Chapter Eighteen: Value

This was an era of imperial prosperity, an era ruled by ironclad warships.

The ironclad was the very symbol of martial prowess in this age. Possessing such a ship meant not only wielding immense firepower as a deterrent, but also being able to impose swift and severe sanctions upon nations that dared to pursue free trade. Gunboat diplomacy was far more effective than any diplomacy of silk or tea, compelling the local natives to submit and relinquish their wealth.

Ironclads—truly marvelous things.

Lan Yi wanted one as well. Yet what he valued was not the destructive power of the ironclad.

“As the most efficient and, at present, the most palatable means of long-distance transport for mankind, the ironclad can help me swiftly impose sanctions upon Dongyang.”

“One hundred verbal protests are not worth a single landing of warriors from an ironclad.”

“If the prodigal sons of Dongyang are to return to their father’s embrace, then perhaps we need a second White Ship Incident. I trust a responsible international empire such as yours would not stop another empire from disciplining its wayward child.”

Lan Yi spoke at ease with the two foreign prisoners before him.

If one could overlook the bloodstains on the captives, their dull expressions, and the deep, unmistakable fear in their eyes, this could almost have been a harmonious afternoon tea.

Kent and Albert were captives of the warriors.

In the presence of Master Lan Yi, they were not permitted to sit. Their hands were bound behind them as they stood, forced into a posture of humble submission under the severe, icy gaze of two warriors.

If gunboat diplomacy was the calling card of imperial powers in this era, then the diplomacy of warriors was the Star Han’s bold proclamation of their return to the deadly competition of human civilization.

“Esteemed Sir, with your might, all you say becomes truth,” said Colonel Kent, the hunter now turned prey, tactfully flattering him in the local tongue.

Such forcefulness, such diplomacy…

Nong Jin-sun, tasked with recording and interpreting, could barely contain his excitement. How exhilarating! When was the last time the foreigners were so obedient? The time of Zhu Ming or Li Tang?

Anyone who had witnessed the unfathomable power of the warriors would not doubt it. The Star Han, humiliated for so long in this era, would soon cast off the mire, reclaim the crown, and once more rule as the Heavenly Empire, the court to which all nations would pay homage.

And all of this was thanks to this man, Master Lan Yi!

“The Empire will never give up,” Albert muttered in his native tongue.

At once, he saw with terror one of the warriors, face cold as ice, raise a clenched fist.

Not long ago, that very fist had burst the skull of a Dongyang journalist who had been chattering incessantly in this room, splattering brains and blood onto both of them. The cause of death: speaking some foolish foreign tongue the esteemed master could not understand.

Albert had once relished the feeling of his enemies’ blood spattering his face.

But as a captive, with the blood on his face coming from a single punch, Albert could no longer enjoy it. The man who once prided himself on his nobility, courage, and gentlemanly spirit, lost all composure and let out a porcine squeal.

“Sir, we still have our value,” Kent sighed inwardly at his foolish colleague.

This extraordinary being before them was clearly a thoroughgoing Star Han supremacist.

Lan Yi raised his hand, and the warrior’s fist was slowly lowered.

“What value do you have?”

“Mr. Albert is of royal blood. The Empire would gladly pay his ransom, as well as compensation for any unintentional offense.”

“And you?”

“The construction of ironclads, the manufacture of weapons and ammunition, the training of crews, the Empire’s hydrographic data—all these I can arrange with the Empire. And I, well-versed in the affairs of all continents, can serve as your agent, aiding you and your army of holy warriors in conquering the world!”

Dealing with clever men is always a pleasure.

Especially one whose ambition toward power was so keen.

In Lan Yi’s colorless eyes, swirling with lotus circuitry, the emotional radiation pouring from Kent was unmistakable—waves of excitement and longing.

“And what do you seek in return?”

“Power!” Kent replied without hesitation.

Albert stared at his colleague in astonishment—was this not betrayal? He had so easily abandoned the Empire! Damn it! Why should he persist in this foolish loyalty? He, too, craved supernatural power!

A strand of white light flashed by Lan Yi’s ear, and the ropes binding Kent were instantly sliced apart.

“All captives are now under your management. Dispose of those without value, keep those who are useful. In twenty-four hours, I want to see your report.”

“May I ask, what specific values are considered useful to you?” Kent rubbed his aching, numb hands. If he was not mistaken, his ropes had just been cut by a strand of hair—a white hair.

“If you have scientific knowledge, sell your scientific knowledge. If not, then sell your conscience. If you have nothing at all to offer, then pray for luck and hope you have some clue to the supernatural,” Lan Yi replied indifferently.

It could not be helped that the overall quality of Star Han in this era was so poor.

The illiteracy rate was an astonishing ninety-seven percent.

There were no power plants, no shipyards, no modern management systems, no qualified military equipment. If he wished to achieve his goals quickly, taking in foreigners as hounds was already in Lan Yi’s plans.

For one who had witnessed the flourishing era of the Dimensional Sea, race or ethnicity mattered little; what counted was allegiance to civilization. This was how a psychic cultivator distinguished friend from foe.

Lan Yi waved his hand again.

The two foreigners were promptly hustled out.

“Wait, I too wish to sell my loyalty and conscience…” Albert’s voice was muffled as the doors closed.

“Master, you do not oppose science and technology?” Nong Jin-sun closed his notebook. He felt a bit dejected; Lan Yi was so much more knowledgeable than he was, needing no explanation of any term. In fact, before him, Nong felt like a savage from some uncivilized land.

“Why should I oppose science and technology?” Lan Yi asked in return.

Well, perhaps because everyone assumed he was an immortal who had cultivated in the remote mountains and emerged, someone who, for personal preference and the sake of stable rule, would revere martial power and suppress science?

After all, that was precisely what the Qing court had done.

And if the Master chose to do likewise, who could protest? Especially when his bestowal of martial power was so overwhelming!

“A rifle relies on the combustion of gunpowder to propel a metal bullet and kill. I have a spell, the Thunder of Armored Steel, which, based on electrochemistry, ionizes steam to produce thrust and fire a metal projectile.”

“…You mean, your spells are actually scientific technology?” Nong Jin-sun half-understood.

“When science and technology reach a sufficiently advanced level, to the uninformed they appear as the arts of immortals. What matters is not the outward form of technology, but one’s understanding and mastery of the world.”

Lan Yi saw that Nong Jin-sun was still only half-comprehending, and his interest faded.

This artificial divine realm was too backward.

For a psychic cultivator such as himself, it was a lonely existence—a deep, abiding loneliness, with no one of his kind to talk to.