Chapter 827 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 827: Discipline and Mediation On the outskirts of West Sail Port, a stretch of crimson land lay near the coastline. A dozen Villanteans stood with their rifles rested over their shoulders, smoking and observing the people digging pits in the distance. Among the diggers were men, women, elderly people, and even small children. Clearly, the Villanteans didn’t intend to judge them by the height of a wheel. Instead, they chose a more egalitarian method. Holding shovels trembling in their hands, the diggers wept silently as they excavated the blood-red soil. Most of them fully understood who these pits were meant for, yet none dared to stop digging. Cooperation could buy them a little more time alive. Stopping might earn them a severe beating even before their death. As for resistance… The Villanteans almost wished they would try. Firing on unarmed people carried a certain guilt they would rather avoid. “Work harder, mud worms! The sooner you finish, the sooner you can lie down for a rest, ha-ha!” A Villantean soldier with a rifle strutted along the edges of the crowd, hurling insults with undisguised disdain. Hearing curses that seemed to originate from hell itself, the diggers involuntarily shuddered, their subdued sobs only growing louder. Finally, one among them couldn’t take it anymore and collapsed to the ground with a fading vision. When he saw the Villantean soldier approaching with long strides, he endured the weakness and turned over, kneeling in terror. “Please, sir… I’m hungry… Can I eat something before continuing?” “Hungry? Then eat!” The soldier grabbed his head, pressing it into the ground like seizing a wriggling eel, sneering as he berated, “The ground is full, do you need me to feed you?” The man, struggling under the pressure, couldn’t utter a sound and ended up swallowing a mouthful of dirt and sand before finally managing a breath. “No, sir… I dare not…” “Then keep working, you useless thing!” Finding it too filthy, the soldier, growing weary of tormenting this soon-to-be-dead man, muttered curses as he struck him with the rifle butt before ignoring him altogether. The surrounding crowd watched trembling, observing the worm-like figure squirming on the ground, but none dared to utter a word, let alone resist. The crowd didn’t consist solely of the old, weak, sick, or infirm; some sturdy young men were among them, even from the city's defense forces defeated just days ago. Yet, faced with the fierce Villantean soldiers, they lacked even the courage to pick up a rifle and fight back, accustomed only to advantageous battles. Amidst the sobbing workers, a few were determined to exert themselves. They labored sweat-drenched, trying to make the pit larger, striving to prove that they could endure more than others, convincing themselves that their diligence might save their lives. However, these efforts appeared clownish to the large-nosed soldiers, serving only to deepen their scornful disdain. The soldiers couldn’t be bothered to differentiate among the diggers which ones were of the Lion, Sun, or Ox tribes and which ones were the lowly Serpent, Rat, Bug, or Bird. To them, all were equally hopeless. Even faced with such circumstances, their refusal to resist proved that burying them alive was too merciful. It would have been better to let the “gray men” handle them. In truth, this was their original plan, but the current units didn’t include gray mercenaries; bringing them over was inefficient, prompting their commander to abandon the idea. They’d already buried one batch yesterday, and today marked the second. In around two months, it should suffice. Watching those laboring under the scorching sun on crimson soil, Pitt flicked away the spent cigarette from his fingers before taking out another from the pack. From morning till evening, this was already his second pack. “…Sometimes, it feels like we were put in this world just to do the filthy, backbreaking work.” A towering companion beside him glanced at his decurion, his voice a low mumble. “These tasks?” Pitt smirked wryly, standing amid the ash while twisting the corners of his mouth in a self-deprecating grin. “Yeah, clearing out the sticky fungus, cleaning up the trash, and corrupt blood. The old folks from the Prosperous Era who don’t want to do it or lack the ability to do the work all pass it down to us. We’re like dialysis machines for kidneys, tasked with cleaning up this mess; only then can this musty world return to normal… don’t you think?” Much like scavengers. Once it was all over, it would be time for them to be swept into the garbage heap. The New Era likely held no future for the Villanteans; their end was preordained from the beginning, to be swept away as the final dust of the Wasteland Era, the ultimate waste walkers. However, this situation only highlighted the greatness of their Marshal. From the start, the distinguished leader had seen through the filth harbored by the rulers above and unhesitantly united them to overthrow that false armistice. Though merely a decurion, Pitt felt heartfelt respect for that gentleman. “I don’t know, but they must die.” Hatred was etched across the big man's face, the muscles in his face twitching angrily. “I agree…” Pitt bit down on his cigarette as he turned his gaze toward the distant sea horizon, his eyes narrowing. Barely discernible black dots appeared on the line where sea and sky met. They seemed to be cargo ships. Removing the radio from his shoulder, he pressed the button as he spoke. “…Ships are coming.” “Yes, from the east.” … The fleet under Yarman’s command rushed towards the port, their speed nearly causing a collision at the wharf. The fleet arrived a full 24 hours earlier than anticipated. Driven by Yarman’s near-mad urgency, his crew almost capsized the ship. Seeing the devastated port before him, Yarman dashed frantically to the edge of the deck. “Let me go! Let me down!” Seeing their boss about to leap from the deck four or five meters above ground, the captain and crew swiftly restrained him, pinning him firmly against the railing. “Boss, calm down! At least wait for the gangplank to be lowered! Do you want to get yourself killed?” “Then let me die! I’ll join them!” Yarman screamed maniacally, struggling against the hands holding him. Frightened seamen nearby hastily spoke up. “No way, if you die, what happens to us?” “My entire savings are on your ship!” “We haven’t even been paid for this trip—” “Shut up!” the captain barked again at the heartless crew, then looked at Yarman, quickly saying, “Open your eyes and look closely. Our people are onshore. Your family might still be alive. How would they feel knowing you died at the wharf?” This statement soothed Yarman, his tensed shoulders no longer trembling. The captain signaled to nearby sailors to keep a close watch on their boss, ensuring he didn’t descend until the gangplank was securely in place. Observing the desperate man, Dog Brothers on the deck felt a pang of sympathy, sighing as he spoke. “Look at it this way, brother. Life is full of misfortunes… um, I mean, every cloud has a silver lining… damn! At least you don’t have to pay the bank anymore…” “Shut up already!” the one stirring the pot couldn’t resist snapping at him. Displeased, Pipe Dog murmured in defiance, “What difference does it make? He doesn’t even understand what I’m saying.” “Not necessarily,” Far-sighted Eagle suddenly chimed in. Pipe Dog: “???” Battle-hardened Wolf fell silent, staring at the man’s back before finally shaking his head. “…My condolences.” Indifferent to the commotion behind him, Yarman lay face-down on the damp deck, appearing utterly drained of spirit. Not until the anchor chain and gangplank were lowered and the ship steadied, did he react—shaking off the hands holding him as he stumbled off the ship. Having long taken notice of the ships, a squad of Villantean soldiers approached, rifles slung over their shoulders. Yarman staggered toward them, clutching one young soldier’s arm. His blue-tinged lips trembled, opening and closing without a word escaping. Everyone present seemed to understand his unspoken words, as if they could hear him. Observing the pitiful man, the soldiers' expressions softened into pity. One of the decurions stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke in a reassuring manner. “…We’ve found some survivors, but we’re not certain if your family is among them.” A glimmer of hope sparked in Yarman’s dim eyes as he asked, his voice shaking. “Where are they?” The decurion glanced at the young soldier whose arm Yarman was clutching. “Take him over.” “Yes, sir!” The young soldier stood to attention, then turned to Yarman and said, “Please, follow me.” Yarman released the grip on his arm and followed closely behind him. The decurion turned his gaze toward the four figures descending from the ship, who were clearly not Villanteans, and frowned slightly. He vaguely guessed their identity. “Are you with the Alliance?” “Yes,” replied the leader. The decurion’s expression turned stern. “What business do you have here?” Pipe Dog was about to quip that they were here as mediators when Wolf Brother swiftly clasped a hand over his mouth. Farsighted Eagle quickly intervened, speaking in relatively fluent Humantongue. “We’re his business partners… uh, you could say friends. May we accompany him? We’re worried something might happen.” The centurion gave him a once-over, his gaze seemingly a warning not to meddle. “Don’t make a fuss… unless you’re looking for trouble.” He was aware they were with the Alliance and knew about the cooperative dealings between Triumph City and the Alliance regarding the Mycelium Concord. But that didn't mean he feared them. Farsighted Eagle thanked him and hurriedly followed Yarman. The Instigator caught up to him, bewildered. “Aren’t we here to mediate?” Farsighted Eagle rolled his eyes. “What can we mediate with just a few of us? The Administrator told us to be adaptable, not to court death or mess things up… The priority is gathering information, figuring out what transpired here first.” Ignorant of the local situation, they needed to comprehend what had happened. Given there were survivors, it made sense to first check their condition… As the four walked away, the decurion retrieved his radio and pressed the button to speak. “…Four people disembarked from the ship, they’re with the Alliance.” The radio crackled back with a nonchalant response. “Understood.” The decurion hesitated slightly at the indifferent tone. “Should we just leave them be?” Without any pause, the voice over the radio replied. “Aren’t they headed my way? Leave the rest to me.” Taking his superior’s word for it, the decurion didn’t waver further. “Yes, sir!” … At the Church of the Silver Moon. The floor was littered with debris and dust, mirroring the dilapidated port outside. Sitting on a pew, General McLenn set aside his communicator and picked up the newspaper on his lap, flipping through it with interest. This was a gem he had salvaged from the ruins, titled “The Silver Gospel Gazette.” The title suggested a keen awareness from the newspaper publishers, cautiously avoiding offenses to the Villanteans while maintaining local sensitivities. Perhaps due to this cautiousness. He had frequented West Sail Port many times without noticing the church adorned with a crescent, nor recognized that it distributed such intriguing papers. The paper contained little news or content on the teachings of the Silver Moon sect. Instead, it lavished space on a novel titled “Awakening by Bol.” He had heard rumors of this story, written by the people of Boulder City during the ceasefire between the Legion and the Alliance. As cross-regional trade flourished, a priest named Melgio had brought this romance-laden novel to a place called West Sail Port, within the “primitive jungle.” With time to spare, McLenn decided to collect the newspaper. Though too advanced for slaves, it suited his leisurely curiosity. He too was curious about the Alliance, who, despite their meager resources, had defeated him. This question had troubled him for so long; he had pondered it from way back when. Possibly, this newspaper might provide some insight... Just then, the church door was pushed open, and a visibly anxious man walked in following a soldier. “My family…” McLenn remained silent, not turning back, only nodding at an elderly nun standing nearby before he resumed reading his paper. The nun bore a complex expression as she approached the gentleman. “May I know your child’s name?” Yarman paused, instinctively replying with a trembling voice. “Ruby…” “Please wait a moment.” The elderly nun nodded slightly and turned towards a side chamber. Shortly after, she emerged with a young girl. Yarman’s eyes reddened immediately, his hands clasping over his mouth. The young girl’s once smooth deep-brown hair was now tangled like a messy sweater. Yet, what pained Yarman the most was her pale, lifeless face and vacant eyes. Standing in the dilapidated church, she resembled pottery buried under ruins—heartbreaking, yet a reason for gratitude. She was alive! Praise the Silver Moon Goddess! Never having been a believer, always loyal to the great Marshal, Yarman now offered his sincerest prayer, rushing forward without hesitation. “Ruby!!” Catching Ruby in a hug, Yarman couldn’t hold back his tears. In that instant, the towering man became a sobbing figure. Recognizing the familiar voice, Ruby’s eyes finally sparked with a faint light, hand gently touching the head resting on her shoulder. “Papa…” “...I’m sorry… I came back too late… I’m sorry for you all…” Feeling the warmth of his tears, Ruby’s eyes too reddened. Yet recalling her mother’s words, she didn’t cry aloud, placing her small hand on her similarly messy hair. “It’s okay, Papa… I’m fine, don’t cry… Mama said Villanteans don’t cry…” “Yes! My Ruby, you’re right… Sorry, you had to see Papa like this…” “It’s okay… It’s all okay now.” Ruby forced a smile, trying to comfort him. Her mature demeanor only deepened Yarman’s heartache. However, not to worry his daughter, he wiped his tears, tightly holding Ruby as he stood. He wanted to take his child away from this dreadful place as soon as possible. But first, there was something else he needed to know… Facing the elderly nun, Yarman asked with a shaking voice. “…Her mother, she’s named Margery, do you know where she is?” By then, he already knew the answer. It was painfully obvious. Had Margery been here, she wouldn’t have allowed Ruby’s hair to be in such disarray, nor left her alone at the church… The old nun met his gaze with compassion, then briefly looked at the strong yet fragile child in his embrace before speaking in a raspy voice. “I remember Margery. Your wife was a brave mother…” … At the church entrance, Wolf Brother, having remained silent, finally spoke. “I don’t understand.” The others turned their attention to him. Noticing their gazes, he paused before continuing. “…How can they evoke both sympathy and revulsion?” He harbored no love for the Legion; indeed, revulsion was a fitting term for his feelings towards them. This wasn’t merely due to the Alliance's stance or the civilized people's perspective, but also because many NPCs he knew were survivors from Valley Province. Those who had assisted him during his early days all remember what atrocities the Legion had committed. These people stopped at nothing to achieve their goals. They supplied marauders with weapons, even sent officers to their tribes as military advisors, teaching them to pilot the Legion's war machines and more effectively decimate the Valley Province. Although they eventually blamed the Eastern Expansionists, wasn’t it they who indulged them in the first place? Now they repeat similar tactics, predictably setting themselves up for failure. He felt no sympathy for the slavers’ plight, yet he found it strange that he couldn’t muster any goodwill towards the slaves here either. He sympathized with their suffering and acknowledged their innocence, yet he also felt they somewhat deserved it. He even believed that doing nothing, just watching them tear each other apart, was quite satisfying. “I couldn’t care less…” Pipe Dog shrugged. “They’re just NPCs after all. With such a vast wasteland, what strange creature haven’t we seen?” The Instigator whistled. “I couldn’t care less either… but if you insist on discussing this, what about the children of this settlement? Is it their fault they didn’t choose to be born in a Vault?” Wolf Brother stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. “Alright, that’s enough nonsense. Why are we talking so much? Let’s get on with the mission…” Farsighted Eagle sighed, cutting off the discussion before it devolved into an argument. Basic notions of good and evil aren’t equivalent to morality, which itself consists of both collective and personal perspectives. The Alliance isn’t just one Vault 404; countless residents from other vaults, including those from Ideal City and the Academy, journeyed to join them. They clearly weren’t drawn by the allure of the Alliance’s lifestyle but believed it could end the Wasteland Era. If they abandoned their promises, their fate—regardless of outcomes—would resemble a mini-Cyber Silan. Thus, he could understand Chu Guang’s actions. Every faction in the wasteland, except for Silan, holds its bottom lines and stances. Even a tiny place like Groom Town. Wolf Brother wasn’t entirely wrong; the Empire deserved its fate. Yet, those words should not apply to its people. At the very least, those survivors, also victims of the marauders, were innocent. His mission was to protect as many of these people as he could, which he saw as the essence of the Administrator’s directive. When Eagle interrupted, Dog Brother promptly spoke up. “You’re the best with Humantongue. You handle it.” Farsighted Eagle rolled his eyes. “Of course, wouldn’t let you handle it. You’d create problems out of thin air.” ... When Farsighted Eagle entered the church, he found Yarman and his daughter had already left. As had the old nun. Now, only one person remained flipping through the paper, McLenn. Eagle suppressed a chuckle, reminded of the humor this man inadvertently provided on the forums. Luckily, Old Mac wasn’t paying attention. Hearing movement behind him, McLenn gave his paper a slight shake and casually remarked. “An interesting novel… aligns with some of our thoughts.” Surprised by the engagement, Eagle sat beside him. “In what way?” McLenn smiled faintly and read from the paper. “…It wasn’t Bol who saved Boulder City; it was the survivors of Boulder City who chose Bol. The workers protected innocent children; soldiers raised their guns slightly, realizing their brethren were not enemies. They issued a joint declaration, turning their guns on the real enemy… “Villanteans are similar. Created as slaves, we did not submit to fate or authority, but courageously broke our chains… Our Marshal told us more than once that it wasn’t him who led us to victory, but our struggle that won it.” Eagle could barely contain his incredulity. “And now you turn around and enslave others?” “Yes,” McLenn acknowledged without hesitation or guilt, his face showing no trace of shame. “Weren’t we created to conquer things? We’re merely fulfilling the mission encoded in our DNA.” Turning a page, McLenn’s indifferent tone continued. “Besides, once they’ve had enough, they’ll naturally fight for their freedom… Isn’t that how you beat me?” Eagle was taken aback, surprised McLenn openly admitted their defeat. Curious, given that the Eastern Expansionists weren’t favored within the Legion, yet no Villantean had admitted the unjust and hasty war as lost until now. Debating subjective victories proved fruitless in convincing anyone, and neither side would likely concede. Wishing to avoid unnecessary conflict, Eagle cleared his throat, pressing forward. “General McLenn, let’s discuss West Sail Port.” Expecting immediate refusal, he was surprised by McLenn’s unexpected response. “Sure, let’s talk. You’ve certainly earned that right.” Caught off guard by the unusual openness, Eagle abandoned his cautious strategy and switched tactics. “…Your retribution seems thorough, but to us, it looks like a childish tantrum.” Unperturbed, McLenn replied nonchalantly. “We don’t care what others think.” Eagle pressed on. “But you should care about your own people! Those who died.” McLenn corrected indifferently. “The Villanteans who died.” “That’s exactly my point! West Sail Port was their blood and sweat. They crossed the seas, established a new colony on foreign soil out of respect for your esteemed Marshal and others seeking land under the sun… I don’t personally favor seizing homes, yet this settlement’s establishment is undeniably their achievement, isn’t it?” McLenn chuckled lightly. “Hardly matters. We’ll simply bleed this place dry and build a new West Sail Port.” Eagle swallowed hard, continuing. “And them? A new settlement called West Sail Port will bear no trace of them. From what I see, you’ve become just like the Enlightenment Society! The new West Sail Port will forget the deceased. Besides the crimson mud underfoot, no one will remember. Without contemplation on past events, history will repeat!” That statement finally elicited a reaction from McLenn. Setting the paper aside, he pulled out a cigar, clipped it, then spoke as he lit it. “So, tell me, what do you suggest… I’ll humor the Alliance’s benevolence.” Sensing an opportunity, Eagle quickly offered. “It’s straightforward… Retribution for grudges, settling of scores. Put them on trial!” Amused by the fanciful proposal, McLenn couldn’t help but chuckle. “We lack sufficient judges for that.” Eagle pressed on ardently. “Then make it a public trial! Let them accuse each other!” Though not fond of this idea, Eagle saw no better alternative. Mistakes were bound to happen. Yet, however many died unjustly, it beat wiping everyone out. McLenn paused at the suggestion, then burst into laughter. After a full half-minute, he stopped, turned to Eagle, and smirked. “I’ll be blunt; watching you plead for these wretches is delightful. Frankly, I see no innocence among this city’s inhabitants. In our philosophy, even silence is culpable. It’s a crime of mediocrity, unforgivable.” “So long as they turn a blind eye, allowing marauders to evict us yet claiming victimhood to thrive selfishly… Tsk, what self-deceit made them believe in self-preservation? Do we look like reasonable people?” "We've already given them an opportunity. They had the choice to die honorably on the battlefield like heroes fighting for their freedom, and we might have considered sparing their families. Yet they chose to dig their own graves rather than pick up their discarded guns, even hiding behind their own family members. We're simply fulfilling their wishes." As McLenn said this, he paused, gazing toward the front of the church. "However, I am willing to consider what you proposed. On one hand, there's some truth in ensuring someone remembers what transpired here. And... it does sound more entertaining than having the gray men torment them." A devilish smile spread across McLenn’s face. "Let’s do this: decide by street. Each person must identify 'one,' and the rest from the community will decide if the accused deserves to die." "Let me see… We’ve already killed 20,000; picking another 10,000 should suffice. No extra, but if under, we'll fill the gap in order. How does that sound? I'm giving them another chance, ha." Farsighted Eagle took a deep breath, staring at the man who casually decided the fates of thousands. “So... should we begin?” Both sides had each taken a step back from their positions, achieving the best possible outcome. He remembered a group in the outskirts digging pits, including children barely older than Ruby. Barely fledglings, they couldn’t possibly be killers. Had he arrived later, they might have already started filling in. At the very least… those children needed saving! Watching this vault dweller urge him impatiently, McLenn found it amusing and laughed. “I’m curious—what’s in this for you? Intervening in such a mess?” “Or let me rephrase, don’t you find watching us wreck our own colony entertaining?” Farsighted Eagle had intended to say not at all, especially since it would jeopardize his mission. But recalling the contents of the player manual, he changed his words. “…Since we’ve raised the banner of ‘survivors unite,’ we can’t just disregard the survivors of the Burrow Province, or pretend their survival means nothing to us.” McLenn was taken aback at first, then burst into laughter. The sound echoed through the empty church like a raspy tolling bell. "…Hahaha! Interesting, you call that 'benefit'?" Farsighted Eagle gestured with his fingers, explaining. “Certainly, benefits come in many forms, not just profit or coloring the map…” “Tsk.” McLenn smirked, taking a radio from his shoulder. “Ross, tell your men to stop. I just thought of a better idea… Gather those survivors and bring them to the port.” As General McLenn issued his orders, a massive battle erupted in the central region of Lion State. The attackers were the main force of the Heavenly King’s Army, led by Anush himself, boasting 50,000 men, claiming to be a million strong. Defending was Duke Sanjay, Lord of Lion City, commanding 40,000 troops, half conscripted serfs, the rest city defense forces. The numbers weren’t vastly different, their training, organization, and equipment comparable, and even Duke Sanjay had incorporated some of McLenn’s newly trained noble officers, theoretically granting an advantage. But when Anush proclaimed the abolition of slavery and the redistribution of the nobles’ land and wealth, half of Sanjay’s forces immediately collapsed. The battle stretched from dawn to dusk, but its outcome was never in question. In the end, Duke Sanjay was shot and killed by Anush’s guards during his escape. Once inside the city, Anush slaughtered every noble of count rank or above along with their families, building a tower of their heads at the gate. Aside from the attractive women kept for himself or gifted to subordinates. The brutality terrified everyone, causing panic throughout Lion City. And not just Lion City. As news of Sanjay’s defeat reached the capital, the entire capital was in chaos, the roads blocked by escaping convoys. Neighboring Buffalo State stood adjacent to Lion State—Heavenly City lay within Buffalo State! From Lion City to Heavenly City stretched a flat plain, offering no natural defense! This time, Emperor Wu Tuo was genuinely panicked. He never expected rebellious slaves could cause such upheaval! Within the palace of Heavenly City. Watching Wu Tuo worry like an ant in a hot pan, Prince Dilip cautiously dabbed the sweat from his brow, nervously suggesting. “Your Majesty… We have no time to hesitate, I urge you to relocate quickly!” Wu Tuo’s eyes widened with shock and fury as he shouted. “Relocate?! Where to? Lions to the west, hungry wolves to the south! Even Ariyan can’t be trusted! He’s one of the Wolf Clan, same as that Anush!” Not to mention he was rumored to be his former subordinate! This might all be orchestrated by him! Wu Tuo seethed, his beard quivering, grinding his teeth, nearly drawing blood, wishing to chew and swallow those traitors. Traitors all, without a shred of loyalty! Prince Dilip also felt urgency, knowing their fates were intertwined with the royal family's. If the royal family fell, his fate would hardly be better than Wu Tuo’s. “Snake State, Tiger State, Leopard State, Bird State, or Horse State… none are reliable; local powers stir restlessly. Once there, leaving becomes difficult.” “So what’s your plan?” Wu Tuo roared. Despite his history of incompetence, Prince Dilip managed to think smartly in the face of life-threatening urgency, coming up with a place. “…There remains one option.” Wu Tuo anxiously inquired. “Where?!” “Jingjalon Port…” Seeing Wu Tuo stunned, Prince Dilip swallowed nervously, cautiously continuing, “Though it’s under Alliance control, they’re known for rules and we’ll at least have food.” “The Villanteans are furious… it might be the only place guaranteeing our safety.” To be continued.