Chapter 957: Chapter 169:
The turmoil in Seven Hills City quickly transmitted back to the Desert Kingdom through alchemy communication.
As Perfikot read the battle report, her slender fingers unconsciously tightened, creasing the fragile parchment deeply, her brows knotted with a cold fury.
Perfikot wasn’t angry at the Missionary Group’s mishandling—the elite missionaries, each selected through rigorous screening, perfectly adhered to the principle of "exchanging resources for faith."
They brought the goodwill and abundant resources of the Empire, offering hope to those survivors struggling amid the calamity.
But what did those ignorant mobs do?
Perfikot’s fingers clutching the battle report almost crushed the parchment.
"Utterly absurd!" Perfikot almost hissed these words through gritted teeth.
Her fingers gripping the report whitened from the force, the parchment groaning under the pressure in her palm.
Survivors being wary of the Missionary Group was understandable; their rejection of the New God’s belief, suspicion of the Empire’s intentions, all could be comprehended.
But the missionaries clearly brought life-saving grain, constructed greenhouses that could change their living conditions, and yet these mobs intended to burn it all?
"They’re practically strangling their own future," Perfikot said coldly, her voice laced with suppressed rage.
To her, this was no longer a simple rebellion, but a thorough betrayal of civilization and progress.
The crops grown in those greenhouses could have ended the famine in Seven Hills City, and with advanced agricultural techniques, they could have been freed from a precarious existence.
And yet, this foolishness would drive them into a deeper abyss of suffering.
What disgusted her the most was the twisted survival logic of the survivors.
They would kneel to offer the last piece of black bread to the Evil God Priest who cut open a pregnant woman’s belly, yet spat at the missionaries distributing seeds.
When Evil God believers used living hearts for divination, they cowered and said, "It’s an ancient tradition."
But when there was still divine blood on the armor of a Steam Knight left from protecting them, these people hid behind broken walls, cursing, "It’s the foreigners who brought calamity."
This twisted logic resembled a village plundered by bandits, where the villagers dare not resist the knife-wielding marauders yet hurl rotten vegetables at soldiers coming to eradicate the bandits.
Because foolishly they concluded, "As long as they don’t resist, they’ll only lose their grain, but resistance will anger the bandits to kill."
This base servility reminded Perfikot of the hyenas in the desert—preferring to gnaw at the carrion left by lions than dare to hunt fresh prey for themselves.
"A perfect specimen of a slave," she murmured, eyes fixed on the description in the battle report, a cold curve tugging at her lips before she clenched her fingers and violently shredded the parchment.
Fragments of paper fluttered down, scattering in the shadows at her feet.
These ignorant survivors, struggling to survive in the doomsday winter, seemed to exist solely to prove why human civilization had fallen to such a state—they willingly cower under fear, yet scoff at true salvation.
When the Missionary Group’s medical officers brought plague vaccines to save their children, these people screamed in terror, "Devil’s potion," viewing the healers as evil spirits.
Yet when the Evil God Priest used the same children for blood sacrifices, burning them alive in the name of "purification," they bowed piously, believing "sacrificing the few can save the many."
How ironic.
This self-domesticated servility could freeze her blood more than the polar gusts.
They weren’t conquered by violence, but tamed by their ignorance and cowardice, willingly kneeling at the feet of crueler deities.
The scattered parchment fragments, like dry leaves, drifted to the floor, their faint rustling conspicuous in the silent hall.
This subtle sound seemed like a signal of determination.
Perfikot slowly lifted her gaze, her pupils devoid of warmth, her sharp stare cutting into the distance, as if piercing through the sea of sand to that city of ignorance.
"Issue the order," her voice returned to its usual calm, yet carried undeniable authority, every word falling like an iron decree—
"I will personally handle the situation in Seven Hills City."
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On the ruins of Seven Hills City, order was slowly recovering from chaos.
The black robes of the Missionary Group and the work clothes of the settler group crisscrossed among the crumbling walls, cooperating closely with the survivors to finally clear out a relatively intact area of the city.
Centered around the mobile Energy Tower, steam and heat surged incessantly from the tower’s summit day and night, providing precious warmth for this cold land.
Around the energy tower, simple yet orderly temporary barracks and canvas tents radiated outward, the gray-white canvases emblazoned with the eagle emblem of the Northern Empire, flapping loudly in the cold wind, proclaiming that this burgeoning settlement had taken shape.
On newly laid cobblestone paths, survivors pushed carts back and forth, transporting steel, timber, and bricks recovered from the ruins.
Following the guidance of technicians, the settlers used these materials to construct more temporary shelters.
The sounds of hammering, sawing, and shouting intermingled, unexpectedly creating a hint of vitality.
Compared to the initial makeshift camp that only had crude wooden fences, the settlement now had constructed a two-meter-high reinforced perimeter.
Sturdy logs deeply embedded in the permafrost, wrapped in iron sheeting on the outside, and sharpened at the top, were sufficient to withstand attacks from ill-intentioned individuals, holding until the Steam Knights launched a counterattack.
