Don’t raise unruly people in extreme cold weather

Chapter 889

The riots in the City of Seven Hills were quickly reported back to the Desert Kingdom via alchemical communications.

As Perfect read the battle report, her slender fingers tightened unconsciously, creating deep wrinkles on the fragile parchment, and cold anger solidified between her brows.

Perfect was not angry at the missionary's misconduct - each of those elite missionaries who had been selected through layers of selection had perfectly implemented the code of conduct of "exchanging materials for faith."

They went there with the goodwill and abundant supplies of the empire, bringing hope to the survivors struggling in the disaster.

But what did those ignorant mobs do?
Perfectoto's fingers clenched the battle report so tightly that they almost crushed the parchment.

"This is absolutely ridiculous!" Perfecto almost choked out these words.

Her fingers, clenching the battle report, turned white from the force, and the parchment groaned under the weight in her palms.

It is understandable that the survivors are wary of the missionary group; their rejection of the New God's beliefs and their suspicion of the Empire's intentions are all understandable.

But the missionaries had clearly brought life-saving food and built greenhouses that could change their living conditions. How could these mobs actually burn it all down?
"They are killing their own future with their own hands," Perfect said coldly, with suppressed anger in his voice.

In her view, this was no longer a simple rebellion, but a complete betrayal of civilization and progress.

The crops grown in those greenhouses could have ended famine in the City of Seven Hills, and those advanced agricultural techniques could have freed them from a precarious life.

And now, these follies will push them back into a deeper abyss of suffering.

What disgusted her most was the survivors' distorted survival logic.

They can kneel down and offer the last piece of black bread to the evil priest who cuts open the belly of a pregnant woman, but spit on the missionary who distributes seeds.

When the evil god's followers used the hearts of living people for divination, they shuddered and said "this is an ancient tradition."

But when the Steam Knights' armor was still stained with the blood of the gods that protected them, these people hid behind the broken walls and cursed, "It was the outsiders who brought the disaster."

This twisted logic is like a village being looted by bandits. The villagers dare not resist the knife-wielding bandits, but throw rotten vegetable leaves at the soldiers who come to suppress the bandits.

Because they foolishly believed that "if they don't resist, their food will only be stolen, and resistance will provoke the robbers to kill people."

This abject servility reminded Perfectot of the hyenas in the desert, who would rather gnaw on the carrion scraps left by a pride of lions than hunt fresh food for themselves.

"What a perfect slave specimen." She stared at the description in the battle report, a cold arc appeared at the corner of her lips, and then she clenched her five fingers and tore the parchment in her hand into pieces.

Scrap of paper fell and scattered in the shadows at her feet.

The only meaning of these ignorant survivors struggling to survive in the cold winter of doomsday is to prove why human civilization has fallen to this point - they are willing to crawl in fear, but sneer at true salvation.

When the mission's medical officer brought plague vaccine and tried to save their children, these people shouted "the devil's medicine" in horror and regarded the doctor as evil.

But when the evil priests used the same children for blood sacrifices, burning them alive in the name of "purification", they bowed their heads devoutly, believing that "sacrificing the minority can save the majority."

How ironic.

This self-tamed servility could freeze her blood more than the cold wind from the polar regions.

They were not conquered by violence, but tamed by their own ignorance and cowardice, and willingly knelt at the feet of a more cruel god.

The broken pieces of parchment fell to the ground like dead leaves, and the slight rustling sound was particularly clear in the silent hall.

This tiny sound seemed like a signal of some kind of decision.

Perfect slowly raised his eyes, there was no warmth in his pupils anymore, his sharp gaze like a knife pierced into the distance, as if it had penetrated the sea of ​​sand and reached the city of ignorance.

"Pass the order down." Her voice returned to its usual calmness, but with unquestionable majesty, and every word fell like an iron law.

"I will personally handle the situation in the City of Seven Hills."
-
In the ruins of the City of Seven Hills, order is slowly emerging from chaos.

The black robes of the missionary group and the work clothes of the immigrant group were intertwined among the ruins. They worked together with the survivors and finally cleared out a relatively intact urban area.

With the mobile energy tower as the core, steam and heat waves gush out from the top of the tower day and night, providing precious warmth to this cold land.

Surrounding this energy tower, simple but neatly arranged prefabricated houses and canvas tents extend radially outward. The gray-white canvas is printed with the eagle emblem of the Northern Empire, fluttering in the cold wind, announcing that this nascent settlement has taken shape.

On the newly paved gravel road, survivors pushed carts back and forth, transporting steel bars, wood and bricks salvaged from the ruins.

The immigrants followed the guidance of the technicians and used these materials to build more temporary shelters.

The sounds of hammering, sawing and shouting intertwined together, giving the place a hint of life.

Compared to the original simple camp with only rough wooden fences, the settlement now has a two-meter-high reinforced fence.

The sturdy logs were nailed deeply into the frozen soil, covered with iron sheets and sharpened at the top, which were enough to resist attacks from those with bad intentions until the Steam Knights launched a counterattack.

There are watchtowers manned by steam knights at key locations. The knights wearing heavy steam armor scan the camp inside and outside with vigilant eyes, monitoring every move in the wilderness while also monitoring the security in the camp.

The patrol team, composed of young and middle-aged survivors, carried rifles and patrolled back and forth along the planned route. Although their steps were not uniform, they at least learned basic vigilance and coordination.

In the core area closest to the energy tower, the greenhouse that was more than half destroyed has been restored to its original state. The cold-resistant crops carefully cultivated by Northern technicians are thriving in the glass shed, and the tender green seedlings look vibrant under artificial light.

Although there are still a few diehards whispering in the dark and spreading doubts about the faith of the new god, open acts of sabotage have disappeared as several of the most extreme opponents were voted out of the camp.

At the morning meetings held by the missionary leader in the central square every day, the voices of opposition are becoming increasingly weak, and are being replaced by more and more survivors who are taking the initiative to join the reconstruction work.

Although the current settlement cannot be called completely harmonious, at least basic order has been restored.

The Steam Knights no longer need to attack so frequently, and the engineers of the immigration group can lay down new pipelines and lines with peace of mind.

When night falls, the street lights erected in the camp light up one by one. The orange-yellow light covers the entire settlement like a veil, bringing a long-lost warm glow to this piece of land under reconstruction.

From the several wooden houses, you can faintly hear cheerful conversations and children's laughter, smoke rises from the chimneys, and the aroma of stew wafts in the air...all of this tells you that a kind of almost luxurious and peaceful life is taking root here.

But beneath this calm appearance, undercurrents are lurking in the shadows like poisonous snakes.

The expelled extremists crawled on the frozen ground like wounded beasts, dragging their festering wounds, leaving mottled bloodstains on the snow with every step.

Incomprehensible curses rolled in their throats, and their frostbitten fingertips dug into the soil, leaving long, discontinuous marks behind them, like some kind of horrible totem.

Finally, they crawled into the darkest corners of the City of Seven Hills.

It was a forgotten underground temple, with dried corpses hanging from the dome, kneeling before the blood-stained altar of the evil priest.

In the underground cave that exudes a foul smell, the flickering green fire casts distorted shadows on the stone walls.

The fanatical priests used obsidian fragments to cut their skin and pierced their flesh with ink mixed with the blood of the gods.

Dark red beads of blood rolled down the pale skin, forming tiny streams on the stone floor.

A man with tattoos all over his face was trembling all over, but he showed a hideous smile in the severe pain. His teeth were chattering and his eyeballs were bulging in pain, but he was always staring at his bleeding palms, as if he wanted to crush the phantoms of those betrayers.

"It's all their fault!" His voice seemed to be squeezed out from rotten lungs: "Those traitors who are willing to be the running dogs of the empire, those missionaries who bring disaster!"

They firmly believe that they are the last sober people in the City of Seven Hills.

In the distorted cognition, the survivors in the camp were traitors bribed by a few pieces of bread, and the missionaries who distributed medicine were demons who wrapped poison in sugar.

A skinny woman stroked her fresh tattoo, her fingertips lingering on the raised runes, and murmured: "We have always lived in peace with the believers of the gods..."

She had completely forgotten the scenes of the sacrificed children hanging from the beams of the temple, and only remembered all the chaos after the empire's floating city came.

The most ironic thing is that nearly half of them were sacrificed on the day of their conversion.

When the first companion’s throat was cut, blood splattered on the faces of the survivors. Instead of being terrified, they screamed with ecstasy: “This is God selecting true believers!”

All the suffering has a simple answer - it's all a conspiracy of the Imperials.

"Blood debt must be repaid with blood!" In the darkness, dozens of pairs of eyes glowed with the faint light of wild beasts. Their breathing became heavy and their fingers spasmed unconsciously.

They sharpened steel bars from the ruins into spears, collected broken glass to make daggers, and wrapped rags around their palms to prevent them from slipping.

Everyone was constantly rehearsing scenes of revenge in their minds: nailing missionaries to energy towers, making converts watch their loved ones being sacrificed, and using the most painful wails to pay for their own "betrayal."

The night wind blew ice chips against the camp fence, making a sound like the wailing of dead souls, as if issuing a final warning.

The light from the energy tower is still warm, and the smoke from the tent is still rising, but the Avengers in the shadows have already sharpened their claws.

Their whispers spread in the darkness, growing like a plague, waiting for the right moment to pour out all their long-simmering hatred.
-
Under the shadow of this quietly growing evil, a silver-gray airship slowly emerged on the skyline, like a meteor streaking through the sky, casting a majestic shadow over the City of Seven Hills.

When Perfecto's figure appeared on the gangway, the entire camp fell into a shocked silence.

The priests of the missionary group straightened their backs unconsciously, and the engineers of the immigration group took off their work hats and pressed them against their chests.

Some people were so excited that their knees became weak and they had to hold on to their companions to keep themselves steady.

The arrival of this Northern Earl brought much more shock than this.

Her name has long transcended the category of a political leader and has become a legendary chapter in the imperial textbooks.

In every classroom in the polar shelter, children can retell her feat of leading mankind to survive the apocalyptic winter; during the break time in every steam workshop, craftsmen will praise her wisdom in developing cold-resistant crops.

The young people in the immigrant group were so excited that they could hardly control themselves.

For their generation, Perfecto was not only a ruler but also a savior living in legend.

Some people secretly pinched their arms, wondering if everything they saw was a dream; some people had already knelt on the ground, with their foreheads pressed against the cold frozen soil.

This almost religious fanaticism stems from the deepest memory in their bones: it was the energy tower invented by the count that allowed their parents to survive the cold nights, and it was the cold-resistant crops she cultivated that saved them from hunger.

Perfect walked down the gangway slowly, his long silver-gray hair swaying slightly in the cold wind, and the soles of his boots making crisp sounds as they collided with the metal steps.

As her heterochromatic eyes scanned the welcoming crowd, everyone felt a shudder of awe and relief.

That gaze seemed to penetrate the soul, yet it also had a reassuring power.

In this end times where faith and despair are intertwined, her existence itself is a miracle, a living legend that mortals can touch.

The light from the energy tower formed a hazy halo behind her, giving her an almost sacred outline.

"Your Excellency Regent, welcome!" The leader of the missionary group and the commander of the Steam Knights stood respectfully in front of her and bowed to her.

Perfect nodded slightly: "I have received your report. Some things have exceeded the limits of what the Empire can tolerate."

Her words seemed to lower the temperature around them a little, and several accompanying civil servants shrank their necks unconsciously.

But then her tone suddenly softened, like the brief summer day in the polar regions: "Take me on a tour. From what I saw from the sky just now, you seem to be doing very well."

This unexpected turn of events immediately eased the tense atmosphere a little.

When the captain stood up, his eyes sparkled with a flattered look; the knight commander immediately made a welcoming gesture: "Please allow me to lead the way for you, sir."

His voice was filled with uncontrollable excitement, and although he tried his best to control it, he couldn't hide the pride in it.

For him, it was a great honor to be able to lead the way for Perfect.

(End of this chapter)