CHAPTER 441: 243, REFORM

Under Chen Che’s arrangements, the entire Lighthouse began to exert its influence wherever it held sway in the Ninth Special Zone.

...

"Boss, boss, give me the number 13 contraband! Quick, hurry!" In the tavern, a man with a chest full of hair burst in, breathing heavily and anxiously.

The number 13 contraband he spoke of was the most rampant prohibited item in the Ninth Special Zone, capable of causing hallucinations, reducing pain, and was highly addictive.

Upon hearing Song Hu’s words, the boss nonchalantly took out a small blue pill from under the counter and said, "500."

Song Hu’s hand paused while holding the contraband, then he cursed angrily, "Fuck you, it used to be 100 bucks, why is it 500 now? Are you robbing me?"

"Heh, it’s 500 anywhere you go now. Let me tell you, this stuff is about to go out of stock in the market. I don’t know what the Wildfire Gang... no, now renamed to Lighthouse, is thinking. They’ve monopolized the whole Ninth Special Zone, over 95% of the smuggling routes were crazily trading contraband, and now they’ve suddenly declared they’re not doing any contraband business anymore."

"Fuck them, I don’t care about this Wildfire Gang Lighthouse! Are they out of their minds, not making money when they can?! If they don’t stock up, what are we supposed to eat? Trying to kill me! Damn, these bastards are sitting on a gold mine and doing nothing, taking over so many smuggling shares, and not letting us do business, fuck them!"

Song Hu cursed, eyes bloodshot, and even knowing the contraband was 500 a piece, he tossed it into his mouth without hesitation.

There was no other way, that endless craving was tormenting him to death.

The boss, with a cigar in his mouth, took a puff and said, "The Lighthouse has declared that from now on, regarding these kinds of smuggling businesses, the Lighthouse will no longer be involved. Slave trade, organ smuggling, contraband smuggling... other forces are welcome to take a bite of this fat meat if they’re capable.

But they also said, in places under the Lighthouse’s flag, these things are no longer allowed. If someone carries or consumes contraband in places run by the Lighthouse, they’ll have their tongues cut out."

"Fuck, is the leader of the Lighthouse out of their mind? The entire Ninth Special Zone has hundreds of thousands of people, how many of them use contraband? A third of them do, right? Occupying a gold mine and doing nothing, as the biggest gang in the Ninth Special Zone, by not selling contraband, won’t the price of contraband in the whole Ninth Special Zone skyrocket?

If those lunatics can’t afford contraband, won’t they turn the Lighthouse upside down?" Song Hu widened his eyes, full of disbelief.

The boss shrugged, wiping a glass with the cigar between his lips, and said, "Who knows what the Lighthouse is thinking?"

The reason the Lighthouse could quickly eliminate other gangs and take control of the entire Ninth Special Zone without sparking a massive backlash was fundamentally because it took over the business of other gangs while taking control of their trade routes.

They reconnected these trade routes, continuously supplying contraband and other needed goods to the various factions in the Ninth Special Zone.

Ensuring that the supply chain was unbroken, so everyone had something to eat, and everyone had something to drink.

It’s just like you’re a slave owner; you have many slaves; you feed these slaves to ensure they don’t starve, making you believe they’re loyal. Yet before long, a stronger slave master from the east comes, kills you with one stroke, and controls all your slaves. He feeds and gives water to these slaves, ensuring they don’t starve.

In such a scenario, the slaves wouldn’t care who the master is.

After all, no matter who the master is, they’re still slaves.

Through Bobby’s efforts, the Lighthouse provided most of the contraband and other necessities to keep this dark and tumultuous society stable.

If the Lighthouse stopped supplying contraband, prices of contraband would inevitably skyrocket throughout the Ninth Special Zone.

Those addicted to contraband wouldn’t be able to afford it, naturally becoming irritable and easily agitated.

Mad addicts would very likely go insane and assault the entire Lighthouse.

The consequences would be severe.

The tavern owner did not understand what the Lighthouse had in mind either. Thinking it over, he suddenly said, "Oh, there is news, the Lighthouse supposedly can help all addicts fully kick their addiction... If you can’t afford contraband, you can try it; it’s said it can detox any contraband addiction."

The originally irritable man was stunned upon hearing this, and his mouth twitched as he said, "Fuck off, if I could quit, I wouldn’t want to. Aren’t they just trying to scam me for money?"

Many people initially encountered contraband under the wasteland of doomsday, with ever-increasing pressure, and resorted to such things to relieve their stress.

But later, they gradually became addicted and couldn’t quit.

All known contraband on the Wasteland has significant harmful effects on the body; long-term use is tantamount to shortening one’s life, and it consumes a lot of money, practically putting oneself under the control of certain forces.

Many people started using contraband to relieve pressure, but in the end, they also realized its harm, however, it was too late to quit.

Some managed to quit through sheer willpower, but later, under various pressures, they still missed the pleasure of contraband; frankly, they hadn’t really quit.

On the Wasteland, there were quite a few people charging fees for detox services, claiming they could help anyone kick their contraband addiction.

Many were fooled, as quitting contraband was not easy.

The man figured the Lighthouse was just the same old story.

Hearing this, the tavern owner paused his actions and said, "It’s not. Allegedly, it’s completely free, and they guarantee you’ll have no urge to relapse?"

The man’s footsteps paused when he heard these words, he raised his head and said incredulously, "A free quit?"

"I heard it’s like that, if you can’t afford it, just give it a try."

...

On the street by the tavern, a limping man was pushing a cart, hobbling along the street. He was pushing a food cart, with charcoal burning at the front, heating up the iron pan in which white balls were boiling.

These were special meatballs, made using flour scraped from a large number of squash fruits, and the most abundant meat on the wasteland... high-protein insects, dried and kneaded into the flour to make the balls.

The seasoning was a juice squeezed from a spicy plant, paired with some salt. The boiled white balls had a spicy taste with a unique meat flavor, quite savory to eat.

It’s a common snack throughout the Ninth Special Zone. Wang Quezi was born disabled, and surviving in the wasteland depended entirely on the craft passed down from his father, and this food cart selling the meatballs.

But even Wang Quezi had to lament that maybe he’ll only manage this year because he might not survive this winter.

The price of coal was rising day by day, and soon he wouldn’t even be able to afford the coal for boiling the meatballs, let alone the coal for getting through the winter chill.

In fact, he had to work at least 14 hours a day, and he earned quite a bit. Logically, he should be able to barely afford the winter coal if he gritted his teeth.

But there was no way; someone like him, a cripple without ability, needed some form of ’umbrella’ protection to survive in this world.

He had to pay a protection fee.

Most importantly, this protection fee wasn’t just paid to one group. This street was managed by the Lighthouse, and a third of his daily earnings from selling meatballs had to be paid to them. Where he lived, there were still some thugs that came to trouble him daily, and there was nothing he could do. He was a cripple, unable to fight back or even muster the strength to resist them.

What could he do? Hand over another third.

The rest was what’s left for himself.

Actually, it wasn’t really his, as he still had to pay residence tax and deal with miscellaneous expenses.

Even though his meatballs tasted very good and he could earn a fair bit, it wasn’t enough to withstand such exploitation. However, Wang Quezi had already grown accustomed to it.

Wang Quezi was already quite content. After all, for someone as disabled as him to have survived in the Ninth Special Zone for 40 years, he felt he’d lived long enough.

Moreover, some days ago, he even slept with a beauty as heavenly as a goddess; he felt his life hadn’t been in vain.

Of course, everyone around him said he was just dreaming, unable to differentiate. In fact, Wang Quezi didn’t want to clarify. After all, he knew that such a beauty, how could a cripple like him possibly be with her?

Maybe it was because he longed too much, fantasized too deeply, treating a spring dream as reality, which was just as well.

Just consider it real and let things go on as they are.

Wang Quezi heard the sound of boots and looked up to see a group of people walking over. From their attire, Wang Quezi recognized them.

They were from the Wildfire Gang, which seemed to have changed its name to Lighthouse, the street’s management.

They would extort a substantial amount of money from small vendors like them.

A very normal thing, since that’s what gangs lived on.

Sometimes, he didn’t just have to pay one fee; if two groups came, he had to pay twice.

He used to foolishly ask himself, having already paid one person, but got slapped with a scolding, "Now it’s me asking you for money, what does it matter that you gave it to someone else?" From then on, Wang Quezi learned to be clever, decisively handing over money when it was time to avoid getting beaten.

After all, he was just barely getting by.

Living day by day, if he couldn’t survive anymore, that would be the end.

He heard the Wildfire Gang was quite legendary, quickly unifying other gangs under the leadership of a big shot, creating such a grand gang empire.

However, no matter how legendary, no matter how great a gang, what does it have to do with a small man like him? Isn’t he still being exploited? Isn’t he still being bullied?

Rather than wallow in self-pity, why not consider putting less insect powder in tomorrow’s meatballs and more squash powder instead?

Thought about it.

Forget it.

If it tastes bad and doesn’t sell, he’d end up hungry.

Wang Quezi saw them coming and instinctively took out his wallet, putting on a fawning smile, "Sir!"