The collapsed "Devil's Overhang" had nearly filled half the rift. Between several massive ruined walls, we had hastily erected a wind shelter using animal skins and wooden planks dug from the debris.
The air was thick with the smell of damp dust and lingering blood.
Several basins of barely burning charcoal illuminated the rickety long table in the center of the tent.
A meeting regarding the reconstruction of Silvermoon Rift was underway. Seated were the only remaining decision-makers of the Rift.
"Keep dreaming, Lord Architect."
Lyn's slender fingers tapped on the dusty tabletop, making a crisp, rhythmic sound. This Vulpine woman in charge of finance had extremely shrewd eyes. She threw a ledger, hastily bound with parchment, onto the center of the table.
"While I'd love to support your grand plan, numbers don't lie."
Lyn's voice was sharp and calm. "Our food stock lasts 5 days. Heating oil and charcoal run out in 3 days. As for the steel urgently needed to patch defenses... Zero."
She scanned the silent group, finally staring at me. "Bottom line? We are bankrupt."
"Despair is scarier than poverty."
Ela, sitting opposite Lyn, spoke softly.
The young Cat-kin priestess wore a dust-stained white robe, the white cat ears on her head drooping in exhaustion. She had just returned from the infirmary, carrying the bitter scent of herbs.
"The condition of the wounded is worsening. That Ursine warrior with the broken leg, Bjorn, his wound is turning purple from the cold. Everyone is asking, we repelled the Wolf pack, but can we survive this winter? If the end is still freezing to death, what was the point of this victory?"
The tent fell into deathly silence.
Only the whimpering of the wind scraping over the ruins outside seemed to mock the powerlessness of us survivors.
I stood in front of the makeshift map, pushing up the glasses on my nose.
I sighed internally.
This is reality. During the war, you are a hero; but when the smoke clears, if you can't feed and clothe everyone, you are an unqualified foreman.
"We don't lack resources."
I finally spoke, voice calm. "We just lack the means to transport them in."
I turned to Zayla. "Your Majesty, the map."
Zayla sat at the head of the table, still wearing that scratched old leather armor. She gave me a deep look, pulled a roll of yellowed parchment map from her chest, and slowly spread it on the table.
This ancient map marked locations unknown to many present.
My finger skimmed over the floating island icon in the northwest corner—the legendary "Old Royal Capital-Sun City" of the Cat-kin, and the place of restoration Zayla longed for.
Elder Karl, who had been silent, saw that mark, a flash of grief and awe in his cloudy old eyes.
"That is our past..." the old man murmured. "Before we became wanderers."
My finger swiped quickly, stopping at a seaside marker in the southeast.
"Rustywater Port."
Lyn's fox ears twitched, then revealed a playful smile. "That den of vice? I worked every angle in that city for three years. As long as you have money, you can buy anything there—slaves, steel, food, even engine parts discarded by the Storm Clan. But, Boss..."
Lyn pointed to the long wasteland on the map. "From the Rift to Rustywater Port, the journey is long and crawling with bandits. On our two legs, it takes at least half a month, and we can't carry much back."
"So we don't walk."
I pulled out a sketch drawn long ago and pressed it onto the map.
It was a blueprint for a vehicle with six massive wheels, rugged as a steel beast.
[Tier 1 Vehicle Blueprint: The Land Cruiser].
"Sarak." I looked to the other end of the table.
"Can you build it?" I asked.
Sarak grabbed the blueprint, her rock-hard hands gently stroking the complex transmission structure, eyes shining with fanatical light.
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"This is the 'Iron Steed' you talked about?" Sarak's voice was gritty like sandpaper on metal. "The structure is wild, I like it. Give me enough iron, and I can hammer it out. But this thing is too heavy; normal draft horses can't pull it."
"It doesn't need horses."
I picked up a charcoal stick and drew a heavy circle at the deepest part of the Rift on the map—right beneath our feet.
"Before building the car, we need to survive first. I want to build a heart here."
Another blueprint was slapped onto the table.
[Tier 2 Core Tech: Aether-Steam Engine].
"Kaelas." I looked to the corner.
Huddled there was a fellow Vulpine, but a neurotic one. Alchemist Kaelas had a head of frizzy, burnt hair; even the tip of his fluffy fox tail bore scorch marks. He was constantly shaking a test tube emitting eerie green smoke.
"Kaelas, I need you." I stared at the alchemist. "Normal coal can't run this machine. I need you to refine the [Frost Shards] dropped by the Wolf King and the surrounding Aether ores into High-Energy Fuel Rods."
"Alchemy for fuel, Engineering for the engine." I threw out the bait. "You handle the fuel, and I'll give you a super furnace that never explodes but outputs infinite energy."
Kaelas's cunning fox eyes widened instantly, breathing becoming rapid. For an alchemist constantly worried about blowing himself up, "Controlled Continuous Explosion" was simply the ultimate romance.
"Three days!" Kaelas screeched, holding up three potion-stained green fingers. "Give me three days! I'll get you 'Aether Coal'!"
"No! This is too radical!"
Elder Karl stood up abruptly, cane thumping the ground, beard trembling.
"Digging open Earth Mother's bones to mine? And building this black smoke-spewing monster? We survived in the Rift for a century by keeping a low profile! Making such a commotion, black smoke rising to the sky, will attract the wrath of the Gods (Storm Clan)!"
The Elder turned to Zayla, voice pleading:
"Your Majesty! You cannot listen to this outworlder! This is blasphemy against tradition! We should seal the Rift immediately and pray to the Goddess Bastet..."
"Elder Karl."
I interrupted him, voice not loud, but carrying an unquestionable hardness.
"The 'low profile' you speak of nearly turned us all into Wolf rations. In this damn wasteland, Calories are Justice. Caliber is Truth."
I didn't look at the Elder again, but turned to Zayla, bowing slightly.
"The plan is laid out: Kaelas on fuel, Sarak on manufacturing. But this requires mobilizing everyone, including those Wolf prisoners."
"Give the order, Zayla."
Everyone's gaze in the tent focused on Zayla.
The young Cat-kin Queen sat in the shadows, fingers gently rubbing the hilt of the broken blade at her waist.
On one side was "Tradition" represented by the respected Elder; on the other was the "Mad Future" painted by me, the alien engineer.
After seconds of dead silence, Zayla stood up.
She walked up to Elder Karl, eyes devoid of past hesitation, holding only the resolve forged in fire.
"Elder." Zayla said softly. "When the Wolf King breached the line, the Goddess didn't save us. Alex's concrete did."
Elder Karl opened his mouth, finally sitting back in his chair dejectedly.
Zayla turned, golden vertical pupils, scanning the crowd, voice cold and firm:
"Do as he says."
She looked at Lyn: "Prepare the trade list, gather everything valuable."
She looked at Kaelas and Sarak: "Build the factory. Goblin, bring your hammer; Fox, bring your potions."
Finally, she looked at me, eyes complex but full of trust:
"As for those Wolf prisoners... do whatever you want with them, as long as they work."
"As you command, Your Majesty."
Alex just realized that playing SimCity in survival mode is harder than Dark Souls.
Question of the Day: What is the most important resource in the apocalypse?
(Click to allocate the budget)
?? A) Faith (Pray to Gods).
Result: The Elder's Choice. It comforts the soul, but unfortunately, prayers have a notoriously low caloric value. You can't eat hope. Efficiency: Low.
?? B) Gold (Trade).
Result: The Merchant's Way. Useful, but dangerous. Going to Rustywater Port with money but no guns is just donating your wallet to bandits. Risk: High.
?? C) Horsepower (Industrialization).
Result: The Engineer's Manifesto. Winner. "Calories are Justice. Caliber is Truth." Why pray for a miracle when you can build a steam engine that manufactures miracles on an assembly line?
Follow and Rate. The factory whistle is about to blow.