Steel, Guns, and the Industrial Party in Another World

TL: Etude

Today, an unusual tension pervaded the atmosphere in Kas Village, located near the southern border of Alda.

On the main road south of the village, several roadblocks made of wooden fences were set up, thoroughly obstructing the path.contemporary romance

Sergeant Makarov, who had been promoted to the rank of corporal, led a hundred militiamen to form a vigilance line, facing south in readiness.

Today was the day the refugees were expected to arrive, and the staff headquarters had ordered them to line up here to ‘welcome’ them.

However, their method of welcoming was quite unique. Many were armed with swords, spears, and other weapons, and those without weapons carried farming tools like pitchforks and hoes.

Each person’s face was taut, as if they were about to go into battle.

At the entrance of the wooden fence, several tents were set up with tables and chairs inside. In each tent, two people were dressed in full gear, wearing large masks and gloves, with only their eyes visible.

“Sergeant Makarov shouted at the militiamen, “Be alert when the refugees arrive!

“Remember, be stern! Look as intimidating as possible, you must instill fear in them, create a strong psychological pressure.”

“Don’t let them think they are here to enjoy themselves! Did you all get that?”

The militiamen responded in unison. “Yes, sir!”

Susan, who was in one of the tents, was speechless at this. “Is this necessary? Those foreigners have suffered enough from the war and displacement. Shouldn’t we offer them the warmth of family?”

She, her teacher Dr. Wade, and several other doctors who had attended a ‘medical training’ in Lakeheart Town were conscripted by the Administration Council to conduct ‘quarantine’ checks on the refugees.

Her tent was specifically responsible for examining women, while her teacher conducted checks on men in another tent.

A militiaman ran over from the south.

“Report, Sergeant Makarov!”

After saluting, he said, “The refugees have arrived.”

Makarov raised his hand. “Everyone, be ready!”

Soon, a large group of people appeared on the road leading south. They were the refugees received by the Administration Council in the south.

As they approached, the militiamen saw that the refugees were emaciated and ragged, even more destitute than the beggars in Northwest Bay.

A few on horseback dashed out from the group of refugees, racing to the barricade to salute Makarov.

“Sergeant, we leave these people in your hands. We must return to Lakeheart Town to report. This is the first group, a total of 357 people.”

Makarov saluted back. “Rest assured, we will strictly guard them here.”

These horsemen were from the Internal Security Forces, who had accompanied Hansel southward, responsible for guiding the refugees to Northwest Bay, handling transit formalities along the way, and ensuring that the refugees did not starve en route.

After the handover, they bypassed the barricade and continued northward.

Makarov ordered the militiamen, “Divide into the groups as before, and arrange the refugees in lines.”

“Yes, sir!” they replied.

Half of the militiamen divided into five squads and rushed toward the crowd of refugees from the south.

When the refugees saw a large group of people armed with swords, spears, and clubs running towards them, they became frightened and confused, stopping in their tracks to whisper among themselves.

“Listen up!” barked Militiaman Josh, putting on what he believed to be his most intimidating face. “You’re going to line up in a column right now. Do you see the entrance to the wooden fence ahead? Walk there one by one, and go to the tent pointed out by the sentries. No pushing, no breaking ranks.”

Perhaps to the refugees from the south, Josh’s Northwestern accent combined with his ‘fierce and vicious’ appearance seemed somewhat comical. A few of them, far from being intimidated, actually burst into laughter.

Josh, visibly annoyed, watched as other militiamen immediately whipped out their whips and lashed fiercely at the laughing refugees.

“Laughing, huh? Laugh again and I’ll whip you to death, you foreigner,” they shouted.

“Ow! Please, sir, have mercy!” the whipped refugees pleaded.

Under the threat of the whip, the refugees quieted down and became more submissive.

However, getting them into a proper line was still a challenge, and it took the militiamen quite some time to form them into a column.

As the column moved forward, they reached the roadblock.

The militiamen at the barricade allowed six people to pass, directing them to six different tents.

Suddenly, the waiting refugees smelled something delicious, which instantly aroused their appetite. Looking towards the source, they saw a large tent near the roadblock with a huge pot on a fire, steaming hot, apparently cooking something.

“There’s food! There’s food!”

“Food! Real food!”

The news spread quickly backwards, and the orderly refugee line became chaotic as people from the back pushed forward.

The tantalizing smell was far more appealing than the assorted scraps they had been eating on the road. The officials leading them had only been responsible for keeping them from starving, not for providing decent food.

“What are you doing? Don’t you know you need to line up?” the militiamen shouted as they rushed over, waving their whips at those breaking ranks in an attempt to restore order.

“Please, sirs, give us some food first!” the refugees begged.

Josh stood firmly blocking the entrance, shouting, “Line up properly! Once the doctor has examined you, you’ll get to eat.”

But his voice was quickly drowned out by the noise of the crowd.

“Sir, we’ve been eating almost nothing but pig food for nearly half a month. No, not even pigs would eat that stuff.”

“Yes, and there’s so little of it every day. We’re starving.”

More and more refugees gathered in front of the barricade, with many attempting to climb over.

Seeing the situation getting out of hand, Makarov shouted, “All units, attention! Prepare!”

Fifty militiamen had been standing by his side, each holding a long wooden stick, wrapped at the front end with thick cloth.

They lined up neatly in three rows. On the sergeant’s command, they extended their sticks forward, with the second and third rows reaching through the gaps in the front row.

“At the ready, charge!” Makarov commanded.

They jogged forward, the sticks quickly reaching into the crowd of refugees.

The refugees near the barricade were taken by surprise and a large number were knocked down.

Cries and pleas filled the air.

The militiamen turned around, directing their sticks at the remaining stunned refugees.

“Please, sirs, have mercy!” the frontmost refugee knelt down in supplication.

Seeing one kneel, the others followed suit.

Makarov stood in front of them, tall and imposing, his hands clasped behind his back, his face muscles taut.

Unlike the militiamen, the sergeant, who had personally killed many pirates, exuded a murderous aura.

He glanced at those still groaning on the ground.

“Reform the line within 10 minutes!” he ordered.

“Those who were at the barricade just now, move to the back of the line!”

His fearsome voice echoed, assaulting everyone’s eardrums.

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