Chapter 956: Chapter 168: Rupture
Some of the survivors harbored deep hostility towards the emigration group, taking advantage of the night to sabotage the newly constructed greenhouse frames and secretly release the precious irrigation water before dawn.
Worse yet, someone scrawled the words "Empire Lackeys" in charcoal all over the camp, even spreading malicious rumors that "the people of the Empire want to offer us as sacrifices to the New God."
These rumors spread throughout the camp like a plague, exacerbating the already tense situation.
An elderly immigrant woman, holding an empty water jug, looked at the whispering group of survivors in the distance and murmured to herself, "Are we here to help, or to suffer?"
No one could answer this question at the moment.
In such a tense and chaotic situation, the young Eric became the only bridge maintaining relations between the two sides.
This boy, who grew up in the ruins, was familiar with the survivors’ deep-seated wariness and understood the mission and plight of the emigration group.
He shuttled between the two groups daily, tirelessly explaining each other’s difficulties with his hoarse voice.
He explained to the survivors that the alchemical greenhouses brought by the emigration group could solve the food crisis, and to the immigrants that the survivors’ fear of the Old God believers was not unfounded.
On a snowy evening, Eric was leading a patrol team composed of twelve boys around his age and six willing adult survivors, conducting a routine inspection along the perimeter of the food warehouse.
Suddenly, the sound of a muted argument came from behind the warehouse.
He signaled the team to stop and approached quietly in the dark, seeing under the moonlight the limping old John waving a torch, speaking excitedly to a dozen ragged survivors.
"...Burn down the warehouse, and see how those Northerners play the good guys!" Old John’s crippled left leg dragged a bloody mark in the snow, a mad fire flickering in his cloudy eyes, "They’re just like those Evil God believers, wanting to take our souls..."
Eric, heedless of danger, rushed forward to stop them, "Stop! This food is enough to feed everyone for half a month!"
His sudden appearance caused the conspirators to scatter like startled beasts, but old John sneered, raising the torch, his burned throat squeezing out a hiss, "Little traitor! How dare you Victorians decide our faith?"
This statement was like a spark in a powder keg, instantly igniting the long-suppressed hostility.
Several believers of the New God rushed out from the shadows, their eyes burning with fanatic rage, and clashed with John’s followers.
The dull thud of fists hitting flesh, angry curses, and pained groans intertwined into a chaotic roar.
"You’re all mad!" shouted a young New God believer, his fist landing hard on the face of John’s accomplice.
As the latter staggered backward, someone swung a frozen clod towards Eric standing at the edge of the conflict, the sharp edge cutting a gash on his forehead, and blood immediately flowed down his cheek, leaving a stark red line on his pale skin.
In the melee, a torch was knocked to the ground, sparks flying, quickly igniting the waterproof covering of the warehouse.
The flames licked greedily at the canvas, spreading rapidly in the cold wind, the orange-red light casting twisted shadows on faces.
Just as the fire was about to get out of control, the head of the Missionary Group arrived with the fully armed Steam Knights, the alchemical extinguisher in their hands spewing white foam, quickly putting out the nascent flames.
That night, Eric returned to his tent alone and found, under the weak light of the oil lamp, an anonymous letter written in blood on torn leather.
The slanted writing seemed carved in blood with a fingernail, each stroke seething with intense hatred: "The traitor’s blood is most fitting for the altar on the full moon night."
The bloody smell emanating from the letter made his stomach churn.
He clenched the threatening letter tightly in his hand, his knuckles white with the force.
Outside the tent, the howling cold wind carried the familiar eerie chanting of the Old God believers, slithering into the ear like a venomous serpent, sending chills down his spine.
The next morning, at dawn’s first light, Eric, clutching that blood-reeking anonymous letter, hurried to the Steam Knight Order’s station.
In the morning fog, the knights were conducting routine maintenance on their armor, steam jetting from the exhaust ports and condensing into white mist in the cold air.
The Knight Commander took the letter, the metal gloves clinking with a cold sound.
As he unfolded the blood-written threat, his iron-blue expression grew even grimmer, the wrinkles on his brow deepening like they were carved with a knife.
"Those damned cultists..." he cursed under his breath, unconsciously creasing the edge of the letter with his fingers.
"Implement Level Two Alert immediately!" the Knight Commander barked to the deputy, his voice amplified by the armor’s loudspeaker notably resounding.
"Double all patrols, focus surveillance on the food warehouses and water stations. Additionally..." he paused, his gaze falling on Eric, "equip this boy and his patrol team with standard weapons."
In less than an hour, the atmosphere in the camp noticeably tensed.
The Steam Knights, fully armed, set up checkpoints at various main paths, their heavy footsteps echoing on the frozen ground.
Eric and his companions received brand new breech-loading rifles—these Northern Territory-made weapons, though not as formidable as the knights’ heavy equipment, were sufficient to deter ordinary thugs.
However, these tough measures were like pouring oil into boiling water, stirring up even greater unrest.
The unwilling survivors gathered at the edge of the camp, whispering among themselves, their eyes filled with hostility.
Some deliberately disrupted the craftsmen at work, while others secretly sabotaged the newly laid water pipes.
Meanwhile, Northern technology began creating miracles on this ruinous land.
Engineers, clad in heavy protective gear, maneuvered specialized alchemical spraying devices, spraying a bluish glowing solution on the frozen ground.
Upon contact with the hard frozen ground, it emitted a sizzling sound, wisps of white smoke rising, and the once rock-hard permafrost layer began to soften, turning into moist clay-like earth easy to excavate.
This laid a solid foundation for reconstruction work, and workers were soon able to lay foundations on the treated ground.
The unfolded Floating City modules resembled a moving industrial giant, its unfolded metal shell revealing complex production lines, ceaselessly processing raw materials day and night, churning out various specifications of prefabricated building materials.
The most astonishing sight was the upgraded Energy Tower—the range of its temperature-stabilizing barrier had doubled, warming air currents melting the snow within a hundred-meter radius, revealing the ancient cobblestone road frozen for years beneath.
Those timeworn stones glistened with a warm sheen under the sun, as if whispering the city’s past glory.
On this newfound fertile land, some survivors began to soften their attitudes.
They proactively approached the missionaries, accepting the New God faith baptism, and even picked up tools to join in constructing the first New God church.
The church framework has been erected, workers are installing stained glass windows, with sunlight casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the ground through the glass.
Yet shadows persist—each nightfall, those refusing to collaborate gather in the dark corners beyond the Energy Tower’s light, gazing at all the changes with eyes filled with hatred.
As they whispered among themselves, dangerous glints sparkled in their eyes.
The camp’s tense atmosphere was like a bowstring pulled taut, everyone sensing the imminent danger ready to erupt.
However, the shadow of the undercity never dissipated.
Just as reconstruction efforts were in full swing, the Evil God believers launched another attack.
They detonated bombs previously planted under the construction site, the violent explosion shattering half the greenhouse, sending shards of glass and twisted metal frames flying in all directions.
The Steam Knights swiftly counterattacked, killing some Evil God believers, but the emigration group also suffered two craftsmen severely injured in the blast, blood staining the newly laid cobblestone road.
Subsequent investigation revealed some survivors in the camp had secretly helped the Evil God believers.
This discovery once again tensed the previously easing atmosphere, the cracks in trust widening among the people.
