Chapter 715: The Rising Sun from the Dock Illuminates the Port

Chapter 715: The Sunrise Rising from the Dock Illuminates the Harbor

The official website of *Wasteland OL*.

The forum was as lively as ever.

It had become the most well-informed hub of information across the entire wasteland. Though it couldn’t rival the scale of Ideal City’s Endpoint Cloud, its reach spanned two worlds—a distance the latter couldn’t cover even aboard a warp-speed ship.

NoFamily: “Big news! A new ‘Shadow Port’ has appeared between Golden Port and the southern border of the Xilan Empire! The key landmark is the ‘Shipwreck Haven’ inn—that abandoned cargo ship beached on the shore! Talk to the bartender to trigger a smuggling quest! You can spend all your leftover Xilan coins there!”

FlyingPig: “666!”

BringMeSpicyStrips: “Master! Any level requirement? (Flirty eyes)”

NoFamily: “None! Just watch your kidneys! If you’re worried, bring two Strength-type beasts—though one iron can from our Burning Legion is enough! (Grin)”

NoFamily: “Oh, and one more thing! Empire folks show up there at night. If you’re into smuggling, go during the day! Or train a few NPC agents to go for you!”

Not long after the post went up,

life-profession players active around Golden Port flooded in, stacking over a hundred replies in just ten-odd minutes.

Old Bai, who’d been baffled by Fang Chang’s riddles for ages, finally spotted the post and couldn’t help dropping a complaint in the Ox-Horse group chat.

“…Damn, so that’s what it was about.”

Fang Chang: “You finally figured it out? (Side-eye smirk)”

Old Bai: “But seriously, shouldn’t we do something about the smuggling?”

Fang Chang: “Depends on the cargo. Golden Port’s crops are mostly cash crops—you can’t eat those. For now, the goods coming in are what the locals need, and what we need. Losing a bit of tax revenue lets us dump the piled-up inflation over to Xilan. That’s acceptable to Golden Port’s new authorities.”

In the classical market model, the flow of inflation follows the flow of money, opposite to the flow of goods.

The Alliance could spread inflation across its allies largely because silver coins flowed from the administrators’ hands into others’ pockets. And the Alliance’s allies, for some greater benefit, were willing to pay that trivial price.

This wasn’t just in-game—outside the game too, the “Silver Exchange” had participants beyond players, including bandwagoning cloud-players. The exchange rate between silver coins and other currencies reflected a similar supply-demand relationship. Every auction caused wild fluctuations in silver coin prices, clearly showing that this supply-demand dynamic was embodied in the auction items.

Golden Port was no different. It wasn’t just the coins sitting in the Xilan Emperor’s treasury; plenty of nobles and private banks were eager to offload their Xilan coins. Shadow ports like “Banana Head Bay” gave them a channel.

The people on the other side accepted Xilan coins and could supply goods that were piled up in the Empire but desperately needed in Golden Port. With those goods, they could trade with laborers, factory owners, shopkeepers, and others for the “new money” pegged to silver coins—the Gallon.

The Xilan Emperor thought an embargo would collapse Golden Port, but he might have forgotten that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Too many villages, settlements, and even noble estates around Golden Port relied on it to absorb their mountains of single-type goods.

Golden Port faced inflation of the Xilan coin; they faced far worse deflation.

If they couldn’t sell their mountains of goods, they’d have to dump them into the Eternal River. To prevent that, local nobles would find every way to open border trade routes—bribing border troops or leveraging their authority.

Declaring an embargo when imperial authority was already damaged by the Gray Wolf Army’s defeat was, to a large extent, a move that hurt the enemy a thousand while wounding oneself ten thousand.

Once new interest groups formed locally, the two border armies might become warlords who “follow orders from the capital only when convenient.”

If this game was truly that realistic.

Fang Chang: “…Banana Head Bay probably just popped up. Actually, people were doing this trade right after the ceasefire. From what I’ve seen, the busiest smuggling ports are along the northwest bank of the Eternal River, mostly in the Black Panther Army’s actual control zone. At night, the river’s covered with smuggling boats.”

Fang Chang: “Some nobles in Golden Port send their Xilan coins there for goods like two-headed cattle, sugar, gravel, flax, spices. But inland river ports have limited capacity. If Banana Head Bay develops, we might offload Xilan coins even faster.”

Gale: “What happens when you run out of Xilan coins? (Curious)”

Fang Chang: “By then, Golden Port’s reconstruction will be nearly done. The survivors of the Xilan Empire will be interested in things other than worthless paper.”

NightTen: “MMP, should’ve stuck with you guys. (Ridiculous)”

Old Bai: “Speaking of which, you still in Dawn City?”

NightTen: “Nah, left ages ago. As soon as the Ice Sea City archive opened, Gale and I headed over.”

Gale: “To be precise, there’s also that Academy NPC Jiang Xuezhou and Jiu Jiu. (Side-eye smirk)”

Fang Chang: “We’re literally tens of thousands of miles apart. (Crying with laughter)”

NightTen: “Small issue—at least we’re still on the same planet. (Ridiculous)”

Gale: “+1.”

…

Order might have a vacuum, but one thing never does.

That is power.

Whenever a gap appears, something new fills it.

For better or worse.

Even if only for an instant…

The day after Golden Port’s first “Investment Attraction” banquet ended, the city hall entrance was packed with people.

A man in an exoskeleton walked to the door, opened his helmet’s speaker, and shouted at the crowd.

“Everyone, quiet down. Don’t push.”

“Our rules: bids aren’t first-come-first-served. Qualification criteria, review standards, and procedures are posted on the bulletin board. After reading, grab a number at the door and wait to be called. Any interested individual or group can participate! Anyone!”

Soon, someone at the edge of the crowd called out.

“Sir! Can pigeon-folk join?”

“I said, anyone!” HalfYearWasted shouted at the surging crowd. “And don’t call us ‘sir’! The Alliance doesn’t have that!”

The crowd at the city hall entrance erupted in applause and cheers. A few looked displeased, but for the money’s sake, they swallowed it.

Watching the young man bowing and thanking him profusely, HalfYearWasted smiled and waved, then suddenly snapped back to reality.

Wait.

Was that guy a pigeon?

…

In just one day, 37 infrastructure projects received nearly 200 bid documents, over half from life-profession players active around Silver Moon Bay and Golden Port.

Background checks and capital verification took three full days.

During those three days, Fang Chang gathered a dozen players from the Burning Legion and nearby areas—those with experience in municipal departments or administrative roles at big companies. They guided the 200 newly hired civil servants at Golden Port’s city hall in learning their duties while reviewing the 200-plus bid documents.

After eliminating over a hundred companies and individuals with insufficient qualifications or serious false reporting, 22 infrastructure projects found responsible companies or individuals.

The remaining 15 projects were mostly heavy-asset ones—like main road reconstruction, port freight railways, and civilian railway construction. Without real strength, even if tempted by the juicy long-term returns, you couldn’t bite them off.

Although Golden Port Bank didn’t fully operate a “100% reserve” system—issuing 10 Gallons didn’t require actually having 1 silver coin in reserve—printing too much money beyond silver reserves would trigger systemic financial risks.

Printing loads of cash and lending it to contractors to force-feed a skinny man into a fat one wouldn’t work here.

The local fragile economy had no foundation for “spending future generations’ money today.” The survivors, already eating dirt, couldn’t suffer more.

So Bai Yue Company’s CEO Fang Chang set up a discussion group on the forum, summoned the shareholders for a meeting, explained the project situation, held a vote, and decided that Bai Yue Company would fund and take on these 15 heavy-asset projects.

This approach mirrored exactly what Dawn City did during its massive infrastructure push.

That is, a well-funded shelter collective holding company takes on the toughest, unavoidable bones. Once the pie grows, the administrators slowly distribute it to local survivors, letting them eat too.

Meanwhile, the already colossal “Ox-Horse Groups” follow the Alliance’s army or caravans out of Alliance territory into the wider wasteland, creating new profit growth points—like Ideal City, Luoxia Province, Boulder City before its revolution, and even the unfriendly Free State and Falcon Kingdom.

In fact, both Fries Port and Golden Port were products of this model, though the players’ strategies differed due to local conditions.

Once all 37 infrastructure projects at Golden Gallon Port are completed, the economic output of this port might even surpass Silver Moon Bay, becoming a new trade hub on the Bora Sea.

After all, Silver Moon Bay relies on nothing more than a kingdom of a million souls, while this place itself is a settlement of a million people, backed by a feudal dynasty boasting a thousand clans and a thousand gods.

In this sense, the 37 infrastructure projects underway at Golden Gallon Port, along with hundreds of smaller grassroots initiatives, are as vital to the Alliance—which seeks to unite the survivors of the wasteland—as the ongoing port and submarine pipeline construction at Chip Port.

The latter is a visible bond.

The former, though invisible, is no less real...

...

June’s weather is like a child’s face—one moment the port is shrouded in dark clouds, the next a scorching sun hangs at the edge of the sky.

It’s barely past seven in the morning, yet the whole port is already as hot as noon, and even the seagulls circling the masts cry out in heat-stricken despair.

Pal, on duty, yawned and decided to step under the guard booth for a while.

Last time, it was around the same hour, maybe a bit earlier.

Standing here, he had merely yawned, and in the blink of an eye, the governor and the emperor had been swept away. That shifty-eyed Mandar had become the port district’s police officer, and the former sheriff, Bihari, had risen even higher, becoming the entire settlement’s police chief.

Police chief.

For Golden Gallon Port, it was undoubtedly a novel term.

After all, as everyone knew, aside from the port district, which had real guards, the rest of the place didn’t even have patrols. Unless a murder occurred or a noble’s cat or dog went missing, reporting a crime to the authorities would yield no response.

Wealthy families’ daughters never ventured into the alleys, while the poor families’ numbers were always in flux—counting how many people were in each household this year, how many next year, and how the dead had died was a thankless, exhausting task.

They were like grass growing on red soil, sprouting anew with each spring breeze. Now, at last, a group had come who treated them as human—truly a stroke of luck for them.

Pal felt this had something to do with his yawn.

If he hadn’t been slacking off, the city defense forces might have spotted the gang landing at the port a bit sooner, and General Alayan of the Gray Wolf Army wouldn’t have suffered that defeat outside the city.

If only another yawn could drive the Alliance away too—it was annoying to have a bunch of “snakes, rats, birds, and insects” lording it over him.

He only wanted the usually arrogant lords to politely call him “officer” or “sir,” not to become equals with those lowborn wretches.

For instance, before, he could freely use his rifle butt to discipline those underlings, but now, if he did so without a good reason, those “iron men” would go and complain to his dear Sheriff Mandar, who, after being scolded, would have a thousand ways to make Pal’s life miserable without him being able to voice his grievances.

Slacking off was also out of the question.

Those iron men were clever—they never bothered with the underlings directly, only their leaders, and they went straight for the leaders’ weak spots.

Thus, though he felt no attachment to this post, he had no choice but to put on a facade of impartial law enforcement.

Fortunately, today the port was as peaceful as ever. Dust flew from the construction sites, people bustled along the roads, and everyone was too busy to stir up trouble.

Whether merchants weaving through the docks or laborers hauling crates between warehouses and piers, all were racking their brains and straining their muscles to stuff a few extra “gallons” into their pockets. Even the seagulls overhead were busy snatching fries from the iron men and the bears they kept.

If he didn’t think back carefully, he might even forget what had happened here over a month ago...

Just then, a jingling sound came from outside the guard booth, and a bicycle with a police plate screeched to a halt at the door.

A nimble young man swung his leg off the bike, pushed open the booth door with a flurry, and stuffed a thick document pouch into the yawning Pal’s arms.

“Please take this to the substation north of Knight First Road, the one next to the station—they need it urgently.”

Seeing it was almost time to clock out, Pal couldn’t help asking,

“Why me?”

The young man’s name was Bashak. He reminded Pal a bit of a Yorkie—one of the newly recruited guards.

Though his colleagues at the guard bureau thought well of him—warm-hearted, agile, and diligent—Pal honestly didn’t like this mouse-tribe lad.

First, because of his kind, and second, because he was a bit too enthusiastic about this new job, lacking any semblance of a guard’s authority.

Was he that eager for praise from those iron men?

“You’re about to finish your night shift, and you live nearby—it’s on your way, so just do me this favor,” the mouse-tribe lad said with a smile, hands clasped together. “Please, please—I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow!”

“...”

Pal rolled his eyes in exasperation, but thinking of getting off early and a free breakfast, he still took the sealed document pouch and stepped outside.

As Pal strode off into the distance, Bashak called out,

“Aren’t you riding the bike?”

“I don’t know how to ride that thing,” Pal snorted, a hint of displeasure in his voice, feeling the lad was showing off the perks he’d gotten from the iron men.

What’s there to be proud of?

That bike isn’t even yours!

But Bashak didn’t mind and said cheerfully,

“It’s really convenient. I hear the guards in Dawn City ride these too—just one more battery than ours! If you ever have time, I can teach you! With someone guiding you, you won’t have to worry about falling.”

“No need.”

Pal waved the document pouch impatiently without turning around, quickening his pace down the street.

Everything here was changing.

Whether the things on the streets or the people on them, when he occasionally woke with a start, he always felt as if everyone had left him behind.

Once, Tulip Street was home to nobles and ladies in long gowns and formal attire; now, even loathsome rats had wormed their way in.

That family over there—was it called Asin?

Pal glanced at the mansion that had once belonged to a Velantian, his eyes unconsciously tinged with disgust and contempt, like looking at a pie gnawed by a rat.

The Velantians had earned their fortune through hard work and courage, yet a thieving rat had snatched it away by cunning and deceit. He really didn’t see what was so good about this so-called order.

If he had a choice, he would certainly prefer to return to the days of Governor Nihaq, when people were far more polite than now...

Quickening his pace, he left the now-degenerate Tulip First Street and soon crossed Knight First Road, the thoroughfare that separated the rich district from the poor.

It was a ring road encircling Tulip Street.

Here, the city defense forces loyal to the governor had fought a bloody battle with the Alliance, yet now no trace of the conflict remained.

The bullet-riddled houses and the streets torn up by shells had all been demolished.

Recently, the Alliance had been undertaking massive construction here, not only tearing up the bombed roads but also ripping up perfectly good ones along with their foundations, leaving the surrounding streets perpetually shrouded in dust.

The substation Bashak mentioned, near the station construction site, was close by.

As he walked toward it, Pal glanced into a pit surrounded by barriers, where several bare-chested laborers were laying thick, heavy wooden sleepers on the ground.

He’d seen that kind of wood in the port’s warehouse district—it seemed to be shipped from Chip Port on a freighter rented by Baiyue Company.

Golden Gallon Port had never imported such things before, and he had no idea what the workers were laying them for, so he cleared his throat and called out in an authoritative tone,

“What are you doing?”

The busy workers ignored him, drowned out by the clanging noise.

Only a few laborers who had just finished their shift and were resting looked up. Seeing his uniform, they thought he was there for an inspection and explained,

“Sir, this is an Alliance construction site. We have a permit.”

The respectful and fearful expression on their faces brought a hint of satisfaction to Pal’s. He nodded pompously and continued,

“Ahem! Good, as long as you have a permit... You’d better do a proper job on the iron men’s site. Don’t cut corners—if we catch you, you’ll be in for it!”

Although he disliked the Alliance, he would never dare to cause trouble on their construction site.

The men all put on innocent expressions upon hearing this.

“How would we dare, officer?”

“Yeah, the foreman keeps a tight rein on us!”

“And not just slacking off… we can’t even work a minute longer. Each shift is capped at ten hours a day. If we go over, not only do the performance and wages go to the next shift, but we get fined too!”

Palu was taken aback, unable to grasp why working more would incur a penalty.

But he didn’t press further, just cleared his throat and asked about something else that piqued his curiosity.

“What are you building here?”

“A railway!” a worker replied with a grin.

Palu froze.

“A railway? What’s the point of that?”

The workers exchanged glances, at a loss for an answer, until one sharp-looking young man had a flash of inspiration and called out.

“To modernize the port.”

“Modernize?” Palu murmured to himself. “I’ve never heard that word before.”

“Funny thing is, neither have we—it’s all stuff the Iron Men say! Anyway, we just know this thing can haul stuff!”

The young man had barely finished speaking when another chimed in, “Doesn’t matter if you’ve never heard of it, as long as it pays the wages!”

Palu couldn’t help asking.

“Where are they hauling the goods to?”

A sunburned worker replied.

“The ones buried underground carry people; the ones circling the port carry freight. That’s a different crew’s project, not ours. You’d have to ask them where the goods go.”

“Carry people?!” Palu’s eyes widened in disbelief. How could a few wooden rails move people?

Seeing his shock, the young worker laughed.

“That’s right! I hear those cars run fast on the tracks. Soon folks from the suburbs can come work in the port district!”

Palu opened his mouth, then pressed on.

“And… how much do they pay? How many gallons do the Iron Men give you a month?”

At the mention of wages, the dark-skinned worker grinned, a smug look on his face.

“Two thousand two hundred gallons!”

“Two thousand two hundred gallons?!”

Hearing that number, Palu was stunned again, doing the math in his head.

That would be…

Enough for fifty-five kilograms of corn?!

Lately, many citizens of Golden Gallon Port had learned from the Iron Men how to cook corn and cornmeal. Mimicking the Iron Men’s diet had become the new fashion among the settlement’s middle class, and corn prices had risen from one gallon per tael to two gallons per tael.

That was twenty gallons per catty.

But if you bought coarse grains like black beans or chickpeas shipped by water, a catty cost only about eight gallons!

As for Xilan coins, they rarely appeared at the stalls the common folk frequented; it was said only big shots used them in their deals.

Palu couldn’t quickly figure out how many catties of beans 2,200 gallons would buy, but he only earned 1,800 gallons a month himself.

These laborers made more than he did!

“How can it be that much?! I remember the recruitment ad… said 1,600 gallons, didn’t it?” Palu asked, unable to hide his envy.

The workers laughed again.

“That’s the base pay! On top of that, we got a 600-gallon bonus last month!”

“The foreman told us, if we work fast and well enough to impress the Iron Men, we can earn bonuses as big as our salaries!”

“I’m done. You guys need more rest?”

“Let’s head back together… I’ll grab some steamed buns later.”

“I’ll pick up some fried beans on the way.”

“Where’d you get the booze?!”

“Heh, I’ll tell you quietly—the Iron Men never finish theirs…”

The group seemed rested enough. They climbed the ladder out of the pit and hung their hard hats on the rack nearby.

Palu watched them blankly, sensing something different in those sweat-soaked young men, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

There had always been laborers, but he’d never seen anyone smile after a day’s work.

No—

To be precise, he’d never seen those slaves finish a job at all, let alone have the chance to think about what to eat after clocking out.

Maybe…

The world really had changed.

With a troubled look, Palu left and headed to the nearby Port Security Bureau precinct. Following a colleague’s tip, he found the precinct chief.

He knocked on the office door, stepped inside, and was relieved to see the chief was about his age, also in his thirties.

His fair skin marked him as a citizen rarely exposed to wind and rain, and his cultured demeanor suggested a refined intellectual.

Palu instinctively adopted a humble tone, slowed his steps, and forced a friendly smile as he handed over the file.

“Bashak sent me with this.”

The chief glanced at him, surprised.

“That fast?”

He quickly took the file from Palu, tore open the seal, pulled out a thick stack of papers, and skimmed through them.

After a moment, he nodded approvingly.

“Good. Thank the kid for me later. I’ll write to your precinct to express my gratitude for his cooperation.”

Though a pang of jealousy stung him, Palu forced a smile and nodded.

“I’ll pass that along.”

He paused, then couldn’t resist asking.

“By the way, Chief, if you don’t mind me asking… what are these papers?”

The chief took a sip of tea, cleared his throat, and said succinctly.

“Household registration documents.”

Palu was taken aback.

"Household registration?"

"That's right, at the request of those Iron Men. Lately, many refugees have swum across from the Yongliu River; according to them, there's been a famine in several nearby villages. The Governor's Office has ordered us to set up an identity verification system for the local residents as soon as possible—at least register their names, ages, genders, approximate streets of residence, and so on... Your port district is home to people of status and position, but our side is far more troublesome—shanties everywhere, some of the dockworkers don't come home for days. It's a good thing we have your cooperation."

As he spoke, the precinct chief sitting behind his desk rubbed his temples with a headache, clearly troubled by this matter for some time.

Paru was taken aback after hearing this.

He had indeed heard some rumors that the Governor's Mansion planned to issue something called an ID card to the residents of Golden Galleon Port.

At the time, he had secretly rejoiced that these Iron Men were finally going to do something truly good—like completely distinguishing the Ratfolk from the crowd—but he never expected the registration to include only these items.

"Just... register these?" Paru couldn't help asking, looking at the precinct chief with hopeful eyes, hoping to hear something like "almost forgot" or "now I remember."

But to his disappointment, the man only stared at him blankly.

"Just these, is there anything else?"

"Nothing..." Paru suddenly felt dejected, and under a pair of confused eyes, he turned and left the office.

He had actually been looking forward to having a horse drawn on that card.

Although the Horsefolk weren't considered a particularly noble race, they were still far better than those snakes, rats, insects, and birds...

Leaving the police station, Paru dragged his weary body toward home; the rising sun scorched his neck and back.

Muttering curses at the rat that had stolen his time to go home, he unconsciously quickened his pace, hoping to return before the streets grew hot.

Yet just as he stepped through his doorway, the eight o'clock bell rang from the direction of the port, startling a flock of seagulls perched on the eaves.

Paru's old face involuntarily flushed.

Only then did he realize that today he had arrived home much earlier than usual...

...

Just as the eight o'clock sun gilded Golden Galleon Port with a layer of gold, the sky over the west coast of Bharata Province was still a hazy glimmer.

A majestic giant cargo ship was slowly approaching the newly built concrete dock, connected to a patch of shanties that grew like moss densely on the yellow earth.

A man in a crisp military uniform stood on the deck, smiling as he looked at the port bathed in the morning light.

"West Sail Port, and West Sail City, even the fertile and rich Nasite Prefecture adjacent to it... All of this here is our spoils of war, and also the spoils of your father, Mr. Bennott. Take a picture of it from a good angle—make sure the morning light just falls on our bow; I love that sparkling feeling."

Penny, standing behind him, sighed helplessly, took a few shots of the port and the bow, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and said.

"Then I'm afraid we'll have to stay on the deck for another hour... And, Your Excellency Governor Huye, you don't need to teach me how to take photos; I know how to make your ship look big and beautiful. How about I give you the camera and you take it for me?"

The man was taken aback, then laughed heartily a few times, but did not reach for the camera.

"As expected of Mr. Bennott's daughter!"

"Then I'll leave it to you!"