Chapter 769: To Make the Grass Grow Well, You Must First Burn It

Chapter 769: To Make the Grass Grow Well, One Must First Set It Afire

In the Governor's Office of Golden Port.

One man sat sprawled in a chair like a conquering general, while another paced anxiously back and forth across the room.

On the low table sat two cups of tea—one still warm, the other cold and untouched.

Lassi watched Yodu, who was stroking his chin in deep thought yet refusing to give an answer, and couldn't help cursing.

"...Can you stop circling around, damn it? You might not get dizzy, but I'm getting dizzy watching you."

Yodu glanced at him, then looked out the window, sighed heavily, and shook his head.

Seeing the man hesitate to speak, Lassi's brow twitched violently.

"Spit it out if you've got something to say."

Yodu finally spoke.

"General, do you know why Mr. Fangchang transferred you from the front line to the rear?"

Lassi picked up his teacup, blew on it, and replied flatly.

"I know."

Yodu's brow twitched sharply, but he held back his temper and continued.

"Then why are you so impatient?"

"Impatient? Ha, the Empire slaughters my countrymen, butchers my kin, and you ask me why I'm impatient?" Lassi raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing into slits as he fixed his gaze on him. "Every day I waste here, countless families are destroyed!"

"I will never forget what happened at the Rovell Camp, and that's just a speck of dust on this four-million-square-kilometer land! A blade of grass! I tell you, I wish I could fly to the Celestial Capital right now and chop up that emperor and his whole family! Tear down every one of the thousand pillars of the City of a Thousand Pillars!"

Yodu tried to speak, but Lassi cut him off.

"You're a Snake Clan man. Some of your kin died on the Ten Peaks Mountains and the Guard Prefecture Wastelands. You've read the Survivor's Daily—that kind of death doesn't even count as cannon fodder. And that fool Witchback, instead of reflecting, is overjoyed and plans to send more men to that godforsaken place. Before you lecture me, think about your own people—"

"Enough!"

Yodu suddenly roared, cutting off Lassi's tirade.

His chest heaved. On that face etched with worldliness, cunning, and forbearance, a rare loss of control appeared.

His eyes glared at Lassi, and he wanted to grab the man by the collar, but he held back.

"I'm worried about you, damn it! You short-lived fool! You know exactly what's happening up north. Those idiots are your countrymen, sure, but they're worse than feudal lords' troops. What's the difference between going there and walking to your death?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Lassi's face. He wasn't offended, just surprised that this usually reserved man could be so blunt. He burst into laughter.

"Nonsense! A turtle that hides its head lives long—why the hell would I want to be a turtle? You laugh at me for being short-lived, and I laugh at you for living too long and never getting bored. Ha! Today, I'm determined to be that short-lived ghost!"

Yodu didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Seeing Lassi finish his tea and prepare to leave, he personally poured him another half cup and stopped him.

"My general, my ancestor, please consider the actual situation—"

Lassi curled his lip. "Do you think I know less about the north than you? Don't forget, the battle reports come to my office first! I pore over the first-hand reports—do you think I think less than someone reading second-hand ones? A bunch of pig-headed fools fighting stupid battles! The more I read, the angrier I get. I drink bottle after bottle!"

As he spoke, he seemed to recall those reports again, and his teeth clenched.

Yodu sighed.

"But what difference can you make by going there, General?"

Lassi answered without hesitation.

"The resistance is incompetent—I am not! My Moon Clan is even less incompetent!"

Yodu couldn't help asking.

"And if you lose?"

Lassi said flatly.

"Then I die."

The room fell silent.

Yodu stared at him, having thought the "short-lived fool" remark was a joke, but now realized he was serious.

This man was truly betting his life...

His Adam's apple bobbed. Silently, he picked up his own teacup and raised it in a toast to the general.

"I didn't realize you had such resolve. I've been disrespectful."

"Don't act like you're sending me off to my grave—I'm not dead yet." Lassi clinked his cup against Yodu's and grinned. "But even if I die, I'd rather take them to their deaths than let them live half-dead and spineless, only to fail to topple the emperor and cool the hot blood of the youth of the Brahmin Province. That would be truly unsatisfying!"

As they spoke, footsteps sounded outside the office door. A young man pushed it open and entered.

"Mr. Yodu, a telegram from Dawnbreak City."

"What does it say?" Before Yodu could speak, Lassi had already stood up, asking eagerly.

The young man glanced cautiously at Yodu. Only after the latter nodded did he continue.

"Mr. Fangchang says... approved."

A wild joy spread across Lassi's face. He laughed heartily a few times, clasped his hands toward Yodu.

"Farewell!"

With that, he strode out the door like the wind, not pausing for a moment, leaving only Yodu and the young man.

The young man looked at the direction Lassi had gone, then at Yodu. After a moment, he asked hesitantly.

"Mr. Yodu... is this really okay?"

He was a Horse Clan man. Before becoming a civil servant in the municipal hall, he wasn't a noble, but he had worked for nobles, so his family was fairly well-off.

Toward a man like Lassi, his feelings were a mix of admiration, fear, and a hint of disdain.

Admiration, because the old nobles and masters feared him. Fear, naturally, because the man was indeed no good—moody, ruthless, and harsh.

As for disdain, it was mostly tinged with jealousy.

It was the municipal hall that built the railways, subways, and renovated the high city districts, yet the common people admired Lassi more—a man who would even kill his own kind when he got angry.

Compared to Yodu, Lassi's popularity among the common folk of Golden Port was far higher.

If the man himself had no interest in being mayor, the esteemed Mr. Yodu would have had a hard time competing with him... if he didn't play dirty.

"Perhaps Mr. Fangchang has his own judgment." Yodu sighed softly after a long silence.

Having been "acting mayor" for so long, he had come to understand Mr. Fangchang's difficulties.

Most of the time, he wasn't choosing the best option from two reliable ones, but the lesser evil from two unreliable ones.

Should he snuff out the flame that had barely been kindled, or let it burn and see what it might produce...

He thought that if he were in Mr. Fangchang's shoes, he might have made the same choice.

In fact, that man wasn't so bad. A man who openly declared himself an emperor or warlord was still better than Charas of the Northern Federation, who shouted "freedom" but called himself president while acting like an emperor.

The former could at least be changed—at least the youth of Brahmin Province didn't see equality as a curse. What Lassi thought alone didn't matter. But the latter was difficult—right and wrong would be inverted, and only a raging war or a fire burning to the extreme could start over from scratch.

As a reformist, he didn't really dislike people like Lassi. If he had to rank them, such people were still more likable than the royalists, though he couldn't bring himself to admire them either.

"Let's take it one step at a time." Yodu shook his head, returned to his desk, and continued reviewing the new textbook proposal submitted by the Educators' Association...

On the other side, Lassi, having left the city hall, paused at its entrance.

He suddenly turned back to look at the Golden Gallop flag and the Alliance flag fluttering in the square before the city hall, then took off the officer's cap from his head and placed it on the flag platform where the flagpole stood.

"You said I must not kneel, so today I shall not kneel."

"From now on, all survivors of my Bolo Province shall replace kneeling with bows and clenched fists. Whoever dares to kneel again, whether to me or to anyone else, I'll saw off their grandmother's legs first!"

With that, he bowed three times, straightened his back, turned, and walked away.

That day, the Golden Gallop Port City Hall accepted the resignation of Lassi, Director of the Civil Defense Office.

Along with him, a hundred officers and soldiers of the Militia Corps also resigned.

It was said that after Lassi gave a speech at the barracks that day, the number of those submitting resignations more than doubled.

And as for these resignations, the Golden Gallop Port authorities, under the instructions of the Governor's Secretary, approved them one by one.

Those young men returned the military caps, uniforms, and shoulder badges issued by the authorities, as well as the rifles slung over their shoulders.

From that day on, they were no longer the awe-inspiring militia, but merely ordinary residents of Golden Gallop Port.

Yet as they walked out of the barracks, they were greeted by cheers from all the survivors of Golden Gallop Port.

People gathered in the streets, throwing flowers at them, handing them fruit, embracing them, as if seeing off a band of heroes heading to battle.

While everyone was grumbling about the empire's shamelessness, these young men stepped forward.

Their birth was not glorious, their records hardly heroic, and their ancestors had no illustrious military achievements, but everyone could see the courage and determination in their eyes, ready to face death.

The young men walking among the crowd held their heads high, looking at the people offering flowers, their eyes brimming with pride.

To have such a moment once in a lifetime—no regrets even in death!

Many of them remembered.

Something similar had happened once before, on the day the empire was defeated.

Only then, the flowers were thrown to the Alliance people, not to them, who had also shed blood.

They did not envy the Alliance for stealing their glory; after all, they knew they could not defeat the empire on their own, and their performance was indeed less impressive than those fellows—a hundred of them chasing tens of thousands into the river in panic.

But even if they took the Golden Gallop Port residents' worship of the Alliance for granted, they could not help feeling a twinge of envy.

Did they not long for the recognition of their own people?

Did they not yearn for those who had already united!

Especially when, through books and newspapers that had crossed the seas, they learned of everything that had happened in Dawn City, Daybreak City, Boulder City, and beyond, that glimmer of longing grew so vast it became a new faith.

Miracles are not born of themselves, nor are they something that must inevitably come.

The awakening of Golden Gallop Port's residents began with the *Survivor Daily*, and their own awakening had been seeded from the moment they fought alongside those people.

Someone must take the first step!

Now it was their turn to walk the path those people had once trod!

As the young men strode forward with heads high, Paru, transferred from the port district police station to maintain order at the scene, was searching for his leather shoe that had been stepped off.

It had cost him half a month's salary, a full nine hundred plus Gallops.

Finally finding it in a corner of the crowd, he pounced on it joyfully, clutching it to his chest with a long sigh.

"Thank the Horse God for protection!"

Muttering under his breath, he hurriedly put the shoe on and strode back into the crowd.

With a flip of his hands, he gestured left and right, scolding a few children who were causing a stir. When it grew dark and the crowd dispersed, he wiped his sweat, exhausted from his efforts, and went to the nearby guard station's break room to rest.

The guard station was full of young men, all indignantly discussing the empire, cursing Wuto for treating the ratfolk as less than human, and the empire's commoners as less than human.

"Joining the Sticky Commonwealth is certainly good! But can't it be done another way? The Administrator didn't force everyone to risk their lives for the cause of all humanity—can't we find another way?"

"Exactly! Instead of using the compensation from the Sticky Commonwealth to buy industrial equipment and take on their orders, that damned Wuto wants to trade lives for it!"

"And who knows where the money went!"

"Ah, I hope those young men win..."

"There are donation points at many stalls in the Klaba Market; the dyehouse and textile factory owners are all calling for donations. I went and donated some yesterday too."

"Is it reliable?"

"Why wouldn't it be? The boss of that Assassin Group himself donated a million silver coins! Do you think people in big business care about your little bit?"

"Hiss... with that money, you could buy a tank!"

Cursing the empire had become a fashion in Golden Gallop Port; everyone did it, including Paru, who had once missed Nihak but now rarely liked that outdated figure, occasionally joining in the cursing.

But when it came to those young men who had caused traffic jams and given him a big headache, he couldn't be happy.

Couldn't they have slipped away quietly in the night without a sound?

Especially those damned fools—they nearly cost him one of his new leather shoes.

Yet sitting here, he dared not openly dissent, only muttered under his breath.

"Ha, never mind that sort of thing—even if you gave them power armor, it'd be useless... Following that drunkard Lassi, I'm afraid their hot blood will be spilled in vain."

Bashak, who happened to be sitting at the edge of the crowd, heard this complaint and looked at his colleague in surprise, incredulous. "How can you say that about them?"

He was indifferent to matters outside work, but at least he didn't dislike those who dared to be first.

If they really succeeded, it would be beneficial—at least fewer innocent souls would drown in the Eternal Flow River.

Seeing someone respond to him, Paru sneered.

"Do I need to say it? How could that Lassi succeed? A former slave, nothing without the Alliance. Does he think those people are afraid of him?"

Feeling that this alone wasn't convincing, he quickly added, as if afraid to miss something.

"And most importantly, he has no ideology."

Bashak was at a loss for words.

"Then, what is that... are we talking about the same thing?"

He had thought the old-timer would say those young men had left without their guns.

Seeing the youngster was indeed green, Paru snorted, curling his lips as if reciting a list.

"Gods are but fabricated chains; ideology is the sword that cuts them! Rely on heaven or earth less than on yourself; wealth comes from hands and brains; respect others as you respect yourself... You've probably never read the *Survivor Daily*, have you? Not knowing something as important as ideology—how can you be a guard? Your attitude is seriously problematic!"

Bashak stared at him blankly, not remembering the newspaper saying all that, only recalling that the Alliance fellow had told him ratfolk could be guards too, and if illiterate, they could learn slowly.

Faced with the old-timer's reprimand, he felt his face burn, and for a moment, he reflected on whether he had truly practiced equality in his daily work and dealings with others.

"So... do you have that thing?"

Bashak asked this out of nervousness, half seeking advice.

But when Paru heard it, the old-timer, who had been smug a moment ago, jumped as if his tail had been stepped on.

"You shifty-eyed rat! How dare you say I don't! Of course I do! I, when the Alliance first landed, I knew those who united everyone would surely win!"

"And if I hadn't turned a blind eye and let them ashore, they wouldn't have won so easily. Why else do you think I'm a guard in the port district while you're only fit for odd jobs on Knight Road? Long-haired types have short sight, and you hairless ones are no better!"

Bashak stared at the agitated old-timer, stepped back, his eyes showing a mix of pity and fear.

What he feared was not that the old man’s mouth had truly been blessed, dooming those young lads to death—after all, gods did not exist—but the sudden realization that the other side of the river was teeming with such men.

They were just like the preface Mr. Rat had written for General Lowell’s biography, and now the L’s were again chanting the gifts brought by the Alliance, just as they once chanted how generous the Verlanders were with their thousand dinars…

Killing an emperor was not difficult.

But these men were immortal…

…

Dusk slowly fell, and the night deepened. The Eternal River lay quiet and serene, the reeds a lush, verdant green.

This was the northwest of Golden Garen Port, a stretch of undeveloped wasteland.

Once called Reed Slope, the locals now named it Dead Man’s Slope, for beneath the reeds lay the drowned dead.

The residents from the settlement had escorted them this far, but would go no further.

Rasi and his followers would board a boat at the riverside ferry, disguised as members of the Assassin Gang, to cross the territory controlled by the Tiger Army.

Some boarded the boat; others disembarked.

Gazing at the wretched souls who thanked the boatman profusely for their salvation, and at the bones hidden among the reeds, Rasi stood at the bow of the barge, a hint of contempt in his eyes.

With his back to his men, he spoke in a voice neither loud nor soft.

“…Do you see those refugees on the Eternal River?”

“They’re like dogs fallen into the water, desperately clawing their way ashore, as if climbing out would make them human again… What a pathetic sight—refusing to be proper men, choosing instead to be dogs.”

The crowd remained silent.

Though they supported Rasi, and even did not oppose his claim to the throne, that did not mean they agreed with everything he said.

Aside from the officers who had submitted their resignations alongside him from the start—his trusted confidants—many had followed out of fervent idealism.

Among them were those who sympathized with the stowaways, and who had stepped forward out of a desire to help them at the root.

Seeing no response, Rasi gave a cold snort, then shifted his tone.

“But I say, being a dog is shameful—yet who turned them into dogs?”

“Was it their parents?”

“Was it the people here?”

“Was it you?”

“Or was it the Alliance? The Legion? The Ideal City?”

“None of them! It was that Witch-Camel, his chancellor, his ministers, and the thousands of slave-owning estates and the plantation lords sitting in them! It’s those bone-devouring bastards who turned men into dogs, who twisted human relationships into dog-eat-dog!”

“Today you follow me upstream, not only to save the Moon Clan, but also to save the thousands upon thousands of slaves! If one day I am crowned emperor, whether you believe me or not, I swear no Xilanese shall ever again live like pigs or dogs!”

…

A week had passed since Rasi’s resignation, and the commotion stirred by those young men had been boiling in Golden Garen Port for a full week.

The entire settlement praised Rasi and those lads, even the old nobles who had once feared that plague god the most.

Harbor District.

Near the Triumph Hotel, a breakfast shop stood with a facade identical to one in Dawn City. Occasionally, people in blue coats came to eat here, making the shop quite popular among locals.

Two well-dressed men sat at a table, ordering three baskets of soup dumplings. They ate with ginger and vinegar while pointing at the freshly printed *Survivor’s Daily*.

*Red Earth* had just finished telling L’s story and finally got to the point, yet instead of talking about General Lowell or the red earth, it used a madman’s diary as a lead-in to elaborate on the brief mention of eating dirt in the prologue.

The article sent chills down one’s spine.

The dirt chewed in the mouth felt like delicious meat; the bloody mud cakes resembled human hearts and livers.

The protagonist was a madman, and a madman’s diary was naturally nonsense—but Mr. Rat wrote it as if it were real, making one doubt his own mental state. Yet upon reflection, one began to doubt oneself, and even the soup dumplings lost their flavor.

With a shudder, the two quickly changed the subject, hurriedly discussing the “Union” that had taken the city by storm.

That was the name the youth of Golden Garen Port had given to Rasi and the lads who had left the city with him to fight to overthrow the empire—and also the hope they placed in them.

At first, it was just a name. Later, some radical young men registered the organization and, in accordance with regulations, opened a supervised account at a Golden Garen bank, actively raising funds for them. Now it had begun to feel like a faction or party.

Though Rasi, still on the road, might not acknowledge this “posthumous” title, he probably wouldn’t refuse the equipment and money sent his way.

“That Rasi is up to no good—I saw at a glance he wants to be emperor.”

“Oh? Only you could see that?”

“Don’t you think this is nonsense?”

“I’ve read some old books from the Alliance. Human Union history actually includes constitutional monarchy.”

The bovine man across from him widened his eyes.

“That disgraceful thing? The Human Union is buried in the trash heap of history! And you’re digging for scraps in the trash heap of a trash heap!”

The equine man eating soup dumplings gave him a helpless look.

“But can it be worse than the Witch-Camel?”

The bovine man fell silent.

That was true…

Who could be more disgraceful than Xilan?

Even though he himself had half-royal blood and an imperial title.

He never even bothered to mention those things, afraid of being looked down upon.

In the corner of the breakfast shop, a somewhat mature-looking boy sat quietly reading a newspaper.

Several plain-faced but strong men sat scattered around him, eating noodles, using their eyes to ward off anyone who tried to approach.

Except for the waiter who came to refill tea.

Looking at the newspaper in the customer’s hand, Zayid said in a very soft voice.

“This page you’re reading is about Oil Wharf Port. They plan to renovate the port and need more steel, cement, and workers.”

Ashin raised an eyebrow slightly and smiled at the interesting waiter.

“You can tell I can’t read?”

Zayid nodded gently and said in a mild tone.

“You’re keen on knowledge, but it’s best to eat the beef noodles while they’re hot. Once the broth soaks in, they’ll get mushy.”

Ashin gave a faint smile.

“You’re an interesting fellow. With your literacy and culture, why aren’t you teaching instead of waiting tables here?”

The man looked familiar, as if seen in the Triumph Hotel, but perhaps he had been fired for some reason.

Ashin could guess the reason—probably talking out of turn while customers were eating.

Not a good habit.

He just happened to run into someone like himself, a grassroots man who had climbed up from the bottom, and wouldn’t take offense. Besides, this was Alliance territory, so he had to play the role of a nice guy.

If it had been someone less tolerant, they would surely have argued with him.

Of course, it’s also possible that this fellow knew full well I wouldn’t stoop to his level, which is why he dared to come over.

Catching the frivolity in the voice, Zaid merely smiled faintly, unbothered.

“Teaching can’t change the empire. Teaching one person, teaching ten—it changes nothing.”

As if hearing something amusing, Asin burst out laughing and set down his newspaper.

“You’re an interesting one. I praised you for being cultured, and you’ve let it go to your head. So tell me, how does being a waiter… change the empire?”

It wasn’t just Asin who laughed; the gang members sitting nearby chuckled too.

All except the simple-minded Kunal.

He didn’t find it funny; instead, he curled his lip in outright disdain.

These days, everyone talks about rebellion—even a breakfast shop clerk dreams of overthrowing the world.

The noodle shop owner frantically signaled Zaid, nearly in tears, trying to steer him away from that plague god.

This man was the boss of the Assassin Gang!

Who in this port didn’t know what business he ran?

If he got upset, they’d probably fish Zaid out of the Eternal River.

Yet Zaid acted as if he hadn’t noticed.

He never cared about this job anyway, just as he’d never cared about the one at the Triumph Hotel.

He’d come here to work only to catch the eye of a certain benefactor, and now he had.

Whether it would work out was up to fate—he wasn’t a stranger to failure.

With a faint smile, Zaid continued.

“Being a waiter can’t change the empire, but it can save me enough for travel fare.”

Hearing that he was a “peach pit” saving up for a boat ticket, Asin grew even more contemptuous, though he didn’t show it, simply picking up his chopsticks to eat noodles.

“…Chips Harbor, huh? A decent place, but it only welcomes hardworking folks. I suggest you drop that lofty attitude—you’re too slow, nothing like a true Golden Galleon native. You can’t even handle being a noodle shop clerk.”

He was getting a bit annoyed too.

But to his surprise, the clerk spoke up.

“Why Chips Harbor? I’m going to Dawnbreak City.”

“What for?” Asin paused his chopsticks, giving him another look, never expecting such bold words.

“Rasi won’t amount to anything, and neither will Yodu. No one in all of Golden Galleon can save the Province of Boro. What happened in Boulder City has not a ten-thousandth chance of repeating here… They all lack one thing, and that thing is in Dawnbreak City.”

Eyes blazing as he stared at the stunned Asin, Zaid planted his hands on the table.

“I don’t want to see the youth of Boro Province bleed in vain. I have to go there and bring it back!”