As Chu Guang stared at the three-page tabloid glowing in midair, Yin Fang raised an eyebrow and asked curiously, “What the hell is that? Clearspring... Daily?”

His lab did subscribe to a few newspapers, but since when did Dawn City have that particular one in circulation?

Chu Guang’s expression was a mix of amusement and disbelief. “It’s nothing... just a joke that isn’t very funny.”

Good grief. There were actually people who believed this nonsense...

...

Meanwhile, at the Highway Town Hotel,

Dressed in traveler’s clothes, Sun Yuechi sat quietly in a corner of the lobby, sipping the honey-butter ale recommended by the man at the counter while reading a newspaper he’d just bought from a nearby stand.

“... The Clearspring City Mother Nest secretly imprisoned by the administrator?” His eyebrows rose slightly as he read down line after line, muttering in fascination, “Using Mutant Slime Mold to rebuild civilization... Well, that’s one way to break the stalemate. The administrator of this shelter really is a talent.”

Shelter 404... Now, what exactly was its mission again?

He thought hard for a while, but couldn’t recall anything. Shaking his head, he dropped the thought and kept reading.

Just then, a loud shout broke his concentration and made him look up. “Enough! This is nonsense!”

A burly man slammed the table, veins bulging, glaring at a group of mercenaries sitting nearby. His voice thundered through the room:

“Our administrator cares more about the New Alliance than about himself! If I hear you spouting that baseless slander again, I’ll shove that table down your throat!”

He was an old soldier of the First Army, one of the earliest to follow Chu Guang through countless campaigns. His bond with Shelter 404 ran deeper than most survivors’, for those men always stood at the front lines, always placing themselves in danger first.

And the great administrator even more so.

That man had poured his heart and soul into the New Alliance, he’d been so busy he never even had children of his own. These fools dared insult him?

The veteran nearly drew his sidearm on the spot.

The mercenary stared back, dumbfounded. Moments earlier, he had been chatting with his companions about an article from a newspaper stand, one of those conspiracy theories claiming that the administrator had captured the Hive, sealed it in Clearspring City’s eastern district, and was brewing some terrifying plot.

According to the paper, when the time was right, the administrator would unleash another Tide, turning everyone into mindless puppets.

The mercenary himself hadn’t believed it, he’d only mentioned it for fun. But apparently he had spoken a little too loudly.

He hadn’t expected such an explosive reaction.

Back in the Bugra Free State, even cursing Sigma to his face wouldn’t get one killed; big shots didn’t care about bugs like them anyway. But clearly, things worked differently in the New Alliance...

The inn fell silent.

One angry man wouldn’t have frightened him, but soon he realized there were many eyes on him, and some of them belonged to awakeners with serious power.

“I...” Cold sweat trickled down his temple; he stammered, tongue-tied under the crushing pressure.

Thankfully, one of his companions reacted quickly, stepping in to smooth things over.

“Sorry, friend. No offense meant. We’re new here, first time traveling with a caravan to your lands. We didn’t know the customs, so we bought a paper to read. We didn’t write it! If you’re angry, be angry at the paper, not us.”

He handed the crumpled newspaper over.

Still fuming, the burly veteran snatched it, balled it up, and tossed it aside.

The mercenary silently cursed him but dared not cause trouble on someone else’s turf. He forced an awkward smile. “Can we call it that, then? It’s all drunk talk, no harm meant.”

As the atmosphere hung tense, Old Hooke, the innkeeper, coughed to defuse it. “He’s right. No point singling him out. Blame that shady Clearspring Daily instead. I got a whole stack delivered with the morning papers, straight from the printing house. Took one look and tossed them in the trash.”

“Someone printed that garbage?” The veteran grumbled, realizing he had overreacted, and muttered irritably as he backed down.

Hooke shrugged helplessly.

“The administrator’s got more to worry about than every petty rumor. He can’t manage everything himself, can he?”

Though truth be told, that was part of his strength, he cared that people could afford what sat on the shelves, not what they chose to buy.

As he once said during a past festival: “Anything can be traded, so long as it doesn’t cost our honor or dignity.”

Soon, the room was buzzing with conversation again, everyone cursing that mysterious Clearspring Daily.

At the bar, Eye Owe Money who had been slowly nursing his drink, curiously picked up the crumpled paper that had rolled near his feet.

He shouldn’t have looked. The moment he did, he exploded.

“MOTHER FUCKER! Since when was Little Feather that kind of person?!”

He didn’t care about the conspiracy theories, but the paper’s wording made it sound like Little Feather was the administrator’s slave!

They got the pairing completely wrong!

Holding his glass, Old White chuckled, “Little Feather’s not exactly a person, you know.”

Resting her chin on her hand, slightly tipsy, Chen Yutong teased softly, “True, but it’s still a lot cuter than any human.”

She had recently picked up some of the players’ slang. She was still clumsy, but it was enough to chat casually.

Old White laughed heartily. “Heh, your taste is something else.”

Eye Owe Money burped and stood up unsteadily, crumpling the paper in his fist and tossing it in the trash. “Person or not, Little Feather is our comrade-in-arms! And most importantly, it’s my brother’s wife!”

Irene snorted, “Sure, say that while Falling Feather isn’t here, you clown.”

Was he trying to farm favor points with Little Feather or what? Right, that bastard had one of Little Feather’s sub-entities implanted in him...

“Hic! Anyway! I, Eye Owe Money, will never let anyone smear our Little Feather!”

He stomped on a nearby table and turned toward the rowdy drinkers, shouting loudly in Federation language, “Someone dared to slander our most exalted administrator?!”

“I’m Eye Owe Money, a captain of the Death Corps! It doesn’t matter who that bastard is, he’s getting what’s coming to him!”

Hearing the fool throwing the name of their corps out, Irene nearly spat his drink out laughing.

Then, without warning, the drunk fool pulled out a pistol.

BANG!

He fired a shot into the ceiling and the tavern erupted.

“Yeah!”

“Teach that bastard a lesson!”

“But where do we find him?”

“The printing house that made the papers!”

“RAAAH!”

As the chaos grew, Old White froze for a second, while Irene lunged forward, snatching the pistol from Eye Owe Money’s hand.

“Are you insane?! Are you trying to get banned?!”

“Heh, relax, it’s just a blank.”

Still grinning, Eye Owe Money hopped down from the table and waved the spent casing in front of Irene.

He didn’t expect that moments later, he would get hit with a five-minute yellow card anyway. He barely had time to gloat before he eyes rolled back and he disconnected.

Beside him, Lisa turned paled and asked anxiously, “Is he okay?”

Old White, long used to this nonsense, gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s fine. Just drunk. We’ll haul him back to rest.”

In truth, Little Seven had been lenient. Firing a gun in public, even blanks, even as a first offense, usually meant at least a 24-hour temporary ban, especially in a bar.

The rest of the drunkards didn’t care. They only caught the “Death Corps Commander’s call to arms” and were already fired up, standing and shouting in turn.

Seeing the situation spiral out of control, the mercenaries who had started it panicked, threw some cash on the counter, and slipped out before things got worse.

Hooke sighed but didn’t try to stop the wave of men storming toward the exit. He tossed his rag aside and turned to the wide-eyed Lisa, who was still clutching a tray. “You can clock out early tonight.”

Lisa hesitated nervously. “Isn’t it bad to just let them go like that?”

“It’s fine. There are shelter residents among them, they’ll keep it under control. Probably won’t go too far...” He muttered the last part under his breath, “Probably.”

Honestly, he didn’t like seeing anyone smear the administrator either. Though the man himself likely wouldn’t care about such trivial gossip.

If not for the administrator taking them in that winter, Hooke knew his old bones would’ve rotted somewhere out in the wasteland.

The life he had now felt like a dream, and he would never forget that kindness.

If only he knew who’d written that article, he would gladly kick that bastard straight in the ass.

As the shouting crowd poured out into the street, Sun Yuechi hastily folded up his copy of the paper, terrified someone would notice he had one too.

Luckily, nobody paid him any mind, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have cared.

Their target had already been chosen. They were headed for the printing house, the perfect outlet for their anger.

Watching the mob flood into the street, Sun Yuechi’s forehead darkened.

Is this settlement for real?

He was starting to doubt all those glowing rumors he heard on the road...

At the same time, in a room upstairs, Sindison sat by the window, a grin of pure schadenfreude plastered across his face.

The bigger the crowd outside grew, and the more guards rushed in to contain it, the brighter his grin became.

“Tsk, tsk. Things are about to get fun.”

Just as he had expected.

The newspaper he had fabricated together with other merchants had done its job perfectly, stoking the survivors’ anger to a blazing pitch.

As long as public outrage kept boiling, the Mutant Slime Mold in the eastern district would soon become a political hot potato. Then he and his partners could swoop in as saviors, offering to take them off the New Alliance’s hands... for a bargain price.

Of course, the sub-entities were far too valuable to turn into mere nutrient paste.

Maybe he would hire a few researchers to study them. If he could repurpose them for labor contracts, the profits would dwarf his current scrap-trade business.

Clenching his fists with excitement, Sindison watched the angry crowd surge below and muttered gleefully, “Let the storm rage harder!”