Chapter 900 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 900: The Rising Ember "...Good morning, dear citizens of Evernight Harbor. I am Governor Yahui." "I'm terribly sorry to intrude on your valuable time, but maintaining the order and peace of Evernight Harbor is a responsibility we cannot shirk. Therefore, I ask for just two minutes to explain the situation we are currently facing..." "A few days ago, Centurion Willoughby approved the execution of the Hornet Plan, aimed at extracting necessary intelligence from the spies of the Union." "Objectively speaking, it was indeed a good plan, and we were nearly successful. Unfortunately, at the last critical moment, the key executor of the plan, Conté, was turned by the Union spies and orchestrated a harrowing incident within our settlement." "This was a disgraceful betrayal! Not only a betrayal to the people of Verland, but also a betrayal to the Marshal! However, I cannot lay all the blame on the Union's evil; I must admit that the Governor's Office also bears some responsibility." "The Hornet Plan had grave security risks, endangering the lives and property of Evernight Harbor residents through reckless actions. Willoughby, as the commander in charge, cannot escape accountability. I solemnly announce here that the Governor's Office has relieved him of his duties as the head of the garrison. He will be transferred back to the Avent Colony Affairs Bureau after his dismissal, awaiting further instructions." "Moreover, starting tomorrow, I will also take a month off from my duties for reflection, and my deputy, Amir Swann, will temporarily take over as acting governor..." Beyond the dismissal of Centurion Willoughby and the governor's suspension, the Governor's Office announced a series of measures. These included declaring snake oil an illegal narcotic and banning the private resale of "Sharon," which is freely distributed by the Logistics Department. Furthermore, to hunt down the Union spies hiding within Evernight Harbor, the military has expanded its blockade from the northwestern district to encompass Evernight Harbor itself. During the blockade, passenger routes and postal facilities within the port will be temporarily closed, and leaving the settlement for the great desert will require a passage certificate stamped by the Governor's Office. The authority to issue such certificates now lies with acting governor Centurion Amir. And that's not all. In light of the opportunistic behavior of criminals taking advantage of the "Broadcast Station Turmoil," the authorities have announced plans to conduct a cleansing operation in Blackwater Alley, fully entrusting the 40th Mechanized Infantry Brigade with this task. Yahui, reading directly from the script, did not specify the opportunistic behaviors but indirectly associated them with the residents who died near the broadcast station. Yet, perhaps knowing the persuasive power of his own words, he lashed out at the Blackwater Alley thugs but dared not specify the number of people killed, choosing instead to muddle through. Though he initially said it would take only two minutes, by the time Governor Yahui finally finished announcing all the resolutions from the Governor's Office, a full half-hour had elapsed. In a way, this announcement may well be considered a part of satirical art in itself. This man did not utter a single truth. And he was lying from the very first "dear." However, despite the lies told by the esteemed Governor in the broadcast, the fact remains undeniable that the Southern Legion is taking real action. At the same time as the broadcast, the 40th Brigade, which had surrounded Blackwater Alley, received orders from headquarters. Twenty hundred-man teams advanced from five directions, conducting house-to-house searches in this nameless slum under the cover of armored vehicles. Anyone found with weapons in their homes was thrown into the Cartnod Prison, and those whom the prison could not contain were taken directly to the outskirts. With each gunshot, rows of corpses fell, and truckloads of live captives were driven in, yet not a single living person was seen leaving. Among them were certainly those who deserved it, but the majority of innocent people became targets for venting rage. Because of the documents signed by the Governor's Office, the power of judgment and command of the cleansing operation were placed in the hands of the command. And the young men of the 40th Brigade, carrying out the orders, had become so accustomed to killing that they no longer flinched after the initial hesitation. If they could be so ruthless to their own kind, they’d hardly hesitate against these foreigners. As the Verlandians of Evernight Harbor were united in their contempt for the authorities and the garrison, the hatred among the non-Verlandians for the Verlandians reached unprecedented levels. And unknowingly, the man depicted on the wanted posters plastered all over the streets had become an idol for countless young men in Blackwater Alley. Word had it that the man named Morse single-handedly took on an entire purge squad. And he even killed a Centurion! Those Verlandians didn't seem all that formidable, after all. It wasn’t just the Bororans who thought this way—survivors from the great desert were gradually beginning to feel the same... ... At the harbor district tavern. Despite the recent events, business here remained unaffected. After all, most patrons here were soldiers about to head to the front lines, and those under the front line command were not bound by the Governor’s Office’s regulations. In fact, recent developments had increased their stress, making them drink even more than usual, benefiting the tavern business. Of course, security was another story. In a dim corner, Mehta glanced at the brawling drunks outside and raised his eyebrows slightly. "I thought you were taking things seriously." The Verlandian seated opposite him gave a faint smile. "We are indeed taking it seriously; we're just more lenient with our own. If you don't believe me, take a trip to Blackwater Alley, and I’m sure you'll gain deeper insights." His name was Seville, chief of equipment management at the Logistics Department, and Tony, the "informant," had been groomed by him. Now that Peter was dead and Tony was also gone, he was the only potential candidate to reconnect the severed ties. Though the Minister of General Affairs, Dickens, hadn't said a word, the vacant secretary position was telling—it was clear he had no suitable replacement in mind yet. Whoever handled the situation deftly and shouldered all risks for the leadership would undeniably be the next secretary. Such an opportunity to soar would not be missed. In political maneuvering, General Gullion was no match for Centurion Dickens. Though Dickens had made several promises to him, they were nothing more than empty talk. You can't cease what you've never done. Upon hearing Seville's words, Mehta chuckled. "You? Lenient with your own? Did I hear that right?" Everything that happened recently, he'd witnessed, making him despise these hypocrites even more. Verlandian supremacy? Nothing but a lie to trick Verlandians into dying. Some things didn’t need to be preached constantly, like these racial supremacists who cared the least about their own people. Conversely, the Folks’ Association, transcending racial boundaries, truly cared for their comrades. They treated every family member warmly, like spring, affectionately calling them and genuinely caring for them. Facing Mehta’s ridicule, Seville simply smiled nonchalantly and retorted. "You didn't hear wrong. Compared to the Riverland people killed by survivors of the River Valley Province, the Bororan people killed by survivors of the Boror Province, those Verlandians killed by Verlandian hands were merely a fraction at best... Need a refresher on your own history?" Mehta squinted. "No need, we remember our history far better than you. Besides, don’t lump us in with those fools like Lassi and Absek. We’re not the same." Seville curled his lips into a playful smile. "Is that so? Well, let's pretend that's the case." He wasn’t here to banter with this Bororan. Yet, if this guy used a bit of brainpower to ponder why he was even here talking to him, he might realize a few things. They even apprehended individuals for merely being Union members, let alone someone from Gildalon Port. Though he didn’t believe his boss, Minister Dickens, was any saint, one thing was certain—winning this war was a shared interest within the Southern Legion, with minor differences only on achieving victory and personal benefits. Had Sherry truly been smarter than Lassi and Absek, Minister Dickens wouldn’t have earned this sum. Given the circumstances, if General Gullion had been serious, bombers and ground troops would have long been called to action. Even though the Snake Province has plenty of mountains, it cannot compare to the three northern provinces connected to the Zobar Mountains and scattered with tropical forests. The harder the bone, the more effort it calls for. In other words, Centurion Dickens and General Gullion both agree on one thing: Sharook is an incompetent braggart. Of course, Snake Province is not without its competent individuals. For example, Gopal, the former adviser to the Gray Wolf Army, a subordinate of the Emperor's "War God" Alyan, and now the Border Forces Commander of Snake Province, is one such formidable figure. But that's another matter altogether. "Mr. Mehta, let's discuss business matters now." Seeing Seville getting serious, Mehta also composed himself. "Go ahead." Sipping his ice water slowly, Seville continued. "The conditions Tony set with you remain unchanged, but illegal items will be priced much higher than legal ones. We need a 20% discount from your original supply prices." Mehta replied softly, "I can't make that decision; I'll have to report it to my superiors. Is there anything else?" Setting down his water glass, Seville continued, "With Tony gone, we need new partners to handle distribution. However, given the current situation in Blackwater Alley, it's difficult for us to collaborate with the local non-Verlandians, and they may not trust us." A glimmer of excitement flashed in Mehta's eyes, but he kept it well-hidden. "Are you considering handing it over to us?" Seville smiled meaningfully and tossed a tender document onto the table in front of him. Watching Mehta reach for the document, he spoke concisely. "We plan to redevelop Blackwater Alley. The entire project will require about ten to twenty thousand laborers. Since it will inevitably breed violent organizations, why not ensure they're under our control? What do you think?" "The laborers are my responsibility," Mehta carefully accepted the document, then asked seriously, "And what about customs? How's Kuruan involved? Need me to approach him?" He was merely being polite, actually hoping for a "no" answer, as he didn't particularly enjoy dealing with Verlandians. However, the response was not what he expected. "He stepped down." "Stepped down?" Mehta's eyes widened, disbelief written on his face. Seville's expression turned slightly complex, as if he didn't want to delve into this matter. "Yes, to be precise, he resigned and plans to leave Evernight Harbor permanently with his friends." Mehta swallowed hard. "Where to?" Seville shrugged. "Who knows? The port has been shut down recently, no flights at all... I'm actually more curious about how he plans to leave." "This guy knows about our dealings; is it really okay to let him go?" Mehta lowered his voice, a hint of ruthlessness flashing in his eyes. "If it's inconvenient for you to act, I can—" "Mr. Mehta, you're a smart man, but this isn't Xilan. Remember, don’t be too clever, or you might not know how you died one day." Seville lit a cigarette and pushed the matchbox across the table toward Mehta, speaking without a hint of jest. "Peter messed things up and deserved his fate, but as you've seen, it’s not over. We'll still avenge him." "He's a Verlandian, but more importantly, you and I both have a day we retire... So don't make things too extreme." "He left without betraying anyone, and that's where this ends." ... Conté died in the early hours of the first weekend of August. Due to the military blockade of the northwestern district, no one ever saw his body or face. Yet within three days of his death, his name appeared all over Evernight Harbor. Veterans stranded in Evernight Harbor and citizens sympathetic to his cause graffitied his name on walls throughout the city. He was a true hero. Even in death, he would forever live on in the hearts of Evernight Harbor's residents. The authorities and the garrison's lackeys repeatedly washed the walls, yet the graffiti and words were redrawn again and again, spreading far beyond the northwestern district, evolving into something more unexpected and resonant. Like transformative, soulful music. Not all Verlandians were muscle-headed; they possessed artistic and cultural depths that elevated them from mere cannon fodder to a united nation. Interestingly, the glorious revolution a century and a half ago had begun similarly, triggered by the death of a Verlandian. Dawn's first light always appears when night is darkest; it remained to be seen whether they still required an outsider to save them this time. In the locked-down northwestern district, on Third Street near the broadcast station. Carver looked at the distasteful graffiti on the wall, feeling a discomfort that wouldn't leave him. Despite being offended, he was more perplexed. He thought he was a source of pride for the Verlandians. Yet more of his compatriots began to see them as a disgrace. "These damn bastards, how much money did they get to do such shameful things?" the gunner cursed, pulling out white spray paint from his belt and covering up the insulting words. The commander glanced around, lighting a cigarette and placing it between his lips. "You're wasting your effort here; this place is covered in graffiti... I bet you, as soon as we leave, someone will paint it back." The signalman whistled, making a joke. "Command isn't very bright. If you ask me, they should give us brightly-colored paint guns." The commander grinned. "It's pointless. Paint it black, and they'll just write in white." The gunner stowed the spray gun back into his belt, muttering. "Then let's pretend to leave and then come back... I want to see which brat is opposing us." "Good luck with that. At least half the inhabitants here don't like us," the commander chuckled, glancing at the tightly curtained windows. "I bet at least ten pairs of eyes are on us." "Be grateful there aren’t gun barrels behind those curtains; at least things haven't deteriorated to that point. I don’t want to fight my own people." Carver said nothing, listening silently to his teammates argue while he pondered other matters. He thought about his tractor. For some reason, planting crops didn't seem so bad in comparison, at least on his farm he wouldn't have to deal with so much trouble. He had never felt so homesick. Then again, perhaps it wasn't home he missed—rather, he wanted to escape this place that made him question his beliefs... ... Evernight Harbor's northwestern district was full of patrolling soldiers, and Carver's team was just one of the many. Meanwhile, at the district border where lines formed, the docks of Evernight Harbor were equally crowded. Among them were families gathered in groups, newlyweds, and single young individuals. Though varied in profession, class, and social identity, they all carried bags as if planning a one-way trip. A similar occurrence happened eight months ago. But this time was different; Evernight Harbor’s Verlandians were leaving not to reunite with family, but due to growing unease from the authorities’ measures and lost faith in the Southern Legion. Notably, excluding military personnel and officers bound by orders, Verlandian citizens not holding a position within the military could freely migrate within the Legion's territories—a right granted long ago by the Marshal. However, due to an administrative order signed by the governor before stepping down, all passenger services at the port had been canceled. Seeing the congested crowd at the docks, passenger administration officials, sweating profusely, shouted to the security-blocked throng. "Everyone go back, there are no flights departing here anytime soon. We’ll broadcast updates once services resume." A man holding a suitcase pointed angrily at the idle passenger ship docked nearby and shouted. "Why are those ships allowed to go?" The passenger bureau manager shouted back, exasperated, "Those ships are transporting supplies! They're headed east, and if you want to go with them, you can ask the captain! Just make sure you won't regret it!" Hearing they were headed east, the man fell silent. The east... That meant the wasteland. As much as he despised the actions of the Evernight Harbor authorities, he wasn't willing to escape those hypocrites only to face deathclaws that would devour him whole. Standing on the shore, under envious stares, Yarman felt a mix of guilt and relief. The guilt needs no explanation, while the relief was due to his foresight. Before coming here, he had worried that the authorities in Evernight Harbor might requisition his fleet, so he obtained a permit from the logistics department allowing him to leave the port. His concern proved unnecessary since Evernight Harbor wasn't short on supply ships and had no need to commandeer his passenger liners. But nobody could have anticipated the subsequent sequence of events. Thanks to the permit from the front-line logistics department, Yarman could bypass the Governor's administrative order, allowing him to leave via the freight channel without obstruction. However, the port passenger bureau informed him that once he left the port, he could not return until the blockade was lifted. To find out when the blockade would end, he'd need to check with post offices or passenger bureaus in other colonies. Besides Yarman and his family, there were other passengers on board who were less concerned about their destination. Most were residents from the northwestern district. To the majority of Evernight Harbor's residents, Governor Yahui and Centurion Willoughby were mere hypocrites. But for those passengers, they were not just hypocrites—they were murderers! Some of them lost relatives and friends on that fateful night and never received any explanation. Faced with the conniving individuals, they'd rather confront the predators and raiders—even after Yarman reassured them that the realities weren't so dire. The eastern provinces did have more threats than the western regions but weren't as dangerous as the great desert. Notably, among the fleeing passengers were a handful of wealthy individuals. Take, for instance, a jeweler named Phil from Evernight Harbor, whose business was reputed to be substantial. He had lost both sons that night, an event that led him and his wife to lose all faith in the traitors to the Marshal. Leaving, he not only took all his possessions but also withdrew two billion dinars and eight million silver coins from Evernight Harbor's banks and loaded them onto the ship. Yarman, despite witnessing much in his time, was astonished by the stacks of golden dinars presented before him. Even without accounting for other assets, the gold alone weighed a thousand tons! It was remarkable that the bank could produce such a sum! To move these assets, Phil hired two security teams and even rented an entire vessel from Yarman's fleet. In consideration of their kinship and under the gaze of the Silver Moon Goddess, Yarman harbored no greed to exploit the situation. He merely charged a shipping fee at 120% of the market rate. This surcharge was proposed by Phil himself. Given the extraordinary times, he agreed to pay more for peace of mind. Seeing the client had thought it through, Yarman accepted readily. Yet the passenger who surprised him most wasn't Phil but rather a certain lame customs officer. As the convoy sounded the whistle and departed the harbor with everyone watching, Yarman, standing beside Kuruan, spoke with some surprise. "…I didn’t expect to see you on my ship." "Nor did I," Kuruan chuckled self-deprecatingly, a complex expression on his face, "I still remember being a Centurion." The Legion was beyond saving. Even if they conquered a thousand worlds or ten thousand, the plight of the Verlandians would not change. They would continue to breed systemic parasites, controlled like mindless hosts, sustaining itself from their blood and flesh by creating public enemies. The Marshal shattered the chains the War Construction Committee imposed upon them, yet their self-forged shackles required their own confrontation. Without liberating the survivors oppressed by the Verlandians, they could never achieve ultimate liberation themselves. "…Do you think the Union will arrest me?" After all, not long ago, they imprisoned a group of Union "blue-meeces." Yarman laughed and said, "I doubt they'd be so petty, but if they do, I'll find a way to get you out." Pausing, he added seriously, "Of course, if you're worried, you could always disembark at Gildalon Port or within the South Sea Union. The people there are decent." Kuruan smiled, relaxed, "No need, I'm just joking." As he spoke, he squinted at the receding port, watching the Verlandian compatriots bidding them farewell. "I'd like to follow you to the so-called Settlement No. 1." Everyone believed that the storm surrounding Evernight Harbor was over, and that the Southern Legion had firmly regained control. But he did not share that belief. This war wasn't over—perhaps it was just beginning. He remembered more than just a name. He would return... Some comparisons are laughable. No matter how you liken them to the stars or Warhammer, comparing to reality lacks sense. They're inherently different entities. Please exercise some restraint on the imaginations, thank you. To be continued.