Having distributed over four hundred sets of new uniforms and shoes in one fell swoop, Michael had toiled until well past three in the morning before finally collapsing into bed. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the sovereign lord of this hundred-kilometer stretch of wasteland would typically sleep lazily until the sun was high in the sky before rousing himself for a belated breakfast.
In reality, it felt to the young man as if he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes when he was abruptly startled awake. Michael, who had been sleeping soundly with an arm draped around a barmaid, was jolted by a tempestuous knocking at his door. Simultaneously, the urgent, agitated voice of the black man, O'Neill, shouted from the corridor, "Sir! It's terrible! They're fighting!"
Hearing O'Neill's words clearly, Michael was instantly gripped by alarm. Even though he couldn't fathom what threat could have emerged—believing his territory secure after the recent clash with the united bandit horde—life in the Wasteland was perpetually fraught with unexpected crises. A single moment of negligence or a misjudged response could lead to catastrophic consequences.
In his panic, Michael didn't even have time for shoes. Clad only in his boar-patterned undershorts, he flung the door open and seized O'Neill by the collar. A torrent of questions erupted from him the moment the door swung open: "How many are there? What weapons do they carry? Which faction do they belong to? Have they breached the walls? Why do I hear no sounds of battle? Are my guards utterly useless?"
He had initially thought to hoist the man up to add force to his oaring interrogation, but the 1.83-meter-tall young man was a full head shorter than the two-meter-plus O'Neill, making the gesture impossible.
Sprayed with a faceful of spittle by his lord, O'Neill wore a thoroughly bewildered expression. After a long moment, he finally stammered out, "Sir, what faction breaking in? Are you still half-asleep? It's just a few men from the guard... they're practically beating each other's brains out."
Michael: "..."
The matter, as it turned out, was not a major crisis. Under Michael's rapid-fire questioning, the whole story soon tumbled out from the unfortunate subordinate. The incident had occurred in one of the tent dormitories housing the single dogs of the guard. A few men had suddenly started brawling with intense ferocity. Such a breach of discipline was unprecedented since Lord Harry Potter had taken over.
In the days of the previous town chief, the short-lived Andrew, fights among the natives were commonplace, often erupting over a scrap of food. But under Lord Harry Potter's rule, where clean water flowed freely and bellies were generally full, these once-unruly individuals had dared not act out, terrified of angering their benefactor and losing their newfound stability.
Once he understood the situation, Michael was indeed quite irritated. Was it because I'd let these natives eat their fill that they now had energy to spare for such nonsense?Instinctively, he wanted the instigators thrown out of the settlement immediately and permanently barred.
But a sliver of remaining reason told him that a competent leader shouldn't act so hastily. Suppressing his anger, he ordered O'Neill, "Take those idiots to the office immediately."
...
Soon, the four men involved in the brawl were brought to the office,crestfallen.It seemed that after the initial rush of blood, their clear-headed minds had returned, and they were now thoroughly terrified of the consequences of their impulsive actions.
By now, the population of Sweetwater Gulch was close to five hundred. Having been there for so long, Michael recognized most faces. He had some impression of these four dejected individuals. One of them, a man named Derek, he knew relatively well. If he remembered correctly, this fellow had been one of the mercenaries hired for the Detroit operation, a man who ate as if he hadn't seen food in ages. Remarkably, while his fellow mercenaries suffered heavy casualties, he emerged without a scratch, earning a place in the settlement. Remembering the brutal battle they had survived, Michael's initial fury subsided somewhat.
"Explain yourselves," he said, his voice cooler now. "Give me one reason for this fight. If you can convince me, we'll let the matter drop. Otherwise, you'll be expelled and blacklisted, never to return."
Hearing this, Derek's eyes immediately turned red. Pointing a trembling finger at the other three men, he roared furiously, "These beasts! They... they took advantage of me being asleep and did... did that vile thing to my wife! All three of them! I wish I could kill them!"
Whoa!Under the weight of thisshocking piece of gossip, Michael's eyes nearly popped out. Simultaneously, his heart filled with sympathy—what man could endure such a violation?
But soon, he sensed something was off. Wait, when this guy joined, he was a bachelor. There are hardly any unattached widows in town. Could he have wooed one so quickly? Also, couples are assigned separate quarters. Why was he crammed together with three other bachelors?
With great suspicion, Michael instinctively ordered, "Bring his 'wife' here."
Moments later, Derek's "wife"—the former scavenger's spouse—was carried in by O'Neill. Yes, carriedin with one hand. The reason? It was a realistic silicone doll.
The moment Michael saw the doll, it looked somewhat familiar. Ah, right! The one dug up in the Detroit ruins, the one I kicked away.It seemed Derek hadn't forgotten it even during the frantic retreat. It had been cleaned and elevated to wifely status. Recalling the "all three of them" detail, Michael felt goosebumps rise all over his body. The doll looked a bit... damaged.
In the end, Michael decided on a relatively lenient punishment. Derek himself would receive twenty public lashes. The other three troublemakers were sentenced to forty lashes each. Furthermore, they were to compensate Derek for his "losses," upholding Michael's principle that "private property is inviolable."
The lashes, administered personally by the minotaur John, were no joke. But compared to permanent exile, the four men were profoundly grateful.
The leniency stemmed mainly from Michael's understanding of the emptiness, loneliness, cold that plagued these well-fed men during the long nights. Given the Wasteland's skewed gender ratio, he had no immediate solution.
Leaving this headache behind, Michael declared, "I'm going back to sleep. Don't anyone dare wake me up," and returned to his bed. As soon as he pulled back the covers, two pairs of slender arms opened to embrace him. Thus, the mentally exhausted young man drifted back into blissful sleep.
But it seemed Michael had run into some sort of bad luck. Just as he was sleeping soundly, the door was once again pounded with a loud "Bang! Bang! Bang!"
O'Neill's annoying voice sounded again: "Sir! It's bad! They're fighting~!"
After a pause of about a second, he added: "This time it's not our own people. It's a real fight with outsiders."