46: Chapter 46 The Expeditionary Force Sets Off

On the morning of the tenth day, the square of Blackstone Town was filled with people.

Four hundred garrison soldiers stood in formation in the morning light, their weapons polished to a shine and their backpacks and leggings secured. Locke stood at the front of the line, his battle axe fitted with the hardwood handle he had carved himself, the grip worn smooth by his palm. Behind him were three infantry platoons and a reconnaissance squad—the entire Expeditionary Force Blackstone Town could muster.

Lin Mo stood on the square's steps, facing four hundred faces, most of which he recognized. He didn't give a long-winded mobilization speech. He simply said one sentence: "Four hundred people are setting out today. I will wait here for four hundred people to return."

A faint golden light flickered at the edge of his vision—the information provided by the mirror of the emperor was concise and precise: Human settlement signal detected ahead. Imperial outpost or wanderer camp, unable to confirm further.

No one responded. But some in the ranks stood a little straighter.

The raven reconnaissance drone circled low over the square before turning north—its course set for the transit coordinates of the Abandoned Forge World. Marcus, in the co-pilot's seat, was adjusting the communication equipment; he waved toward the ground. Locke gave the order to depart. The four-hundred-man column began to move—their footsteps heavy and rhythmic in the morning air, like the beating of a great floor drum.

Lin Mo stood in the square, watching the column disappear into the morning mist. To his right stood Yang Shitou, who had been left behind to manage the reserve militia. To his left stood Alice; she said nothing, merely watching the receding figures alongside him.

Time on this planet passed differently than on Earth. There were no phone notifications to remind him of meetings, no calendars to tell him what day of the week it was. There were only sunrises and sunsets, battles and peace, life and death. He used vertical lines in a notebook to track the days, crossing every fifth line with a horizontal one. This primitive counting method made him feel grounded—at least he knew which day he was on.

"He will come back," Alice said.

He stood there, watching everything, suddenly struck by a strange feeling—if someone had told him a month ago that he would be on a planet an unknown number of light-years from Earth, making gunpowder with high school chemistry, manufacturing guns with college club experience, and planning a village's defense system with the logic of a product manager—he would have thought they were insane. But now he was here, and every bit of it was actually happening.

"I know," Lin Mo said.

But he didn't say the second half—he didn't just know Locke would return. He knew the ammunition they were carrying was only enough for three large-scale encounters. He knew that if the orbital station of the Abandoned Forge World was unusable, the entire expedition plan would have to be redrawn. He knew the number of Orks in the Green Sector might be higher than intelligence suggested. He knew these things, but he told no one.

Only after the engine noise of the raven reconnaissance drone vanished behind the clouds did Lin Mo walk back to the Intelligence Center from the square. He paused at the threshold—the words he had just spoken weren't meant as comfort, but as a promise. Four hundred people leave, four hundred people return. If it is said, it must be done.

The footsteps of four hundred people receded in the morning light,

Like a promise being trodden firmly, step by step.

Like the beating of a floor drum, every strike landing on the dawn of the Black Quartz. Lin Mo stood in the square until the last footstep faded, then turned and walked back to the Intelligence Center.

On the morning the Expeditionary Force set out, the square of Blackstone Town was filled with people seeing them off. Lin Mo stood at the very front of the crowd, watching Locke count heads in the morning mist. The breath of four hundred people condensed into a white fog in the cold air, hanging over the ranks like a low-lying cloud. He noticed several young faces in the line—no more than twenty years old, their knuckles white as they gripped their flintlock muskets. He didn't go over to offer words of comfort. In this universe, comfort was useless. Only bullets and trained men were useful. He needed to provide them with the best equipment and tactics while they were still alive.

On the morning the Expeditionary Force departed, the wind blew from the north. Standing in the square, Lin Mo spotted Yang Shitou in the crowd—he hadn't been included in the expedition list, but he stood among the well-wishers with a pistol tucked into his waist that Lin Mo hadn't seen before. It was a single-shot pistol Old Tom had cobbled together from scrapped parts; it wasn't very accurate, but it could save a life in a pinch. Noticing Lin Mo looking at the gun, Yang Shitou instinctively covered the holster with his hand, then let it go.

He didn't ask where the gun came from—he guessed it was a gift from Old Tom. He simply asked in a low voice as he passed Yang Shitou, "Do you know how to use it?" Yang Shitou was taken aback for a moment, then nodded. He said no more. After Locke led the Expeditionary Force away, the remaining Blackstone Town was much quieter than usual. The forging hammers of the Arsenal still rang, and the lights of the Medical Station remained on—but the square was missing those rhythmic training footsteps. Yang Shitou stood on the half-empty training field, making no move to fill the void. He sat on a wooden post at the edge of the field, disassembling and reassembling the gun Old Tom had given him, passing the time of this unnervingly quiet day.

In this universe, hope is a luxury. Not because it is rare, but because it is fragile—like a match burning in a sandstorm, liable to be extinguished at any moment. But he had discovered something interesting: when you gather many matches together and light them, they aren't so easily put out. Every person in Blackstone Town was one of those gathered matches. Taken individually, any one of them could be snuffed out by the storms of Chaos in the next second. But together, the light and heat they emitted were enough to force the surrounding darkness to retreat a few steps.

—Lin Mo's Diary, the day the Expeditionary Force departed.

Blackstone Town experienced a rare rainstorm that night. Lightning tore through the grey-purple canopy, and thunder echoed through the valley for a long time before dissipating. Rainwater flooded the tent area, and dozens of newly arrived families were forced out of their dwellings by rising water at three in the morning.

Locke organized an emergency rescue team and relocated all affected families during the storm. His own tent was flooded as well—but he was the last to move his own belongings. By the time he carried the last child to a safe area on higher ground, his combat boots were filled with water, making a squelching sound as he walked.

After the storm ended, Lin Mo stood at the entrance of the Town Hall, watching the clouds gradually disperse. Locke walked over and stood beside him; neither spoke for a long time. Finally, Locke spoke: "If storms like this come often in the future... the tents won't hold. We need to build real houses."

Lin Mo nodded, his gaze falling toward the Medical Station. The lights there were still on—someone is always injured after a storm, and she likely hadn't slept all night. After a moment's thought, he said, "Have Old Tom add a waterproof roof to the Medical Station first."

Locke glanced at him but didn't ask further.

Lin Mo nodded. Another problem to solve. But at least—after the storm, they were still standing.

The morning after the storm, Lin Mo encountered something unexpected while inspecting the tent area—the families whose tents had been flooded were spontaneously helping each other rebuild. A few young men were helping an old man pitch a new tent, a woman was changing a neighbor's child into dry clothes, and a veteran was using a combat knife to sharpen wooden stakes to reinforce someone else's tent frame. No one was directing them. No one was assigning tasks. They simply did what they could. Lin Mo stood by and watched for a while, not disturbing them. He made a mental note of an observation: true order isn't designed—it grows naturally in the face of disaster. What he needed to do was simply ensure this growth wasn't interrupted.

On the third day after the storm, Blackstone Town welcomed an unexpected visitor. A man riding a pack beast alone came from the north, soaked to the bone, clutching a cloth bag nearly ruined by the rain.

He was the survivor of the last nearby settlement driven out by Orks. His settlement was named "Iron Spike"—a small agricultural community primarily growing high-protein grains. After the Orks came, no one survived except him.

"I came here because I heard about you," he said. His voice was very raspy, as if he hadn't spoken normally in a long time. "I heard that here... people don't just die for no reason."

That sentence left Lin Mo silent for a long time.

"People don't just die for no reason"—this was no exaggeration. On the Imperial frontier, in sectors where human life was as cheap as grass, "not dying for no reason" was something that required a desperate struggle to achieve.

Lin Mo arranged for him to stay and had Wang Defu take him to see Blackstone Town's farmland. "Show him how we do agriculture," he told Wang Defu.

As Wang Defu led the man into the fields, the man's pace grew slower and slower. Finally, he stopped—because he saw the crops grown from STC genetic sequences, the root systems that flourished even in barren soil, and the grains that could ripen without much water.

He knelt down and touched the crops with his hands. Then he buried his face in his palms.

Wang Defu stood nearby in silence. He knew that when someone sees the "possibility of survival," they need a little time to process it.

Late at night, the lights of Blackstone Town went out one by one, leaving only the torches on the watchtowers flickering in the wind. He stood by the window for a while, then returned to his desk to continue writing his plans.

[The grass spreads across the plain, withering and thriving each year.]

[Wildfires cannot burn it all away; the spring breeze brings it back to life.]

—Bai Juyi, "Farewell on the Grassland." Memory fragments sealed within the mirror of the emperor surfaced quietly in the darkness.

After the storm's floodwaters receded, a child found a fragment in the mud—it wasn't stone, nor metal. It was translucent. Silver. It flowed with a very fine light under the moonlight, as if it were alive. The child gave it to Alice.