Chapter 682: Wrath of the Empire

Chapter 682: The Empire's Wrath

Just as the Meatball, carrying over a thousand survivors of the Moon Tribe, arrived at French Fry Port, the Ox-Horse airship also returned to the Sky Harbor of Dawn City with the survivors of Vault 70.

Thanks to the opening of multiple air routes, this airship refueling station had already become a port.

The Ox-Horse Group had contracted a portion of the berths for renovation, and near the warehouse district, a market for imported goods had spontaneously formed a market management committee, which not only raised funds to repave the roads but also kept the area clean and orderly.

Stepping off the elevator, Huang Guangwei looked around in bewilderment, marveling at the prosperity and bustle here.

Before coming, a man named Fang Chang had told him that Dawn City was just a settlement of a hundred thousand people, and he had imagined it to be something like Ring Island or North Island, only situated on land.

But now, seeing this prosperity, his jaw dropped in astonishment.

How could this be a settlement of a hundred thousand?

Even two hundred thousand—or three hundred thousand—he would believe it!

As he walked down the steps, feeling lost and unsure which direction to go, a familiar face suddenly appeared in the crowd not far away.

The man wore a loose leather jacket and jeans, his figure slightly plump, with smile lines creasing his face, arms outstretched warmly.

Huang Guangwei stared at him blankly, his eyes glistening with moisture, his dry lips trembling slightly.

"Manager... Manager!"

That guy didn't go to the Great Rift Valley!?

He never expected to run into him here!

His legs unconsciously moved forward, and Huang Guangwei, as if finding direction, shuffled his stiff legs step by step, his faltering steps growing firmer and more resolute.

Seeing his compatriot in such a pitiable state of suffering, Sun Yuechi felt a pang of shame. Though his face remained warm, his smile could barely hold, and his gaze slowly dropped along with his slightly bent arm.

"Huang... ahem, my dear friend, I heard about your troubles. During the days I was away, you suffered... and everyone in the vault. But no matter what, I'm relieved to see you're safe. It's good that you're safe..."

"By the way, you haven't eaten yet, have you? There's a great pig trotter rice place nearby; the sauce poured over the rice is simply divine. My treat! Let's sit down and eat while we—"

When mentioning pig trotter rice, Sun Yuechi's eyes lit up as he raised his gaze, only to meet a merciless fist.

In his daze, he managed to move his neck just enough to avoid his fragile nose, taking the punch that had flown thousands of kilometers squarely on his face instead.

"Go to hell!"

The echoes of broken words rang in his ears.

Before he could grasp what had happened, Sun Yuechi, having taken a punch to the face, passed out in a daze.

The surrounding crowd immediately rushed over, pulling the man straddling him off.

With his arms pinned, Huang Guangwei kicked his legs in frustration, staring at the man on the ground, roaring with grief and fury.

"Let me go!"

"This is our own business! Stay out of it! Let me hit him! I'll kill this bastard!"

"Ahhh!"

Although the Alliance rarely interfered in outsiders' family affairs, this was still on Alliance territory.

Regardless of the reason, assaulting someone in the street meant a stint in the lockup.

Nearby guards escorted him to the security office, while the unconscious former manager of Vault 70 was carried onto a stretcher by medical staff and taken to a nearby clinic.

The crowd, who had been browsing the imported goods market, gathered around, whispering curiously about the commotion.

"What just happened?"

"I don't know... Those two suddenly started fighting."

"I think I vaguely heard... uh, pig trotter rice."

"Pig trotter rice???"

As it turned out, when it came to gossip, NPCs were no less skilled than players.

The rumors grew more absurd, eventually weaving a convoluted tale of grudges and romance around pig trotter rice.

As luck would have it, the moment the fist met the face was captured by a reporter from the Goblin Observer.

In Dawn City, anything associated with the word "goblin" was bound to be the polar opposite of "reliable."

And indeed, that was the case.

This newspaper, sponsored by Goblin Tech, was hardly a trustworthy establishment; in fact, the boss who invested in it never intended to make money from it.

The photo was quickly sent to the editorial office, paired with a hastily scrawled headline, and became the front-page story of the day's extra edition—

[Shocking! Vault 70's Manager Knocked Out by a Subordinate Who Chased Him Thousands of Kilometers—All Over a Bowl of Pig Trotter Rice!]

The explosive image and headline drew countless onlookers eager to buy, so much so that the Goblin Observer's sales that day even surpassed the Survivor Daily!

And to everyone's surprise, that photo boosted not only the Goblin Observer's sales but also the pig trotter rice mentioned in passing, which took an unintended hit.

What kind of delicacy could make the manager of Vault 70 abandon the entire vault?

Almost everyone who read the headline couldn't help but feel curious.

Driven by this curiosity, long lines formed in front of fast-food joints selling pig trotter rice.

Even some restaurants and taverns that didn't originally serve pig trotter rice couldn't resist the lure of profit and temporarily changed their menus.

That day, all the pig trotters in Dawn City sold out, much to the misfortune of the pigs that had just arrived by train from the farms of Luoxia Province—they were sent straight to the slaughterhouse without even a bite of feed...

"Ha ha ha ha ha!"

In the lobby of the Highway Town Inn.

Duke Garava, seated at a table eating, looked at the Goblin Observer in his hand, his goatee under his nose twitching, his stomach aching from laughter.

He was an ambassador of the Xilan Empire and also the lord of White Elephant City. Not only did the noble blood of the Elephant Tribe flow in his veins, but his family also owned vast fiefs from the Eternal River to the White Elephant Tower, making him one of the most illustrious figures in the Xilan Dynasty.

Originally, the Emperor had tasked him with a mission to the Lion Kingdom to display the empire's majesty, but the desert dwellers all looked to the Alliance. Frustrated, he couldn't help but grow curious about the Alliance in the East.

What kind of empire could command such devotion?

So he brought his entourage here.

As luck would have it, Bannock, the Myriad Commander and envoy of the Legion, the Xilan Empire's most important ally, was also here, participating in an organization called the "Slime Research Consortium."

When he learned that Ambassador Bannock was struggling with the negotiations of the Slime Consortium, isolated and without support, Duke Garava immediately sensed an opportunity to shine. He sent a messenger to the Emperor reporting this golden chance to put the Warrants in their debt, while patting his chest and assuring Ambassador Bannock that the Xilan Empire was willing to join the Slime Consortium negotiations and help the Legion relieve pressure from the Eastern world.

Perhaps moved by his sincerity, Ambassador Bannock, after a brief moment of surprise, warmly shook his hand and, over the following days, overruled objections to bring the Xilan Empire into this world council that would decide the future of the wasteland.

The work was easier than expected—just vote along with Ambassador Bannock when he cast his ballot.

Moreover, Duke Garava found the situation less dire than he had imagined.

Take the Free State, for example. Though it was the Corporation that brought them into the Slime Consortium, they were secretly on their side. Simply put, when the Legion and the Corporation both agreed on a vote, they agreed too. When the Legion opposed and the Corporation agreed, they played dead. When the Legion opposed and the Alliance agreed, they unhesitatingly voted against.

Of course, it also depended on the Corporation's stance. If the Corporation insisted firmly, they continued playing dead.

In truth, Garava despised such fence-sitters. Those slicksters thought they were clever, trying to please both sides, only to end up pleasing neither. He had heard Bannock curse those profitless, faithless merchants more than once at private gatherings.

Whenever that happened, he secretly rejoiced.

The Xilan Empire was different. They had always been the Legion's most loyal ally. The Warrants would remember the hand they extended today, and the Emperor would remember his merits.

However, this task was simply too trivial—there wasn't even a need to glance at the agenda.

That was precisely why, of late, he had scoured every noteworthy eatery in Dawnlight City.

Each day was spent either in meetings or wandering the settlement, observing the customs and ways of the Alliance.

After a hearty laugh, Duke Garava composed himself, elegantly clicking his tongue as he gazed at the newspaper photos as if watching monkeys in a zoo.

"These barbarians—how little must they have seen of the world to disgrace themselves so over a mere plate of food?"

Niyan, the attendant standing at his side, quickly chimed in with fawning agreement.

"...The southern seas rely on the Hump Kingdom for grain; the folk there are as gaunt as the monkeys of Baiyue Province—how could they compare to us, who possess all the bounty of the Eternal River?"

Hearing this, a satisfied expression spread across Duke Garava's face.

This Niyan was his most favored servant, also his private secretary and personal assistant, always speaking the sweetest words. The only flaw was his lowborn blood—he was a rat-man.

Even the loyal wolf-blooded guards standing behind him boasted far nobler lineage than this fellow.

Compared to the other guests in the hall, the aura and demeanor of this table's occupants were utterly distinct.

One man sat eating, while over a dozen stood watching.

But this was the Wasteland, after all, where talking lizards and bears existed; next to those stranger creatures, these self-important types drew little attention.

By contrast, the headline of the *Goblin Observer* held far more gossip value.

Yet Duke Garava thought otherwise. In his eyes, his radiant self was the center of attention wherever he went, especially since he had deliberately seated himself in the middle of the hall.

Those whispering barbarians were undoubtedly discussing him at this very moment. For that reason, he never ceased to mind his own poise and elegance.

Lisa approached, carrying a tray of food. She glanced with some confusion at the row of bodyguards behind his chair, but asked no questions, merely setting down the tray and speaking softly with politeness.

"Sir, your braised pork trotter rice... please enjoy."

"Hmm."

Duke Garava grunted in reply, tossing the newspaper to Niyan, who stood waiting beside him. He looked at the plate of trotter rice, famed across the city, picked up his knife and fork, cut a small piece, and tasted it.

The springy, tender texture was indeed delightful, so soft it melted on the tongue, making his eyes involuntarily light up.

Though the Alliance was a tiny nation, its settlements smaller than his own domain, he had to admit these people truly knew their way around food.

The only thing he found odd was the tableware—far too fussy for his liking.

By contrast, he preferred eating with his hands.

Or better yet, from the jade-like fingers of a young maiden.

In White Elephant City, he never had to feed himself.

But alas, he had searched all of Dawnlight City and found no restaurant offering such service.

As he watched the young woman set down the tray and bow to leave, Duke Garava's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of barely concealed greed passing through them.

Especially when he noticed the mark on her wrist.

"You're from the Western Continent... a slave of Triumph City?"

That word was like a scar that would never heal.

Lisa stiffened at his words, biting her lip as she stared at the guest in astonishment, then lowered her head and hurried into the kitchen.

Watching her retreating figure, Duke Garava clicked his tongue softly.

"What a waste..."

Though slaves were a specialty of the Brahmin Province—especially the hardworking, loyal lower races favored by minor nobles in the legions—their sheer numbers and cost-effectiveness meant they rarely fetched high prices.

By contrast, slaves from the legions' homeland, especially Triumph City, were far more precious.

Those brown-haired, straight-nosed slaves were like purebred cows from the highland pastures along the Sorat River; while not so costly that only a chiliarch could afford them, they required no small amount of military merit to enjoy.

Such slaves were usually consumed internally by the Verlanders, rarely entering the market, and even more rarely purchased by non-Verlanders.

The nobles of the Western Xia Dynasty were almost fanatically obsessed with Verlander culture, and as a duke, he was no exception.

But this was Alliance territory, and he had no wish to court trouble—delaying the Empire's cooperation with the legions would be unfortunate.

So he merely sighed with feigned regret, savored the meal on his plate, elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin, took the unfinished newspaper from Niyan's hands, and continued to relish the scandals of Vault 70.

These haughty vault dwellers were no good.

Arrogant and conceited.

Vault 70 was like that, and so was some three-digit vault.

End the Wasteland?

Usher in a new era?

Heh.

A bunch of lunatics.

He had lived in Brahmin Province for so many years—how had he never felt it was a wasteland?

How ridiculous!

With a mocking heart, he leisurely finished the first page of the newspaper.

But the moment he turned to the second page, the refined smile on his face vanished instantly.

*"Port Fries Welcomes New Residents! A Thousand Moonfolk Refugees Successfully Land!"*

In that instant, his twisted expression was as ugly as if he had eaten a booger.

And not just any booger—one he had flicked from his own finger, only for it to fly back with a wall's worth of dust.

"Utter nonsense!"

He clenched his right fist and slammed it onto the table with a furious roar, rattling the dishes with a clatter.

Hearing the commotion from the center of the hall, the chatting drinkers nearby instinctively lowered their voices, casting surprised and curious glances in that direction.

Sure, someone in this settlement went mad every now and then, but who would pick this place—the most vault-dweller-populated spot—to lose their mind?

Noticing the stares from around them, the wolf-blooded soldiers behind Duke Garava narrowed their eyes dangerously, shooting warning looks back at those blatantly curious gazes.

But they had clearly misjudged their audience.

This was the rugged River Valley Province, and the patrons here were hardened wastelanders who wouldn't flinch at a gun pointed at them—who would be intimidated by a glare?

Those warning looks were like a baby's provocation. The onlookers, initially just curious, now stared back with equal defiance after being glared at for no reason.

As if they had no eyes.

Who did they think they were?

Old Hook, standing behind the bar, watched the table in the middle with a stony face, his index finger already hovering over the alarm button beneath the counter, ready to call for backup.

He didn't like these people.

Not just because a dozen of them had ordered only one bowl of trotter rice, but because that fellow with the goatee had made sweet Lisa cry.

She was more than just the inn's face of Road Town—she was like a daughter to him, a man without children.

He would not allow anyone to bully her—not the Empire's ambassador, nor the Empire's emperor.

"Your Grace..."

Niyang, standing beside Duke Garava, quickly bowed and whispered.

"Losing our temper here is pointless. Even if we beat them to a pulp, it solves nothing, and it makes us seem petty and narrow-minded... We should summon the Alliance's administrators and issue a warning from the Empire, demanding they stop slandering us and harboring those despicable Moonfolk."

Hearing Niyang's advice, Duke Garava finally calmed his anger somewhat. He put down the newspaper in his hand and persuaded himself to stay composed.

"You're right, Niyang... Babru, tell your men to keep a low profile. An elephant need not mind the mice and ants at its feet. We have no business stooping to the level of these lowlifes."

"Yes, Your Grace." The towering man behind him nodded slightly, casting a silent glance at his subordinates.

The retinue of guards withdrew their murderous stares from the surroundings, ceasing all eye contact with those barbarians.

Seeing that these wooden-faced fellows no longer provoked, the crowd lost interest in stirring trouble, clicking their tongues and averting their gazes.

Yet, after this commotion, the focus of conversation shifted from the headline of the *Goblin Observer* to these strange individuals.

"Who the hell are those guys?"

"I hear they're ambassadors from the Xilan Empire."

"Pfft, and I thought they were something special. Turns out they're just beggars looking for a handout."

"These days in Dawn City, you can toss a brick and hit an ambassador."

"Xilan? More like 'Suck-land'?"

"Haha, they sure picked a fitting name!"

"Keep your voice down, don't let them hear you."

"So what if they hear? Out in the wasteland, I'd not only let them hear, I'd send them down to deliver a message to my dead old man."

"Hahaha!"

Their voices grew louder and more unabashed, for in the wasteland, that was exactly how they behaved.

Duke Garava's brow twitched, his teeth grinding audibly. The elegant composure on his face strained further, and his rapid breathing betrayed his surging blood pressure.

Those mocking eyes made him feel as if he were sitting on pins and needles.

At heart, his magnanimity was not as vast as he claimed. He was no true elephant, and those voices did not truly come from mice or ants.

Yet, for the Empire, he chose to endure.

Forcing himself to stay calm, Duke Garava pulled out a hundred-silver note and tossed it down, deliberately letting it land in the greasy plate.

"Keep the change."

The lard perfectly soaked the Alliance emblem on the front of the bill, much like the lard that had blinded their consciences—a detail he had meticulously designed.

Everyone present felt insulted.

Even if the insult was subtle.

Old Hook, standing behind the bar, cast a weary glance at the retreating figures, moving his finger away from the alarm button and giving a perfunctory shout.

"Come again."

By the Great Horned Deer God, may that plague never darken his door again.

Watching them leave, Old Hook limped over on his gun-wounded leg, picked up the bill, wiped it, and casually cleared the plate.

Returning to the bar, he set the plate down, opened the cash drawer, deducted the cost of the pork knuckle rice, counted out some change and coins, pushed through the kitchen curtain, and found Lisa crouched in a corner, quietly wiping her tears. He knelt down and spoke softly.

"Those guests are gone. They... asked me to apologize to you. This is their tip as an apology. Keep it and buy yourself some sweets or a nice dress."

Lisa, hugging her knees, looked up with tear-filled eyes at the old man crouched before her. Her lips trembled for a long time, but no words came out.

It was clear she was crying bitterly.

Perhaps it had to do with what had happened earlier.

Old Hook could roughly understand her feelings and why she couldn't speak, so he continued on his own.

"Back in Road Town, we often saw travelers from afar. We could tell at a glance who was a slave and who was a master. Not by who wore shackles or who carried a gun, but by their eyes..."

"Regardless, a person who earns their own living is never anyone's slave."

"As for those boring fools, let them label and say whatever they like. We can't control a parrot's beak. We just be ourselves."

Lisa's breathing gradually steadied, and her mood seemed to lift.

With her swollen eyes, a reassuring smile bloomed on her face.

"Thank you..."

"You're welcome," Old Hook grinned, reaching out to ruffle the girl's hair. "I'll need you to mind the front for a bit. It's my turn to rest."

"Mm! Leave it to me!"

Lisa nodded energetically, wiped the last traces of tears from her face with her arm, and dashed out of the kitchen storeroom like a gust of wind.

Watching the girl disappear behind the curtain, Old Hook didn't get up. Instead, he sat down on the floor with a grimace, pressing his hand against his leg.

The moment you relax, your bones rust. He'd only crouched for a while, and now it hurt this much.

Back in the day, he was a tough guy who shouldered a hunting rifle and fought raiders. But now, all that remained were the injuries from his youth.

Those old Blueskins used to call him "Hook with the Arrow in the Knee." Though he never understood what it meant, the Administrator told him it was a term of respect, an acknowledgment of his enduring vigor. So he didn't mind, and over time, he even grew fond of the nickname.

But later, ever since he opened this inn, his leg really did feel like it had taken an arrow—growing more uncooperative by the day.

Old Hook shook his head with a bitter smile.

"...Old age."