Chapter 949 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 949: The Power of 1.5 Billion Silver Coins Due to the booming sales of the "28 Dashan" bicycles, Rasov's factory finally resumed production. Although the promised cafeteria didn't materialize, every young man by the Ravenka River considered Rasov a good man and praised his generosity without resentment. After all, this generous tycoon from Galanport offered a 20% discount on the bicycles he sold to his employees and even allowed them to store their precious bikes in the spare warehouse under lock and key, preventing them from being stolen by miscreants from other tribes. At the end of the day, the staff could pick up their bikes, freshly lubricated. Whether they were lubricated or not was uncertain, but there was always a repairman stationed at the warehouse's entrance. Of course, if these young men knew that the bicycles, originally sold at 200 silver coins each, cost only 30 silver coins wholesale, the next group to be blockaded in the factory would likely be the Borroans instead of the Virantians. But they would never know. After all, Rasov and members of the commerce and industry syndicate had already agreed to set guide prices for several major categories of goods. Everyone could profit together; a Borroan never cheats another Borroan, and there would certainly be no price wars. Selling bicycles was just a brief diversion. Rasov did not cling to the fast money from selling bicycles. After sending off the bicycle repairmen who earned hefty bonuses, he devoted all his energy back to his primary business. The first order soon arrived. The buyer was a merchant from Port Nightfall named Meta. This person was lavish, placing an order worth 5 million at a price 10% above the market rate. As Rasov pondered over this man at the dinner table, he felt Meta seemed less like a merchant and more like an agent of a warlord. Sure enough, after a few shots of vodka, Meta inadvertently revealed his association with a powerful family. Rasov offered some compliments and graceful words of admiration for the family the man belonged to but didn't take it too seriously in his heart. Among his clients were General Jeha from Tiger State and the Black Panther Army's leader. Comparatively, he couldn't take a lackey of an "underling's underling" from Abu Saiq too seriously. As a businessman, navigating between various factions meant maintaining propriety and conducting business soundly. He couldn't care less who led the domain as they were all equally foolish. Ultimately, real salvation for Borroans lay in the hands of industrialists like him. That was his view, certainly. While Rasov carefully observed this member of the Blue Family, Meta, seated at the same table, was also scrutinizing Rasov. Unlike Rasov’s rich mental narrative, Meta's assessment was sharp and penetrating. The man was a simple soul. Or perhaps, a pure one. Realizing he had found the right person, Meta put down his drink, wearing a friendly smile, as if meeting family. "Our families and the syndicate are one; with victories on the frontline, the war is nearing its end. Industrialists like you are what we need most, and so do Borroans. We'd like to invite you to establish a factory in Snake State. How do you feel about it?" Such casual flattery was far more effective than showering with hollow praises and didn't seem overly abrupt. To be honest, Rasov did take a liking to it, yet he wasn't so overwhelmed by vanity. Setting up a factory in Snake State... That would be madness if you had too much money lying around. He'd rather donate money and supplies, which served everyone's interests better. "Setting up a factory isn't that easy; it requires local infrastructure and industrial support. It’s not just about moving machines over and launching a factory." Seeing Meta was about to continue persuading, he added with a smile. "But rest assured, even if my factory remains offshore, when Borroan provinces need me, I won't hesitate to offer my support!" His words were diplomatic, easily retractable, which left the man opposite him somewhat perplexed but moved on from the factory topic. He was unaware, however, that he had already fallen into a trap. Meta knew exactly how poor the conditions were in Snake State. He never expected to move such a major businessman but only aimed to set the stage for a different kind of assistance. "We understand. It was presumptuous of me to bring up the factory," Meta said, raising his glass. "Forget I mentioned it." Having turned down such a gracious invitation, Rasov felt a bit guilty and softened his tone. "It's not that I don't want to build up my hometown, but not even the best chef can make porridge out of stones. I'm truly powerless alone. However, there's sometimes opportunity, like in Lion State, where the industrial base isn't too bad. I'll surely visit when the timing is right." Meta chuckled and responded, “Certainly! We’ll welcome you warmly when you do.” Rasov smiled but said nothing, clearly doubting the family’s capacity, though he kept such thoughts to himself. Meta hesitated briefly before adding, "Let's set the factory matter aside... I've heard there’s an armored line from the Southern Army in the Ravenka Industrial Zone. Could you help us obtain the blueprints for the Conqueror Mark X?" Rasov hesitated for a moment. "That... could be quite difficult." He had considered this, albeit as a fleeting thought. This isn’t exactly a state secret, yet the Ravenka Industrial Zone’s autonomous committee hasn't indicated such things could be taken for free. His business was thriving, and he didn't want to risk it—legally or on trustworthiness matters. But this time Meta persisted, looking at him earnestly. “Please, it means a great deal to us. We know you are a man who loves his hometown, and helping with this would be greatly appreciated. We promise you won't lose out; let us handle any difficulties for you!” Faced with this plea, having already once declined their offer, Rasov hesitated before sighing. “I’ll think about it... The plans might be a stretch. Our commercial union has some weight with the autonomous committee, but we're just beginning to thrive.” “But for that production line, there’s nearly finished tanks available for sale. If you're interested, they were approved by the Autonomous Committee and Development Foundation for liquidation.” Meta's eyes sparkled, full of delight. “Could you introduce me to the person managing this?” Rasov smirked, “No problem. It’s a small matter, something I can easily manage.” Meta raised his glass and drank deeply, looking earnestly at Rasov. "We will forever remember your kindness today... And yes, look into those blueprints for me. Whatever the cost—dining or other expenses—our end will cover it." Rasov quickly interjected. “You're too kind. Allow me also to contribute to the Borroans' cause.” Meta shook his head. “It’s a principle. Mr. Zaid has stated we should work for family benefits and should not burden one another financially.” Looking at such a principled man, Rasov couldn't help but sigh inwardly. Comparisons are indeed odious. If the esteemed supreme commander possessed such bravura, perhaps the Tarshian syndicate wouldn't be ridiculed as "bridecakes without brides." ... Meanwhile, on the other side, with the permit secured from the alliance's representatives, Hope began swift reformations—supervising planning from the autonomy committee and creating a Lavinka Industrial Development Bank with a 700 million investment to aid the bidding process. Sometimes, those who control the purse have more motivation than those with authority. Antoine was the type not to act without the alliance’s prompts; Hope was not only astute but also capable of execution. Within three days, he had accomplished a week’s worth of work, presenting an indisputable development blueprint at their second meeting. In his vision, tall buildings would rise along the Lavinka riverside, extending along the highway from the industrial zone toward the vast desert, drawing wasteland dweller's envy-ridden onlookers to join their ranks. The railway network across those 2.7 million square kilometers would serve as the backbone for their grand ambitions, with endless resources supporting their ongoing endeavor to end the wasteland era. Though it was an economic working meeting, Hope, on a stroke of inspiration, crafted an action plan and even aligned it with the alliance's initiatives. Fang Chang didn't care much about the grand narratives spun by this guy. He was more focused on what actions were being taken. For now, Hope's capabilities were commendable. While completing the entire blueprint would require far more than 700 million silver coins, the funds had a snowballing effect. As long as the money wasn't wasted but converted into tangible assets, these could be used as collateral for further loans from the alliance's banks. This was textbook financial maneuvering. After all, the alliance's banks had to pay interest to savers, issue interest on investment products, and cover other interest obligations. The money they held always needed a purpose. If the Lavinka Industrial Zone was a promising investment, they certainly wouldn't mind lending money to set their own financial snowball rolling. Hope had plans for everything but faced dissent from his deputy on one issue. "This is an ambitious plan, but it could also exacerbate the wealth gap... We both know the locals' proclivities, perhaps motivated temporarily by your proposals, but when they eventually awaken, the Virantians might have already outpaced them substantially. What if the Workers' Union shows up then?" His deputy, Nash, like Hope, was Virantian, and also supported Hope's proposed "Port Nightfall Model." However, support aside, it was crucial to address potential issues the model might pose. Hope had already devised countermeasures for Nash's concerns, confidently responding. "As long as we don't let the locals remain impoverished, the Workers' Union can't really do anything. Galanport is the prime example." To this, Nash responded with a wry smile. "Not keeping the locals poor... Unless we seize their bank cards, even if we give them money, they'd squander it the next day." "We indeed need to give them money, but it shouldn't be in cash form. Use your brain, Mr. Nash; we are working for the alliance now, not operating in the old rigid ways." Hope tapped his forehead with a finger and gestured towards the endless oasis outside the window. This oasis, the only one within a hundred miles, was fed by a meandering river flowing rapidly southward from the northwest, eventually emptying into the ocean through a complex of gullies and flood plains. "The place will be filled with skyscrapers. We'll take the lion's share, living in the tallest and grandest residences, while distributing the slightly inferior homes to the natives, making them our defense line—sharing our triumphs and losses." "You mean... compensating them with fixed assets instead of cash?" Nash asked, furrowing his brows. "But what if they just sell off their houses?" "Trust me, continuously appreciating assets don't get sold easily. And within this process, wealth and poverty can coexist," Hope explained, patting Nash's shoulder. "As long as survivors from the great desert keep streaming into our settlements, the positive cycle continues, and more individuals move into our domain. Regarding the execution details, we can impose certain restrictions on transaction thresholds—adjustable things." "Whatever the case, our primary task is the same—get the masses moving!" Nash blankly stared at Hope, struggling to comprehend how this little former accountant could conceive of so much, while the Southern Legion had completely overlooked his talents. Is this the power of 1.5 billion silver coins? In contrast to the virile Hope, the previous district head, Antoine, appeared like an outwitted rooster, struggling even to raise a hand. It seemed it wouldn't be long before the autonomous committee became mere puppets for the "ambitious Mr. Hope." Perhaps this wasn't the Galanport model, nor the Port Nightfall model, but rather an early version of the Free Nation model. Regardless of the model, there was consensus within the entire autonomous committee on one thing. If they didn't want the "wild animals" here to become prey for outsiders, they had to make sure the locals were active and engaged. "...Don't dwell too much on distant concerns now; those are my burdens," Hope reassured, patting Nash's shoulder and handing him a document. "There are one hundred Conqueror tanks, almost ready for the frontline if it weren't for the alliance's aircraft... Alliance engineers advised that selling them off is more sensible than scrapping them for metal. Any bid north of 30 million silver coins is deemed reasonable." "With the war in Borroan provinces still lingering and General Gurion in his death throes, the alliance has just one condition—they can't be sold to the Southern Legion, meaning we can sell them to any client other than the Southern Legion. Find a buyer before the war ends and let me see what you're made of." Would anyone want tanks from the losing side? Such thoughts ran through Nash's mind, but he nodded earnestly. "I'll do my best to sell them." ... Transforming production capacity and clearing stockpiles were the top priorities for the Lavinka Industrial Zone. How the 2.7 million square kilometers of land would be allocated, and whether Lavinka Industrial Zone and Port Nightfall might merge could be deferred until post-war considerations. With Hope's list in hand, Nash went to the warehouse, fretting over finding a potential victim willing to cough up thirty million silver coins for what many would consider junk. He had met with representatives from both the Borroan and Mammoth nations, but contrary to Hope's expectations, they weren't fools and agreed not to pursue additional military purchases. Rather, they showed interest in outdated production lines. The Lavinka Industrial Zone indeed had an inclination to offload obsolete capacity, yet that wasn’t within Nash's remit, so he regretfully connected the representatives with the dedicated personnel. Boroan from the commercial union, however, approached with an introduction to a mysterious buyer—a buyer not only willing to take all the equipment but also offering terms that blew Nash away— They were ready to purchase all the tanks at 10% above market price, provided the Lavinka Autonomous Committee included the technology for producing the Conqueror Mark X tanks. Nash agreed without hesitation. What a joke. The legion had practically vanished; he was under no obligation to carry their secrets to the grave. Besides, these individuals were General Gurion's adversaries! Without hesitation, he stamped the approval on the documents and personally attended the factory to welcome the generous buyer. As Nash enthusiastically introduced Meta to the Southern Legion's "doomsday weapon," engineers from the nearby Virantian factories watched curiously. "Who is that guy? Looks like a big deal." The business syndicate's moguls flocked to pay their respects, and seeing Nash practically yearning to roll out a red carpet at the factory's entrance signaled significance. A smoking engineer from Rasov's team squinted and said, "That’s Meta. He’s with the Family Union." The engineer from the tank assembly plant looked baffled. "Family Union? What's that?" Rasov's engineer elaborated, "It's the Family Union, a branch of a branch from Abusaik's smaller faction. It's pretty complicated to explain... but you basically get the gist." The aluminum factory engineer frowned and asked, "What’s he here for?" Rasov's engineer continued with the explanation, "They want to buy up all the finished Conqueror Mark X tanks to use against Gurion." He wasn’t concerned about who would use the tanks against whom, having shifted production to gas cylinders from armored steel. As for his knowledge about the Family Union matters, Meta frequently visited their factory, trying to get close to their boss and hinted at the allure of the Family Union, wanting to coax them into Snake State. But he wasn't naive enough to be swayed by a few sweet Borroan words. Being a Virantian himself, he was acutely aware of what his compatriots had done in the Borroan province. He believed that what happened once in Lavinka Industrial Zone could easily happen again in Xi Fan Port, with no alliance figure to rescue them this time. His boss also conveyed the same forewarning, suggesting Borroan provinces were teeming with ravenous wolves eager to devour them. While his boss might seek camaraderie with Meta, it didn't imply generosity to the point of emptying his own coffers. The steel plant was essentially his boss's wallet, now visibly transforming into a cash cow. The engineers burst into laughter after hearing the explanation. "This guy must be insane." "Does he really need that to deal with Gurion?" "By the time these tanks reach them and they figure out how to operate them, the war might already be over." Rasov's engineer chuckled as well. "Who cares what they think, as long as they're offering a good price—1.1 million per tank, 100,000 more than the market rate, and they're paying in silver coins. We're turning these into tractors anyway, so we might as well sell to them; the money from one tank is enough to buy three tractors." In fact, it's more than just three. The alliance offered cheap tractors at under 50,000 silver coins, the kind running on wood fuel, most popular on the wasteland. Selling one Conqueror Mark X for 1.1 million silver coins... A hundred of these... that's over a billion silver! Where would a small local faction get so much money?! The group ran the numbers, stunned by the conclusion. An aluminum plant engineer swallowed hard, incredulously questioning, "Where did they get such money?!" Rasov's engineer shook his head, appearing uninterested. "Who knows, who cares. Maybe they saved up from business or received donations from other Borroans. They're determined to acquire the Conqueror tanks—there might be other dealings behind the scenes." Watching the Borroan standing confidently before Deputy Chairman Nash, gesturing emphatically, the gathered Virantian engineers shook their heads, sighed, and reflected on how much the world had changed. The engineer from the aluminum plant felt a surge of envy, suddenly inspired to make money himself. "Damn, that's ridiculously wealthy..." While they chattered, Meta from the Blue Family and Deputy Chairman Nash completed their deal. Both had moved from the factory floor to the dining table, with Meta showcasing their drinking prowess. Invited were not just the officials involved in the arms sale from the Lavinka Industrial Zone Development Foundation but also those diverse workers and engineers who rarely had a place at the table. These skilled workers, carrying core technical knowledge, weren't local natives but survivors of the Bartoya province by the Ravenka River, alongside Virantians. According to Meta, they were all citizens of the United Commonwealth two centuries ago, essentially one family. Somehow, this statement resonated truthfully. The Virantians, unlike the proud indigenous peoples, revered their linkage to the United Commonwealth era and its technological marvels, a source of their pride. In sharp contrast, the workers of other ethnicities were moved to tears. Oppressed often by the Virantians, they had never felt such attention. Even the common Virantians of the Southern Legion didn't feel this acknowledged. Fueled by several vodka shots, they eagerly pledged to impart everything to the technicians from the Family Union—knowledge on manufacturing and maintaining the Conqueror Mark X, without holding back. After all, the knowledge held no use for them; better to let the Borroans use it against General Gurion and, in doing so, atone for their past complicity in invasions. Truth is, a great technology is far more than a few sheets of paper; rather, it's mastered by those who retain the core expertise. Such knowledge cannot be conveyed in a mere conversation or stored on a single hard drive. It requires genuine, unconditional sharing from one group to another. Witnessing the magnanimity of the workers, Meta was moved to tears at the table, downing his vodka in one go. Regardless of whether the transaction was honored in the future, he achieved his goal, and the Lavinka Autonomous Committee secured the much-needed funds. The trade completed, the parties enjoyed each other's company, and Meta even expressed interest in the shallow-water howitzers. But dinner had to be consumed one bite at a time, too rushed and tongues got burnt, potentially sparking some suspicions... Amidst all this, the Lavinka Industrial Zone was ablaze with transformation efforts and infrastructure projects, as the frontline battles persisted. After a month of intense fighting, the enterprise's 100th and 101st divisions had severely battered the Southern Legion's frontline troops, ultimately besieging and annihilating the 177th Unit of the Southern Legion after three days. This newly formed unit’s average age, from officers down to the youngest soldiers, was only eighteen; some were barely eleven or twelve. Virantians are natural warriors; a twelve-year-old could carry a rifle and fight as efficiently as a wasteland wanderer aged fifteen or sixteen. Watching the dust-covered youths squatted in the corner, holding their heads, Tang Feng, with a Reich-5 cigarette dangling from his lips, felt a mix of emotions. He was now a battalion commander, no longer the naive rookie that he once was on Ten Peaks Mountain. Seeing those young lads, Tang Feng couldn’t help but reminisce about his days on the mountains. The deputy battalion commander approached Tang Feng, squinting at the prisoners huddled against the wall. "Their Julius molded them into people, and now they’ve reverted themselves back." Tang Feng shook his head, "I don’t think it’s their fault but the fault of those brainwashing them." Without further debate, the deputy got straight to the point. "What do we do with them?" Tang Feng pondered and said, "Send them by train to the Lavinka Industrial Zone. It seems our allies are doing quite well there." That was indeed the command’s suggestion. This 2.7 million square kilometer colony was vast yet sparsely populated, and leaving them to build a prison camp meant abandoning them. The deputy commander agreed with a smile. "Indeed, letting the alliance handle it is hassle-free; that’s their forte." By this point, half of the Southern Legion's 2.7-million-square-kilometer colony had been liberated, with allied forces advancing to the equator, poised to enter the Northern Hemisphere. A long strip of land ran along the coastline with support from the South Sea Alliance fleet, fighter jets roaring overhead, rendering them almost invincible. However, seeing those youthful countenances, Tang Feng couldn’t muster any cheer. His sole desire was to swiftly reach the Southern Legion's mainland and put an end to this madness. Days passed, soon reaching the end of December. On the cusp of transitional years, from Wasteland Era 214 to 215, a pivotal conference that would shape the wasteland’s destiny commenced at the Great Rift. The attendees included the academy’s chief technologist, representatives commissioned by the council, managers from the alliance, Triumph City’s governor, and leaders from various survivor factions. The Great Rift ensured all parties' safety and offered transportation services to faction leaders or foreign ministers unable to independently reach the site. This meeting was due to have taken place three months earlier but had been repeatedly delayed for various reason. Finally, there were no more delays... To be continued.