was opened by you Vlandians."

The wasteland was gradually becoming a whole, and confining one's thinking to the Great Wasteland was too narrow-minded.

He could hire the noblest artists from Dawn City, import the finest timber, furs, and cotton from the Baiyue Province, and send them to the factories in Golden Port for preliminary processing.

Watching Lasov, who was animatedly sketching out his commercial empire, Glennkin suddenly felt a sense of unfamiliarity, hardly believing that this fellow was a Brahmin.

He had seen Brahmins before.

Their cowering demeanor had once made him look down on them from the bottom of his heart, to the point of not even deigning to notice them.

Now he finally understood why the Alliance had won.

Unity was a means.

Equality was their core.

The Legion had turned wastelanders into beasts of burden.

And the Alliance had turned them into humans.

Animals were destined to lose to humans; the defeat of the Southern Legion and the entire Legion was almost inevitable...

...

Small commodities from Golden Port stirred up a wave of fashion in the Ravenca Industrial Zone.

On the dusty dirt roads, the figure of "Old De Biao" could be seen everywhere, only missing the soul-defining bananas.

This place was not the tropics after all; strictly speaking, it should be considered temperate. The heat was simply because it was the Southern Hemisphere, and December there was the height of summer.

For this reason, it wasn't just the bicycles from Golden Port that sold well, but also short-sleeved T-shirts and sandals.

Especially the latter.

Those styles that had gone out of fashion in Golden Port became the hottest sought-after items here!

The natives, as savage as orcs, would even fight over a tacky floral shirt.

On the other hand, artworks like "Vine Cottage," certified by vault dwellers, went completely unnoticed, as both men and women were allergic to understated luxury.

Instead, some exaggerated designs created by players for fun found an extreme market here.

For instance, a red T-shirt printed with a baby face, whose cheerful smile had become the spiritual totem of several tribes.

Watching those spirited youths wearing bean-soled shoes and carrying Want Want milk bottles on their bodies, Yelena's expression was subtle.

Back when "beta access was handed out freely," this kind of performance art had briefly appeared in Dawn City, but she never expected it to resurface among the wastelanders after the beta access was tightened.

"Is this a renaissance?"

Elf King Fugui pressed his temple and rubbed his eyes, easing his mental fatigue.

"Ah... I suppose so."

There were more and more unfamiliar faces in the server, and it was no longer just a small circle of old players. Although *Wasteland OL* had yet to officially launch, it was practically no different from a public release.

Mosquito was still flying planes on the front lines, Tail was building snowmen in the Arctic Circle, and none of the most famous jokers were around.

At least he couldn't guess who was behind this stunt, and it might not even be the players at all.

While the players were having their eyes opened, the 172 suckers who had bought the factories finally found the trick to developing this market. They wrote letters to the Autonomous Committee, urging them to install the gantry cranes at the port as soon as possible for unloading, and then began importing light industrial goods from Golden Port for dumping.

To some extent, this did stimulate the market in the Ravenca Industrial Zone, but the market and the factories were separated by a river.

The young men who owed money were indeed forced back into the factories by the bosses brought in from all over the world by the Alliance, but they clearly weren't truly interested in building their homeland—they just wanted to make a quick buck to buy a flashy bicycle.

Thinking this way wasn't wrong, and not liking to save money wasn't a flaw either. People should prioritize living for themselves, living for the present... but they shouldn't have no plans for the future at all.

Especially when everyone in a society has no plans for their future—whether good or bad—that society is almost inevitably doomed to stagnate or even decline.

In such a case, any stimulus measures aimed at a civilized society would fail.

The locals lived like animals: eating when hungry, drinking when thirsty, mating when the urge struck, doing day labor, and never mastering a core skill. Even hoping they'd become skilled workers was a luxury.

In the short term, shrewd merchants like Lasov from Golden Port made a profit, but that profit largely came from the dividends of the Southern Legion's assets auctioned off in the Ravenca Industrial Zone.

The local workers could borrow money precisely because those dividends served as collateral.

Otherwise, no one would advance them wages—just as no one would lend money to the seagulls at Fries Port.

Once those dividends were exhausted, everyone here would suffer.

Fang Chang believed that experienced merchants like Lasov from Golden Port would surely escape before the flood came, but as the captain of a ship, who held the last lifebuoy meant nothing to him.

There would never be enough lifebuoys for everyone.

His job was to steer the ship well, avoid the reefs, and ensure every passenger made it safely ashore.

At the meeting of the Ravenca Industrial Zone Autonomous Committee, Fang Chang, seated at the head of the table, looked at the committee members before him and spoke.

"...The wastelanders of the River Valley Province also don't like to save money, adhering to the philosophy that life is like morning dew. But even so, they have some concept of what they want to do tomorrow."

"Therefore, when we handed them books and told them tomorrow would be better, we barely had to exert any effort to get them to study seriously. And when we presented them with a better plan, they would work hard alongside us."

Xiao Yu and Boss Xia were typical examples, along with more accomplished survivors like Lister and Sun Shiqi.

Nowadays, the new players of *Wasteland OL* hardly remember Xiao Yu, but Fang Chang remembered her vividly.

That girl had grown from a little girl counting coins at the entrance of a nursing home into one of the designers of the Alliance's financial system—so sharp that even an expert like him couldn't fool her.

And Boss Xia had become an outstanding engineer.

Though she wasn't wealthy, money wasn't the only measure of life's meaning; her research and contributions were evident to many Alliance players.

As for here...

After a moment of silence, Fang Chang looked at the ceiling of the meeting room, sighed, and shook his head.

"The above is the experience of Dawn City, and the root of the Boulder City model and the Golden Port model... But based on my observations over this period, I regret to find that this underlying code doesn't apply here."

The locals had no concept of the future at all.

Their extreme slacking off and going with the flow were the root cause of the vast gap between the actual production capacity and the theoretical output of the Ravenca Industrial Zone.

The reason wasn't complicated at all, and had nothing to do with Tear or the Enlightenment Society.

And he had indeed wronged them.

They weren't "resisting"—they were resisting all the time, resisting everyone they met...

If the same industrial zone were placed in Lion Prefecture of the Brahmin Province, forcing the Brahmins to tighten their belts and make guns and cannons for the Southern Legion, Abu Sa'ek and Rasi might well have been crushed by the Southern Legion.

The committee members around the table exchanged glances, finally turning their eyes to Chairman Antoine.

Pushed to the forefront by everyone's expectations, Chairman Antoine gave a bitter smile and cast a pleading look at Fang Chang.

"Please, think of something."

Fang Chang shook his head.

"You can't place all your hopes on me alone. What will you do after I leave? The reason I called this meeting today is to hear your opinions."

Antoine, the chairman, fell silent and fixed his gaze on the president of the Development Foundation.

That fellow was named Hope, an accountant by trade, a Velantian born in Avint City—no one knew which factory the Alliance had dredged him up from, but now he held the purse strings of the entire Autonomous Council, with a colossal sum of 1.5 billion silver coins in his hands!

With such a fortune under his control, he was curious to see what this man was capable of.

Caught in Antoine’s unblinking stare, Hope knew there was no escape. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“Perhaps we could let some people get rich first, and then the others—”

Before he could finish, the captain of the industrial district’s guard force cut him off with a dark scowl.

“They’ll be stripped clean by the other natives, just like Blackwater Alley in Eternal Night Harbor. In the past two weeks alone, we’ve handled thirty-seven robberies and twenty-six thefts, half of them involving bicycles.”

He was one of the few Ravenka locals at the table, though he’d grown up in Avint City, making him one of the rare natives who’d seen something of the world.

His mother had been a servant to a chiliarch, and because he carried half-Velantian blood, he’d clawed his way to the rank of a thousand-man commander in the auxiliary forces.

Later, after General Rubis’s defeat, his surrender had been well-received, so the Alliance assigned him to the guard force. Thanks to his outstanding performance and a recommendation from a certain expeditionary battalion commander, he’d rocketed up to his current post as police chief.

And precisely because the blood of the locals flowed in his veins, he understood their nature better than anyone.

Before Hope could answer, he pressed on.

“…In the end, this place will still become Eternal Night Harbor—outsiders living in the fanciest neighborhoods, while the locals rot in the sewers. I don’t think that’s what the Alliance wants to see.”

As he spoke, he glanced at Fang Chang, who, though silent, returned a look of tacit agreement.

Indeed, the Alliance didn’t want to see that happen.

But to expect the Alliance to forcibly intervene just because it didn’t want that outcome would be to know nothing of the Alliance.

Peaceful coexistence was a wish.

They wouldn’t design a winner-take-all game based on a mere wish, snatch the victor’s trophy, and force it into the hands of the needy weak.

Fairness in the rules at least ensured that victory meant something; rigging the rules wouldn’t help the weak, but would turn victory into a joke, leading to mutual loss.

He couldn’t say it aloud, but in his heart, he thought exactly that—

If the locals were truly hopeless, let them lie in the mud and watch their Velantian neighbors, through diligence and courage, return to their grand houses, then ponder whether they or their children should change their ways.

Perhaps reading that meaningful look, Hope gained some confidence and argued back at the guard captain.

“Then at least let it become Eternal Night Harbor first! The outsiders in Blackwater Alley are different from those in Ravenka’s industrial district. The poor wretches in the slums are still more dignified than animals in the primeval forest—can you deny that? Besides, you came from Avint City yourself. You know better than anyone why the locals are poor, and why you, with the same alien blood in your veins, are different!”

The guard captain was momentarily speechless. He was never good at debate, and having absorbed civilized ideas, he lacked the boorish and unreasonable temperament of a Bosaka.

Eyes wide, he couldn’t utter a word and swallowed his retort.

Not just him—even the elders of the major tribes sitting in the corners of the conference table had no rebuttal.

They knew well enough what their own young men were like, and what they themselves were like.

To be honest, they’d never imagined they’d one day sit at the same table as Velantians, discussing the future of the Ravenka Industrial District on equal footing.

If their people still couldn’t compete with the Velantians, then no one was to blame…

Fang Chang looked at Hope.

“You want to use the ‘Golden Gallon Port model,’ don’t you?”

“It’s the Eternal Night Harbor model!” Hope said, mustering his courage. “Eternal Night Harbor had no capital, no technology, no market… but we have all that, and we’re riding the wave!”

“Selling off one hundred seventy-two factories has raised 1.5 billion silver coins. This money shouldn’t just go toward transformation—we can invest some in infrastructure… for instance, set up a local development bank, put out tenders through a qualification committee for renovating the old city, refurbish the aging civilian docks, roads, and municipal systems.”

As he spoke, he turned to the four tribal elders seated at the table.

“You might not understand. Simply put, we’ll take money from the development fund to fix up your houses! Move you from tents to big houses with a sea view!”

Hearing that, the four old men grew excited, almost seeing him as a savior.

Fang Chang listened to his proposal.

It was still the Golden Gallon Port model, but with slight differences.

Back then, Golden Gallon Port had just emerged from the “Nihack era,” clueless about market rules. Both the old nobility and the rising class started from the same line, and the latter, more driven to change, quickly became the avant-garde leaders in social transformation.

But the Ravenka Industrial District was different.

The Velantians, in both ability and experience, were a crushing blow to the locals. Raising the starting gun now was like pitting adults against children in a race.

Still, as Hope said, they were riding the wave and had a chance to act.

Once the wave passed, it was hard to say what use that 1.5 billion silver coins would be.

Maybe they wouldn’t even get a chance to speak—the dividends would either be consumed by themselves or devoured by outsiders.

“There’s no perfect choice here. I can’t decide for you. My only advice is to abandon the fantasy of having it all… Let’s vote by a show of hands.”

Fang Chang tapped the table, handing the choice to the locals themselves.

“Left hand for approval, right hand for opposition, hand on the table for abstention.”

With that, he placed his hands under the table, signaling that he—or the Alliance—would not participate in this vote.

Fourteen people sat around the round table: six Velantians, six natives, and one half-breed.

At least the vote was fair now.

Hands went up one by one: ten in favor, two opposed, one abstention.

Interestingly, the two opponents were a half-breed and a Velantian.

Antoine predictably abstained—a classic “capable opportunist.”

As for the four tribal elders, who were just filling seats, they all raised their left hands high.

After all, they had already chosen their leader in their hearts.

“This is the first meeting of the Ravenka Industrial District. The Alliance’s representative has witnessed its fairness… at least in process, it’s relatively fair.”

Fang Chang looked at the spirited Hope, awarding him the victor’s red seal with his eyes.

“Don’t let down the survivors of the Ravenka Industrial District. Go ahead and act on the future you envision.”