Chapter 681.2: The Empire’s Anger |
Lisa approached with a tray, glancing curiously at the row of guards but asking nothing. She set down the plate and spoke gently. “Sir, your pork knuckle rice.”
“Hm.” Garawa grunted through his nose, tossed the newspaper to Niyan, and turned to the famed dish before him. He cut a small piece and tasted it.
The springy, tender meat was excellent, soft enough to melt on the tongue, making his eyes brighten involuntarily.
Although the New Alliance was a tiny nation, one or two settlements barely the size of his estates, he had to admit they excelled when it came to cooking.
The only thing he disliked was the utensils. It was too elaborate. He preferred eating with his hands. Of course, it would have been even better if a young girl fed him by hand. Back in White Elephant City, he never lifted a finger when eating. Sadly, he had searched Dawn City and found no restaurant offering such service.
When he looked at Lisa, who bowed and prepared to leave, Garawa suddenly narrowed his eyes, a faint greed flashing in them.
It was especially so when he noticed the marks on her wrists.
“You’re from the West. Are you a slave from Triumphant City?”
That word was like an unhealed wound.
Watching her flee, Garawa clicked his tongue softly. “What a waste…”
Though slaves were a specialty of the Poro Province, those inferior races were hardworking and loyal, highly favored by minor nobles in the Army, their numbers were too high. Their main appeal was affordability, so they rarely fetched high prices.
In contrast, slaves bred in the Army’s heartlands, especially those from Triumphant City, were prized for their quality.
Those slaves with brown hair and high noses were like purebred cattle from the Solate highland pastures. Not so expensive that only generals could afford them, but definitely not something outsiders could buy without military merit.
Those slaves were usually circulated internally among Wislander elites, seldom entering markets, and even more rarely bought by non-Wislanders.
The nobles of the Xilande Dynasty were fanatically obsessed with Wislander culture, and Garawa was no exception. But since this was New Alliance territory, he did not wish to cause trouble. Disrupting cooperation between the Empire and the Army would be disastrous, so he merely sighed in regret, finished his meal gracefully, dabbed his mouth with a cloth, and took back the newspaper.
He flipped to the story mocking Shelter 70’s disgrace. None of those stuck-up shelter residents were any good. He felt they were arrogant and delusional.
Shelter 70 was like this, and so were all those triple-digit shelters. Ending the wasteland? Beginning a new era?
Ridiculous.
A bunch of lunatics.
He had lived in Poro Province for years and never once felt as though he lived in a wasteland. Their plans were basically a joke in his eyes.
He continued reading the first page with amusement. But when he turned to the second page, his elegant smile vanished instantly.
[French Fry Harbor Welcomes New Residents! 1,000 Moonfolk Refugees Land Safely!]
His twisted expression looked exactly like someone who had just eaten his own flicked booger, one that bounced off a dirty wall and flew right back onto his face.
“Ridiculous!” Clenching his right fist, he slammed it onto the table. Dishes clattered loudly.
Hearing the commotion, the patrons chatting nearby fell silent, casting glances filled with surprise and curiosity.
People did occasionally lose their minds in this settlement, but who would dare lose their mind here, where shelter residents gathered the most?
As the surrounding eyes turned toward him, the Wolffolk guards behind Garawa narrowed their eyes dangerously.
However, they had misunderstood completely.
This was the rugged River Valley Province, where wastelanders licked blood off blades. No one in the New Alliance flinched from a gun, let alone a mere glare.
Those warning glares were nothing more than a baby’s attempt at intimidation.
Originally, people had only glanced over in curiosity. After receiving those unwarranted glares, they glared back, even more fiercely.
Who didn’t have eyes?
Who were they looking down on?
Behind the bar, Old Hooke watched them coldly, his finger resting on the alarm button beneath the counter, ready to summon backup at any moment.
He disliked the bastards from the Xilande Empire.
Not only had they ordered only one bowl of pork knuckle rice between a dozen of them, but that goat-bearded bastard had made poor Lisa cry. She was not the innkeeper’s daughter, but he treated her as if she was. Nobody was allowed to bully her, not an envoy from the Army, not even the emperor of the Xilande Empire himself, much less some random asshole.
“My lord…” Niyan hurriedly bowed, whispering into Garawa’s ear. “Losing our temper here accomplishes nothing. Even if we beat them all bloody, it solves nothing. Instead, it makes us look petty. We should request an audience with the New Alliance’s administrator and warn them on behalf of the Xilande Empire. We must demand they stop slandering us and stop accepting those wretched Moonfolk.”
Garawa finally calmed a little. He put down the newspaper and forced himself to breathe steadily. “You are right, Niyan… Babru, tell your men to keep low profiles. Elephants need not concern themselves with the rats and ants at their feet. We must not stoop to the level of these commoners.”
“Yes, my lord.” The massive Wolffolk commander nodded, glancing meaningfully at his subordinates.
The guards slowly withdrew their murderous stares, avoiding further eye contact with the wastelanders.
Seeing these wooden-faced brutes lose interest, the players also lost interest in provoking them. They clicked their tongues and turned away.
But after that disturbance, the focus of conversation shifted entirely, from Goblin Observer’s headline to the peculiar group.
“Who the hell are those people?”
“Heard he’s an ambassador from the Xilande Empire.”
“Xilande? I thought he was some beggar asking for scraps.”
“These days in Dawn City, throw a brick and it’ll hit an ambassador.”
“Xilande? You mean they actually call themselves that shitty name?”
“Hahaha, they really named themselves well!”
“Hey, pipe down. Don’t let them hear you.”
“If they hear, they hear. Out in the wasteland, I’ll make them hear what I say, then send a message to their dead ancestors.”
“Hahaha!”
The voices grew louder and more brazen. After all, that was exactly how things worked in the wasteland.
Garawa’s brow twitched violently. His teeth ground together. The elegant, dignified expression on his face was cracking. His rapid breathing betrayed his skyrocketing blood pressure. Those mocking eyes made him feel like sitting on needles. In truth, he was not really as open-minded as he claimed. He was no real elephant. And those voices were not from real rats or ants.
But for the sake of the empire, he forced himself to endure their mockery.
He shakily pulled a banknote from his pocket and tossed it onto the greasy plate, letting it land deliberately in the puddle of pork fat.
“No need for change.”
The pork oil soaked the New Alliance emblem on the banknote, just like pork fat smeared across their so-called honor. A detail he designed intentionally. Everyone present had been insulted, even if the insult wasn’t obvious.
Behind the bar, Hooke shot them a disgusted look. His finger slipped off the alarm button as he called lazily, “Come again.”
Great Stag God above, may these fools never come again.
Watching the group leave, Hooke hobbled over on his injured leg, picked up the bill, wiped it clean, and cleared the plate. Back at the bar, he opened the cash drawer, took out money for the meal, counted several coins, then walked through the kitchen curtain. He found Lisa crouched in a corner, wiping her tears.
He knelt beside her gently. “They’re gone. They asked me to apologize to you. Here, this is their tip. Buy yourself some sweets or a nice dress.”
Lisa lifted her tear-stained face, lips trembling. She couldn’t form a single word.
She was truly devastated because of what had happened earlier.
Hooke could understand. And he knew why she couldn’t speak. so he spoke for her. “Here, we often see travelers from far away. We can always tell who was the slave and who was the master. Not because one wore shackles or the other carried a gun, but because of their eyes.”
“No matter what they call you, a person who earns their own living is never anyone’s slave.”
“As for those people, they can tag you however they like, say whatever nonsense they want. We can’t control the mouths of parrots. We can only be ourselves.”
Lisa’s breathing gradually steadied. She seemed a little better. With red eyes, she revealed a soft, relieved smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Old Hook grinned and rubbed her hair. “Cover the front desk for me. It’s my turn to rest these old bones.”
“Mm! Leave it to me!” Full of renewed energy, Lisa scrubbed away her tears and darted out into the lobby like a gust of wind.
Watching her disappear behind the curtain, Hooke didn’t get up. Instead, he grimaced and sat on the floor, clutching his leg.
The moment he relaxed, his bones felt rusted. Just crouching a bit left him aching. Back in his day, he had been a tough hunter who traded gunfire with marauders. Now all he had left were the injuries of his youth.
The blue coats had always called him “Shot In The Knee Hooke.” He didn’t know what it meant, but the administrator told him it was a title of respect, praising his vigor in old age. So he accepted it, and over time he even came to like it.
But ever since opening this inn, his leg truly felt like it had been shot with an arrow, becoming more useless each year.
Hooke revealed a bitter smile and shook his head.
“… I’m getting old.”
