Chapter 815 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 815: Seeds of Hatred "Hurry up!" "A bunch of useless fools!" "Haven't you eaten anything?!" The harsh shouts of the overseers and the crack of whips echoed across the dock. The laborers, carrying crates on their backs, resembled upright walking donkeys, tirelessly shuttling between the deck of the cargo ship and the dock warehouse. Earning an hourly wage of eight silver coins and sharing meals from the same pot was already a far-fetched luxury here. Even pausing for a short break or asking for a sip of water needed pleading with the overseers. This was West Sail Port, often jokingly referred to by players as West Port. Here, a healthy slave could be purchased for only 1,000 Dinars. Despite the low cost of human life, merchants from Triumph City still preferred to lease instead of buy. In the eastern regions of the Central Continent, many survivors harbored a mystified admiration for the Legion, believing them to be rather disciplined. In reality, this belief stemmed simply from the survivors' limited interactions with Villaandros, leaving them unaware of their true nature. The long-term residents of Leaf City were all too familiar; they knew the demeanor Villaandros displayed when they first arrived in the Valley Province and how it changed after being beaten back. Their seemingly orderly conduct in the eastern Central Continent was merely the result of painful lessons learned. However, in a place like West Sail Port, beyond the reach of Alliance influence, they wouldn't even bother to maintain appearances. Interestingly, even though Villaandros exploited the locals with great effort, they still paled in comparison to the indigenous nobles of the Poro Province. General Maclearn often marveled that, during his time in Valley Province, he had been too lenient, never truly extracting the survivors' full potential. Local residents primarily consisted of Villaandros, followed by itinerant traders from Silvermoon Bay and other areas, along with some local Poro Province nobles and freemen. Since slavery was not banned locally, some nobles from Rovell Province migrated here after Jingalun Port fell. As for players, they were a rare sight here. Without airports or save points set up by influential figures, traveling from an Alliance port to this place could take ten to twenty days at sea — a journey just as long on the return. Dying here meant losing all unsaved experience and exploding all gear and assets, making the risk-reward ratio terribly unbalanced! Nevertheless, while this place was nonessential for players, it held entirely different significance for Villaandros. Since the bureaucrats from Triumph City borrowed this territory from the Empire, they had brought clean streets, beautiful houses, and bright streetlights along. Officials like Bannott harbored high hopes for the local development prospects. Even if the Empire's nobles were stubbornly obsolete, surely none could resist the allure of civilized life. They hoped the affluent life at West Sail Port could influence the nobles of Lion State, who in turn could affect the nobles of Heavenly Capital. They didn't aim to civilize these locals significantly, nor were they interested in charity work, but they needed a sufficiently intimidating ally to share the pressure from the Alliance. On the sandy-bricked port, a bearded Villaandros man frequently glanced at his diamond-encrusted pocket watch, anxiety etched across his face. His name was Arman, a merchant dealing in sugarcane and tea leaves, primarily transporting sugar and black tea produced in West Sail Port to Triumph City and ports under the control of the Southern Legion, occasionally dabbling in slave trading. Per the original schedule, his fleet was set to depart in the morning for "Perpetual Night Port," the southernmost point of the great desert controlled by the Southern Legion, and then sail around the western Central Continent, carrying premium tea leaves and sugar cubes back to Triumph City's port. Yet plans often fail to keep pace with change. Just yesterday, a message from the Governor's Office turned the Villaandros merchants at West Sail Port into a frenzy! The Legion's expedition to the Coast Province concluded, and a large volume of equipment stockpiled on the front lines was being sold at discounted rates! By spending 10,000 Dinars to purchase a voucher from the Governor's Office and putting down a deposit, it was possible to bag those treasures stacked in the Coastal Province at a rock-bottom price of less than 10,000 Dinars per ton! The sole stipulation from West Sail Port's Governor Office was that these military goods had to be transported back to West Sail Port! Moreover, the buyers had to be either the West Sail Port's Weapons Reserve Bureau or the Empire! While this condition implied a certain price ceiling, the Villaandros merchants at West Sail Port couldn't be deterred by enthusiasm. After all, less than 10,000 Dinars per ton was simply too enticing, practically a giveaway! In all their years in business, they'd never seen military goods sold by the pound! Even if only left with bullets after others had picked the good stuff over, the profits were still over 50%. And if one managed to get their hands on the Oriental Legion's Conqueror Tanks, the profits would surely multiply! Arman wouldn't miss out on such a lucrative deal. While he lacked contacts in the arms trade, did one need any connections for a blindfolded deal like this? Besides, if worse came to worst, selling to West Sail Port's Weapons Reserve Bureau was always an option, fearing not to be stuck with it. Praise to Marshal Majesty! Praise to Governor Huye! This was almost evident as the New Year's gift packet sent from West Sail Port's Governor Office! Yet, not surprisingly, it wasn't only Arman having such thoughts. The entire West Sail Port seemed crazed; the docks packed berth after berth to the brim. The workers barely loaded the ships before being herded back to the warehouse, hurriedly urged by overseers to unload without even having time to nibble at dry rations, earning a lash if they were a bit slow. Still, amid the pressing loading and unloading demands, the laborers' life-risking struggles resembled a drop in the bucket. Arguably, the slaves themselves were to blame, being so resilient and cheap that West Sail Port's harbor rendered electric unloading equipment redundant. Facing such a peak demand, they could only push themselves harder. Due to too many ships needing urgent unloading, the Port Office and labor brokerage companies had to recruit more slaves and serfs from surrounding estates and plantations. Amidst the bustling dock, the bearded captain wore a troubled expression as he spoke. "At this rate, we probably won't set sail until tomorrow morning." Arman, dismissing such notion bluntly, retorted, "Too slow, we must set off today no matter what!" The captain's eyebrows twitched hard, and with a bitter smile, he looked back at Arman. "I understand your eagerness to make a fortune, but you have to consider the practicality." "Practicality?" Arman rolled up his sleeves, his sharp gaze fixated on the captain, "Let me tell you what 'practicality' means! Crates and bundles of armaments are piled up in Coastal Province, and this is the regular army's hardware! East-side fools have never been this generous before! The entire trade route's merchant ships are flocking there, and if we arrive late, we won't even sip the soup!" Facing that aggressive gaze, the captain swallowed and replied. "Alright, let's assume these laborers manage to unload before dark, are we to sail empty—" "Yes, we sail empty!" Arman interrupted without hesitation, speaking excitedly, "We bring only the essentials! We can't afford to waddle dawdling through it, we're not just doing business, we're picking money off the ground! You get that, picking money?" Softening his tone, Arman patted the captain's shoulder. "Prepare as I instructed. This venture won't leave you short-changed... I guarantee, after this deal, your share won't be less than 1 million Dinars!" Hearing this generous promise, the captain instinctively held his breath, nodding subconsciously. "Alright..." A million Dinars! Even a centurion's ransom wasn't this steep! Compared to such wealth, going home for New Year hardly mattered at all. Watching the captain leave, Arman turned towards the feline stevedore manager, his smile that was warm like a spring breeze quickly collapsing. "When will my fleet finally be unloaded?" Amid Arman's pressing, Naji — wiping sweat from his brow — forced a smile and responded apologetically. "I'll have the overseers push harder, aiming to finish by tomorrow—" "Aim?" Arman raised an eyebrow, glaring at him, and said each word sharply, "I don't care how you do it, but you must have everything unloaded before dark!" Hearing this command, fresh sweat promptly beaded on Naji's freshly wiped brow. "By dark? But sir, that's only three hours away—" "That's your problem," Arman replied coldly, not even sparing him a glance. "I'll extend the deadline to eight in the evening at most. If you can't manage that, I'll have no choice but to discuss it with your boss—or should I say, my partner." Upon hearing these words, a cold shiver ran down Najib’s spine. Although he was part of the Lion Tribe, he was still a commoner, utterly insignificant next to those with titles. Thus, even though the demand seemed impossible, he could only grit his teeth and respond with determination. "I'll gather more men..." "Go, then." Arman waved dismissively, shooing him away like an annoying fly. It turned out that pushing them a bit worked. With the overseers urging them on relentlessly, the slaves actually managed to clear the last two ships before the sun dipped below the horizon. Najib was about to rush and report the good news to Lord Arman, but a crowd blocked his path in front of the docks. A group of laborers had formed a circle on the narrow dock with a skeletal figure convulsing on the ground, foaming at the mouth. The man was so emaciated, his skin darkened to a reddish-brown by the sun, resembling a smoked sausage. Pushing through the crowd, Najib kicked the man on the ground. Seeing no reaction, he turned to the dockworkers beside him. "What happened to this guy?" A tall, thin man with a lowered gaze replied, "His name is Orisa—" Before he could finish, a whip struck his forehead, knocking him back several steps. Fortunately, a coworker caught him, preventing a fall into the sea. Blood streamed from his open wound, covering his eyes and half his face, looking horrifying. Dazed, the man touched his forehead, stunned and unresponsive. "Who cares what his name is! Drag him off the dock now! Damn it! Don't you know how busy we are today? Stop blocking the way!" Najib yelled angrily, randomly pointing his whip, dispersing the gathered laborers. Finally, the crowd blocking the dock scattered, and the port resumed its usual hustle. Watching a crate sink into the sea, Najib's face twitched in pain. What a waste of fine tea... A single pack was worth half a month's wages for him. Luckily, he wasn't liable for the lost goods; those in power had already anticipated the clumsy mistakes of these rough men, and the loss of a crate or two was within acceptable limits. Otherwise, even selling himself wouldn’t cover it... The scolded laborers carried unlucky Orisa to the labor registry, following standard procedure. The deceased's name needed crossing out; otherwise, he'd count as a runaway, risking punishment for his entire family. The registry staff checked the records, only to find Orisa wasn’t a slave but a freeman. Of course, this only surprised them mildly. After all, landless freemen might not be better off than slaves, especially with families to support, likely feeding on dirt. "Anyone know if he has family here?" The people exchanged looks, shaking their heads — none knew where this unfortunate man lived. The staff, unwilling to bother further, closed the registry book, saying, "Have his family come." One worker, unable to bear it, humbly asked, "What should we do with him?" The staff rolled his eyes. "He's dead. Just bury him somewhere." He urged further, "Move his body out of here. Don’t let it become an obstruction." Under the watchful gaze of two guards, the workers carrying Orisa’s body had no choice but to take him outside. Standing by the street, not knowing where to head, they debated whether to find his family first or simply bury him. Everyone ends up buried eventually, and the red soil outside the city was meant for just that purpose. Their sympathy for Orisa's fate mingled with surprise — this quiet old guy turned out to be a freedman. No wonder he worked so hard! Some faces revealed envy. Dying as a slave meant nothing left behind, but a freedman’s death warranted compensation for their family — 800 Dinars, though not much, was a windfall for them. One of the few benefits fought for by Villaandros for them. Yet, while some envied, others glared hatefully toward the port. These were mainly converts of the Helalene Sect. Most were listeners of the "Silver Gospel News" and had heard "The Awakener Paul," translated and recited by Pastor Melgio from Silvermoon Bay. It was their literacy starting point. Though they hadn’t visited Jeystone City, they recalled vividly how its people took action. Perhaps their profound anger sparked a flame amidst the oppressive silence. "Look at this 'freeman'..." A hoarse voice emerged from the crowd as a tall, thin man stepped forward — the same one recently whipped on the dock. The scar on his forehead had stained the white bandage red. Facing his menacing demeanor, people instinctively backed away, fearful expressions on their faces. Unfazed, he continued, his hoarse voice growing hysterical, unleashing the fury in his heart. "They rob us of everything, label it, price it! A thousand, ten thousand—Westland currency or Dinars, they demand payment for what’s rightfully ours! Our blood, our sweat, spent acquiring what's inherently ours! Elevating their greatness and wisdom!" "Then, once we’ve bought back what's ours, after they've drained us dry, we end up like Orisa in the red soil." Silence surrounded him. The despair of their fate suffocated them. If, in the end, nothing worth mourning remained, what was the point of their hard labor? What freemen... The enticing bait was a farce from the start! Perhaps emboldened by their silence, he clenched his fists, issuing a soul-searching inquiry to the onlookers. "Tell me! Why must we buy back what is already ours?" "What can we do...?" A subdued complaint finally broke the silence. Seeing the restless crowd, the man did not retreat. Instead, in a heated moment, he cried out. "What can we do! Paul has shown us the way! We must unite!" "And then?" This time, someone else from the crowd shouted the answer. "Isn't it obvious? We must reclaim what’s ours!" Angry roars echoed among them, vengeance amplifying in contagious waves. As their numbers grew, fear dulled and gave way to anger. Even the timid bore faces seething with rage — And hatred! "This isn't over!" "You're right!" "Orisa can't die in vain!" "They must pay for this!" The cacophony grew, catching the attention of port district guards. Normally avoiding the docks and its slums, today was an exception due to the labor shortage, and they couldn’t allow such a gathering causing disruption. At the helm of the guards was foreman Najib, gripping the whip he used earlier, yelling loudly at the clustered workers. "What are you doing here? How long does it take to move a body? Get back to work now!" Heated by emotion, a voice cried out from the crowd. "We quit!" "Quit? Ha! You've turned against us!" Najib bristled, cracking his whip, but missed his target, striking an innocent bystander and bursting his eye. The man cried out, clutching his face and kneeling, blood pooling at his feet. Seeing blood spilled, the crowd erupted into chaos. Hundreds of people surged onto the street, shouting and closing in on Najib. Having never encountered such a scene before, Najib instinctively took a step back, startled. But he quickly realized he had been too quick to fear. Behind him, he heard a gunshot. Without a word of warning, the guard holding an opener rifle fired a series of shots into the sky. "Bang! Bang—!" The gunfire was like cold water poured onto hot iron, instantly quelling the heated emotions of the crowd. This wasn't Jeystone City after all. And Paul wasn't from Poro Province. The passionate, riotous faces from a moment ago turned to fear, and the crowd began to scatter in all directions until the streets were empty. Najib stood dazed, then managed a sheepish smile as he turned to the officer behind him, a man with a prominent nose. "Heh, see, I told you they were just like mice—so timid, not capable of causing any significant trouble." The Villaandros officer shot him a disdainful glance, silently reloading his rifle. He had served as a colonial guard for the Southern Legion for over a decade, quelling uprisings twice or thrice, with the most severe one requiring the deployment of 902mm artillery. Today's situation was rare: the gunfire dispersed them without anyone dying. While it satisfied him, he also felt a hint of contempt for them. ... As night settled over West Sail Port, a chilly breeze blew from the sea towards the harbor. The commotion at the labor registry had no impact on the ongoing hustle and bustle. The docks remained active, and lavish display windows still glowed with grandeur. The shouted declaration of "We're not working anymore" seemed a mere joke. The poor bystander who lost his eye had no means to claim his grievance. With all preparations complete, Arman was at the port, bidding a reluctant farewell to his family. "...But it's so close to Birth Day; can't you wait until after the holiday?" A young girl in a floral dress, her brown hair styled in a princess braid, pouted, looking every bit the princess herself. The second weekend of January marks Birth Day for the Villaandros, a holiday more significant than New Year. It's said to commemorate their beginning, the dawn of all brilliance and legend. Traditionally, regardless of how busy, a Villaandros would clear this day to spend it with family. Arman had originally intended to celebrate Birth Day by returning to Triumph City to participate in the festivities. Unfortunately, the offers from the big shots in Triumph City were simply too enticing... Patting his daughter's head fondly, Arman promised, "Be good, Daddy will bring you a gift when I return." "But..." Ruby, the girl, huffed, "Your taste is weird; who gives a mutant head as a present?" "Ha! My apologies, that was poor judgment on my part!" Laughing, Arman lifted his daughter into his arms, whirling her around in the air until giggles rang out, then set her gently back on the ground. Booping her on the nose, he asked in a sweet tone, "So, what would my darling Ruby like as a gift?" Ruby's eyes sparkled with excitement as she answered quickly, "I want to play with Ansuya!" Ansuya was the daughter of Earl Shalma, a notable figure in Lion State. He owned a vast plantation on the outskirts of West Sail Port and maintained influential connections in Heavenly Capital. He was also Arman's business partner. Whenever business brought Arman to Shalma's estate, he took Ruby along. Though Ruby didn’t grasp the estate's enormity, she cherished the maze-like garden, playing hide-and-seek with Ansuya and the other children there. Hearing Ruby's simple request, Arman ruffled her hair lovingly, "Alright! When I get back, we'll go visit!" Then, with a smile, he added, "And I'll still bring a gift... wait eagerly for it, my darling Ruby!" He was considering contacting Earl Shalma post-trip to see if he could leverage some influence to maximize the value of this cargo. He would take Ruby then to visit. "Come back soon!" Standing on tiptoe, the little girl kissed his cheek, then dashed back to her mother's side. Margaret gently clasped her daughter's hand, gazing lovingly at her husband with a captivating, radiant smile. "Take care of yourself, dear." "Don't worry! This isn't my first run on this route! Wait for the good news!" He kissed his wife, grinned broadly, and returned to the dock with his briefcase. "See you next month! Wait for me!" With that, he boarded the ship, moving step by step onto the deck, the drawn-out horn sounding their gradual departure. Meanwhile, just under 500 meters from the dock, a mother and daughter arrived at the labor registry's entrance. The docks hardly saw women, except in specific circumstances. People moved aside without realizing, allowing the hunched woman, tightly clutching the little girl's hand, to hastily approach the counter. The previous staff had clocked out; sitting now was a young man with slicked-back hair, casually cracking melon seeds, chatting and laughing with his colleague. The roles at the labor registry, frequently interacting with Villaandros, were favored among minor nobility eager to place their children in. Triumph City was distant, but the Villaandros were right here in the port district. With Villaandros' favoritism, it could mean skyrocketing to a much better status! The little girl stretched herself on tiptoes to peer over the counter, speaking before her mother could. "Where's my daddy?" Hearing the timid voice, the young man turned, smiling, "Your daddy? Who's your daddy?" The girl continued, "Orisa... he's very tan. The Moon Church's priest says his lungs aren't good, always coughing." Worried the staff wouldn't recognize her father's description, she animatedly gestured, trying to depict him. But her abstract description only grated on the clerk's nerves. "Apologies...for disturbing you." The hunched woman was far quieter, pulling her daughter back to silence her, then retrieving a crumpled certificate and placing it hastily on the desk. It was proof of identity. Earned through her husband's illness, it was the only evidence they belonged to no master. Seeing the certificate, the young man's irritation eased slightly. He flipped through the register to cross-reference the name, confirming Orisa’s listing. "He was registered last month as a laborer." His colleague recalled, cheerful as he opened a drawer, taking out and tossing a pre-prepared coin pouch onto the counter. "Ah yes, I was just telling you about that! The old guy who worked himself to death..." The "clink" of the pouch left both mother and daughter in stunned silence, ears ringing with white noise. The huddled woman mouthed silently, eventually collecting the purse and clutching it tightly in her hand. She seemed to shrink further. Unwilling to linger a moment longer, she hurriedly left the counter with her daughter, escaping the suffocating atmosphere and heading to the street outside. The wind from the port district was especially cold. Gazing up silently at her mother, the young girl finally spoke in a small voice, "Where's Daddy?" Her mother, always quick to reply, remained silent this time, only quickening her pace as they headed home, her frail shoulders trembling subtly, stifling something within. Perhaps realizing where her father had gone, the girl lowered her head, no longer speaking, nor breaking into tears—holding only to her mother's calloused hand tightly. Her father had always longed for her to grow up early. She often wondered what growing up meant but now seemed to grasp a fragment of it. She also had two much younger brothers. She needed to learn to be strong. Mother and daughter passed by the Silver Moon Church, like a drop of rain before a storm, silently blending into the quiet night. Standing at the humble doorway of the church, Melgio looked at the injured laborers, sighed softly, and began helping to bandage their wounds with the other priests. He wanted to help these unfortunate people. But he also worried whether he was doing them more harm than good. "Goddess of the Silver Moon... please bless your humble followers, protect them from misfortune and disaster." And protect me, too, from making irreversible mistakes... His index finger gently touched the silver moon hanging at his chest, mouthing his prayers with sincere devotion. An ominous feeling lingered. Something significant was about to occur in West Sail Port... To be continued.