The morning mist had not yet dispersed. The air was thick with a unique blend of wet concrete, settling dust, and the lingering, coppery tang of old blood.
I took a deep breath. This was the scent of “Reconstruction”—a smell that carried both the sweetness of hope and the cruel undertone of post-war survival.
Ironfang was taken by the Storm Clan, and thousands of Wolf elites were mostly turned into fertilizer on the wasteland, but the mess left behind was colossal. Besides the two hundred surviving Cat-kin, Ursine, and Vulpine, there were 350 surrendered Wolf prisoners.
From a resource management perspective, this was a massive asset of labor, but from a security perspective, it was like stacking piles of gunpowder kegs in your living room, waiting for a spark.
At the other end of the square, the atmosphere was tense enough to snap a steel cable.
Hundreds of disarmed Wolf warriors, stripped to the waist, dragged heavy iron shackles on their ankles. The rhythmic clinking of chains mixed with the roar of overseers as they moved massive stones.
“Move it! Don't slack off!” Ron stood on high ground, his pointed cat ears twitching alertly, holding a captured whip. Although his physique was far less robust than the wolves, as the victor, he stood tall with no fear.
“If you don't finish today's concrete quota, tonight's broth is canceled!” Ron shouted. “Don't think you're still roaming the plains doing whatever you want. Here, no work means no food!”
Just then, the situation shifted.
A tall Wolf Centurion with a scar across his face—system tagged as Karg—stopped abruptly. He looked at the Cat-kin boy ordering him around, the contempt in his eyes outweighing his fatigue.
Thud!
He slammed a rock weighing two hundred pounds viciously onto the ground, splashing muddy water everywhere.
“I quit!” Karg roared, humiliation burning in his green eyes as he stared down Ron. “Let a soft-footed cat order me around? We are warriors! We are the glorious blood of Garza! You used to run when you saw me, now you dare treat me like a coolie!”
This roar was like lighting a fuse. Dozens of surrounding Wolf prisoners dropped their tools. They bared sharp fangs, emitting low, vibrating growls from their chests.
Although Ron immediately gripped his whip tighter, fur puffing up on his tail, facing the killing intent of dozens of strong Wolf-men exposed his physical disadvantage instantly. He involuntarily took half a step back.
“What? Planning a mutiny?”
Zayla's voice cut through the noise.
She jumped down from the high platform. She still wore that signature old leather armor, silver-white hair dancing in the morning wind.
Zayla walked up to Karg, looked up, and locked her golden vertical pupils onto the Wolf-man, a head taller than her.
“Garza is gone. Your glory was severed by me.”
Zayla said coldly. Her voice wasn't loud, but it held a heart-palpitating calm. “Here, there are only two paths: labor for food, or... become a bone in this concrete, embedded in the wall forever.”
A rattling growl came from Karg's throat. He was weighing his options. Even without weapons, natural Wolf strength gave him the impulse to tear this “kitten” apart in an instant.
This was a classic game theory deadlock.
At this moment, an “external variable” was needed to break the equilibrium.
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I walked over.
I carried no weapon. Only a metal plate in my hand. On the plate was a freshly grilled, sizzling slab of meat—cut from a mutated boar hunted yesterday., but I had sprinkled it with Black Pepper and Coarse Salt traded from the Earth System.
The exotic, rich scent—the Maillard Reaction between black pepper and roasted meat—acted like a chemical hook, instantly drilling into the highly sensitive noses of all Wolves.
It wasn't just the smell of food. In the wasteland, spices meant trade, surplus productivity, and a luxury only the highest lords could enjoy.
GURGLE...
Even from meters away, I heard Karg's stomach protest louder than his growl. His so-called “glory” began to waver in the face of gastric acid.
“Zayla, don't be so serious.”
I walked between them, wearing the classic smile of a ruthless profiteer—seemingly harmless, but already calculating exactly how to fleece them dry.
“We don't keep idlers, but we don't abuse labor either. This is today's lunch standard—but only after the quota is met.”
I handed the piece of meat to a small Wolf prisoner nearby. The guy hesitated, and under Karg's murderous gaze, couldn't resist his instinct. He swallowed it in one bite.
The next second, his eyes widened as if tasting heaven. The spiciness of the black pepper detonated on his taste buds. For a barbarian who had only eaten raw, bloody meat, this was a miracle.
“So... so good...”
Karg swallowed hard. Half the killing intent in his eyes dissipated, replaced by confusion and a primal physiological craving.
“As long as we work... we eat this?” Karg asked, voice hoarse, staring straight at the empty plate.
“It's not charity, and it's not punishment.”
“This is the Law of Conservation of Energy. Input labor, output calories. If you want to survive in this system, you have to follow my laws of thermodynamics.”
Karg looked at the cold glint of Zayla's broken blade, then at the plate in my hand, still smelling of grease.
Finally, biological instinct defeated hollow glory.
He gritted his teeth and bent down to pick up the rock again.
A crisis that could have sparked a riot was defused by a single black-pepper boar chop.
Top of the Watchtower.
The wind whistled, mixed with the faint, high-pitched hum of energy leaking from the distant rift.
Zayla leaned against the rough concrete battlement, watching the busy crowd below, eyes complex.
“You know how to win hearts,” she whispered. “But I can feel the fire still in that wolf's eyes. They are not tamed.”
“I know.”
“This is temporary. To tame a wolf, you fill their stomach first, then ‘format’ their brain. It's a systems engineering project; it can't be rushed.”
Zayla turned, looking at my profile, and suddenly gave a bitter smile.
“Alex.”
“Hmm?”
“I used to think the Elders were talking nonsense. They always chanted about how 'The Builder doesn't just build walls, but builds hearts'... it sounded like a bedtime story for kittens.”
Zayla's voice was soft, fingers rubbing the hilt of her broken blade. “The prophecy says: ‘He shall be the shelter for all wanderers; his wall blocks the storm, but also guards the lost beasts.’ Seeing you tame Karg with a piece of meat today, I suddenly feel... maybe those old fools were right.”
My hand paused.
Guardian?
I looked at my hands, hands that only knew how to draw blueprints and write code. I didn't like this fatalistic talk.
Then, I shrugged, returning to a relaxed tone.
“Don't overthink it, Your Majesty. I just don't want to waste labor. After all, these guys are strong, even if they eat a lot.”
I raised my hand, pointing to the ancient rift emitting black smoke not far away.
“Compared to ethereal prophecies, I have bigger problems. That rift... it's starting to ‘leak’.”
Zayla followed my finger.
In the center of the ruins of the old stone fort, around the originally stable spacetime tunnel, the air was distorting like water ripples. Wisps of pale purple energy were escaping, like a silent warning.
On my retina, a red warning box suddenly popped up:
“Looks like our free lunch time is over.”
My tone becoming serious. “Get ready, Zayla. The Wolf trouble was just an appetizer. The real storm... might be in the sky.”
Zayla gripped her broken blade tightly, casting her gaze toward the firmament.
“If we didn't believe in the prophecy, we would have been extinct long ago.” She softly repeated the words from that night. “Since you built the wall, I will guard it. Whether the enemy comes from below, or above.”
Alex just discovered that "Reconstruction" is just a fancy word for "Babysitting with Sledgehammers."
Question of the Day: How do you quell a mutiny without wasting bullets?
(Click to choose your management style)
?? A) The Whip (Fear).
Result: The Tyrant's Path. Works temporarily. But pressure builds up. Eventually, the chains break, and you get eaten. Sustainability: Low.
?? B) The Speech (Diplomacy).
Result: Talk No Jutsu. "We are all friends!" Yeah, right. They tried to turn you into fertilizer yesterday. Wolves respect claws, not words. Charisma Check: Failed.
?? C) Gastronomic Warfare (Steak).
Result: The Pavlov Protocol. Winner. The Maillard reaction is a chemical weapon. Dignity is important, but have you tasted black pepper? Loyalty: Purchased.
Follow and Rate. Look up. The sky is getting hungry.