Extreme Cold Era: Shelter Don't Keep Waste

Chapter 950 165: The Eve of Turmoil (Part 2)

After the attendant left, Perfikot turned to look out the window—the desert's night sky was boiling with stars, starkly different from the snowy nights of the Northern Territory.Kallen's letter reminded her that besides the threat posed by the gods, human political struggles still existed. Expecting everyone to set aside their interests and unite against external enemies was unrealistic.

Just like now, while she was preparing to confront the Old Gods in the desert, the council hall in Langton was probably in chaos over budget allocations and sending out immigrant groups.

"Truly... a time of troubles," Perfikot sighed softly, a sense of indescribable melancholy in her eyes.

Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the Golden Touching Rod at her waist, the coolness of the metal reaching her fingertips, making her gaze somewhat unfocused.

Perhaps when she truly defeated the Ancient Gods and saved this world, these trivial political games would become irrelevant.

But until then, she had no choice but to continue this war on two fronts—against both the divine in the sky and the politicians on the ground.

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Perfikot's melancholy, for the moment, was set aside, as the work of the missionaries in Seven Hills City was in full swing.

The shadow cast by the Floating City module above Seven Hills City had now transformed from a symbol of fear into a beacon of hope.

This steel giant quietly hung there like a silent guardian, continually supplying materials to this weathered city.

The alchemy runes flickering at the bottom of the module shimmered in the night sky like new morning stars, becoming a new spiritual refuge for the survivors.

Every nightfall, those runes would emit a soft blue light, illuminating the broken streets below, bringing a touch of life to this silent city.

With the continuous operation of the Energy Tower, Seven Hills City had undergone a massive transformation.

The ancient Empire Avenue, once covered in snow and ice, had reappeared, the millennia-weathered stone slabs becoming passable roads again after the snow melted.

The missionaries used this ice-free zone created by the Energy Tower to set up a temporary camp.

The tents, reinforced with alchemy-enhanced fabric, provided excellent insulation, protecting those living inside even in the cold winds.

With the Energy Tower's support, the temperature inside the tents could even be maintained near freezing.

These structures featured a modular design, with special thermal insulating materials filling the wall layers and the roofs covered with heat collectors.

They would further assist survivors and the missionary group in resisting the severe cold, preparing for the impending large-scale immigration.

"Come and get your hot porridge and medical check-up!" A young missionary's shout echoed through the camp.

In front of him, a big iron pot was steaming with thick porridge made from compressed biscuits, mixed with the fragrance of a small amount of dehydrated vegetables, especially enticing in the cold air.

Survivors queueing for food had looks of both yearning and wariness in their eyes.

The aroma of the food was irresistible to them, yet their dread of the divine kept them vigilant.

After all, the sacrifices made by the followers of the Ancient Gods had dealt massive damage to this city, leaving scars on the survivors' hearts that were hard to heal.

In the medical tent, doctors were examining the survivors. An elder, trembling, stretched out his frostbitten hands to receive treatment.

The doctor carefully applied ointment for frostbite on his hands, then wrapped them with clean bandages, finally giving him a pair of woolen gloves.

"Make sure to change the dressing every day," the doctor advised, "and if the wounds become red and hot, come find me immediately."

This moved the elder to tears, murmuring, "Since the apocalypse descended... it's been so long since anyone cared for us like this..."

Behind him, other survivors were also lined up waiting for treatment, the majority suffering from varying degrees of malnutrition and frostbite.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the camp, a special ceremony was taking place. A dozen survivors knelt before the New God statue, undergoing a conversion ritual.

The missionaries pinned metallic badges representing the New God on their collars and solemnly announced, "From today on, you are the people of the New God. May the light of the New God guide you to a bright future."

The converts bowed their heads; some clasped their hands devoutly, while others sneaked glances around, seemingly weighing pros and cons.

After the ceremony, each received a set of brand new warm clothes and extra food vouchers.

However, not everyone welcomed this change.

In the shadows of distant ruins, several figures watched coldly.

The tattoos of the Old Gods on their arms were faintly visible beneath their sleeves, hatred gleaming in their eyes.

"These heretics..." a scar-faced man said through gritted teeth, "They have defiled sacred ground."

His companion, a tall, thin woman added grimly, "They will soon know the price of offending the gods. The full moon is near..."

Revealing uneven teeth as she spoke, a necklace of finger bones hung around her neck.

Their whispers were scattered by the cold wind, yet the malice lingered in the air like something palpable.

The missionaries seemed to sense something, looking towards that direction in unison, but there was nothing left except a few dry leaves spinning in the wind.

Eric has now become an important bridge between the missionaries and the survivors.

His new cloak contrasted sharply with the other survivors, making him especially conspicuous as he moved through the underground tunnels.

At this moment, he was leading a squad of Steam Knights into the most complex area of the underground network.

The heavy footsteps of the knights echoed in the narrow passageways, steam discharged from armored vents condensed into white mist in the cold air.

"The 'Long Snake District' is up ahead," Eric said in a low voice to the lead knight, "The survivors there are the most stubborn and dangerous."

The lead knight nodded, his voice sounding somewhat muffled through the metal helmet, "Understood. Everyone, stay alert."

Though some survivors had begun interactions with the missionary group, others remained holed up in the deepest parts of the underground network, unwilling to communicate.

This squad of knights was sent to make contact with these stubborn factions, hoping to ease tensions and bridge the gap.

Even if cooperation couldn't be achieved, ensuring they weren't enemies was critical.

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In the shadows of the collapsed Pantheon's basement, flickering firelight cast twisted figures onto the mottled walls.

Their arms, tattooed with the Old Gods' symbols etched into their skin with bone needles and ash, appeared particularly sinister in the firelight, writhing like living creatures with the flexing of muscles.

"Look at these flyers!" exclaimed a scarred brute, tearing apart paper adorned with the emblem of the New God, his rough fingers trembling with rage.

The old woman beside him added ominously, "A statue of the New God erected on what was once sacred ground... it's blasphemy!"

Her dried fingers brushed against the tattered frescoes on the wall, which depicted scenes of the Ancient Gods receiving sacrifices.

The leader—a tall, thin man with unnaturally glowing red eyes—slowly raised an ancient ritual dagger.

The dark red stains remaining on its blade gleamed in the fire's glow, indicating its recent use.

"Tomorrow, under the full moon," his voice hissed like a serpent, echoing in the damp basement, "we shall let the altar flow with blood once more... and this time, with the hearts of those ironclad men pleasing the gods!"

A frenzy of assent filled the basement, as followers raised their weapons—rusty short swords, crude stone axes, and even sharp beast bones.

Their eyes shone with madness, as if they could already envision the altar drenched in blood.

In the corner, a young man quietly retreated into the shadows.

His arms bore no tattoos, and a flicker of doubt glimmered in his eyes.

Lowering his gaze to the crumpled flyer in his hand, its images of warm shelters and ample food starkly contrasted the cold of the basement.

As the fervent cheers of the fanatic followers reached a crescendo, he silently vanished into the dark passage, leaving behind only a trail of nearly imperceptible footsteps.