New Dunkirk Port was now exceptionally desolate; there were not even more than a few fishing boats putting out to sea.
Across the vast sea, only several modestly sized fishing boats hung white sails, struggling lazily over the North Sea, where small chunks of ice had already begun to drift. The fishermen aboard were either gray-haired old men, or simply women and children.
Within New Dunkirk Port itself, the workers and sailors who had once thronged the docks had nearly vanished. Only a few old men stood listlessly on the piers, their vacant eyes fixed on those few inconspicuous white sails in the distance.
In the city's streets and alleys, the soldiers responsible for routine security patrols were all old men over sixty. The rare young and middle-aged soldiers stood outside several key administrative offices with worry written across their faces. Most passersby were likewise old people, women, and children; young adults were seldom seen.
Arthur had drained nearly all the able-bodied young men from the five provinces under his control, forcibly conscripting them for the expedition to the northeastern Highlands. The bitter fruit was that, in just a few days, the five provinces under his rule had become deathly still, their civilian economies completely paralyzed. If this continued for three months, the social structure of the Gallic Empire's five northern provinces might collapse outright.
Amid such bleak decline, in a small estate outside New Dunkirk, nearly a hundred vigorous and valiant deathsworn warriors lay hidden in all directions, sharply watching every movement around them. In the crisscrossing underground tunnels and secret chambers, several hundred more fierce warriors were concealed, quietly cultivating battle energy in stone rooms without making the slightest sound.
At a spot ** three hundred meters underground, Mr. Mo lay weakly on a stone couch. His gaunt