Chapter 526.1: Victory Celebration!

"... Hello, dear listeners, this is your most beloved Mr. House speaking. I heard that Survivor’s Daily has been shut down. I saw this coming a long time ago, those fools who couldn’t stop spewing nonsense finally had their mouths shut! Of course, I don’t care. They never posed a threat to Mr. House’s ratings! People will always stand on the side of righteousness! Thank you all for your unwavering support and loyalty!"

"Praise once again to the City Lord, and to the inner city citizens who provide us with bread, water, and food... Oh! Blame that idiot named Hal, I almost forgot the most important news! If it weren’t for the brilliant research institute in the inner city improving the synthesis process and standards of nutrition paste, we wouldn’t have gotten food at just one chip per kilogram... Yes, the good news is that the price of nutrient paste has dropped again, and bread will follow soon. Very soon, everyone will be able to afford it. Mr. House promises you that!"

"Unfortunately, our neighbors won’t enjoy such good fortune. They won a dishonorable war through disgraceful means, without even formally declaring war on their enemies! But justice will soon strike them down. The New Alliance is buried in debt, not only to us but also to Ideal City. Now they’ve had to endure the humiliation of allowing Ideal City's citizens to build a 20-story building on their land... Tsk tsk, it’s taller than the administrator’s house. Though, come to think of it, does that burrowing rat even have a house of its own?"

"In any case, remember to lock your windows and doors tonight, because those beggars will likely do what they did last time, waste their rage on the sky, firing off ear-splitting explosives. Don’t stick your head out too far, or a falling shell casing might crack your skull. Oh, and today, all of the New Alliance's factories are shut, which means no one here has a job anymore. They’re all wandering the streets, picking up cigarette butts left behind by shelter residents... Poor fellows in the north... It’s likely to become a marauder’s paradise again. Too many poor and homeless folk gather there. It’s best not to wander off."

"Just you wait, next year, they’ll all be screwed!"

"And you will all be forever young!"

On the day of the victory celebration.

The loudspeakers along the streets blared louder than usual, dampening what little festive atmosphere remained in Boulder Town, which had never been touched by the war.

House had spent nearly half an hour walking his listeners through the ins and outs of the war, explaining how Boulder Town Bank had cleverly ridden the momentum of the Legion's westward push, used 510 million in debt to profit from the New Alliance’s efforts to boost heavy industry and military manufacturing, and flipped the tables, turning from a dumping ground for overpriced goods into a high-margin exporter, fattening the city’s coffers immensely.

By the end of that 30 minute broadcast, he had successfully convinced his audience that Boulder Town, too, was a victor of the war, a discreet but crowned king.

Outside the walnut-wood tavern on the edge of the industrial zone, a crowd of workers had already gathered early in the morning.

They weren’t there to care about who had won or lost the war, no one expected the bosses to toss them any chips out of kindness.

They had come for the latest update.

Even if it was all nonsense, the serialized stories in Workers’ Daily were clearly more entertaining than Mr. House’s rambling.

Especially now that the story had reached an exciting point. The poor kid from the slums, Dotti, had awakened his powers and pulled off a miracle, defeating an exoframe infected with Slime Mold. For this feat, he received a small bounty, a black housing card, and even caught the eye of an ugly noblewoman. She fell madly in love with him, which unfortunately also made him the sworn enemy of her dangerously obsessed suitor, a commander from the local militia.

It was a cliche story, admittedly cheesy, maybe even trashy, but it thrilled them so much their hands itched just thinking about it.

They had spent the whole night discussing the previous chapters, even picking a name for Dotti’s future child.

Spielberg, one of the literate workers, cleared his throat and reached for a newspaper from the rack by the door under everyone's eager eyes.

Only to realize, it was still the issue from the day before.

"Hold on." Signaling the others to stay calm, Spielberg grabbed another paper, frowned, and tried again. It was still the same.

He couldn’t help but glance at the scar-faced boss behind the counter. "Why is it still yesterday’s issue?"

Tang, who had been leaning by the door enjoying the show, chuckled coldly. "You should be glad you even got to read yesterday’s. I bet the guards will come by soon to collect the rest."

The workers panicked and swarmed around him. "What about today’s issue?"

"There isn’t one. The paper’s gone!"

"But... What about the story that was being serialized?"

"Are you dense? Didn’t I just say the paper’s gone? They already shut down. What do you want, a handout? Go dig for cigarette butts!" Tang cursed as he shoved away a worker who had stepped too close. He was still grumpy from being kicked by a guard over the whole mess.

The workers looked at each other in disbelief.

"Gone?"

"But why? We didn’t do anything wrong!" a scruffy-looking man muttered angrily with his fists clenched.

He worked hard every day, breaking his back for those factory bosses. That story was the only thing he had left to look forward to. What right did they have to take it away?

One of the workers raised his hand. "Why don’t we go to city hall and demand an explanation?"

They looked around at each other, but no one answered.

Months ago, they might’ve dared to protest, but the situation then was completely different. Back then, they were rallying against the New Alliance dumping cheap goods on Boulder Town. The factory bosses supported their protest, and their bosses’ shareholders were inner city nobles. It was essentially noble factions fighting among themselves. Even if they had killed that idiot Dulong, no one would’ve blamed them. In fact, they might’ve gotten a thumbs-up behind closed doors.

But now? The nobles had reached a consensus. The factories were back in operation, busier than ever. The New Alliance had borrowed a huge chunk of chips from Boulder Town Bank, the factory owners got massive orders, and the inner city nobles were rolling in profits. Everyone had jobs that fed their families.

Life was finally getting better. With bread so expensive, who would risk losing their job?

Everyone felt deflated. Then someone quietly muttered, "... Why don’t we just write the next part ourselves?"

Eyes lit up all around, but there was still hesitation.

"Can he even write?" the scruffy man asked, looking at the guy who made the suggestion.

He blushed and shook his head. "No... But you don’t have to know how to write to start. Maybe I’ll learn as I go. Nobody’s born knowing everything."

"Hey, remember when Spielberg sent a letter to the paper? Workers’ Daily only started because of him!"

"That was ages ago!"

Everyone turned to Spielberg. He froze, then gave a sheepish smile. "I... I can read, but I’m not very good at writing."

A boiler worker clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "That’s fine, brother. Just keep the story going. We’ll all pitch in with ideas."

Spielberg instinctively wanted to refuse, but when he saw the hopeful eyes around him, he couldn’t bear to say no.

Even though he knew it might bring trouble, he nodded. "But we need a new name... Let’s call it the Workers’ Companion."

"Yeah, it’s safer that way."

Everyone chuckled.

"Works for us!"

"Whatever you want to call it!"

"We just want to see what happens next!"

6:00 in the evening arrived.

As the bells rang in the industrial zone, the crowd outside the tavern scattered, each heading off to their respective factories.

Spielberg, heading toward the canning plant, pulled his threadbare coat tighter and stared at the coal-smudged handprint on his shoulder, deep in thought.

Maybe publishing the Workers’ Companion really wasn’t a bad idea.

The New Alliance may have shut down the newspaper, but the readers were all still here. If he could collect old issues of Workers’ Daily, compile the serialized story into a single volume, and continue the tale... It might even become a bestseller.

At the very least, it was more promising than working in a canning plant.

Spielberg’s mind burned with excitement. Even if he worked in Vega’s factory for life, he would never be able to afford canned food every day, but if he kept writing Dotti’s story, maybe he could...

...

And it wasn’t just Boulder Town that was buzzing. Just 20 kilometers away, Dawn City in the northern suburbs of Clearspring City was equally vibrant.

Victory Plaza, right next to North Street, was packed with a dense crowd.

More than a third of the New Alliance had gathered, eagerly watching the center stage.

Those who couldn’t make it were glued to their radios or televisions, waiting for the administrator to speak.

There wasn’t just New Alliance citizens,

There were visitors from Boulder Town, from distant provinces like the Sunset Province, Brocade River Province, the eastern provinces, and even from the Among Cloud Province in the farthest east of the continent. All had come to catch a glimpse of the legendary administrator.

Most settlements run by shelters were in terrible shape.

So what made this guy different?