Time passed quickly, and dawn arrived on Michael's third day in the Wasteland. The relative peace of the settlement was shattered by the strident sound of his voice, bellowing commands in the grey, pre-dawn light. Many of the townsfolk were rudely awakened, either by his shouts or the sharp prodding of his boots, as he rushed about setting things in motion.
"Old Gimpy! Is the intercom system on the truck installed? Do it right! We'll be testing its maximum range on this trip!"
"John! Finished with the weapon maintenance? Don't just stand there like a stump! Take some men, oil all the bicycle chains with waste grease, and check the tires for leaks. Patch them if needed!"
"Onil! Make absolutely sure that water truck tank is scrubbed clean! I'm not drinking from a tank lined with green slime. You might stomach it, but I'd rather not spend the trip with my guts in revolt!"
The entire town was stirred from sleep. As the shouting and clatter continued, people began to pay close attention to the commotion near the main gate. The signs were unmistakable: their Lord Harry Potter was preparing to venture out. While the precise reason remained a mystery to most, the scale of the preparations—far beyond the usual subterfuge of his "disappearances"—indicated a significant expedition. Curiosity quickly replaced sleepiness.
Soon, the entire population was up, washing their faces while casting speculative glances towards the gathering party. The collective guess was correct. Michael was indeed about to depart. This was not the feigned exit that preceded his returns to the modern world, but a genuine foray into the Great Wasteland, a journey expected to last several days at least.
The reason? He had waited two more days. Zhang Tiezhu and the other promised immigrants, with their families in tow, had failed to appear. From snippets of past conversations, Michael recalled that their supposed base was only a few dozen kilometers away in a straight line. With a minivan and bicycles, a round trip should have taken a day, two at most. Yet, nearly a week had passed with no word.
The continued silence could only mean one thing: Zhang Tiezhu and his people had encountered serious trouble—the kind that prevented even sending a messenger. After a night of anxious deliberation, Michael had decided to set out at first light. His goal was to find their base and assess the situation, offering whatever help he could. He could only hope, after this delay, that it wasn't already too late.
Of course, a darker possibility had crossed his mind. What if there was no trouble? What if Zhang Tiezhu and the others had simply tricked him, making off with a trove of food, water, a minivan, and ten bicycles before retreating to their hideout? He had quickly dismissed the thought. He chose to believe the sincerity he had seen in his countrymen's eyes. More importantly, if he couldn't trust these fellow descendants of the Middle Kingdom in this hellscape, who couldhe trust? If he was wrong, if this was a costly lesson, then so be it. He would accept the tuition fee.
Beyond the rescue mission, this journey served another purpose. After several crossings, he, the self-styled "overlord" of a hundred-kilometer radius, had barely ventured beyond the town's perimeter. This was no way to govern. For the ambitious construction of the Territory of Meili to proceed, he needed a basic understanding of his domain. What resources lay nearby? What was the general topography? What potential pools of labor existed in the scattered ruins? He needed a rough mental map.
Thus, long before dawn, Michael had risen. His method of rousing his lieutenants was a series of thunderous kicks to their doors. Once awake, he set them to work preparing the expedition. Action was one thing, but Michael valued his hide. He wasn't about to plunge blindly into the Wasteland, towards ruins whispered to hold countless dangers, without being as prepared as possible.
First, sustenance. Any journey into the Wasteland demanded food and water. The small truck was essential. Into its cargo bed went a literal ton of rice, a hundred kilograms of flour, and over a hundred and fifty kilograms of assorted dried meats and preserved foods. For water, each man carried two canteens or waterskins. The real prize, however, was the captured water truck. It would be towed behind the smaller vehicle via a steel cable, serving as their mobile reservoir. With a six-ton capacity, it held enough water for days, even allowing for Michael's potential baths. The small truck could manage the tow, if driven carefully. The only issue was the tank's interior, which was coated in a disturbing layer of greenish slime. It had to be scrubbed repeatedly before Michael would consider drinking from it.
Second, security. The Great Wasteland was synonymous with danger. Threats lurked everywhere, ready to claim lives in an instant. Therefore, defense was paramount. The minotaur, John, personally selected twenty of the guard's best fighters to accompany their Lord. Onil would remain behind to hold the fort. Twenty well-armed men constituted a formidable force in the Wasteland. Add to that three Garand rifles, the M16, and all remaining ammunition, and Michael felt reasonably confident in his safety.
By a little past seven, preparations were complete. The cook, the formidable dark-skinned matron, presented the departing party with a special, hearty breakfast—strangely-shaped dumplings stuffed with dried meat and cactus flesh. Dumplings for departure, noodles for return—Lord Harry Potter was a man of tradition. If his phone had internet access, he'd have consulted the almanac for an auspicious hour.
Sated, Michael climbed into the truck's cab. He honked the horn, a sharp blare cutting through the morning air.
At the head, the minotaur John led a vanguard of six men on bicycles, their legs pumping as they pedaled out of the town's main gate.
Next, the small truck lurched forward, the heavy water truck groaning into motion behind it on its tow cable. On the roof of the truck's cab, two sharpshooters were stationed, their Garands held ready. They scanned the horizon with a borrowed pair of binoculars, eyes sharp, legs secured by safety ropes to prevent being thrown clear by rough terrain.
Flanking the small convoy on either side were three more bicycles each, their riders acting as mobile guards.
Bringing up the rear were six more men. They had four bicycles among them and had also temporarily "borrowed" the half-elf Richard's prized pedal tricycle for the rearguard.
Thus, cocooned in the center of this protective formation, Michael embarked on his first true expedition into the heart of the Great Wasteland. The Territory of Meili receded behind them, and the vast, silent, perilous expanse of the Wasteland lay ahead.