Chapter 83: Gathering In

In the open space by the entrance to the base, under the watchful eyes of several hundred Xuanlaw soldiers, the refugees formed a long line before two hastily-assembled shelters. A foul stench wafted from the queue, with the refugees resembling nothing so much as walking cesspools.

They were about to undergo their first transformation: shedding their filthy clothes, washing themselves clean, and donning crisp work uniforms. Their identities would then be recorded, numbers assigned, and they would be sorted into the appropriate zones, groups, and squads.

The first checkpoint was manned by the Vanguards. Apart from the native inhabitants, the Vanguards were the only ones in the base fluent in the common tongue. Their formidable learning abilities were among their greatest assets; rote memorization was trivial for them. They also possessed exceptional physical prowess—should any dangerous individuals be identified, a Vanguard could swiftly eliminate the threat with unnerving calm. Even if survival was not guaranteed, their odds far surpassed those of others.

A Vanguard rapidly examined a refugee, then waved them through to the next station for identity registration, clothing, and number assignment.

“Next.”

An elderly man, bearded and haggard, his body caked in grime, shuffled to the front. The Vanguard surveyed him from head to toe, instantly alert. Beneath the table, a hidden hand signaled, and the surrounding Vanguards discreetly fixed their gaze on the old man.

The Green Ghost calamity had forced countless civilians from their homes, and the long flight was fraught with peril. The lack of food and the harsh environment weeded out the frail—foremost among them the elderly. Yet this man appeared at least seventy or eighty, an age rare even for civilians, let alone those who had survived such an arduous journey. Something about him was off.

The Vanguard’s mind raced, categorizing the man as a suspicious figure in an instant.

With a calm expression, the Vanguard asked, “Name, age, and what skills do you possess?”

“Sir, my name is Ma Chalu, I am fifty-one, and I can drive a horse-drawn cart,” the old man replied, bowing his head repeatedly, his tone and bearing deeply humble.

He was no different from the other refugees, abject as a beast in human skin—society had reduced people to little more than livestock.

Though his voice was faint, it did not bear the signs of extreme hunger or weakness.

The Vanguard picked up a silver needle and ordered, “Place your hand on the table.”

A flicker of surprise flashed in the old man’s eyes at the sight of the needle, but he complied, laying his withered hand upon the table.

The needle pricked his fingertip and was swiftly withdrawn. The Vanguard inspected the needle—it showed no change—then carefully checked the old man’s wound, finding nothing amiss. With a wave, he signaled, “Pass. Next.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you.” The old man bowed twice more, then shuffled on to the next checkpoint.

‘Truly extravagant—they’re using mithril for every single refugee’s inspection! Even the Empire wouldn’t dare waste so much.’ Mithril was highly susceptible to contamination; too much exposure to blood would drain its spiritual properties. Yet this method was remarkably effective at screening out cultists—unless one was a fifth-tier expert, they would not escape detection. Still, it was the first time the old man had seen such precious mithril used on mere civilians—sheer profligacy.

‘Only these people could afford such extravagance,’ he mused.

After ten minutes in line, the old man entered a makeshift shelter and, under the soldiers’ orders, stripped off his clothing. A strange helmet was then placed over his head, completely covering it. Jets of water blasted him, washing away every trace of filth, until dirty water pooled on the ground.

Emerging from the shelter, the refugees seemed reborn, clad in clean work uniforms and free of their previous stench.

The old man’s gaze turned to the next station, from which an enticing aroma drifted. There was a certain magic to it, drawing the focus of every refugee.

‘Delicious... but something’s off. Food that smells this good is never meant for commoners, yet they are offering it so generously. There’s something wrong here.’

The old man’s wariness spiked. The fragrance was almost unnatural, so powerful that even he felt his will waver. A scent he had never encountered before tugged at his senses, unsettling even someone of his strength. This food was certainly suspicious—he resolved not to eat it and to find a way to dispose of it discreetly.

As he joined the food distribution line, the aroma grew ever more intense the closer he came to the source. He found himself swallowing involuntarily like the others—his body nearly beyond his control.

‘What on earth is this substance, to wield such terrifying power?’

After some minutes, the old man left the line with an iron bowl, just like the others, and found a place to sit on the ground. He looked down into the bowl: it was filled with small, snowy-white pebbles, topped with slabs of yellowish, unfamiliar fare. The aroma rising from the bowl made him gulp despite himself.

‘I must not give in! There’s definitely something wrong with this food,’ he reminded himself, growing all the more convinced. He had never seen food like this before—a cause for suspicion in itself.

A middle-aged man who had been watching the old man approached, rubbing his hands together ingratiatingly. “Sir, if you’re not going to eat yours, could I have it? I’m still starving.”

At this, several others edged closer, their interest piqued—they had been eyeing his food for some time.

The old man glanced around, realizing he was the only one who had yet to finish; everyone else had already eaten most, if not all, of their portions. And still, after consuming their meals, people felt ravenous. In truth, the food provided by Xuanlaw was sufficient to fill everyone, but after long-term hunger, their bodies were like bottomless pits, never feeling sated.

Of course, Xuanlaw would not allow them to gorge themselves; otherwise, at least half would die from overeating.

Feeling the hungry stares of those around him, the old man hurriedly picked up his bowl and took several large bites, declaring, “Of course I’ll eat!”

He could not risk giving himself away at this stage—a few bites would serve as a cover.

Seeing him eat, the others drifted away, disappointed. Were this outside, they would have stolen the old man’s food without a second thought, but here, they dared not—Her Highness had declared that anyone who broke the rules would be expelled.

The first bite of that strange food entered his mouth, and the old man’s heart sank, for he discovered he could not stop eating.

Within two minutes, he had devoured more than half the food in his bowl before he managed to restrain himself.

‘Far too dangerous, far too dangerous! I must never eat such strange fare again,’ he fumed, glaring at the food before setting the bowl aside.

‘But since I’ve already eaten most of it... a little more shouldn’t hurt, right?’

...

Two hours later, all the refugees had been processed.

Once in rags, the refugees now wore matching blue work uniforms and had been gathered on an open ground. Opposite them stood others in the same uniforms, but with hair of a different color—strikingly similar in appearance otherwise.

A military officer who spoke the common tongue announced, “They have now been sorted by number, gender, and age into their respective zones and groups. Your task is to help them acclimate to life in the base and get them swiftly into working order.”

“Yes, sir!” the native instructors shouted in unison, displaying a distinct military bearing.

Xuanlaw had not taken these people in just to feed them—they expected them to contribute, to create value through their labor.