The southern industrial district of Dawn City was quiet that night. Most workers had already gone home, and only a few lights glimmered in the guard posts by the factory gates.

Ever since the railway to Daybreak City had been completed, much of the New Alliance’s heavy industry and its workers had shifted northward, leaving behind only a few light industrial enterprises in the city’s earliest industrial zone.

But that shift had its benefits. As the heavy industries moved out, the remaining light industries received focused support from both the New Alliance and Dawn City’s administration.

Especially the year before, when the New Alliance and Boulder Town engaged in fierce competition across multiple sectors, this district’s light industries flourished, giving birth to a number of thriving large-scale factories.

Among them was the Tuja Press.

Its owner, Wangtu, was a survivor from the Brocade River Province and part of the second wave of immigrants after the trouble with the Bonechewer Clan.

During the Prosperity Era, the printing industry had been on the verge of extinction, with hardly any active production lines left for the New Alliance to reference.

At that time, the War of the Sunset Province had just broken out, and the New Alliance faced threats from the Army’s eastern expansionists. Most players were focused on the frontlines and no one had the time or interest to tinker with a niche trade like printing. As a result, printing technology in the New Alliance remained rudimentary, with low automation; both paper pulping and printing required manual labor.

Seeing opportunity in this gap, the southern merchant Wangtu cleverly modified a canning production line, giving the New Alliance its first fully automated system capable of producing, pulping, and printing from start to finish. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Yes, it handled not only printing, but also papermaking.

Later, the factory underwent further upgrades and, leveraging its strong competitiveness, secured printing contracts with major publishers and newspapers such as the Survivor’s Daily. Over time, it grew from a tiny five-acre workshop into a sprawling complex the size of five football fields.

That might sound modest by prewar standards, but for the New Alliance of barely a million people, it was enormous.

Today, Tuja Press was not only the largest printing facility in Dawn City but the largest in the entire New Alliance, commanding an astonishing 63% market share. Its printed materials, including Awakener Bore, were even exported as far as the Lion Kingdom in the west and the Bugra Free State in the north.

Most of the New Alliance’s factories had grown this way, from nothing to greatness. Some thrived on flashes of inspiration, others on persistence, luck, or sheer resources. Backed by the New Alliance’s strong military, entrepreneurs were guaranteed a fair and stable environment in which to develop their talents.

Not everyone could leave their name in history, but nearly everyone who built something worthwhile had a story bordering on legend.

Wangtu was no exception, he took immense pride in both his decision to move north with his family and his choice to enter the printing trade. He planned to write a memoir after retirement, a chronicle of this miraculous era.

If a factory worker who barely knew how to write could publish a best-selling book that inspired thousands, surely he could too, if he put his heart into it.

To avoid forgetting his youthful struggles, he decided to start early, jotting down daily notes as a warm-up.

Every night after the factory lights went out, he would open his desk drawer, pour himself a drink of potato-distilled liquor brewed by the shelter residents, gaze at the city lights outside his window, and draft the opening lines of his future bestseller.

Tonight, however, just as he wrote the words “Nothing happened today,” he noticed a string of bright lights flickering on the street below.

Still tipsy, Wangtu staggered to the window and squinted outside, mumbling to himself, “What’s that about?”

Wasn’t the celebration supposed to be the day after tomorrow?

As he puzzled over the growing commotion outside, hurried footsteps echoed in the hall, no knocking, just the door bursting open. His accountant stumbled in, pale-faced and out of breath. “Boss! Something terrible’s happened!”

Startled, Wangtu turned halfway around, still confused. “What’s got you so panicked?”

Seeing his boss’s blank look, the accountant was on the verge of tears as he shouted, “The shipment we sent out today, the newspapers, something went wrong! That Clearspring Daily’s headline insulted the administrator! The kiosks are saying the paper was printed here! The streets are full of angry citizens, even soldiers from the First Army! We’re in big trouble!”

“Wait, what’s Clearspring Daily? We never printed that, did we?” Wangtu stared at him, dumbfounded, as if a cauldron had dropped from the sky straight onto his head.

No, something isn’t right here.

It suddenly clicked, why were they coming after him? If there was a problem with the content, shouldn’t they go after the publisher? He just ran a printing plant!

His factory produced thousands of tons daily, newspapers, textbooks, novels, even packaging boxes. How was he supposed to know what got printed where?

“They must have the wrong place!” Wangtu shouted, sweating profusely as he grabbed his accountant’s arm. “Go explain to them...”

The accountant didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He blurted, “Boss, forget explanations! We need to get you out the back now! Don’t let them catch you!”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Cold sweat poured down his forehead as the alcohol vanished from his veins.

Looking back outside, he saw the flashing lights were from flashlights. There were dozens of them. As he stared out the window, those flashlights turned in unison, dozens of eyes now fixed on his office, the only one with its lights still on.

His blood ran cold.

In a panic, he followed the accountant downstairs, slipping out the back door just as a roaring mob stormed through the front gates.

The guards couldn’t hold them, the crowd surged through the factory yard, splitting into groups: some toward the offices, others toward the warehouse where the papers were stored.

“Call the police, call the security forces!” Wangtu shouted desperately.

The accountant swallowed hard. “I-I already did!”

“Already?! Then where the hell are they?!” Wangtu cried, pacing frantically by the back gate.

At last, reinforcements from the Guard Corps arrived from the city center, but they were too late.

By the time they reached the scene, flames were already roaring from the warehouse, lighting the factory yard bright as day.

Inside were stacks of freshly printed newspapers, ready to ship out within hours, all gone, devoured by fire.

Staring at the inferno, Wangtu looked utterly stricken. His mouth opened and closed before he finally croaked, “This... This... Why?!”

...

A fire in an industrial district was no small matter.

When the crowds had first begun to gather, Chu Guang had already ordered Little Seven to dispatch guards to contain the situation.

But facing enraged citizens, the few guards on site could do nothing. They were quickly dubbed disloyal cowards and quickly overpowered.

Worse yet, after hearing what Clearspring Daily had written, some guards were swayed, and joined the angry mob.

After all, the New Alliance’s first standing army had grown out of the Guard Corps. The First and Second Army started there. In terms of loyalty, they considered themselves second to none. And they would never tolerate anyone insulting their beloved administrator.

So the chaos snowballed. Only when the fire broke out did anyone realize things had gone too far, and the same people who had set it off scrambled to help put it out.