Chapter 770: Near Vermilion, One Gets Red; Near Ink, One Gets Black

Chapter 770: He Who Stays Near Vermilion Gets Stained Red, He Who Stays Near Ink Gets Stained Black

"It's technology."

On Embassy Row in Dawn City, well-dressed young men and women came and went along the streets.

Occasionally, one could spot a "glowing" garment, presumably a "holographic suit" from Ideal City, capable of even switching hair colors at will.

"Technology is truly wonderful..."

Duke Garava, gazing out the window at the Ideal City Grand Hotel, suddenly let out a long sigh, then added another lament out of the blue.

"If the Empire's technology were a bit stronger, and the legacy left to the Empire by the Human Union were a bit more... my subjects on my fief wouldn't have to eat dirt. What a tragedy."

Yesterday, *The Survivor's Daily* in Dawn City had reprinted *Red Earth*, and he had naturally seen it, though only the reprinted prologue—*The Legend of L*.

Although the article was mostly deliberately slanderous, he had to admit that there were indeed some lazy good-for-nothings in White Elephant City who couldn't even afford beans.

But where were there no lazy people?

Besides, *The Survivor's Daily* was clearly a Union newspaper, yet it chose to report on lazy people thousands of kilometers away, while turning a blind eye to the lazy men in Boulder City who had lost their wives and children to alcoholism.

From this perspective, *The Dawn Garden Gazette*, which dared to speak the truth, seemed more like it was speaking for the millions of suffering survivors in the Union.

But all this talk was trivial. Duke Garava didn't care about the slander from *The Survivor's Daily*; it was just that seeing *Red Earth* had stirred his emotions.

If only they had the technology to produce nutrient paste.

That stuff, he heard, could turn inedible things into edible ones, and it sounded quite nutritious.

The more Duke Garava thought about it, the more he felt that General Rawell was indeed a bad sort, for lowering the cost of survival for the survivors of the Brahmin Province too much.

Farming required taxes, but eating dirt did not. The entire process from production to circulation could be completed without any involvement from nobles or their appointed officials, and even if he wanted to intervene, he couldn't. This was unfair to those who farmed the land.

"...If back in that freezing winter, that fellow Rawell hadn't come up with red earth, but instead introduced some real technology—like the stuff for making nutrient paste—the Empire wouldn't have ended up so weak."

When Niyang first heard Duke Garava's sighs, his heart skipped a beat, but upon hearing this, he relaxed again.

That fellow had indeed read what he had written, but fortunately, not much.

A thousand readers have a thousand Pols, including Pol himself seeing different things.

And his duke was still performing as consistently as ever, once again mistaking technology for the red earth in the fields. He probably still thought that with brute force, he could dig up technology by burying something in the ground.

It was easy to fool this fellow. Just go along with his wishes, bury some legacy from the Age of Prosperity in the ground, and wave a shovel in imitation—that would likely make him happy.

Niyang had already figured out how to use this "charitable fund," but he was disappointed by the duke's next words. The man had actually been smart for once, not leaving professional matters to amateurs.

"I've arranged a meeting with Mr. Lister. You go entertain him later; don't neglect our distinguished guest."

Hearing the name Lister, Niyang felt it was familiar. He thought for a long time before suddenly remembering he had seen it in an advertisement.

That fellow was something of a legend. Starting as a traveling merchant dealing in goods, he rode the wave of the Bone-Chewing Rebellion to rise meteorically, becoming a prominent figure in Boulder City, and then made a clean getaway before Boulder City's collapse.

There was a saying that his personal wealth was as vast as a nation's, making him the richest man in Dawn City.

But Niyang always felt that calling Lister the richest man was a bit of a stretch. The one who attended the hearings was clearly more valued by the Union.

Of course, that wasn't a big deal.

"Mr. Lister is... that entrepreneur who produces exoskeletons and batteries?"

"Exactly," Duke Garava said, adding some milk to his black tea in imitation of someone's style, speaking calmly. "I've carefully studied the evolution of Boulder City. That merchant named Lister made a huge profit from it, along with a steel merchant surnamed Sun. They're basically among the richest people in the Union. Buying them off is much easier and more effective than buying off those shelter residents."

Hearing that this fool had actually investigated Boulder City, Niyang was greatly shocked, but still cautiously asked.

"You want him to set up a factory in the Brahmin Province?"

"Exactly. I should have done this long ago. As a diplomat, I need to do some practical things for the Empire." Duke Garava smiled faintly, a shrewd glint flashing in his eyes.

Niyang cautiously reminded him.

"But we don't have nuclear fusion there, nor do we have as many experts as Camp 101... How do we attract Lister to come?"

"That's actually easy," Duke Garava said with a laugh. "I've asked around. The Union didn't have those things at first either, and Lister's factory still got started. As for nuclear fusion, it's just a matter of electricity prices. I'll just waive his electricity costs."

If he could move Lister's factory to White Elephant City and have it produce thousands of exoskeletons for him, then perhaps without the Emperor's intervention, his private army could beat the Union into the ground.

A pleased smile spread across Duke Garava's face. He could hardly wait to go to the Union post office and send a telegram to the Emperor, sharing the joy of this moment.

Niyang couldn't quite keep up with his train of thought, but he felt that letting this fellow stir things up might not be a bad thing, so he nodded.

"As you command."

...

Under a sunny sky at Golden Ganges Port, the rainy season was slowly passing, and today's fine weather was as good as ever.

At the dock surrounded by seagulls, a large, long destroyer pulled up to the shore. Several tall, muscular Union soldiers—or rather, players—wearing exoskeletons disembarked.

Actually, they could have gone without them.

But wearing this stuff attracted attention, and [Zero Rush] just happened to like showing off.

Walking ahead of the group, [Mountains and Rivers in Dreams] looked around at these beasts and said in a stern voice.

"We'll check in at Rawell Camp later, and someone will brief us on the mission. Remember, no matter if it's raining, or even if shells are falling, don't go into the locals' homes!"

When he said the last sentence, Mountains and Rivers in Dreams especially glanced at Zero Rush.

The latter scratched his head awkwardly, while [Two Moons of Light] and [Version Newborn] respectively replied with vigor.

"Roger!"

"Got it!"

The powder keg in the southern seas could explode at any moment.

Normally, having been reassigned to the Baiyue Province to await orders, they shouldn't be at Golden Ganges Port at this time. But unfortunately, some idiot had taken a group of officers and resigned on the spot, so they had to come back at the request of the Golden Ganges Port authorities to train some more officers to fill the militia's ranks.

The players' tactics weren't suitable for NPCs, but the battlefield experience was universal.

And after countless fearless explorations, the players of the Burning Legion had honed some tactics to perfection.

For example, the tactic of multiple artillery groups firing creeping barrages to cover infantry advances—the Burning Legion players could even charge along the edges of shell fragments, using 155mm howitzers as their bayonets.

Or airborne operations behind enemy lines, or hunting large mutants, and so on.

The group walked through the bustling Tulip Street, heading toward Rawell Camp.

Passersby frequently cast "saluting glances" at these Union soldiers, while the players in exoskeletons also observed the people on the streets.

Golden Ganges Port's first coastal freight railway and the first subway running through the entire settlement had both officially opened. Although there were still many old buildings on the streets, the originally chaotic slum shacks had largely been replaced by "Union-style affordable housing" with higher floor area ratios.

Bicycles weaved through the wide roads, along with hurrying pedestrians.

Streetlights, once exclusive to Tulip Street, were now extending along the main roads, and it might not be long before they covered the entire city.

Walking through the streets of this settlement gave a feeling of a cyberpunk Mumbai, especially since its most profitable industries were cotton weaving and dyeing, quite similar to Mumbai in the latter half of the 18th century.

But this place was much larger than Mumbai.

In Zero Rush's memory, Mumbai seemed to be over 4,000 square kilometers, while Golden Ganges Port, including the vast undeveloped areas on the outskirts, was a full 10,000 square kilometers.

Also, Mumbai was on the west coast of India, similar to the location of West Sail Port in the Brahmin Province, while Golden Ganges Port was on the east coast, right at the mouth of the Eternal River.

Of course, the most jarring or disjointed thing was still the locals' strange speech quirks.

Whether from the lower or upper classes, everyone had a "Union accent" in their mouths.

It was like sprinkling English phrases into Mandarin—the locals absolutely loved peppering their native dialect with a couple of gamer-specific grammar and interjections.

“…Fuck, why does everyone here have to greet your mother while they’re at it?” Ling Chong muttered, half-wondering if the map-loading program had glitched.

Erliang Yueguang shot him a subtle glance and cleared his throat softly.

“…I think you should reflect on your own usual speech.”

Banben Chusheng nodded in agreement.

“+1. Expecting people to only pick up the good and not the bad is unrealistic. Eat grapes too fast, and you’ll swallow a bit of skin.”

Ling Chong blinked.

“What the hell? That’s on me?”

Erliang Yueguang shook his head.

“Tsk, see what I told you?”

Shanhe Rumeng laughed heartily and patted Ling Chong on the shoulder.

“Take it easy, it’s not a big deal… as long as you don’t step into a local’s home, it’s minor.”

“Fuck, how long are you gonna milk this dead meme!?” Ling Chong gritted his teeth in fury, but there was nothing he could do.

Still, come to think of it, the evolution of local customs might actually have something to do with the players.

The players’ version of the Union language was vastly different from the NPCs’—almost like a translationese of another kind.

Except for veteran players who’d spent ages in the game or big shots who’d had deep exchanges with NPCs, most players spoke a “loose-assembly” Union language.

They’d picked up a few pronunciations from the VM, and after hearing and using them enough, they ditched the translator. On one hand, the Union language was incredibly adaptable—otherwise it couldn’t have absorbed the diverse cultures of the old era. On the other, the game was so immersive that you couldn’t help but get lost in it.

But knowing how to use it and using it well were two different things. Even the few top players only really mastered everyday conversation; unfamiliar jargon and cultural references they had to guess from context.

As for the average player, they just went with whatever was easiest.

As long as the key words were right, even if they used Chinese grammar, the NPCs could still understand.

Golden Gallon Port was essentially a settlement rebuilt under player leadership. The local ideas—including equality and a host of progressive thoughts—were all brought from the real-world harmonious society.

Having reaped the benefits of modern civilization, the rising citizen class in Golden Gallon Port and the old nobles who went with the flow unconsciously began to mimic the “Iron Men” of the Alliance in their customs.

Under this subtle influence, the result was what we see today.

That is, the Iron Men of the Burning Corps, with their loose-assembly Union language, had “contaminated” the local speech.

It was just like Xiao Yu’s “chao.”

A mere interjection, but that clever creature had turned it into a communication tool.

“Uh, rationally speaking, you guys have a point, but I don’t say ‘fuck’ or ‘damn’ every time… and why didn’t this happen in Dawn City?”

Faced with his buddy’s bewildered look, Erliang Yueguang spoke with ease.

“Because the NPCs there mainly worship the Administrator—you’re just a side dish. Xiao Yu is the perfect example… and Dawn City has a more diverse player base. Take Miss Tengteng and Yaya—when have you ever heard them say ‘fuck’ like you do? They’re as civilized as I am!”

“Civilized my ass,” Ling Chong rolled his eyes.

Erliang Yueguang grinned cheekily.

“Hey, still better than someone who doesn’t even spare kids.”

“I fucking—! @#@%!” Ling Chong’s nose nearly twisted in rage as he cursed and stood up.

Those bastards.

He’d just accidentally touched a kid’s head, and later cleared up the misunderstanding, but the rumor kept getting more absurd. Now everyone looked at him with disgust.

Watching Ling Chong fume, Shanhe Rumeng sighed.

“There are too many hotheads in Golden Gallon Port. If only we could get Yaya over here.”

Just then, Banben Chusheng, who rarely spoke, suddenly shivered and said,

“Better not… What if she thinks it’s a den of iniquity here and tags the dogshit devs on the forum for a crackdown?”

Three pairs of eyes snapped toward him.

Shanhe Rumeng: “What the hell?”

Erliang Yueguang: “Elaborate on ‘den of iniquity.’”

Ling Chong: “Fuck, I don’t get it—bro, spill!”

Facing those burning gazes, Banben Chusheng averted his eyes subtly and cleared his throat.

“Let’s do the quest first… Pay-to-play stuff, we’ll talk offline.”

Shanhe Rumeng: “…”

Ling Chong: “@#%@!”

…

The ratfolk surnames had thirteen pronunciations, and coincidentally, the Bolo Province also had thirteen states.

The state where Golden Gallon Port was located was called Lowell State, named after the Lowell Camp in the port—and it was the only state in Bolo Province not associated with an animal.

The westernmost port, West Sail Port, was in Nasit State, meaning “lion.” To the north of Lowell State was Tiger State, to the left Leopard State, further down Snake State, and to the right the Bolo Sea.

A widely circulated belief among the local educated class was that while the states borrowed animal names, they actually worshipped—or rather, sealed—the spirits behind those animals.

Lowell wasn’t an animal, but it was a totem buried in the hearts of every survivor in Bolo Province, and the only “human god” not among the Thousand Pillars.

Because every person was a “pillar”—in other words, a walking “human pillar.”

Or a sacrifice.

But according to Ms. Han Mingyue’s interpretation, there was another explanation.

Two hundred years ago, Bolo Province was a large ecological reserve. Lowell State was the only scientific observation station and tourist rest stop, while Tiger State was the main habitat for tigers, Leopard State for leopards, and so on for different species of snakes, elephants, lions, cattle, wolves, etc.

For a long time, these wild animals were a food source for the survivors. After hunting them nearly to extinction, the locals deified them out of a sense of gratitude.

Combined with the influence of the “Animal World” video archives, this evolved into the faith of a thousand tribes and a thousand gods.

The two explanations were different perspectives: one a spiritual, thread-by-thread analysis, the other a purely rational deduction based on scientific evidence.

Their difference was roughly like an oil painting versus a sketch—both depicting the same apple, yet not quite identical.

Currently, the entire northern part of Lowell State was under the control of the Tiger Army, while the west and southwest were under the Black Panther Army.

These two armies had become de facto warlords. Though they still drew pay from the imperial court, they were already estranged from the empire.

Their relationship was held together purely by money.

The day the empire stopped paying, these warlords would tear off their last shred of decency.

In fact, thanks to the empire’s previous embargo on Golden Gallon Port and the counter-embargo measures by Baiyue Company, the two border warlords had long achieved “financial freedom” through smuggling.

And not just financial freedom—productivity in their controlled areas had also improved significantly.

This wasn’t because the warlords were good at governance; quite the opposite—most officers knew nothing about it and had no intention of governing, even worse than the imperial civil officials.

But precisely because of that, these officers adopted a completely laissez-faire economic model, letting the merchants of Golden Gallon Port and the local nobles handle things themselves.

Whoever paid got the green light from these military lords. They even helped merchants oppose the imperial administrators, barging into noble estates with guns to force sales.

Such barbaric conduct is naturally inadmissible, and it severely undermines the empire's serf economy and tax revenue; if allowed to persist over the long term, it will ultimately harm the warlords themselves.

Yet who could blame these barbarians for catching a lucky break, stumbling into the dividends of Golden Harbor's development?

Productivity and development have a regional diffusion effect.

The advanced productivity of Golden Harbor will, to some extent, move in the opposite direction of the immigrant tide, flowing back to other areas of Lowell State, and even to the neighboring Tiger State and Leopard State.

After all, to open a dye workshop in Golden Harbor, you have to pay workers 1,600 gallons in wages.

Someone will always get the idea to move purchased sewing machines and dye vats to a place where labor costs are cheaper and the Alliance's reach is too long to control, setting up a small workshop to siphon off a bit of profit from the industrial chain.

Don't underestimate that bit of profit; one workshop doesn't earn much, but a hundred workshops can match a large factory.

And these "shopkeepers," unlike factory owners, will also buy machines to boost their own productivity.

The rise in productivity not only concentrates wealth but also reshapes relationships between people, and between groups.

Especially as more and more old nobles taste the sweetness of productivity gains and the bitterness of having guns pointed at them, they too begin to seek development in productivity.

Before, the Black Panther Army's rations depended on imperial appropriations, but now the tax revenue from Banana Head Bay alone is enough for the local general to support his men, and occasionally even to hand out canned beef, which Alliance soldiers are tired of, as a welfare treat.

This life is far more comfortable than when they were dogs for the empire.

As for the chiliarch who once held a gun to Asin's head, he now has to respectfully call Asin "sir," because the latter has already connected with his superior's superior and has long since had no need to play with a mere chiliarch.

But Asin didn't hold a grudge over that incident; instead, he graciously pulled some strings, helping that arrogant officer become a myriarch, arranged a marriage for him with the youngest daughter of a viscount's family in Leopard State, and even bought them a wedding house on Tulip Street in Golden Harbor.

With money, status, and a beautiful wife, that brute, even more reckless than Rasi, was so grateful he wept tears of joy, almost swapping "sir" for "dad."

With the support of this myriarch and other high-ranking Black Panther Army officers, the Assassin Gang's business grew larger and larger, nearly monopolizing all the cotton in Leopard State.

Although the quality and yield of cotton in the Brahmin Province can't match that of Baiyue Province, it wins on low cost and massive volume, holding a considerable market share in Golden Harbor.

Even though the ceasefire agreement has been signed and smuggling no longer commands the high prices it once did, they can still use the mature ports and currency exchange houses to continue legitimate business, with profits even larger than before.

Yet, despite the significant "radiation effect" of Golden Harbor on other parts of Lowell State, the growth rate of those other areas can't keep up with Golden Harbor itself, the only import-export port on the east coast.

Currently, the ten thousand square kilometers actually controlled by Baiyue Company amount to only one-fortieth of the entire state, but thirty-nine fortieths of the state's wealth is concentrated in Golden Harbor.

If the distribution of benefits between the Alliance and Golden Harbor is uneven, like silver coins and gallons, then the distribution between Golden Harbor and Lowell State, and even the entire Brahmin Province, is even more extremely unbalanced.

Residents of Golden Harbor already ride bicycles fast as the wind; children reciting their lessons begin to ponder humanity's place among mountains and rivers, and where people might be many years hence, yet in Tiger State and Leopard State, many still eat mud cakes and have to sell their children to survive.

"Red Earth," following "The Legend of L" and "The Diary of the Mad Mouse," has finally serialized its third installment, "Earth," seeming to edge toward the bloody heart of the matter.

Golden Harbor's "Survivor Daily" nearly sold out; some who didn't know "Red Earth" read "Earth" and then went back to buy the earlier issues on L and the Mad Mouse.

Some booksellers began thinking about publishing a collection of this serialized short story, so people wouldn't have to clip each newspaper.

They couldn't contact that Mr. Rat, but they received a letter from Fries Harbor—

["You may publish freely; just donate my share to the Federation."]

This letter inspired many young people in Golden Harbor, as well as the Federation's members.

Mr. Rat was right beside them!

And he was watching them!

A glimmer of dawn seemed to appear on the horizon, and the future looked bright.

Rock City had only one "The Awakened Bohr," but they had thousands upon thousands.

Inspired by "Survivor Daily" and "Red Earth," young people turned their simple, even naive ideas into poems, paintings, songs, and melodies, blending into a corner of Golden Harbor's bustling streetscape.

On the foundation of the belief that "gods do not exist," they added another creed—

They need to unite!

Just like the residents of Rock City!

Even if people have ten thousand different ideas, one thought is the same:

To pull down those thousand pillars!

And to smash the old shackles!

And just as a storm was brewing in Golden Harbor, a hot-tempered angry youth finally saw the army he had longed for.

It could hardly be called an army; it was more like refugees or bandits, even worse than when he attacked the Lowell camp back then—

At least back then, he and his men, those who dared to fight, still had some blood and reckless courage.

Just such a group, barely clothed, carrying farm tools, hiding in a desolate valley in Tiger State, where Tiger clan power was deeply entrenched, they had reclaimed some wasteland in places the nobles couldn't reach, living on aid painstakingly sent by their Moon clan compatriots, occasionally eating mud or causing trouble for minor nobles.

After all, the Moon clan had a large population, and both men and women were often handsome; the nobles had bought some Moon clan members as slaves or concubines, so robbing them in the name of rescuing compatriots was perfectly reasonable.

And they only took people and grain, not lives, so the trouble wasn't big; some minor nobles really couldn't do much about them. Major nobles saw them as fleas, couldn't be bothered, and could conveniently annex the minor nobles' land and depress land prices.

As for the Tiger Army, their main forces were on the border of Lowell State, so they couldn't be bothered even more.

These days, anyone with any strength was busy managing their own territory; who would waste time helping the court suppress bandits? Instead, they could use the Moon clan as a pretext to ask the court for more money.

That was precisely why those Moon clan members thought they were well disguised, pretending to be refugees fleeing war to evade the Tiger Army's eyes, never imagining that even Asin in distant Golden Harbor—a gang leader—could easily find them.

Everything was as pathetic as he had seen in the war reports.

Even the Tiger clan chiliarch who brought him here joked that if they met on the battlefield next time, if he didn't want to fight, he could just drop his gear and run, and they'd all make money together.

What a disgrace!

"Damn it..."

Looking at those young men lounging idly on the ridges, Rasi cursed through gritted teeth, suddenly drew his sidearm, and fired a shot into the air.

"Bang!!"

The thunderous sound startled the Moon clan members working in the fields; they looked up to see a ferocious man with a gang of demons standing at the edge, looking as if they wanted to devour them.

Standing in the field, a middle-aged man stared at him blankly, then suddenly recognized the face, his astonished expression as exaggerated as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Ra... Rasi?!"

But Rasi didn't even look at him; he reached out and grabbed a young boy by the neck, yanking the scrawny kid out of the field like a chicken and throwing him to the ground.

"Ow... ow, ow..." The boy cried out in pain, tears squeezing out, but he didn't expect the demon, seeing him cry, to kick him in the backside.

"If you're afraid of pain, go back to your parents and stop messing around with these people! Go, call your parents over here for me!"

The boy spoke timidly, fear in his eyes.

"I don't have parents... I was sold nearby, and these folks saved me."

"No parents... Hah, then wipe your eyes dry, or I'll send you down to meet them first!"

Letting go of the child, Rasi glared fiercely at a farmer who tried to stop him, then turned to look at the resistance soldiers approaching with guns.

The commotion at the village entrance had finally attracted some attention.

These guys, who couldn't even arrange a lookout, at least had ears that weren't deaf—they could hear his gunshot.

Those people watched him with alert, hostile eyes, guns in hand, but didn't dare point them at him.

Some of them recognized this guy—the ruthless one who had taken the Lowell camp and hung the commander from the tower.

No matter how much effort the Alliance had put in, giving them a few cannons and rifles, the camp was still his conquest.

Rasi didn't even glance at their popguns, just squinted at them.

“I told you lot you’d be better off farming, and here you are, actually plowing the fields. Look at your pathetic selves—do you expect the girls of Fries Port to support you for life, or the Baiyue Corporation to keep you fed?”

A middle-aged man gathered his courage and stepped forward, staring him down.

“What do you mean by that?”

Rasi narrowed his eyes, fixing him with a glare.

“Are you the one in charge here?”

“I am—”

Before the man could finish, Rasi slapped him across the head, sending him tumbling into the field.

“You’re a damn hammer!”

Those were the words the Alliance instructor had hurled at him during training, and now he passed them on to this fellow.

This was the bastard who got Fang Chang transferred away!

At least, that was how he saw it.

The slap rang out loud and clear, and it stoked the fury of the resistance fighters. One by one, the young men raised their rifles, all barrels aimed at Rasi and the hundred-plus officers behind him.

“No! Don’t shoot!”

The man sprawled in the field, ignoring his own plight, shouted in panic to his resistance comrades.

But Rasi, as if wanting to fan the flames, strode right up to the group of young men, grabbed one man’s rifle barrel, and pressed it against his own chest.

“Come on! Shoot me! Kill the very people who came to save you—go on!”

The young man’s face went pale, his hands trembling on the gun, as if it might go off at any moment.

Clearly, he hadn’t seen much battle, hadn’t trained much with a rifle, and hadn’t had the chance to practice.

After all, the safety was still on—he’d only just chambered a round…

Seeing the cowardice in his eyes, Rasi snatched the rifle from his hands, then shoved it back into his chest, sending him stumbling two steps back until others caught him.

“Did no one ever teach you, damn it? When you kill, flip off the safety, weld the sling to your shoulder, and if anyone tries to take your gun, smash the stock in their face. On the battlefield, losing your gun means losing your life. You’re lucky it was me who took it.”

Eyes fixed on him—some angry, some stunned, some ashamed and humiliated.

But in others, hope flickered.

Including the man sitting in the field who called himself the leader.

He knew better than anyone: they weren’t survivors of Fries Port or Golden Garonne Port. What they needed wasn’t someone to lead them in farming, but someone to lead them to victory!

Rasi swept his gaze across the crowd—not just the resistance soldiers blocking the village entrance, but also the farmers in the fields who straightened up to look at him.

“If you want to farm, stay here and farm your fill. If you’ve had enough of being pathetic, then get up and follow me.”

A resistance officer swallowed hard, staring at him.

“Where are we going…”

“Where?”

Rasi let out a dry laugh, his back to the dusk, looking toward the northeast. He squinted slightly at the dimming sky.

He’d already figured it out on the road.

Fighting the Tiger Army was out of the question. Those bastards had guns and grain, their fighting strength rivaling the Gray Wolf Army, and they’d nearly “gobbled up” the Gray Wolf Army on the border.

As the Alliance people said, fighting them would just be grinding mobs.

They had to open a new front, and the best choice was the northeastern corner of Bolo Province.

There, it bordered the Jobal Mountains; cross them and you’d reach Silver Moon Bay. The Tasan River, flowing down from the mountains, watered an alluvial plain called the Tasan Plain, home to the marginal ethnic groups of Bolo Province, and even some Silver Moon Bay believers.

On the empire’s administrative map, that land was called Mammoth Prefecture, sharing a freshwater source with Silver Moon Bay, and as fertile as Lowell Prefecture.

Most importantly, the emperor was far away, and the area was close to the Alliance’s supply network.

Sure, development was lacking, but lacking development had its perks.

No highway network connecting to the capital, not on the banks of the Eternal River—loyalist troops and their supplies couldn’t be easily deployed there.

Another thing: poor regions never lacked recruits!

Only there could he raise a large army; starting a revolt in Tiger Prefecture, where the Tiger folk were the majority, was suicide!

“Hiding in these mountain gullies will starve you sooner or later. If you want to live, follow me and fight our way to the sea!”