Chapter 768.2: If You Want Strong Grass, You Have To Burn Them First

However, when they walked out of the barracks, they were greeted by cheers from survivors across the entire city. People gathered in the streets, throwing flowers toward them, offering them fruit, and embracing them as though bidding farewell to heroes marching off to war.

While everyone else was angrily condemning the Xilande Empire’s shamelessness, these young men had stepped forward.

Their births were not glorious. Their records could hardly be described as heroic. Their ancestors possessed no illustrious military achievements.

Yet everyone could see in their eyes the courage and determination of men prepared to face death.

The young men walking through the crowd also held their heads high and puffed out their chests. Pride filled their eyes as they looked at the people presenting them with flowers. To experience something like this even once in a lifetime meant they could die without regret!

Many of them remembered that something similar had happened once before. It happened on the day the Xilande Empire was defeated. However, the flowers had been thrown toward the people of the New Alliance back then, not toward them, despite the blood they had shed as well.

They did not resent the New Alliance for taking their glory. They understood that they could never have defeated the Xilande Empire alone, and their own performance had indeed been nowhere near as spectacular as those people’s.

A little more than 100 of them had chased more than 10,000 enemies into fleeing for their lives and leaping into the river.

Even though they considered Port Gallon’s admiration of the New Alliance entirely natural, they still could not avoid feeling a little envious.

How could they not long for the recognition of their own compatriots? How could they not yearn to become like those people who had already united?

Especially after learning from books and newspapers carried across the sea about everything that had happened in Dawn City, Dawn City’s industrial districts, Boulder Town, and elsewhere, that yearning grew until it became a new faith.

Miracles were not born naturally, nor were they guaranteed to occur. The awakening of Port Gallon’s residents had begun with the Survivor’s Daily, while the seeds of their awakening had already been planted the moment they fought alongside those people.

Someone had to take the first step! Now, it was their turn to walk the road those people had once traveled!

While the young men marched forward with heads held high, Palu, who had been transferred from the Harbor District Guard Station to maintain order, was searching for the leather shoe that someone had stepped off his foot.

He had spent half a month’s wages on it, more than 900 Gallons!

He finally found it in a corner of the crowd and lunged forward in delight, hugging it to his chest as he released a long breath. “Thank the Horse God for his protection!”

Muttering the words, he hurriedly put the shoe back on and returned to the crowd with his head held high. He gestured left and right with both hands, scolded several children who had come to join the excitement, and continued working until night fell and the crowd finally dispersed.

After exerting himself greatly, he wiped away his sweat and entered the break room of a nearby guard station to rest his feet.

The security bureau was filled with young men. They were all angrily discussing the Xilande Empire, cursing Wutuo Xilande for refusing to treat the Rat Clan, or the Xilande Empire’s ordinary citizens as human beings.

“Joining the Mutant Slime Mold Research Committee was obviously a good thing! But couldn’t they contribute in another way? The Administrator never forced everyone to tie their heads to their belts and support humanity’s cause. Why couldn’t they use a different method?”

“Exactly! They could have used the pensions provided by the Mutant Slime Mold Research Committee to purchase industrial equipment, then taken contracts from the coalition. But that dog-fucked emperor insists on exchanging human lives for money!”

“Who even knows where the money went?”

“Sigh, I hope those young men win...”

“Several stalls in Kalaba Market have donation boxes. The owners of the dye works and textile factories are calling upon people to contribute. I donated some yesterday too.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“Why wouldn’t they be? The owner of the Assassin Group personally donated 1,000,000 Silver! Do you think people who conduct businesses that large are interested in your tiny amount of money?”

“Sss... That’s enough money to buy a tank!”

Cursing the Xilande Empire had become fashionable in Port Gallon. Everyone did it.

Even Palu, who had originally missed the days of Nihark, had recently grown less fond of that outdated figure and occasionally joined in the curses. But when it came to those young men who had blocked the roads and caused him so much trouble, he could not feel happy.

Couldn’t they have quietly slipped away at night without making any noise? Those unlucky bastards had nearly caused him to lose one of his new leather shoes.

Still, he did not dare publicly oppose everyone while sitting there. He merely grunted quietly. “Heh. Forget that kind of equipment. Even if you gave them exoframes, it would be useless... Following that drunkard Laxi, I fear all their passion will be spilled for nothing.”

Bashak, who happened to be sitting at the edge of the group, heard the complaint and looked at his colleague in astonishment. “How can you say that about them?”

He was indifferent to matters unrelated to work, but at least he did not dislike people who dared to be the first to act. If they truly succeeded, that would bring benefits as well. At the very least, fewer wronged souls would drown in the Everflowing River.

Seeing someone respond to him, Palu revealed a disdainful smile and said, “Do I even need to explain it? How can that Laxi possibly accomplish anything? He was born a slave and would be nothing without the New Alliance. Does he really think those people are afraid of him?”

Apparently feeling that this alone was not persuasive enough, Palu hurriedly added another point, as though afraid he might leave something out. “More importantly, he has no ideology.”

Bashak did not know whether to laugh or cry. “W-what is that supposed to mean... Are we even discussing the same thing?”

He had expected the old veteran to say that the young men had departed without bringing any weapons.

Seeing how young and inexperienced the boy truly was, Palu snorted. The corners of his mouth curled upward as he began reciting familiar phrases.

“The gods are merely imaginary shackles, while ideology is the sword that severs those shackles! Relying on heaven and earth is inferior to relying on yourself. Prosperity must be earned with your hands and mind. Respecting others means respecting yourself... You probably haven’t even read the Survivor’s Daily, have you? You don’t even understand something as important as ideology, yet you call yourself a guard?! Young man, there is a serious problem with your attitude!”

Bashak stared blankly at him. He genuinely could not remember the newspaper containing so many things. He only remembered the New Alliance fellow telling him that members of the Rat Clan could also become guards and that those who could not read could learn gradually.

Faced with the old veteran’s reprimand, his face burned. For a moment, he genuinely began reflecting upon whether he had practiced equality in his daily work and dealings with others. He eventually asked, “Then, do you possess that ideology?”

Bashak had asked the question with some guilt, partly because he wanted guidance.

Unexpectedly, when Palu heard him, the old veteran who had been gloating only a second earlier leaped up as though someone had stepped on his tail. “You shifty-eyed bastard! How dare you say I don’t have it? Of course I do! I-I knew from the moment the New Alliance first came on shore that those people who united everyone were certain to win!”

“Besides, if I hadn’t turned a blind eye and allowed them to land, they wouldn’t have won so easily. Otherwise, why do you think I serve as a guard in the harbor district while a fellow like you is only fit to do odd jobs on Knight’s Way? Those animals are supposed to be shortsighted, so why is a living human like you just as ignorant?”

Bashak stared blankly at the agitated old veteran and took a step backward. There was pity in his eyes, but also fear. He was not afraid that the old man’s cursed mouth might genuinely doom the young men. After all, the gods truly did not exist. What frightened him was the sudden realization that the entire opposite bank of the river was filled with people like that.

They closely resembled the preface Mr. Rat had written for his biography of General Rowell! This time, the Ls had begun chanting the things brought by the New Alliance, just as they had once chanted about how wonderful it was that the Wislander people were paying 1,000 Dinars...

Killing the Emperor would not be difficult, but these people could never be killed...

...

Dusk gradually descended, and the night deepened. The Everflowing River was silent and peaceful, while the reed marshes were lush and green.

In an undeveloped wasteland northwest of Port Gallon that had originally been called Reedgrass Slope, but the locals now called it Dead Man’s Slope because the spirits of those who had drowned were buried beneath the reed marshes.

The residents who had followed them out of the settlement escorted them as far as that before going no farther.

Laxi and his followers would board boats at the riverside crossing. Disguised as members of the Assassin Gang, they would pass through territory controlled by the Fierce Tiger Army.

Whenever someone boarded, someone else disembarked.

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