Chapter 1: The Lighthouse of the Sleepy Hamlet

Although the Dawn War had ended twelve centuries ago, hatred only grew with each passing moment and in every corner of the land.

For these twelve hundred years, the dark races and humans have never ceased their wars, with bloody conflicts erupting at every second along every inch of the overlapping territories.

Though the Eternal Night Realm had long been abandoned by the Empire, it became a battlefield as the dark races returned. The situation was impossibly complex. Humans and dark races fought fiercely, while internal strife among both sides added to the chaos. Both humans and dark races also contended with native beasts for living space. Furthermore, due to its distant orbit from the sun, terrifying monsters from beyond would occasionally appear, making life here a perpetual struggle.

Conflict seemed to be the sole purpose of existence here. The flames of war were everywhere, and on the gray, eternal night continent, life was the cheapest commodity.

At this moment, a group of seven or eight people, wearing bizarre and patched-together rags, with some having rusty metal plates sewn onto vital parts of their bodies as makeshift armor, were walking briskly across a desolate plain. They all carried large backpacks, common scavengers of the Eternal Night Realm. They risked their lives, venturing into the depths of the wastelands and ruins, searching for anything of value. These backpacks contained all their worldly possessions.

Ahead, the silhouette of a small town was becoming visible, and they instinctively quickened their pace.

The most prominent building in the town was a tall lighthouse, constructed almost entirely of welded metal, with thick pipes climbing up its exterior. From a distance, one could see the perpetually burning flame atop the lighthouse, giving the town its name: Lighthouse Town. Suddenly, the middle section of the lighthouse began to vent steam, revealing massive gears that creaked into motion, causing the tower’s hammer to swing slowly, striking an old copper bell, producing a deep, resonant toll.

Dong, dong, dong!

The sound echoed far and wide, and the scavengers hastened their steps even more.

One burly man looked up at the sky and said, “It’s only three o’clock, and it’s already so dark! Can’t we get a break?”

The elderly man at the front of the group responded with a resigned tone, “Isn’t it always like this during the Dark Season?”

The burly man gazed upward, where several enormous shadows blocked out the sunlight, making it feel like dusk despite the early hour.

He spat forcefully, half-envy and half-bitterness in his voice, “If I could live up there for a few days, I’d be willing to give up ten years of my life!”

Another scavenger replied, “Dream on, BaoYa LaoLiu! That’s a place only the big shots can go. You’ll be stuck scavenging trash for the rest of your life!”

Before BaoYa LaoLiu could retort, another valve opened on the other side of the lighthouse, spewing out a vast amount of steam. The middle section of the lighthouse was soon enveloped in a white mist, and the flames flickered indistinctly. A sharp, long whistle sounded, piercing the hearts of those who heard it.

“Why are they closing so early?!”

“What’s that bald guy up to?”

The scavengers panicked and rushed towards the town. Fortunately, they managed to rush through the gates just in time. Thick, murky gas was now spewing from the exhaust pipes on both sides of the gate, and the massive gears and pulleys groaned as the heavy cast-iron doors descended, slamming into the steel grooves, sealing the town.

Breathless and panting, the scavengers stopped on the street. One of them, supporting himself with his hands on his knees, shouted up at the gate, “Why close so early? We almost got locked out!”

A bald head, glistening with oil, poked out from the gate, his face menacing.

He pointed to the sky and bellowed, “I’ve told you countless times that it’s not safe outside lately! Look at the color of the moon! If you’d rather die over a few copper coins, then you deserve it!”

In the sky, a huge, round moon hung, its edges already crimson, a few days away from turning blood-red.

On the night of the Crimson Moon, all creatures in the wasteland would become restless and aggressive. Legend had it that whenever the moon turned crimson, a disaster would occur somewhere, and only when enough blood was shed would the god of calamity be satisfied and leave.

The scavengers grumbled, but they dared not challenge the bald-headed guard, the town’s only sheriff and a first-class warrior. He could easily dispose of them, so they could only complain as they walked into the town.

The town had one bar, also the only one, with a few guest rooms in the back. It was the destination of the scavengers, a haven that brought them joy and women.

To conserve energy, the town had very little lighting, so the faint glow of the bar’s sign stood out in the night, though only the character “Sha” was lit.

The sign, originally a bearing from the bottom of an engine, had been painted with letters and dusted with luminescent powder, but it was fading with exposure to rain and wind.

The townspeople knew the bar was called ManJu ShaHua, but no one understood the meaning, and fewer than five people in the entire town could read all four characters.

Inside the dimly lit bar, the furniture was old and worn, the walls covered in chaotic graffiti, which gave it an odd beauty. The counter, made of steel plates and rivets, had a rugged, masculine charm. All the materials in the bar were scavenged from the wasteland. In the abandoned lands, scrap metal and steel were the cheapest commodities, littering the garbage heaps and airship graveyards.

The bar reeked of cheap alcohol, tobacco, and sweat, and a few heavily made-up women emitted a nauseating perfume.

Behind the counter stood a young man, slender and pale, dressed in a tattered jacket and pants, his long black hair tied in a ponytail. His face was incredibly beautiful, radiating an innocent, approachable charm.

He stood quietly, watching the dozen or so patrons releasing their desires and stresses.

No one would suspect this young man to be the owner of the bar and inn, given his appearance. He was probably, no, definitely, under eighteen.

As the scavengers pushed open the half-closed door and entered, the bar fell silent, many eyeing them warily.

Scavengers had a bad reputation in the wasteland, known by many nicknames, including vultures, scavengers, and mad dogs.

Living on the edge of death, they had no shame or honor, capable of anything. Many had their own secretive networks, and any outsider who approached them would likely end up as nothing but bones.

While the town of Lighthouse depended on the scavengers’ prosperity, the locals did not welcome them, nor did they accept them wholeheartedly.

Where there were scavengers, there was trouble. In the wasteland, “trouble” often meant loss of life; otherwise, how could it be called trouble?

This group of scavengers was not new to ManJu ShaHua. They found a table, loudly calling out their preferred drinks. The young man behind the counter turned and selected bottles from the shelves, skillfully mixing the drinks.

Stainless steel shakers danced in his long, pale fingers, as if imbued with a life of their own.

Just then, a scavenger with a large scar on his face approached, leaning heavily on the counter, his voice nasal. “I hear you have a drink called Man… something… Hua that’s really strong! Give me a big one!”

The young man did not move, replying, “An imperial silver coin.”

“Huh!” The scavenger exclaimed, “Did I hear right? An imperial silver coin!! Am I drinking virgin’s blood? Fine, since I’m here, I’ll try it. Let’s see if it’s as good as you say! Kid, I don’t have silver, but I can pay with this, if you dare take it!”

With a slap, the scavenger pulled out a flintlock pistol and slammed it on the counter.

The gun was loaded and ready to fire, with its grip wrapped in thick iron, stained with dark blood and other unidentifiable substances. This heavy weapon was not only a gun but also a deadly bludgeon, possibly used more often as the latter.

The bar fell silent, all eyes on the scavenger and the young man.

The young man finished mixing the drink, methodically pouring it into a glass, then placed both hands on the counter, glancing at the gun, saying, “Considering it’s your livelihood, I’ll value it at half a silver coin. Are you sure you want to use it to pay?”

The scavenger’s eye twitched, his upper body leaning forward, nose almost touching the young man’s, he asked, “What if I don’t pay?”

The young man remained unmoved, his voice calm, “Then I will blow your head off.”

The scavenger stared into the young man’s deep, black eyes, which were as still as bottomless lakes. He then glanced at the young man’s hands, clean and smooth, with no signs of hard labor or training.

The young man’s hands rested awkwardly on the counter, too far from any weapon. His tattered shirt was only buttoned at the top, revealing an ugly, large scar on his chest, contrasting sharply with his appearance.

The scavenger’s eye twitched, a chill growing in his heart, sweat pouring down his face. This was the primal fear of a wasteland dog sensing danger.