"Roy, the villagers worship this Nutrient Paste machine every day. I feel like it's about to become a god." A Volunteer Army member holding a Laser Rifle spoke to his companion.
Before the Nutrient Paste machine, groups of raggedly dressed yet fairly clean people were kneeling and praying, speaking in simple phrases.
They were deeply devout, their honest faces filled with completely unfeigned gratitude.
"Seeing them makes this gun feel even more important." Roy tightened his grip on the Gatling in his hands and spoke to the Volunteer Army member.
"Yeah, these people have let me experience the joy of being a lord. Ah, Master Robinson—what a pleasant title. Shame I can only understand that one phrase for now," Robinson replied.
"Then you need Sarah to give you more lessons in the local language. If you expect them to learn the language of civilized people, it'll take another twenty years," Roy said with a smile.
In truth, Roy and Robinson had greatly underestimated these devolved people's initiative.
They no longer had to do heavy, dangerous work. They only needed to work two or three hours a day before returning home to rest.
Some of the sharper ones began taking the initiative to gather around wherever the children were being taught and listen in.
Out of every hundred people, there would always be four or five who were especially clever and adaptable.
That was a human trait. Once people gathered into groups, even the most foolish population would produce clever individuals. It was the result of communication and cooperation.
Clever individuals gained greater advantages in survival and had more descendants. With selection continuing generation after generation, intelligence would gradually improve.
In fact, only a month or two later, the five Volunteer Army members stationed at the first Southern Settlement were delighted