Chapter 551.1: CALL AN AMBULANCE... BUT NOT FOR ME!

To share a not-so-cold cold fact. No matter how corrupt and incompetent the nobles of Boulder Town were, the city’s existence, rooted in its semblance of order, still made it a land of grace for the southern Wasteland of the River Valley Province and the northern part of the Brocade River Province.

For 200 years, survivors had continuously migrated toward Boulder Town. Even after Boulder Grand Building collapsed and the city fell, the momentum persisted.

Since the influx of population far exceeded the city's industrial capacity to absorb it, and since the great wall itself imposed physical limits, the settlement could never accommodate all the survivors. Hence, the entry tax ranged from 1 to 2 chips.

Workers with jobs wouldn't leave the city without cause, and scavengers laboring in the wasteland wouldn't enter the city casually either. The militia stationed at the gates even earned extra income from their system.

It was, in many ways, a threefold benefit.

The surplus labor force and the resulting unemployment and informal jobs gradually gave rise to a number of slums.

People in those slums generally survived on the trash that trickled out of the city, or worked for the survivors inside by scavenging or hunting in the wasteland, or doing the kinds of jobs that those within the wall either wouldn’t or couldn’t do.

Boulder Town had attempted in the past to clear out those leeches slums clinging beneath the wall, but every attempt proved thankless and futile.

Building makeshift huts was a near-universal survival skill among wasteland survivors. Tear them down today, and scavengers would rebuild them tomorrow.

And when the seasonal Tide came, even the inner city nobles needed those people to fill their frontlines.

Even the often-clueless nobles understood the facts. Drafting laborers from the slums caused far less disruption than pulling skilled industrial workers from the factories to carry rifles.

Over time, those huts spread like a disease from the foot of the great wall into the wasteland, forming a buffer zone between order and chaos.

Eventually, some actual buildings were erected, standing out amidst the filth and sewage of the slums like cranes among chickens.

The more refined structures were typically gang hideouts or establishments they operated for clients of the wasteland.

Order there was maintained by gangsters, who were basically massive thugs. Not only did they trade with marauders in the wasteland, some of them were marauders themselves.

For the New Alliance, truly liberating the 200,000 or so poor souls living along the wall meant not only finding them livelihoods but also rooting out the villains hiding among them.

That, of course, was not good news for those villains...

At the West Willow Tavern,

Jeff sat on the second floor, fiddling with a dagger in his hand. His stern and gloomy face showed a faint trace of worry as he gazed at the flurries of snow drifting past the window.

As the boss of the Dagger Gang, his bloodline might not be as noble as Sid’s, but in the slums with nearly 200,000 residents, he was a well-known figure. Anyone who saw him would respectfully address him as ‘sir’ or ‘boss’.

In theory, someone of his standing shouldn't have had any worries. But the string of recent events had filled him with a deep unease.

The outer city had lost a newspaper reader and revolution had erupted in Boulder Town. The next moment, the New Alliance had taken control of it, as if everything had been prearranged.

If that were the end of it, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. But clearly, it wasn't.

The New Alliance had begun setting up relief stations in the slums, distributing food while registering survivor information, setting up tents, assigning jobs, and relocating some people...

All those measures had put him on edge.

The New Alliance was breaking the unspoken rules that had existed for a century and a half, trying to establish a new order within his underground kingdom!

Even worse, that newspaper reader was still alive and kicking, while the assassins hired from him by Lord Sid had vanished...

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

Jeff instinctively gripped his dagger, his muscles tensing. He only heaved a sigh of relief when he heard their special code of three long knocks and two short ones.

"Come in."

The door opened.

It was Weast, the Dagger Gang’s second in command.

Before he could speak, Jeff immediately asked, "Any news?"

Weast shook his head with a grim expression. "No."

Jeff was silent for a long time. Then he stabbed the dagger fiercely into the table and cursed under his breath, "Fuck..."

Understanding his fury, Weast said nothing. He sighed and walked to a chair to sit down. "Sid's buried, along with that collapsed tower. Knife is still missing. Spielberg’s alive... but none of that matters anymore. What really hurts is that the guest from the North is dead... Cerit is dead. We poured in so much time and energy, and in the end, we didn’t even find the weapon."

Jeff's expression darkened. After a long pause, he asked, "Where’s Welon?"

"... He apparently confessed to the New Alliance and took the transport to the labor camp. No idea how long his sentence will be. I suspect he might’ve spilled the beans about our deal with the guest in the North. That’s what worries me most."

Seeing Jeff fall silent again, Weast continued, "On the surface, the New Alliance isn’t doing anything to us... but every move they make cuts deep. I suspect once this snow passes or when the Tide comes, they’ll come to root us out."

Jeff, though wary, wore a scornful sneer on his face. "Are they going to send an army to wipe us all out or something?"

"That’s not impossible," Weast said with a bitter smile. "That construction crew is already infiltrating the slum. The more people they organize, the less room we have to hide... I even suspect we’re already under surveillance."

Jeff’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t need Weast to remind him, he’d had a similar feeling watching the New Alliance’s recent moves. Especially these past few days, he couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching him.

Maybe, he really should head north to lay low.

He could wait out the fallout from Boulder Town's upheaval and only return once the dust had truly settled.

After a moment of contemplation, he asked seriously, "What’s your suggestion?"

Weast shared his plan. "Shut down any operations that are likely to trigger the New Alliance’s nerves first like slave labor, organ trade... those for starters. Same goes for the hospital, kitchen, and orphanage, any facilities that might raise suspicion."

Jeff’s brow twitched. "That’s a hell of a lot of money."

Weast nodded in silence. "Yeah... but even if we don’t shut them down, most of our customers are already gone. Keeping them running is pure risk now."

Those blue coats had been swarming around like maniacs lately. They even dug up a tribe of mutant humans hibernating in the tunnels.

Those flesh-eaters were disgusting, sure, he didn’t like them either, but they had been good business partners.

They would nab some fat merchant caravans, eat the people, then fence the loot through the slum gangs. All it cost was a few wrinkled, unsellable old women.

Unlike the northern elites, they didn’t care if their slaves were pretty. They weren’t picky.

Listening to Weast’s advice, Jeff stared at the dagger on the table and fell deep into thought.

Back when Red River Town was booming two years ago, his side hustle was just small change, he could’ve tossed it to the Dean Gang or the Poison Gang and not cared.

But now, those scraps had become their main income. Cut those off, and what would he and the brothers even eat?

After a long silence, Jeff finally sighed, "We can pivot, but we’ll need a new revenue stream."

Seeing the boss finally relent, Weast let out a quiet sigh of relief and continued patiently, "That’s what I think too... We’ve got enough manpower. If we clean up properly, we can switch our focus entirely. Maybe bid on some legal construction contracts from the New Alliance, or head to West Continent Municipality to open a mine. Once we get the paperwork, we do things our way, the profits might even beat smuggling and murder."

Jeff slowly nodded. "Do it your way then... I plan to head to the Bugra Free State in a few days, explain the weapon issue to our client. I’ll be gone for a while. I’ll leave things here to you."

"Understood." Weast bowed respectfully, but secretly curled his lip with disdain.

Explaining things to the client? What a joke. That old fox was probably scared shitless by the New Alliance and hadn’t slept properly in days.

Actually, that was fine too. Once Jeff was gone, it would be easier for him to handle things. Once he came back... Who would still be the real boss was another question entirely.

Jeff gave his underling a small nod, about to dismiss him, when suddenly a deafening explosion rang out from outside the window.

Both men turned instantly to look outside, where black smoke billowed from a ruined street nearby. Crowds screamed and scattered.

"God damn it!" Just as he had relaxed, Jeff tensed again like a drawn bow. He cursed and marched to the window and grumbled, "What the hell are those idiots doing! Didn’t I tell them to keep a low profile for a few days?!"

Weast's pupils shrank as he stared at the rising smoke. "The orphanage..."

At those words, Jeff's brows twitched violently. He spun around, grabbed Weast by the collar, and roared, "Take men there now! Move the goods to a safe place! Before the New Alliance arrives! Go!"

"Yes!" Thinking of the New Alliance’s methods, Weast nodded nervously and didn’t dare delay. He turned and ran out the door.

Watching the door slam shut, Jeff felt increasingly uneasy. He muttered a curse and strode to the table to grab his dagger. Maybe he should stay in the safe house for a while...

...