Chapter 712: So Delicious!

Chapter 712: True Fragrance!

It turned out that shouting a bit did have some use.

For the sake of the two savages carrying rifles outside the corridor, those bureaucrats who had been kept in captivity for years finally mustered a shred of seriousness.

As for the outcome, that would have to wait for further news.

But Fang Chang wasn’t pinning all his hopes on these vermin.

He was using them temporarily only because there was no one else to turn to; firing them all outright would bring nothing but momentary satisfaction, with no benefit whatsoever.

Fang Chang understood clearly that these fellows, while appearing clueless on the surface, had countless ties to the grassroots behind the scenes.

They had delegated a portion of their power and obligations to more basic civil groups, allowing those groups to “legally” collect “fire money,” “water money,” and “sanitation fees,” while the latter inevitably had to share some of the spoils with them.

In other words, these guys likely weren’t just taking money without doing anything—they were “taking money twice and doing nothing”! Most of the poor wretches in Golden Port had to pay three times for the same public service—including what went to those civil groups.

Under such circumstances, it would be a miracle if they could afford not to eat dirt and wear clothes!

Although most settlements of the Alliance also adhered to the principle of “survivor self-determination,” they had never sold off public affairs to private individuals, let alone handed them over to violent gangs. This was no longer a matter of autonomy rates—it was pure rot!

If the problem of paying three times for one thing wasn’t solved, no matter what they did in Golden Port, life for the people here wouldn’t change much.

As a first step, he planned to rely on the scant authority of the old bureaucratic apparatus and the coercive force of the militia to reclaim some rights and obligations that had been delegated to who knows where, or simply co-opt some of the better-performing ones.

As a second step, he needed to promote some capable grassroots personnel from the literate citizenry to gradually replace those already stinking with the odor of decay—or even cultivate a qualified city lord or mayor from among them to cooperate with the future governor of Golden Port.

If the administrator intended to send a governor here, that is.

…

“…The situation here is even worse than we imagined. It’s like an orange rotting from the inside—you can’t tell what’s happening without peeling off the skin. Sheriff Harry was right: if we abolish slavery here, this settlement will be buried under a mountain of shit within a week. But we still have to do it.”

After leaving the governor’s office, Fang Chang met up with Old Bai, who had returned from the Lowell camp, and recounted what had just happened on the way.

Before “clocking out,” he had signed a recruitment order, offering a monthly salary of 2,000 gallons to hire two hundred literate citizens into the city hall.

After a period of training, he would assign them specific departments and tasks based on the organizational framework previously discussed on the forum, merging and reorganizing the departments from the Nihark governor era, concentrating the old bureaucrats in a marginal department and gradually phasing them out to complete the final blood transfusion.

This organizational structure was originally intended for Chipao Port, but that place now had too few people to need it.

Instead, it would benefit the survivors of Golden Port first.

Seeing Fang Chang shaking his head, Old Bai grinned.

“Do you remember what our original purpose was in coming here?”

Fang Chang paused slightly, then replied.

“To teach those clowns a lesson and liberate some slaves to work back home… Why?”

“What we’re doing now looks more like poverty alleviation. Look at how worn out you are,” Old Bai said with a laugh. “Don’t be too impatient. Some things can’t be changed in a day or two.”

“I’m not impatient. Why would I be? And this isn’t poverty alleviation—it’s just that there’s no point in squeezing a bunch of paupers. If we want to get enough benefits from the locals, we first need to make them rich, or at least let them live like human beings.” Fang Chang sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger, muttering to himself, “Literacy is a big problem… The literacy campaign needs to be started as soon as possible.”

He had previously hired a group of doctors from Silver Moon Bay to treat the wounded prisoners. Perhaps they should also invite some teachers.

Seeing Fang Chang lost in thought, Old Bai gave him a look that said, “Whatever you say,” and patted his good buddy on the shoulder with a smile.

“Let me share some good news. The reconnaissance team we sent north gathered information. The locals say there’s a guerrilla group active in the mountainous area north of the Eternal River. Although they haven’t noticed our signals yet, they should have noticed what’s happening in Golden Port. Maybe someone will come to contact us soon.”

Fang Chang pondered for a moment and said, “Keep searching. Hopefully, there are some talented people among them… By the way, do you smell something?”

Just as he was speaking, a faint sweet scent suddenly tickled his nose, drifting from the direction of the docks along the sea breeze through the street.

Strange.

It wasn’t the smell of fish.

Seeing the surprised expression on Fang Chang’s face, Old Bai grinned.

“That’s the second good news I wanted to tell you.”

“Tail and the others just arrived.”

…

“Whoa! Golden Port!”

“Though it’s only been a little over two months, it feels like ages and ages.”

“Yeah, yeah! Huge changes, giao!”

A few hours earlier, on the deck of the Meatball.

Standing at the bow on tiptoe, Tail and Meatball excitedly gazed toward the port, pointing at the buildings there.

The dock was still the same dock, but the cargo-hoisting devices had been replaced from wooden cranes to electric-driven metal wheels, and the transport vehicles for moving goods had been swapped from oxcarts and manual labor to forklifts, flatbed trucks, and heavy-duty trucks produced in Dawn City and Boulder City.

Near the port area, stacks of military supplies were piled up in crates and bundles. Militiamen with white armbands had replaced imperial soldiers patrolling the shore.

The only drawback was that the place was a bit more desolate than two months ago, with only a few fishing boats moored at the dock.

This was likely due to the closure of the slave trade and the war. Cargo ships from the west coast of the Brahmin Province had almost vanished, and the merchant ships of the Vellantese were nowhere to be seen.

But that had freed up berths for merchant ships from Silver Moon Bay.

This time, the Meatball wasn’t just carrying a thousand tons of shelled, dehydrated corn; it had brought an entire fleet loaded with goods!

Earlier in Silver Moon Bay, through the bank under the White Bear Knights, Sisi had leaked news that the ceasefire agreement was about to be signed and that the Empire had imposed an embargo on Golden Port. Then she instructed the old banker, Buma, to offer extremely low-interest loans for specific shipping routes and goods.

There was no need for deliberate propaganda. With information and financial support, the merchants active in the port would naturally pounce like sharks smelling blood, bringing the goods needed here.

Sitting in the cockpit, Sisi skillfully sounded the steam whistle, greeting the friends on the dock.

At the stern, Sesame Paste was directing the Silver Moon Bay crew, preparing to dock and unload.

With everyone working together, the fleet of cargo ships finally docked at the port just before evening. Containers full of goods were transferred to the dock with the help of cranes, then moved by forklifts to the container storage area.

This area had originally been a transit point for people and a place where the White Bear Knights had once fought.

Since the Alliance arrived, the facilities here had been completely cleared, leaving only a plot of less than twenty square meters as a historical memory. The rest had been converted into a container storage area to increase the port’s warehouse capacity.

With the port authorities giving the green light, the port staff prioritized checking the inventory of food-type goods, stamped the batch purchased by the Golden Port authorities on the spot, and completed the transaction, paying all the money at once.

Then, a dozen trucks drove into the container parking area.

Under the efforts of a group of bare-chested laborers, bags of corn and flour were thrown onto the trucks, heading toward several construction sites managed by the Golden Port authorities, the Lowell camp, and the prisoner-of-war camp outside the city.

A total of eight thousand tons of shelled, dehydrated corn were sold at a wholesale price of 700 silver coins per ton! And nearly three thousand tons of cornmeal were sold at 900 silver coins per ton!

In the Falling Cloud Province, especially in the Lion Kingdom, which imported large quantities of Alliance-produced fertilizers, pesticides, and high-yield seeds, the production cost of a kilogram of corn was only 0.2 to 0.3 silver coins! And since the railway from Lion City and Falling Leaf City to Petra Fortress was completed, transportation costs had been reduced to less than 50% of production costs.

Even accounting for the sea voyage and deducting all costs including crew and mercenary wages, the total cost per ton of corn was still below 600 silver coins. And if using their own ships and private guards, the cost could be squeezed to around 500 silver coins!

This profit margin of at least 16% on bulk commodities was enough to drive any merchant doing business here wild!

For the Golden Port authorities, facing the threat of famine, this batch of grain worth over eight million silver coins was a lifeline for the settlement.

Even if distributed equally to each person, everyone would get 11 kilograms of carbohydrates.

Of course, the final distribution method wouldn’t be so simple and crude.

The Golden Port authorities would launch a series of municipal projects through a work-for-relief program, such as the ongoing renovation of the Klaba Market and the construction of several main roads and sewers.

Through these projects, the authorities would pay wages and funds to the workers and units involved in the construction using Gallen currency, and the grain imported through the port could only be purchased with Gallen currency.

This way, it not only prevented the citizen class and old nobility, who held large amounts of Xilan coins, from hoarding and stockpiling grain, but also provided an outlet for the vast young and able-bodied labor force to expend their energy. Incidentally, it improved the infrastructure of Golden Gallon Port and precisely channeled currency into the hands of those who needed it.

One could call it a fourfold gain.

As for the foreign exchange spent on purchasing grain, on the surface it was borrowed by the authorities from the deep-pocketed Baiyue Company, but in the end, it would all be covered by the reparations paid by the Emperor of the Xilan Empire.

Fang Chang had long since grown too lazy to tally up exactly how many times the Alliance had won this campaign for the esteemed Administrator...

In any case, he was determined to get his hands on that electric door.

......

On the outskirts of the city, a prisoner-of-war camp.

After sleeping for who knows how long, Kapil slowly awoke from his stupor.

When he saw the man in the white coat before him, he almost instinctively opened his mouth and squeezed out a sentence from his throat, which felt like it was on fire.

"This is..."

The doctor glanced at him and said casually,

"Golden Gallon Port."

The accent sounded like someone from the Hump Kingdom.

But that wasn't the point—

A hint of joy flickered across Kapil's face. He excitedly extended his stiff right hand and grabbed the sleeve of the man in the white coat.

"Did we win?!"

The doctor was taken aback for a moment, then smiled at him.

"What nonsense are you talking about?"

With that, he called out to the side.

"This guy's awake, but his mind's not right. The rest is up to you."

From a distance, a faint shout came back.

"Alright, as long as he's awake, leave the rest to us. Go attend to other matters."

"Got it."

The doctor raised his hand holding a pen in acknowledgment, then hastily scribbled a few words in his notebook before leaving the not-so-spacious tent.

Kapil stared blankly at the man, his outstretched right hand involuntarily losing strength and falling. Only after the man had walked far away did he snap back to reality. Then, moving his stiff neck, he began to take in his surroundings.

This seemed to be a field hospital. In the cramped tent were a dozen beds, all filled with bandaged men, a scene of utter lifelessness.

Then he looked down at himself. The half of his body exposed beyond the edge of the sheet was tightly wrapped in a layer of bandages.

But what horrified him even more was his right hand.

Only now did he realize that his right hand, from the elbow joint onward, had been completely replaced with a clumsy metal prosthetic.

The memories before his coma hesitantly flooded back into his mind. He remembered being knocked unconscious by a mortar shell while attacking the Governor's Mansion.

At that moment, a man in a khaki uniform lifted the tent flap and entered, walking straight to his bedside.

"...Twelve pieces of shrapnel in your body, only ten removed. It's a miracle you're alive."

Looking down at the man lying in bed, he continued in a sarcastic tone, "Of course, your comrades weren't so lucky. Nine men couldn't even make up one complete corpse."

All dead...

Kapil's Adam's apple bobbed, and for a long time, he couldn't utter a word.

He didn't know why.

When he heard those words, though he should have been furious, there was not a ripple in his heart—only numbness and bewilderment.

If only one person had died, he would have remembered that man's name, visited his grave from time to time, even missed what he was like when he was alive.

But when the dead were so many that they could only be summed up by a careless number, the weight each name could bear seemed trivial.

Perhaps General Arayan felt the same way when faced with that number...

He only felt that his own survival was utterly unreal.

"...Who are you?" Though he had already guessed the man's identity, Kapil still forced the words out of his throat with difficulty.

"Staff member of the Prisoner Section, Logistics Division, Golden Gallon Port Civil Defense Office. As for my name, you don't need to know. All you need to know is that your identity is that of a prisoner."

As he spoke, the man flicked his thumb and tossed a coin-sized iron tag onto his blanket, inscribed with a string of numbers.

"This is your number. When you get up, take it outside to register your name and address. You'll need it when you collect your meal, if you still want to eat."

After finishing his business, the man turned and walked toward the tent exit. Kapil, coming to his senses, suddenly remembered something and hastily called out to him.

"Wait, my hand..."

"The old one was ruined. We gave you a new one," the man who called himself a prisoner section staff member said, glancing at his arm. "This cost will be paid by your Emperor as part of the war reparations. No need to thank us."

Watching the man leave, Kapil tried to move his body. Feeling that he had mostly recovered, he shuffled out of bed.

The registration office was not far from the tent. He walked over with the iron tag and soon completed his prisoner registration.

It happened to be dinner time.

After finishing registration, following a logistics worker's instructions, he found his assigned camp. After collecting his bedding, he picked up his mess tin and lined up in front of a large pot.

Two men who looked to be in the same situation as him were busy beside the pot, constantly stirring its contents with a large wooden ladle.

The entire camp was filled with a rich, sweet aroma, making him unconsciously swallow saliva and mutter under his breath.

"What's cooking in there?"

He thought no one would answer, but the man in front of him turned around.

"I hear it's corn."

There was a hint of anticipation in the man's eyes.

Kapil couldn't help but be startled.

"...Corn?"

He had heard of that crop. It seemed common in the central and southern parts of Luoxia Province, and a small amount had been introduced to Bolo Province, but it wasn't grown as much as beans.

"That's right. I hear it was shipped from Silver Moon Bay, along with the doctor who treated you..." The man sized up the newcomer still wrapped in bandages and continued, "My name is Akhtar. I used to be a Manuwan chieftain... Ah, forget it. Anyway, we're in the same camp now."

Kapil swallowed and introduced himself as well.

"...Kapil. Prince Dilip led us in the attack on the Governor's Mansion."

Akhtar let out a soft whistle, glanced at the militiamen on duty nearby, and smirked.

"Is that so? That was a real disaster... I hear only a thousand of you survived. You must have been blessed by the Wolf God to make it."

Kapil gave a bitter smile, was silent for a long while, then asked,

"What exactly happened here?"

"As you can see, we lost and became prisoners of the Alliance... though it's mainly the militia who manage us."

Seemingly unwilling to delve into the details of the battle, the man named Akhtar glossed over the topic and continued.

“……The first three days, those monkeys locked us in cages, pissed on us, and threw food on the ground for us to lick. Finally, the Alliance people couldn’t stand it anymore and dragged us here. Anyway, you woke up just in time. Now the POW camp is built, we only work eight hours a day, get three meals, and two gallons of pay.”

Kapil: “Gallons?”

“It’s the new money.”

Akhta fished a coin from his pocket, jingled it, and tucked it back.

“Ever since the Empire cut off supplies here, this stuff works way better than the old money. Two gallons won’t buy much, but it’s better than nothing. Oh, and I heard if you can read, they’ll give you lighter work and a bit more pay—maybe five or six coins a day.”

Though utterly baffled by this so-called new money and with no interest in earning any, Kapil still asked instinctively.

“……How do I get that?”

“How? They arrange it for you, of course. You think you can pick and choose? Anyone who won’t work gets sent to haul shit. Don’t be a fool and talk back to them,” Akhta said, eyeing this guy whose brain seemed fried, then went on, “But you’re different from the others. The rest who woke up like you were all raving mad.”

“Maybe I’m not right in the head either,” Kapil said with a bitter smile, pausing a long while before adding, “I feel… like I died once.”

Akhta stared at him for a moment, said nothing more, because it was his turn to get food.

A bowl of fragrant corn porridge, a spoonful of pickled beans, and two slices of steam-heated yellow bread—that was their dinner after a day’s labor.

Akhta smiled and thanked the fellow prisoner who filled his mess tin, then happily took his portion to a corner and wolfed it down.

He wasn’t the only one.

Everyone here ate with relish.

Not just because they’d toiled all day on the construction site and wasteland, but because they’d never tasted such delicious food.

Especially the soft, fluffy bread.

That stuff didn’t belong on a commoner’s table—and these Iron Men were generous enough to feed it to prisoners!

What kind-hearted souls!

Akhta wished he could kneel and kowtow to the Iron Men who’d freed him from the cage and filled his belly.

No exaggeration—the food here was even better than what they’d had in the trenches!

Kapil went up and ladled himself a bowl too.

Maybe because he’d missed the earlier days, he wasn’t as stirred as his old comrades. He silently carried his mess tin to a corner of the camp, found a quiet spot, and ate in peace.

Back in the Xilan Empire, his family was decently off among the citizen class; he’d never lacked nutrition growing up.

Logically, food shouldn’t have provoked any extraordinary reaction from him.

But when he brought the bowl to his lips and took the first sip, he couldn’t help widening his eyes in surprise.

A mellow sweetness spread across his tongue, a flavor he’d never tasted—like milk laced with honey.

Not exceptionally delicious, but the unique taste and texture made him instinctively swallow another mouthful.

Before he knew it, he’d finished the whole bowl of corn porridge and downed the two slices of what seemed like cornmeal bread with the tangy, spicy pickled beans.

His belly satisfied, Kapil sat on the ground.

He glanced at the empty bowl in his hand, licked clean, then looked up at the stars growing brighter.

So good…

I wish I could have another bowl.

Resting his steel prosthetic on his bandaged stomach, he leaned his head back against the tent of the barracks and closed his eyes wearily for a moment.

The quiet evening breeze brushed his face, as if carrying a song from home; the deafening roar was like a distant dream, buried far away with his boiling blood and soul.

For the first time since waking, he felt how wonderful it was to be alive…

……

At that very moment, it wasn’t just the Gray Wolves in the POW camp who found things so satisfying—Prince Dilip, locked up in the Port District Security Bureau’s detention center, felt the same.

Though he’d fought the stupidest war with the Xilan Emperor’s treasury, that didn’t stop him from having a hearty appetite in jail, finishing one bowl and craving another.

To be honest, he was a man of refinement.

Especially when it came to food—he could even boast that the Verant would bow to his expertise.

Take roast lamb, for instance: he only ate newly weaned lambs, and only a small piece from the back; the rest he gave to his servants.

But after days in prison, forced to eat a few meatless “fasting meals,” he’d discovered a whole new world.

Who knew the Alliance wasn’t just advanced in technology but also deeply skilled in cuisine, able to create such unique delicacies from simple ingredients and cooking methods!

Passing his tray through the cell’s small window, Prince Dilip looked at Director Mandal with longing and said sheepishly,

“Could I have another bowl?”

“Are you a pig? You eat more than the laborers!” Mandal, the Port District officer, snapped at the prince, who’d visibly fattened up.

It was these pig-headed rulers of the Empire that had made their faces swell again and again.

Mandal felt both anger and glee—anger at realizing he’d been ridden by pigs, glee that now he was riding the pigs.

Even if only temporarily.

He wagged his finger and haughtily signaled a uniformed subordinate to refill the fawning prince’s bowl.

Watching the corn porridge pour in, Prince Dilip seemed embarrassed, his face red as a monkey’s backside, and said to save face,

“Add a bit more of that sour stuff… Ahem, you can add the meal cost to my ransom. I won’t eat for free… I’ll pay.”

“Wait until your Majesty signs the ceasefire agreement.”

Mandal rolled his eyes, dismissing his words as hot air, handed things over to his subordinate, and glanced at his watch.

It was already quitting time.

He’d filled the bellies of these “key prisoners,” but his own was still empty.

That corn porridge sure smelled good…

Mandal swallowed his saliva but held back.

Not because he was too proud to eat prisoner food, but because a tastier feast awaited him at the banquet later.

To thank the merchants who’d supported the reconstruction of Golden Gallon Port, and for some investment-attraction nonsense, the Golden Gallon Port authorities were hosting a banquet at the most luxurious hotel in the port district, inviting the guests who’d solved the settlement’s urgent crisis.

Not just the travelers from afar—the settlement’s bigwigs and some important representatives of the Iron Men would also attend.

Though the banquet’s cuisine was something to look forward to, what mattered wasn’t the food but getting closer to those Iron Men.

His rise to fortune depended entirely on them!