Outside the Fishmen camp, at the "New River" construction site.
Smoke and dust churned wildly, white mist swirling together with the dirt.
The clinking and scraping of hoes and shovels against the ground rang out without end.
Compared with the desolation of a few days ago, this place was now bustling with activity, everyone filled with enthusiasm.
The villagers who had rushed over from Hope Village seemed to have endless strength and passion. They crouched in the three-meter-wide, two-meter-deep ditch and dug furiously. In just five days, they had extended it a full 1,500 meters—faster even than the canal excavations of old.
The villagers standing above the ditch were not idle either. They pushed homemade two-wheeled flatbed carts, hauling the excavated soil to the dumping area. In the future, all that soil would be transported by the territory's only truck to the planned planting zone, filling in the low-lying areas.
Because the two locations were so far apart, the village had currently opened only three shuttle runs a day, concentrated in the morning, noon, and evening. Long trailers were used to transport people back and forth. Thus, at noon, most people did not choose to waste time returning to the village after climbing out of the deep ditch. Instead, they conserved their strength and rested right there.
Naturally, the small carts that had previously set up stalls outside the market had also smelled this huge business opportunity. They hurriedly brought their stalls to the front of the Fishmen camp and set up a simple market. Once mealtime arrived, wisps of cooking smoke joined together into one stretch.
Ignoring the other factors, this place looked like a newly born tribe, brimming with vitality.
Standing before a high-rise window in the camp and watching the little fishmen rush into the market to