Chapter 704: Golden Gallon Port Welcomes the Imperial Army

Chapter 704: Golden Garron Port Welcomes the Imperial Army

North of Golden Garron Port.

On a stretch of barren red earth, a massive army was advancing with billowing dust, marching in full force toward Golden Garron Port.

Among them were trucks, motorcycles, and three-wheelers, all in desert camouflage, clustered in the midst of columns of soldiers.

In addition, there were several open-top off-road vehicles with a full post-apocalyptic vibe, and towed artillery pieces dragged behind trucks.

Objectively speaking, both in firepower and mobility, they far surpassed the city defense forces, which only had a few 100mm guns, and their soldiers appeared far more disciplined.

But compared to the "Fang" clan of the Bone-Chewers tribe, which had once been soundly thrashed by the Alliance, they were roughly on par, perhaps even lacking a few tanks.

However, tanks weren't really needed here.

Though the Bolo Province was mostly plains, it lacked decent roads, and especially near Golden Garron Port, it was a flood-prone alluvial plain.

Even these light vehicles were struggling to advance. If tanks were brought here, they'd likely break down before getting far.

Survivors carrying backpacks and baskets on their arms stepped aside, casting awed glances at the fluttering twin-sabre flag and the grey wolf flag.

"It's the Grey Wolf Army!"

"His Majesty has finally made a move."

"I wonder which is stronger, them or the Iron Men."

Some wolf-tribe commoners prostrated themselves in prayer, looking up at the pride of their people, muttering in deep, hoarse voices.

"...The invincible grey wolves of the wasteland, they move in packs, like a sweeping sandstorm, bringing death to their enemies."

Others had a greedy green glint in their eyes.

War meant death.

When chaos broke out, they could snatch a couple of trousers and go home, allowing a few more to go scavenging, or perhaps to cut sugarcane in the governor's plantation.

At that moment, the brilliant General Arayan sat in an open-top off-road vehicle, squinting toward Golden Garron Port.

He had noticed the situation at Golden Garron Port as early as General Abinan's defeat, but dared not act without His Majesty's orders.

What if letting the Alliance ashore was His Majesty's directive?

Or what if His Majesty planned to resolve the issue through other means?

These were uncertain, and not to be guessed at.

Arayan had never been to the Alliance, but he had lived in the Bolo Province for over thirty years and knew Lord Wutuo's nature well. What that lord hated most wasn't subordinates messing up or lacking intelligence, but those who shouldn't have brains growing brains, and those who shouldn't have eyes growing eyes.

Thus, he chose to wait, holding his position while sending a few scouts disguised as civilians into the city, gathering intelligence on the "Iron Men," inquiring about Governor Nihak's whereabouts, and awaiting orders from the Heavenly Capital.

Now the telegram from the Heavenly Capital had finally arrived. Without a second word, Arayan ordered the Grey Wolf Army, already prepared for march, to advance toward the front lines.

Though he and his men were still nearly seventy or eighty kilometers from Golden Garron Port, he already had a thorough understanding of the situation there.

Sitting beside him, Staff Officer Gopal spread a map on his knee, pointing at two marked lines, and spoke in a relaxed tone.

"...Currently, the Alliance's defense line at Golden Garron Port is anchored on the Governor's Mansion and the Lowell Camp. If we can eliminate one of them, the situation will be much more favorable for us."

He paused, his fingertip landing on the map.

"Personally, I think the Lowell Camp is a good breakthrough point. It's garrisoned by a bunch of newly armed rabble, with at most a few dozen Alliance instructors. If we take it, we can turn the slaves the Alliance has incited to our side."

The adjutant in the passenger seat turned back and asked.

"Why would they side with us? I think it's good enough if they don't cause trouble."

Gopal smiled faintly and said lightly.

"Simple. We give them what the Alliance can't. Besides restoring their free status, we can allow them to loot and pillage in designated districts as a reward."

Except for the Tulip Street, cordoned off by knights—those big shots there were untouchable—but other districts or streets once controlled by the Alliance could yield some spoils.

Even if there was no oil to squeeze, people themselves could be taken as spoils of war.

When the war ended, just slap a charge on the survivors who helped the Alliance, brand them as criminals, and hand them over to those wild dogs to deal with.

They wouldn't have to spend a cent.

They could even take a cut from the legally looted spoils.

Arayan narrowed his eyes slightly, thought for a moment, and pointed out a flaw in the plan.

"But most of them are Moon-tribe. Other ethnicities make up less than three-tenths."

The racial segregation of the Moon-tribe was His Majesty's decision; they had no authority to restore those people's free status arbitrarily.

It was a matter of principle.

As if anticipating the general's question, Gopal smiled faintly and said.

"We just use that talk to pacify them. I never said we had to follow through. Or we could petition His Majesty for a special pardon, re-register them as Rat-tribe or Snake-tribe, or even give them a new surname and new faith. That's not hard either."

If His Majesty disagreed, no matter—just dispose of those who had been used.

As the group chatted and laughed, the main force had already reached the northern outskirts of Golden Garron Port. Each combat formation swiftly moved to prearranged positions and set up camp.

A full five ten-thousand-man units deployed along a front less than twenty kilometers wide, encircling the settlement tightly, with an imposing air of dark clouds pressing down, threatening to crush the city.

Five ten-thousand-man units were no small number; in the eastern provinces, they could even constitute a sizable settlement.

But Arayan remained cautious.

Even though intelligence indicated the enemy numbered less than a thousand and had just been worn down by the city defense forces, he still didn't let his soldiers advance recklessly. Instead, he ordered the adjutant to fetch some laborers from nearby to dig anti-artillery holes, trenches, and foxholes on the outskirts.

Meanwhile, on the roof of a three-story civilian house in the suburbs of Golden Garron Port, four players in exoskeletons were peering through binoculars at the positions a kilometer away.

"Not bad, these guys know what they're doing." Watching the well-dug anti-artillery holes, a look of surprise crept onto the face of Yin Cha Yang Cuo.

Not just the defensive works—they had even set up camouflage nets to block drone views, looking like imports from the Legion.

Ban Sui Cuo Tuo's expression was slightly grave, while beside him, Mei You Jia Ren looked eager, muttering excitedly.

"Finally, a real fight!"

Those private soldiers at the Governor's Mansion were too weak; they looked impressive but didn't even scratch the paint on his exoskeleton chest plate.

According to locals, this Grey Wolf Army was the elite of the Imperial Army, directly under the Emperor of the Xilan Empire—the land warfare ace!

For a thrill-seeker like him, the stronger the enemy, the more exciting.

After all, beating a pushover that crumbles at first contact gave no sense of achievement; even showing off on the forums would get no applause.

So far, this unit's performance was decent—neither the speed of deployment nor the steady, methodical approach showed obvious flaws.

The survivors forced into the positions bent over, shovels in hand, digging from morning till dusk.

Seeming to find their work too slow on empty stomachs, dozens of whip-wielding overseers soon appeared on the positions. A few lashes later, the survivors' pace quickened noticeably. Several gaunt young men even collapsed from exhaustion.

The officer in charge of the overseers was quite satisfied with the situation.

These survivors' stamina was like toothpaste—squeeze hard enough, and something came out.

Hidden in the distance, the players munched on dry rations from their packs, watching the survivors work, staying on the roof until dark.

As the sun set, the soldiers didn't let the survivors eat. They took back the tools and drove them out of the positions.

A ragged group of survivors limped toward the settlement, resentment etched on every face, but they dared not speak out.

Noticing that one group of survivors was heading straight for the district near them, the four players deliberated for a moment, then immediately tossed down a hundred-yuan note, slipped out of the civilian house, and found an opportunity to block that very group.

"Hey, hey! Don't go, folks up ahead! We've got something to ask you!" By sheer chance, he had flipped up the visor of his helmet, and with a grin on his face, he waved as he stepped forward.

Seeing these four iron men clad in exoskeletons, the dozen or so ragged survivors clearly showed terror on their faces.

They had just felt the Empire's whip and had no desire to feel the lash of these iron men again.

Yet no one fled.

Gazing at the rifles hanging across their chests, their legs felt as heavy as lead, even though the guns were neither unlocked nor loaded.

Just as the crowd quivered in fear, a man in an exoskeleton walked up to them, only to suddenly pull out a pack of cigarettes.

"Have a smoke to calm down—I don't need to teach you how to puff, do I?" he said in non-standard Union Common, grinning without a trace of family as he handed a cigarette to each person.

Cigarettes were a hard currency on the wasteland, second only to bullets and alcohol, even slightly above bread in status, and most importantly, easy to carry.

Though he rarely smoked himself, he always brought a few packs on missions—better than money for winning over the locals' trust.

These locals, though so poor they had to eat dirt every so often, found tobacco leaves and pepper not uncommon here. Some would crush their own tobacco leaves to smoke or sell them to make ends meet.

The men pinched the cigarettes under their noses, took a sniff, and instantly knew what they were, their faces then shifting to astonishment.

They had never in their lives seen such fine cigarettes, so much so that they held them in their hands, reluctant to smoke.

The man without a family kindly pulled out a lighter and lit them all, so they wouldn't have to hesitate over whether to smoke or not.

Leading the dozen or so into an alley to puff away for a while, the man without a family asked with a smile.

"Seeing you work so hard, how much are those wolves paying you?"

At these words, the dozen survivors all wore grim expressions. One, more blunt in nature, cursed outright.

"Pay? Those stingy bastards don't pay a cent!"

Soon, several others chimed in.

"Exactly!"

"Forget paying—it's a blessing they don't rob us!"

"Damn it, they even took my basket for picking dirt..."

As they spoke, several pairs of eyes kept staring at the lighter in the iron man's hand, filled with envy and longing.

The man without a family put on a surprised look.

"No pay? Then why do you dig for them?"

The blunt man said indignantly.

"Not just no pay! We have to bring our own rations!"

The man without a family fanned the flames further.

"Can't you just not go?"

At this, everyone shook their heads.

"No can do. They've taken over that red earth patch—if we don't go, we've got no dirt to eat."

"If they're short on hands, they'll come around here to grab us. We all live nearby, so we'd have to go anyway."

"Who knows what happens when they show up at our door."

"My three daughters are all grown up."

"Damned bastards!"

"Hope they get buried in that red dirt!"

The survivors grumbled in a jumble, growing angrier with each word.

The man without a family, however, had a gleam in his eye, and suddenly broke into a grin.

"How about this: since they won't pay you, I will!"

Everyone in the alley was stunned, staring at him in confusion.

"You... pay us?"

"That's right," the man without a family nodded, still smiling. "But you've got to remember—we're paying extra, so you need to work even harder! Starting tomorrow, dig like mad. If they want a meter-and-a-half hole, you dig two meters. If they want two meters, you dig two and a half! Give them an extra fifty centimeters!"

The survivors were dumbfounded.

The blunt one eyed the iron man suspiciously and asked, unconvinced.

"You really paying us?"

The man without a family laughed.

"Of course! And not just paying—we settle daily! Each person... we give twenty Xilan coins!"

Twenty Xilan coins!

Everyone's eyes went wide.

They instinctively didn't believe such good fortune, but the cigarette butts dangling from their lips made them half-believe it anyway.

Maybe these iron men really were loaded?

A young mouse-man swallowed hard.

"Is it... for everyone?"

The man without a family smiled.

"Absolutely! We treat everyone equally!"

Then another asked.

"Can we bring more family members?"

The man without a family replied cheerfully.

"No problem! We pay per head... ah, kids don't count—anyone under twelve we don't tally. Tomorrow at dawn, we'll count heads right here. As long as you do as we say, you'll all get paid!"

With a flicker in his eyes, he added.

"You can recruit others for me. For every extra person you bring, I'll give you an extra five coins! But keep this quiet—don't let outsiders know, or not only will the money vanish, you might lose your lives too."

At this, everyone's faces lit up with surprise, and not a single person was frightened by his last words.

The man without a family arranged a time and place with them on the map to hand out the money, then sent them off.

The next day, while the sky was still barely light, over a thousand people gathered at the northern outskirts of Golden Harbor, marching toward the Gray Wolf Army's positions.

Seeing the dark mass of figures, the soldiers on the front line were startled, thinking the Alliance had attacked—until they got closer and realized it was a crowd of settlement residents.

"What are you doing here!" a soldier shouted.

Several survivors at the front yelled back without hesitation.

"We're here to work!"

"Your commander called us here!"

"He said to come back tomorrow, and if we didn't, he'd come drag us from our settlement."

"Let us get to work!"

Hearing the clamor rising and falling, the few soldiers on duty stood dumbfounded, staring blankly at this crowd, unsure what to do. They quickly dispatched one man to report back to their superior.

At that moment, their superior was snoring in the newly dug shelter from the day before. Woken up, he looked bewildered, hastily grabbing his cap from where it hung by the bed.

"Has the Alliance attacked?!"

"No," the soldier said rapidly, watching his officer hurriedly pull on his boots. "A group of residents from Golden Gallon Port has arrived at the position. They say you summoned them to dig earthworks here..."

The officer, mid-motion of putting on his shoes, paused for two seconds, his hands freezing on the laces. He nodded.

"Ah, that. What about it?"

The soldier was taken aback, momentarily at a loss.

"So..."

"Hand them shovels and spades, tell them where to dig and how. Do I need to teach you that too? Damn it, making a fuss over such a trifle. Call me when the Alliance attacks!"

The officer cursed, tossing aside the shoe he'd just slipped into, flung his cap onto the bed, and rolled back over to lie down.

He hadn't slept until past three last night, and was dead tired. Waking him for such a petty matter—utterly clueless!

After being chewed out, the soldier looked aggrieved, but seeing the officer already snoring again, he could only scurry off to find the logistics officer for the front line, to issue digging tools to these survivors.

The survivors, having received their tools, immediately went to the position and began to toil, sweat pouring down, their zeal a stark contrast to the day before.

By the time the sun was high, the overseer with a whip in hand arrived at the position, only to find, to his astonishment, that his whip was unnecessary.

"Strange."

"When did these beasts become so diligent?"

Several overseers gathered, curiously watching the figures bent over in the trenches, sweating profusely. One of them, unable to contain his curiosity, stepped forward to ask.

"What's the matter? Why are you so hardworking today?"

The survivor, buried in his work, didn't look up, shouting back at the whip-wielding overseer.

"Sir, if we slack off, we get the whip, and we still have to do the work."

"Yes, sir, we're afraid of the pain."

"If we finish early, when the battle's over, we won't have to suffer anymore."

These words were taught to them by the man who brought them here to earn money.

They dared not look up, especially not at the overseer's face, afraid they'd give themselves away.

The overseer nodded, not doubting their words, but couldn't help sneering coldly.

"If you'd had this realization earlier and worked harder in daily life, you wouldn't have ended up in this wretched state, neither man nor ghost."

Even if they didn't join the army like him, they could have run a small business or learned a trade—anything would have been better than living worse than beasts, tethered here to dig dirt.

In the end, it was sheer laziness.

The overseer looked down at them for a while, saw that they were working hard even without the whip, and decided not to bother with it. He turned and went to cool off under the camouflage netting.

Meanwhile, Arayan, having completed his battle deployment, was inspecting the position.

First, he inspected the crucial artillery positions, anti-aircraft positions, and various machine-gun nests, then moved to the front line for a glance.

To his surprise, the group of laborers who had been slacking off earlier were now working with fervor.

As if there were gold buried underground.

Strange.

When had these lazybones become so diligent?!

Lowering his binoculars, Arayan turned to his adjutant.

"How much did you pay them?"

The adjutant replied smugly.

"Report, sir! Not a single coin!"

"Not a single coin?!" Arayan stared at him in disbelief, wondering if he'd misheard.

The adjutant chuckled, showing off.

"I heard from the men below that the local residents are all hoping we win quickly, so their lives can return to normal. So they came with their families early this morning to help."

He paused, then continued.

"In the end, it's His Majesty's popular support and your renowned reputation. Heaven, earth, and people are all on our side. It's hard to lose this battle."

Though suspicious, Arayan couldn't refute the first part of his statement. He simply nodded and set aside this trivial matter.

He didn't need those laborers to dig the trenches to any standard; as long as they provided his soldiers with some cover along the line, that was enough.

The real battle was in the city. These trenches and fortifications were only needed for troop deployment and ammunition supply to the front.

"Still, give the locals some benefit. After the work is done, hand each one a loaf of bread as compensation for their lost time."

The bread he spoke of was not the soft, white kind with butter and jam he had for breakfast, but the dark bread mixed with bran, even gravel and sawdust.

This bread was the staple for most of the empire's lower-class citizens and middle-to-lower peasants, costing a few Xilan coins for half a pound—the exact price depending on the bread's quality.

Unleavened, it was harder than a biscuit, could even be used as a weapon. Usually, it was broken into pieces and soaked in water before eating.

Still, it was better than eating dirt or those gas-inducing beans.

The adjutant nodded respectfully.

"Very well, sir. I'll arrange it shortly."

Arayan nodded, then asked.

"By the way, any news from Rajesh?"

Rajesh was his capable subordinate, not only an Awakened but also an excellent marksman, especially skilled in disguise and intelligence gathering.

Before the army marched, he had sent Rajesh and two other scouts to Golden Gallon Port to gather intelligence on the Alliance's activities there.

It had been two days since their last contact.

He needed the latest intelligence before formulating the next step of the battle plan.

The adjutant hesitated slightly, then shook his head.

"No new reports yet... The Alliance's troop deployments must have changed considerably recently. I suspect Sergeant Rajesh wants to wait until things stabilize before reporting."

Arayan frowned slightly.

"...It seems we need to give him more time."

He had a bad feeling, but it was too early to draw conclusions.

Not daring to approach the front line too closely, Arayan was certain that the Alliance soldiers hiding in the settlement were also watching this position. So he only took a distant look before retreating behind cover and obstacles.

The sun gradually set behind the mountains.

The officer in charge of the front-line construction walked onto the position, took a look, nodded in satisfaction, and then crawled back into the shelter.

The depth was more than sufficient!

If this trend continues, they will finish fortifying the outer perimeter of Golden Gallon Port in at most three days. Those Alliance soldiers probably never dreamed their construction speed could be so swift.

At the same time, on the edge of the Golden Gallon Port settlement, a group of survivors, drenched in sweat, were nervously queuing up in front of a narrow alley.

This street was their own home, and several entrances to the block were being watched, so there was no need to worry about outsiders seeing them.

Yet, since they were taking money from those iron men, most were anxious, afraid both that the iron men would renege and that Imperial soldiers would catch them taking the cash.

But when a crisp banknote with a face value of 20 was pressed into their hands, nearly every anxious expression turned into an ingratiating smile.

"Thank you, master!" said a man with a bedsheet tied around his waist, clasping his hands in gratitude, his moved expression almost making him kneel on the spot.

The one handing out the money, Yibudengtian, was inwardly amused but still put on the airs of a civilized man and chided him.

"Don't call me master, I can't accept that. We pay, you work—that's called a transaction, understand? It's not a handout from us."

The man clearly didn't get it, nodding and bowing with a smile.

"Sure thing, boss!"

"...Damn, might as well have saved my breath. Get lost." Yibudengtian couldn't be bothered to argue, waving him away.

Not far from the alley, two players in exoskeletons were huddled together.

Watching the crowd lining up for money, Shanherumeng couldn't help but sigh.

"You guys are way too sneaky."

Today he had received a mission: transport several crates of Xilan bills from the Tulip Street bank to his teammates on the front lines.

At first, he was curious why so much money was needed—until he saw this scene.

Looking at his stunned ally, Yinchacuocuo chuckled.

"That guy in our squad is really something, sharper than me. He should be the one leading."

Shanherumeng looked at him with envy—genuine envy.

Other squads were full of talent, while his squad had four members, two of them greenhorns who could mess up even while taking shelter from the rain.

Leading this team was truly exhausting.

"By the way, have you picked up any clues these past two days? What are those guys planning?" Shanherumeng asked casually.

Yinchacuocuo smiled.

"No idea, but from the looks of it, they're planning a steady advance. You guys at the Lowell Camp better watch out."

Shanherumeng looked surprised.

"You think they'll make the Lowell Camp their main target?"

Yinchacuocuo tried to analyze.

"Eighty percent chance, but it's hard to say. I just feel the Lowell Camp has a bit more strategic value than the Governor's Mansion. Plus, the Governor's Mansion sits on higher ground than the northern district, so they'd have to put in a lot of effort to take it, and holding it wouldn't be easy. But if they take the Lowell Camp, they can force us back to Tulip Street, pushing our front line back to where it was at the start of the second phase."

Once the Alliance's front line shrinks back near the port, they won't be able to bribe local survivors and slaves as temporary recruits.

Conversely, retaking the Governor's Mansion would do nothing for them except move the street fighting from the slums to Tulip Street near the port.

And their supply lines could be cut by the Alliance or by local militias trained by the Alliance.

Shanherumeng thought it over and found it made sense.

Just then, a bare-chested local approached and said to Yinchacuocuo, "Sir, someone outside is looking for you. A young mouse-man, says his name is Ashin, your servant."

Shanherumeng heard this and looked at Yinchacuocuo in surprise.

"Servant?"

"Ah, nothing like that, it's a misunderstanding," Yinchacuocuo chuckled, switching to Mandarin, then addressed the NPC in Union language: "Let him in."

The bare-chested local nodded.

"Very well."

After all, they were doing something shady; any unfamiliar face here would raise their alert.

But if it was a servant of these iron men, then it was fine.

He was one of them.

Accompanied by two locals, the boy named Ashin was brought over.

He looked flustered, hands in his pockets, clothes stained with mud, a scrape and a bruise on his face and arm, as if left there not long ago.

Seeing a familiar face, his panic instantly vanished, and he hurried forward with delighted surprise.

"Yincha!"

Yinchacuocuo looked at him in surprise.

"Hey, Ashin... what happened to you?"

"Just a little scratch, don't worry about it..." Ashin swallowed nervously and continued, "I need to take you to see someone—no, three people."

Guessing the kid wanted him to help scare someone off, Yinchacuocuo glanced at the late hour and then smiled at the young man.

"Wait a bit. Once we're done here, we'll head back to the Governor's Mansion. We'll go with you then. Whoever's giving you trouble, we'll pay them a visit—"

"No, you misunderstand," Ashin took a deep breath, calming down. "No one's bothering me. I wouldn't trouble you over something so trivial. I just want to... give you a gift."

Before the iron man could ask, he continued quickly.

"They are General Arayan's men!"