Chapter 820 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 820: Pawns of the Noble Harboring a sense of resignation, Almon boarded the shuttle bound for the ruins of Haibei City from Settlement No. 1, completing the final hundred kilometers of his journey. Unsurprisingly, the centurion, upon seeing the paper in his hand, rolled his eyes. "Whoever wrote you that note, go find them. Otherwise, go ask General Liam." Hoping to buy a ton of military goods for just ten thousand denars was akin to dreaming that a tank could be had for just over half a million! The price from the Alliance would be more than three times that amount when converted to denars! This guy thought he could slash the price with just one piece of paper—what a fool's errand! Almon, not ready to give up, pressed on. "Then... where is he?" Antony replied impatiently. "He's on the Loyalty airship. If he's not at Ten Peaks, then he's gone west to celebrate New Year." This question was redundant—what victorious general doesn't return to strut in Triumphal City? The corps had gained quite a bit from the campaign. Although they didn't obtain the "Gestalt Lifeform" technology controlled by the Torchbearers, the genetic samples they collected were enough to keep the technical officers busy for a while. If all goes as expected, General Liam might even be promoted to a three-star legate. With his last hope dashed, a muscle in Almon's cheek twitched before he finally tucked the worthless stack of papers away. He swore to himself. He would frame this thing and hang it in the most prominent spot in his study, inscribed with a motto he personally penned to be passed down through generations— "Only a pig trusts the promises of the Weilantrians!" If only he hadn't heeded Governor Hu Ye's call, but instead had gone the opposite route. If he had sent his fleet along the original route, delivering tea and sugar to Triumphal City, he might have raked in a tidy profit amidst delayed shipments from the Boraha Province! Moreover, familiar with the route, he wouldn't have needed to personally accompany the ship. That way, he could have spent the year's most important festival peacefully with his family, instead of playing the pawn, tossed around by the nobles like a ball. As he turned to leave, he suddenly noticed that the exoskeletons he had seen at the dock were present here as well. And not just that— Those wearing the exoskeletons weren't even Weilantrian soldiers but were slaves under their control. Almon stopped, curious. "…Strange. Do you have so many exoskeletons that you can give them to slaves now?" Why not sell the surplus to him? Antony's expression turned slightly embarrassed, and he coughed before speaking. "…They're not slaves. They're hired." Hired? Almon was momentarily taken aback and instinctively asked, "…How much?" Antony explained. "Not much, 8 silvers an hour." At this number, Almon's eyes nearly bulged out. "What?! You pay them 8 silvers an hour?! Are you mad?!" Even at the highest exchange rate of three denars to one silver, that was 24 denars! By this exchange rate, weren't these workers making more in a day than Westfeather Harbor's workers do in a month?! "Are you that short on people here?" Almon's eyes lit up, and he eagerly pressed on. Seeing this fervor, Antony felt a chill down his spine. "Short, indeed... cough, but calm down. I know what you're thinking, but due to agreements with the Adhesive Collective, we can't transport slaves here using alliance transport systems, so we're short but stuck."_" "We have ships!" Almon trembled with excitement. "How many do you need? I'll bring them over!" Antony rolled his eyes. "You think I haven't thought of sea transport? It's no good. The whole northern region is considered our 'enclave.' Unless you fly them in, passing through alliance territories would get them seized. And it's not just that; they don't recognize the legality of personal freedom contracts. Once a slave escapes to their territories, they're liberated as a wasteland vagrant, understand?" Almon was stunned before he let out a resigned chuckle. "So... you listen to them that much?" "'Listen' is the wrong word." Annoyed by Almon's implication, Antony gave him a sideways glance. "It's called negotiation. Both sides take a step on terms within mutual tolerance, resolving conflict through dialogue. If things really go south, it's bad for everybody. But if you think we're afraid of them, you're mistaken... Now, if there's nothing else, you're dismissed." Almon: "…" The Weilantrians treated their own relatively well, not resorting to gunpoint threats over a few harsh words. However, the low status of merchants was undeniable. The bureaucratic factions were generally unwelcome, not to mention the merchants they supported. Although Almon tried to negotiate further, the centurion who managed that area had no intention of wasting time on him and promptly had him sent away. Almon had no recourse and could only board the vehicle back to the Death Coast. The setting sun cast long shadows at the entrance of Settlement No. 1. The once spacEus quay was now crammed with ships, a bustling scene stretching to the horizon. Yet, judging by the empty decks, most arrivals today were probably fruitless. Dragging his weary self back to the port, Almon saw his crew having a blast by a bar at the harbor's edge, each one already tipsy in the daylight, leaning against the walls. Although most buildings here were made from containers, many wastelanders liked to engage in small commerce, selling concocted cocktails or rolled cigarettes. As long as the goods weren't contraband, alliance security turned a blind eye. Almon suddenly felt a pang of envy for his crew, plastered on liquor. He used to see these drifters as futureless, wasting their wages on booze or women with no hope of marrying, let alone financial freedom... But now, he envied them. At least they didn't have to worry about losing everything on the next deal. Unlike himself, they got paid just for going to sea, then spent their shore leave seeking pleasure. Meanwhile, he remained furrowed with worry, his pockets equally empty at day's end—what's the difference now? Dreading the bills awaiting him upon return, Almon felt a headache building. Not daring to think about it, he turned to his aides and bodyguards, muttering, "Damn it... let's grab a few drinks!" His companions exchanged glances, knowing their boss was in a foul mood but clueless about how to console him, so they followed his lead to the nearest bustling bar. Unlike other wasteland-themed bars, this one was housed in a rare brick and mortar building. Behind the counter stood a cyclopean robot, and a holographic projection clock hung overhead, indicating the owner's refined taste. Besides port laborers, a few newly disembarked sailors were also drinking here. Seeing their crestfallen faces provided Almon a sliver of consolation—at least he wasn't the only one taken for a fool. The port was full of disgruntled Weilantrians, sitting at tables and downing beers one after another. "Damn it!" "Damn Hu Ye and that Benot, these bureaucrats are all useless!" "Not loyal at all!" "Hoping mutants pay them a familEus visit!" The fawning praises from when they first set sail had turned into bitter curses. A businessman like Almon with his team was rare; most only rented their vessels. Many had pinned their hopes on turning their fortunes with this venture, mortgaging everything they could and borrowing large sums from Westfeather Harbor banks to rent all available ships. Yet now, they had returned empty-handed, with all remaining frontline supplies monopolized by a company called "Goblin Tech." For these people, it was a hard blow. Sitting at the bar, Almon ordered a beer and, finding his bodyguards and aides eyesores, shooed them away. He was just about to down the large one-liter mug when someone nearby broke the silence. "Hey." Almon cast a sidelong glance, noticing an unfamiliar face, and frowned. "And you are?" The man appeared young, wearing a gray jacket made of rhino hide. The young man flashed a toothy grin and settled into the seat next to Almon with an air of familiarity, speaking with an easy-going charm. "I'm Zhang Ze. I arrived here a bit before you and am doing some work around the port." Before Almon could question him further about his occupation, Zhang Ze continued without pause. "Weilantrans are quite rare here. Most of your compatriots are over in Haibei City. Are you here to escort them home?" Almon, growing impatient, responded, "What does that have to do with you?" Zhang Ze chuckled and said, "Nothing, just curious. After all, it's unusual to see ships come here empty. This port devours everything like a hungry deathclaw, even containers... Is there some treasure you're after?" At these words, Almon's brow furrowed deeply, and he slammed his hand on the bar as he stood up. "Are you looking for a fight?" As his hand hit the bar, Almon's entourage and bodyguards rose from the neighboring table. Seeing Almon's anger, Zhang Ze quickly stood up, raising his hands to show his peaceful intentions. "Calm down, brother... I know you might have suffered losses, but since the damages are done, why not at least hear me out?" Despite his simmering anger, Almon, aware of the attention from others in the bar, managed to reign in his temper. Signaling to his bodyguards, he settled back onto his stool, controlling his irritation. "Let's hear it then. What pearls of wisdom do you have?" Zhang Ze, thick-skinned, resumed his seat, lowering his voice as he continued. "...I may not have pearls, but I do have a way for you to recoup your losses." "Oh?" Almon raised an eyebrow skeptically, mockingly. "Are you going to suggest hauling those rusty containers to Westfeather Harbor for a profit?" Undeterred by the disbelief in Almon's eyes, Zhang Ze shook his head, his tone light. "Of course not... There's little money in that." Almon snorted derisively, taking a sip from his drink. "I doubt there's anything more profitable here." Zhang Ze patiently continued. "You're right. This place is still in its pioneer stage, but that precisely creates a demand for certain things... like labor." Almon's brow furrowed slightly. "Labor? But I've heard the Alliance bans the slave trade." "You're not wrong, but you're not quite right either," Zhang Ze nodded, smiling. "The Alliance does not recognize slave contracts but doesn't prohibit more nuanced ways of restricting freedom." Almon snorted in disbelief. "Such as?" "For example, debt—especially debts within reasonable bounds. The Alliance recognizes that." This unexpected answer took Almon by surprise. "…What do you mean?" Zhang Ze smiled as he elaborated. "Imagine if you issued a debt note claiming someone owes you an unpayable sum. The Alliance would likely dismiss it and might even investigate you for being unhinged—after all, who in their right mind lends money without a hope of repayment?" "But in another scenario, if you present a debt note with a reasonable explanation of the debt's origin, and it's determined the borrower can repay over 20 or 10 years without compromising their life... well, the Alliance recognizes such debt." "I don’t understand what you’re talking about," Almon frowned. "Are you in the loan business? I’m not interested in loans or investing spare funds in ventures right now." “No, no, I’m not in the loan business, but... I’m very interested in another kind of business.” Zhang Ze placed a hand on Almon's shoulder, coaxing him gently. "You see, there's a tremendous need for people here. We need to build ports, railways, cities, and streets; everywhere needs manpower... And conveniently, a few thousand kilometers away is a place overflowing with people. If we bring them here—" Almon scoffed. "There's no slave trade here. What are you going to do with them once you bring them?" "So you need to change your perspective. We can turn their slave contracts into debt agreements. Do you really need them to call you 'master'?" Zhang Ze patiently continued. Staring at the stunned Almon, Zhang Ze explained further. "It's straightforward. We could establish a labor agency and a loan company within the Alliance, and register a labor dispatch company in Westfeather Harbor to buy healthy slaves from nobles or assist freedmen who've redeemed themselves." "Of course, this won't be free. We're offering them a second chance in life, and they need to pay for it themselves." "One thousand denars for redemption, three thousand for resettlement, ten thousand silvers for fare and travel, plus 3% interest—nearly thirty thousand silvers over twenty years. It sounds daunting, doesn’t it? But spread over each month, it’s just 125 silvers!" "I think that's a hefty profit already, and we could even waive their labor agency and financial service fees if necessary." "125 silvers a month is still quite daunting..." Almon clicked his tongue, savoring the rich flavor of his beer, and his tone involuntarily turned more personable. If he could transport ten thousand people, he’d earn over 1.2 million silvers each month?! And could do so for twenty years! Though it didn't match the profits from arms trade, it was quite substantial. Seeing Almon was worried about workers affording the fees, Zhang Ze smiled reassuringly, patting his shoulder. "The wealth from Westfeather Harbor has already been scooped up by you foreigners, of course, they can’t pay such sums. But here, our esteemed governors would even lend a limb to someone without arms or legs. As long as they’re willing to work, earning over a thousand silvers a month is not difficult... So, what do you say?" Having calculated the potential returns, Almon didn't hesitate long. He downed half his beer in one gulp, slamming the mug on the table. His once weary eyes lit up with renewed ambition. "I'm in! Damn it... I’ve got to at least earn back what I lost on this venture." If this business succeeded, the banks of Westfeather Harbor might ease the noose around his neck! Damn it! Once he made money, he'd pay off every last loan! Watching the revitalized Almon, Zhang Ze broke into a pleasant smile. After earning enough money working at the docks these past days, he was ready to register his company. If this worked out, reaching his life's pinnacle was within sight! "Hang on a moment. My partner will be here soon..." "Partner? You have other partners?" Almon raised an intrigued eyebrow. Zhang Ze glanced at the holographic clock before looking towards the entrance, smiling. "Of course, I can’t do such a large business alone. Besides, the idea of labor export was brought by my partner from the neighboring North Island... They’ve just arrived, over there." Following his gaze, Almon saw four individuals wearing blue coats at the door. His surprised expression told it all. Blue Groundhogs? Well, this business was a sure thing! Even though he didn't particularly like the Alliance, especially after being burned by Goblin Tech, working as allies was a different matter. No one complains that their allies are too reliable. The four individuals scanned the bar, quickly spotting Zhang Ze waving at them, and walked over directly. Almon immediately put on a charming smile, extending his right hand as they approached. "Almon here, a merchant from Westfeather Harbor. May I know who you are?" The man leading the group shared an enthusiastic expression, grasping Almon’s hand firmly. "I’m Far-sighted Hawk, and this is Battle-savvy Wolf... We're from Vault 404. Our names might sound odd, please don't mind." "Hello." Battle-savvy Wolf nodded slightly, his reserved demeanor making him seem like a hidden expert. In truth, his terse demeanor was simply because he hadn't quite mastered the human language yet. That's the downside of focusing on strength. Having a low intelligence attribute in the early stages, with only a pathetic three points, makes one feel rather slow-witted. Such peculiar names... But considering they emerged from a shelter, Almon wasn’t particularly surprised. "And... who are these two?" Almon's gaze shifted to the two friends standing behind Hawk and Wolf. They appeared to be fellow shelter residents, and out of courtesy, he asked for their names. For some reason, the four individuals before him all displayed subtly peculiar expressions. Far-sighted Hawk cleared his throat. "You don’t need to worry about these two... Just pretend they’re not here." “Man! What do you mean not here?” [Mischief Maker] glared playfully at him before approaching the Weilantran with a beaming smile. In halting speech, he introduced, “I’m Stick, and the guys call me Brother Stick. That fellow is Guan—call him Brother Guan or Guan.” Conduit Dog: "???" Almon's eyebrow twitched involuntarily, sensing an air of unreliability around this group, yet he decided to observe before reaching any conclusions. Turning to Zhang Ze, he asked, "When do we set off?" Zhang Ze glanced between Hawk and Almon, replying with a smile, "I'm ready any time, being right here at the port. It's up to you to agree on a departure time." Almon directed his attention back to the four vault dwellers, and the leader, Far-sighted Hawk, quickly chimed in. "The sooner, the better. I don't want to stay here a moment longer… Heading back now might get us home for next month's birthday." Almon suddenly recalled something. "Oh, right. I need to get a souvenir for my daughter… Are there any shops around here?" The four players exchanged glances, momentarily at a loss. "A souvenir... not sure there’s much of that here." “Maybe a doll?” Dog suggested. “That’s not distinctive enough,” Stick shook his head. "You’d be better off bottling some sand to take back." Battle-savvy Wolf tapped his VM and, after a quick translation, stammered, "How about a mutant specimen? Mutants here are quite unique, some even have fish-like fins." The other three were taken aback. "Whoa." "Seriously?" "That’s quite the oddity!" "No way..." Almon, barely interpreting their exchange, felt an awkward smile spread across his face. "I once sent a preserved mutant head as a gift, but my little Ruby didn’t like it… Neither did my wife—it freaked them out to see it at night." Far-sighted Hawk: "…?" Conduit Dog: "…" Mischief Maker: "Impressive..." Listening to their conversation, Zhang Ze couldn’t help but facepalm, but he was struck by an idea. “How about taking some photos? Your kid probably hasn’t been to the wasteland. The scenery here should be pretty unique." Almon's eyes lit up upon hearing this. In an impromptu embrace, he seized Zhang Ze’s shoulders. "My friend, you’re a genius! Why didn’t I think of that?" Far-sighted Hawk clapped him on the shoulder. "Better hurry. The sun’s setting soon. It’s not like the North Island or Fryport here with all its streetlights—once it’s dark, you won’t see a thing." With animated conversation, the group left the bar, capturing numerous photos of Settlement No. 1 at dusk before the sun dipped below the horizon. Standing on the deck of the cargo ship ready to depart, Almon fiddled with a polaroid camera he bought from a port sundry shop, awkwardly grinning as he rubbed the back of his head. "Why didn't I think of this before… Photographing is truly a brilliant idea." Cameras weren’t particularly scarce, and he had visited settlements far more interesting than this one. Had he captured those places on film, his wall by now would be utterly covered with photos. How regrettable! Speaking aloud, he snapped a picture of the sun descending into the sea. "Never mind, it's not too late to start documenting now. There's a long road ahead..." Far-sighted Hawk adopted a sage-like posture, offering well-meaning advice in his still-learning human language. "You're right..." Almon laughed, putting the camera away. He suddenly felt that being friends with these dwellers wasn’t so bad. Setting aside their political positions, making friends with them was actually rather enjoyable. These people’s minds worked swiftly, often coming up with whimsical ideas... including the legendary space elevator currently under construction. He couldn’t imagine them calling him master, and if they did, it would likely ruin the mood. As crew members, not yet content with their drinking, ambled over the gangway onto the deck, the captain finished his headcount and approached Almon. "We're ready to go anytime… Say, is it alright heading back with empty ships? We’ve effectively done two runs for nothing." Almon spoke with newfound vigor. "No issue at all. In fact, this trip wasn't for nothing. After we return, we can soon embark on a far more lucrative venture… Ah, sorry, about the share from this deal, it might—" Seeing his once exuberant boss now stammering, the captain shrugged nonchalantly. "It’s alright. Hearing about profits that high, I knew it probably wouldn’t end well... No worries if there’s none. All I hope for now is not to miss the birth day—my family’s waiting for me." Far-sighted Hawk curiously asked, "What’s a birth day?" "It’s the day Weilantrans were born, marking the beginning of a great saga." A hint of pride tugged at the corners of Almon’s lips as he gazed out at the distant sea, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Set sail!" With a blare of the horn, while those empty-handed cargo ships lingered restlessly at the port, eight vessels sailed onward, chasing the setting sun. Crimson hues painted their path forward, the sunset's glow blanketing the shimmering sea. That fiery color. It bore the tint of blood-stain red. To be continued...