Chapter 887 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 887: Has the Snake Truly Emerged? The blue ground squirrel concocted it... Arman’s face was filled with astonishment. Perhaps it was due to knowing many of the shelter residents, who were quite decent people. He found it hard to believe that there could be such extreme demons among those charitable individuals. Of course, his surprise only lasted a moment before he quickly came to terms with it. After all, considering himself sitting in this tavern, wasn't he also at odds with those around him? “...I’ve heard a rumor that the original Boros actually came from a group of remnants from the Central World. Their genes aren’t all that different from other wasteland survivors.” Most Boros can identify their kin by their spirit and demeanor and can guess, more or less accurately, which tribe someone belongs to based on their surname. However, outsiders can’t distinguish between them unless they interact frequently with the Boros. This phenomenon is most common on the Death Coast, where residents from the Sunset Province and Boro Province, aside from cultural and religious differences, look largely similar. Kuluan grinned. “I’ve heard it before, but what does it matter? We aren’t descendants of the Central World; we’re their conquerors. The virus can’t affect us, and it’s no bad thing to clear away some of the garbage…” There were too many natives in the colonies. The technology of the Prosperous Era allowed some who shouldn’t have survived to live on. Take Blackwater Alley, for instance. It’s practically a breeding ground for disease and corruption. However, it’s undeniable that the prosperity of Eternal Night Harbor owes something to the people there. If it weren’t for their willing endurance of exploitation, how could the Veranites live in such grand houses? A good life doesn’t simply fall from the sky. Kuluan was silent for a moment before taking a swig of beer, speaking with some contradiction. “It’s not good, after all. I’ve never agreed with winning by such methods. Honorable combat is our tradition, and dying before age in battle is a glory... But those are games played by the big shots. You and I can’t change anything even if we find it wrong.” Arman fell silent at this. This point hit him deeply. Even though he lived next to the Governor himself, he was still just an insignificant pawn. When disaster struck, all he could do was pray to the gods. Reluctant to discuss “Deathsynth” any further, Kuluan swiftly changed the subject. Seated at the bar, they drank bottle after bottle, chatting long into the night. Kuluan shared many tales from the frontlines later, from the meat grinder of Red Bull County to the three bloody battles at the river bend. These stories were worlds apart from what the “Southern Legion’s Victory Gazette” wrote. Arman was particularly moved that the bandaged-headed rodent man had transformed into the “Jungle Rat,” a thorn in the side of the frontline troops. Gold shines wherever it is. It wasn’t just Arman who was moved. Hearing that Arman had once crossed paths with Isher, Kuluan’s face showed disbelief. “Damn… you actually know that guy? I heard he’s caused more than a little trouble for Mayor Awricht in the northern prefectures of Boro Province!” Mayor Awricht and his forces had been stationed at Eternal Night Harbor long. Their renown spread fear among the mutant tribes in the wasteland. Of course, Arman wasn’t unfamiliar with the name, and comparing Isher to this general stunned him even more. Facing Kuluan’s amazed gaze, Arman coughed and humbly said, “Just acquaintances… My wife is more familiar with him. Thanks to his help back then, my family stayed safe.” Kuluan’s heart was stirred. Suddenly lowering his voice, he continued mysteriously. “Come to think of it, you know quite a few Boros, don’t you?” Arman froze, noticing a peculiar eagerness in his eyes, instinctively on guard. “What’s going on?” Kuluan gave a mysterious smile, pulling a thumb-sized vial from his pocket and placing it on the table. Inside were several crystalline, translucent dark green crystals, resembling chips shaved from a crystal surface. Seeing the tiny vial, Arman was taken aback. “…What is this?” “Crystalline extract from snakesgrass… As for snakesgrass, it’s a specialty of Boro Province, specifically Snake State.” Kuluan lowered his voice, speaking in a whispery tone. “Simply put, it can temporarily free you from worldly troubles… like cigarettes and alcohol. Care to try it?” The voice felt like the whisper of a devil. Staring at the vial of deadly poison, Arman’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gently pushed it aside with his index finger. “This isn’t as simple as cigarettes and alcohol.” Kuluan smiled faintly, continuing. “Indeed, compared to cigarettes and alcohol, it’s more hallucinogenic, and you can easily become addicted. But apart from that, there are no other side effects. The warlords of Boro Province grow this to fund their armies, while the logistics office mixes it with other drugs to make sedatives, treating soldiers’ psychological wounds from things like explosive shock... making a profit from military funds.” Arman was incredulous. “Why would Boro Province’s warlords do business with the logistics office?!” Kuluan spoke softly. “They wouldn’t sell directly, but local gangs are happy to act as middlemen. Gangs like the Crazy Rats, Blood Lions, and others are more than willing to get involved. Even a small share is enough for them to make a living.” Pausing, Kuluan scanned the room and, seeing no one was paying attention, continued quietly. “The frontlines produce the wounded, and the logistics profit from them… though the soldiers don’t directly pay, the Veranite taxes ultimately cover the cost. Soon, someone saw the business opportunity, buying those magical pills from the soldiers, purifying the active ingredient, and crafting stronger stuff to sell to those in need.” Arman stared wide-eyed at him. “Are you insane? This stuff—” “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m no producer, just a buyer,” Kuluan raised his hands, smiling. “But I’ve said so much, and you haven’t seen the opportunity in it?” Before Arman could respond, Kuluan went on in a hushed voice. “Snakesgrass only grows in Snake State; the wastelands can’t sustain it. If you can make contact with warlords in Boro Province, we can bypass the logistics office and the West Sail Port gangs to directly source large amounts of snakesgrass, instead of purifying it from those small pills—” “I’ve never heard of such things, and I’m not interested in this business.” Before Kuluan could finish, Arman abruptly stood up, interrupting him. “Apologies… it might be a lucrative deal, but the risks are too high.” Kuluan looked astonished, not understanding what had gotten into Arman. “Risk? My friend, I have customs and docks connections. You move the wounded for the logistics office… where’s the risk in us working together?” Arman couldn’t help but ask, “Do you remember you were once a centurion?” “Centurion…” Kuluan chuckled sarcastically, “Turns out I was once a centurion; it's surprising someone remembers.” “I remember; I’m sure many do. You’ve bled for the Veranites, so please don’t give up on yourself.” Arman placed a firm hand on Kuluan’s shoulder, left money for the drinks on the table, and said, “I intended to discuss another deal with you—not as profitable as yours, but at least it won’t harm our kin… Apologies again, I can’t join you on your deal, let’s pretend tonight never happened.” His Adam’s apple bobbed again, as he continued, “But if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join me anytime.” Leaving those words, he removed his hand from Kuluan, turned, and left the tavern. Kuluan watched Arman’s departing back intently. A struggle flashed in his eyes, but it was just a fleeting moment. He’d already given enough to the legion, almost dying on the frontlines. Due to his position as a centurion, he could still find work at customs, whereas his fellow soldiers could only return home with nothing but shame and scars. If all this had been for loyalty, perhaps it wouldn’t matter, for he hadn’t fought for money anyway. But upon returning to West Sail Port, he was constantly subjected to the scorn and sarcasm of his compatriots and the tearing contradictions between lies and reality. He hadn’t received the honor he so dearly sought. He, along with his 34th Legion, became the disgrace of the Veranites, mocked by fools who knew nothing as a cautionary tale. One must choose between faith and sustenance. If the former no longer exists, he must at least gather enough to fill the void within his heart. Taking a swig of cold beer, Kuluan brushed away his troubled thoughts. At that moment, a man in formal attire sat beside him, offering him a pack of cigarettes. “How did it go?” Glancing at the man beside him, Kuluan replied in a hoarse voice. “He refused.” “Really?” Tony sighed, shrugging his shoulders with resignation. “Though it was expected, it’s still a bit disappointing… If we could use those large ships, our business could expand even more.” Kuluan glanced at him. “You don’t seem surprised?” Lighting a cigarette for himself, Tony said calmly. “I dug into his background. The guy’s a follower of the Silver Moon Cult, and most people with faith are quite difficult.” Kuluan raised an eyebrow, his tone unfriendly. “Are you questioning my faith?” Tony paused, unsure why Kuluan suddenly became so sensitive, but he shrugged it off with a smile. “Well… does anyone need to? Come on, let’s get back to business. Listen, I’ve found us a new partner.” Kuluan asked cautiously. “Is he reliable?” “Absolutely. The warlord of Snake State in Boro Province is one of their own.” Tony boasted, beckoning at a youngster standing in the hallway, “I’ve brought him here. Let me introduce you.” Kuluan followed his gaze and observed the young man. He was a Boros, though not a typical one. Most Boros instinctively glance at the tip of his shoes when meeting his gaze, but this one met his eyes with neither of lower nor higher stance. “Meta, part of the Blue Family,” Tony clapped the young man’s shoulder and grinned at Kuluan, “They’ve got a large area of farmland in the northwest of Snake State, and even a fishing port.” The young man named Meta nodded politely to Kuluan. “Hello, Mr. Kuluan, I’ve heard of your reputation.” Kuluan grinned, finding it amusing to hear such words from a Boros. Regardless of how famed he truly was, any reputation would surely be built atop Boro skulls. “What on earth is the Blue Family?” Kuluan asked Tony with blunt curiosity. “Is this something reliable?” Tony winked and said brightly, “Don’t mind that, it’s just their ranking system. In order, it goes White, Green, Yellow, Blue, Purple, Gold. The rank of Blue Family isn’t low. You can think of them as a special kind of cult.” He pat Meta’s shoulder again reassuringly. “Don’t take it to heart; Veranites are just like this. They speak their mind.” Meta seemed unbothered, but Kuluan was intrigued enough to smile slightly. “I thought people with faith were hard to deal with.” Tony was about to explain when Meta, who’d been silently listening, suddenly said righteously, “The Family needs funds to overcome financial difficulties. Zaid said it’s a necessary evil for a higher cause, the right medicine for the chronic ills of the old era. It’s a dialectical balance between principal and secondary contradictions, and cultivating it is perfectly justified.” Moreover, it’s for you to smoke. Meta sneered inwardly but masked it, remembering his superior’s instructions not to stoop to the level of the Veranites, just profit from them, buy their guns, then use those guns against them. Before coming here, he’d steeled himself for such tasks, yet couldn’t curb his disdain for the Veranites. Before being part of the Family, he was first a Boros. Kuluan chuckled, uninterested in the young man’s bluster, turning instead to Tony with a look of resignation. “So, how do we trade?” Finally seeing the difficult Veranite cease his objections, Tony sighed with relief and proceeded eagerly. “It’s simple. Use the speedboats transporting weapons! We’ve got contacts who, on their way back to the city, take a detour down the southwest coast of Boro Province, past the fishing villages of Snake State. We’ll stash the goods on board, then dock them at your place for clearance. As for distribution, my Iron Hand Gang will handle it.” Kuluan nodded. The method seemed sound. Empty ships weren’t rigorously checked, especially those supplying the frontlines. Explaining the transport plan, Tony looked to Meta, who picked up the thread, “Our goods are in surplus. We deal exclusively in dinars, and we need to procure supplies to bring back to Snake State.” Kuluan chuckled. “What are you taking there?” Meta narrowed his eyes slightly. “Do you really want to know?” Sensing tension rising again between the two, Tony quickly stepped in to calm the situation. “Alright, alright, no need for questions, and besides, it’s for civil war supplies… not your concern.” He signaled to Meta with a knowing look. Reluctantly, Meta nodded stiffly, acceding to the explanation. Kuluan gave a cold smile but chose not to expose the charade. “I'll accept that for now.” Even if Veranite weapons appeared on the frontlines, it wasn’t a big deal. Half of the Boro military still hadn’t updated their standard-issue equipment, forcing the Federation to set up ammo production lines specifically for them to supply the necessary munitions for their armaments. There would be no tracing back to him. Besides, he was merely turning a blind eye; the real transactions wouldn’t pass through his hands. Those dirty deeds would be Blackwater Alley’s domain. After a pause, Kuluan lifted three fingers. “I want a thirty percent cut of your profits, specifically thirty percent of sales.” Tony winced at the figure but ultimately nodded in agreement. “Deal…” There was no circumventing the Veranites here; even to expand sales further, he needed to drag Kuluan into this. Kuluan nodded, signaled the bartender, who had discreetly moved aside, to come over, then tapped Tony’s shoulder. “He’s paying.” He’d arrange for his comrades to keep an eye on things after. As the war continued, the Southern Legion’s financial support would surely be impacted. And that money was far from enough to comfortably see them through life. As their former superior, he had to find ways to support them. With that, Kuluan shoved the money Arman left into his pocket, limping out of the tavern. — As the Iron Hand Gang’s head indulged in drinks with the Blue Family, the corner of Blackwater Alley echoed with hurried, unfamiliar footsteps. A man with a scarf draped around his neck hurriedly stepped into the alley. His name was Andrew, a pureblood Veranite serving as a guard at Cartenode Prison. Aside from that, he had another identity—as a Disciple of the Enlightenment Society. Notably, while the Enlightenment Society claimed to only recruit shelter residents, becoming one was hardly a stringent requirement—register at a shelter with laxer rules, and you were in. Thus, while spreading apocalyptic beliefs, the Enlightenment Society also promised—become a Disciple, and on the day the world is reborn, you’ll have a place aboard the ark. This is what they called the “torch's handle.” However, Andrew didn't join for some doomsday prophecy; he was lured by the significant benefits the society offered. For instance, they bestowed upon him a fair-skinned, gentle pureblood Veranite wife. Though Cartenode Prison appeared imposing from the outside, being a guard there was not a desirable job, especially when it was filled with impoverished inmates. In the Southern Legion, only those who didn’t fare well ended up assigned to such places. For Veranites like him, residing at the bottom of society—old, unattractive, and poor—marrying into a noble bloodline or forming a "mutually beneficial" union with a lower-class native was nearly the sole option. After all, he couldn't do as those young men did, earning medals on the battlefield. He was too old for that chance now. Moreover, he was inherently cowardly, with his scant courage entirely invested in fantasizing about the strength and omnipotence of Veranite blood. He hadn’t dared to face combat back then, let alone now. Beyond material concerns, he lacked intriguing qualities, offering nothing of interest spiritually. This was why he was so grateful to the Enlightenment Society for their gifts—the marriage and family they provided him were things he could never afford throughout his life’s normal trajectory. Even when they candidly informed him that his wife was a clone, devoid of a soul and equipped only with the basic skills for self-sufficiency, he was unfazed, rather satisfied. After all, the clone’s mark wouldn't be inherited. Having a compliant, obedient puppet spared him from trivial domestic disputes and affirmed his authority. The ideals of the Enlightenment Society aligned with his in a twisted dimension, differing only slightly. The Enlightenment Society aimed to create an elite world exclusively composed of shelter residents, while his vision of an elite world was solely of Veranites. With such nearly identical aspirations, it was unsurprising they found common ground. In fact, Andrew's situation was not unique in Eternal Night Harbor. Many Veranites with similar experiences were scattered across various industries, particularly those disreputable yet indispensable. Though clones from the assembly line possessed far fewer social traits than naturally occurring populations, rendering them incapable of complex tasks, they could infiltrate Southern Legion society like parasites. This infiltration plan was ongoing, moving in tandem with their other schemes. From long ago, they orchestrated deliberate penetration into the Southern Legion society. Like parasitic wasp larvae ensnaring a mantis. All occurred in stealth... Andrew paused at the door of a secluded house, glanced around to ensure no one had followed him, then knocked softly. After about half a minute, a rustle came from behind the door, but it didn’t open. He leaned close to the doorframe, speaking in a hushed, raspy voice. “Cartenode Prison… we recently received thirty-one prisoners; they’re shelter residents, and they’re affiliated with the Federation.” He paused before continuing. “Our warden claims they’re Federation spies, yet I doubt such foolish spies exist—or rather, they seem to have ulterior motives.” “I risked investigating the interrogation details. One mentioned us, expressing a desire to join…” A significant stir followed from behind the door, and a voice, as hoarse as a snake’s hiss, whispered through the cracks. “To whom did he say this?” “To the fool interrogating him; he even agreed to it.” Andrew’s voice was tinged with irritation and perplexity. “...That’s the issue. The guard from the garrison isn’t one of us! I tried passing a code several times, and he didn’t catch on!” Long silence ensued behind the door. “...It’s confusing, I need to think it over, come see me this time tomorrow.” Logically, the Southern Legion shouldn’t be aware of their presence. The bizarre signs bewildered him to the point he couldn’t confirm whether this strange theatrics even involved them... despite seeming central to the stage by name. In any case, it wasn’t the right time to draw the Southern Legion’s alert. They needed to muddy the waters to navigate unnoticed. Before making their next move, he needed guidance from higher up. Hearing the voice from inside, Andrew nodded quickly. Blackwater Alley wasn’t a place for lingering beyond necessity. “Alright... I’m off then.” With that, he turned and quickly returned to the street, heading directly back to the nearest marketplace. However, he was unaware a pair of eyes had tracked him from the moment he entered Blackwater Alley. “Enlightenment Society... so it does exist.” Toying with a knife, Mors muttered to himself from the shadows, his face twisting into a crazed smile. Even after years in Blackwater Alley, he’d never realized how foreign his doorstep could feel. It was a stroke of luck to witness firsthand a game of the greats—even from afar. Mors felt an uncontrollable thrill coursing through his veins. His name, along with his Hyena Gang, could become legendary throughout Blackwater Alley! In the future, forget Tony—even his boss would have to bow to him! At that moment, Yawk, the burly man with a knife scar on his chest standing beside him, grew anxious. The Federation one moment, the Legion the next. He couldn’t shake the feeling this would turn into significant trouble... To be continued.