There can't be a Harvest Moon in the RimWorld.

Before them was a very wide stone table, its four edges and eight corners appearing extremely clumsy, yet it was now filled with all sorts of food.

The main dish, served in an earthenware pot, was pork stewed in lard. As a professional chef, I could tell at a glance that you weren't human... Oh no, I could tell from the taste and color how this dish was made: pork coated in lard, stewed in wine, and finally seasoned with a little nutmeg and salt.

This strange lord was grabbing a piece of incredibly fatty pork with his bare hands, opening his blood-red mouth wide and taking a big bite. The overflowing pork fat flowed from his hands, staining his beard, collar, and the table, but he seemed oblivious. And in his mouth, I saw a row of shark-like sharp teeth.

The strange lord of the Loader's Domain finished a whole piece of pork in no time, but seemed not to feel full at all. He did not look up and instead turned his gaze to another main dish.

That braised venison was made by thoroughly cooking fresh venison, skin and all, then coating it with lard along the grain from the inside. Finally, it was cooked with nutmeg and then a generous amount of wine was added.

But he didn't choose to eat the dish directly.

He casually picked up a thick wheat flatbread, spread it with lard again, and then dipped it in an unknown sauce, placing it inside the flatbread. The sauce itself looked strange; it was probably made by cutting bread into small pieces, soaking and stirring it in a bowl with wine and vinegar until the bread became a paste. Judging from its taste and color, it was hardly appetizing.

But once again, he opened his mouth wide, a blank expression on his face, and bit into the bread and venison, chewing them repeatedly in his mouth. The venison was very tough, yet it was swallowed without any resistance.

On the other side of the grill, there was a row of wild rabbits and birds, their fur and internal organs already removed, skewered on the grill and roasting. The greasy fat dripped from their skins and occasionally fell into the fire, making a sizzling sound.

After finishing two dishes, he finally looked up, glanced at us with indifferent eyes, and then gestured with his eyes to ask if we wanted to eat something.

But none of the people present had any appetite for the dishes on the table.

Because right next to the dining table was a much larger iron torture rack, with a dead body hanging from it...

No, saying "one" person is inaccurate; it should be said to be three-quarters of a person. This person's body was covered in knife wounds, a result of extremely cruel torture. Someone pinched his flesh and then cut it off piece by piece.

But this kind of suffering is not the end.

His abdomen was also cut open with a cross-shaped wound, from which a jumble of colorful internal organs mixed with blood flowed out, hanging in front of his abdomen like a disgusting mass of overgrown flesh. The intestines, which made up the majority of the wound, had turned white due to blood loss.

But this person's head was neatly severed and placed on the lord's dining table, its unseeing eyes staring at the food, making one involuntarily equate the head with the dishes.

This person could eat this greasy, disgusting food right next to a gruesome corpse, completely oblivious to everyone else. If this was a show of force, then I can only admire them. Anyone with a weaker will would probably be trembling in fear in this scene.

For example, the old man in the floral shirt behind me had already collapsed to the ground with his legs giving way, while the bald man closed his eyes and silently recited the Heart Sutra of Guanyin, trying his best not to think about the scene in front of him.

"Allerberg, if you dirty my floor, I will definitely punish you."

After the lord uttered those words without even raising his head, the old man in the flowery clothes stood up as if he had been electrocuted, and he could only stand up with the help of the bald apprentice beside him.

The strange lord wiped his hands with a napkin, first glancing at the heads on the table, then, without moving his head, his eyes swept across his entire eye sockets, his dark pupils locking onto me in the room!

The phrase "wolf's gaze and eagle's eyes" instantly came to mind.

"Eagle's vision" refers to observing everything around like an eagle, describing sharp eyesight, because an eagle's eyes can see a mouse on the ground a kilometer away.

The phrase "狼顾" means to look back like a wolf. It is said that wolves can turn their heads 180 degrees without moving their bodies, and they always look left and right and look back when they walk. This phrase was later used to describe a person as cunning and suspicious.

But I just snorted coldly, and the aura I had been building up suddenly exploded. This aura included the predator's aura of a cheetah and the chivalrous aura of a hero who would kill in a fit of rage, and it instantly filled the area.

This situation is hard to describe, but to use an inappropriate description, it's like after the other person farted and suffocated the whole room, I let out an even smellier and louder fart, which was practically the king of farts.

What was initially an unfavorable situation for us was instantly reversed thanks to his deliberate efforts to create momentum.

The lord of the loader's territory snorted coldly, withdrew his sharp gaze, and reached out his right hand to grab the dead man's hair, lifting him up in his hand.

“Outsider, the person you claim has offended your dignity has been punished by me. I think you should be willing to sit down and talk.”

I found that the man in front of me was indeed as burly as if he were made of basalt. Fortunately, I was wearing thick plate armor, so we were roughly evenly matched.

How could I possibly tolerate his behavior? Is this also a way of giving me a warning?

On the surface, he killed the person I specified to quell my anger, but in reality, it was a cover-up to cut off the clues I had painstakingly gathered. If I wanted to kill him, I would have strangled him yesterday; why leave him alive until now?

"Lord of this place, you have not only misunderstood me, but have also once again desecrated the dignity of that lord. What I need now is not just an explanation, but also a reason for me to let you go."

Upon hearing my words, the lord's granite-like, indifferent face finally softened, and he asked in a cold voice, "Do you know what you're saying?"

Of course I know. Poor Lord Shaflin, from the moment I mentioned him until now, apart from successfully showing off for a while at the beginning, the rest of his scenes are either his dignity being trampled on or his honor being desecrated. This is not the cosmic overlord Shaflin, he is simply bald Klin.

Apologize to Lord Shafulin immediately! He's about to cry!

I slammed my hand on the table, my gaze piercing through the stone war mask, meeting his sharp eyes without flinching: "If you're willing to talk, I think we need a more equal environment, not this insincere pretense. If you think I'm not worthy, then I can beat you until you agree!"

Chapter 332 Void Mask

"Very interesting."

The lord, who had been stern-looking, suddenly calmed down. The way he changed his emotions so easily was as if he were taking off a mask.

It seems that I'm not the only one wearing a mask; this strange person in front of me is also wearing an invisible mask during our conversation. What's interesting is that I wear a physical mask that I can remove to reveal my true face, while he wears an invisible mask, with countless layers upon layers, and I have no idea which one represents his true thoughts.

But at least I guessed right this time; he was indeed testing my limits.

If I were timid and vague in this situation, easily manipulated, then I would be nothing more than a reckless brute, utterly unworthy of equal treatment, and could not possibly have any unknown powerful force behind me.

The wrinkles on the lord's face smoothed out, and he clapped insincerely in approval. Then, a servant in a similar gray robe came out from behind him, brought a high-backed chair, and placed it in front of me.

I sat down without any hesitation, and tapped the marble tabletop lightly with my fingers. The collision of the iron and the stone produced a crisp sound.

“My lord,” I said, emphasizing each word as a silent protest against his rudeness, “this sinner may be dead, but the sins he committed have not died. I demand an explanation.”

The lord looked me straight in the eye, silently removed the gloves he was wearing, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Outsider, what you and I pursue is fundamentally different, but I’m willing to try to explain it to you.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly considering how to begin the conversation elegantly and efficiently, "Do you know what the most difficult goal to achieve is in this wasteland?"

When faced with such a trap, I always respond with the same unchanging statement: "I think... I don't have any cavities!"

Mr. Beaver, did you hear my answer?

The key to dealing with this kind of domineering CEO syndrome is not to follow his lead, and even more so, not to be led into his familiar territory. Only by boldly breaking the rules can you strike at his weak point.

As expected, when I interrupted him, the wrinkles on his face twitched rapidly, but he still frowned and continued: "...Do you think I'm cruel? In this desolate place, human life is the cheapest thing. A bag of wheat can buy the lives of a bunch of starving people. The people killed today will come back like weeds after the rainy season, spreading all over the land."

His sharp gaze fell on the head on the table.

"The only thing that matters is order! This thing that doesn't exist in the wasteland is the foundation of everything! I use order to make them obey orders, I use order to unite them, I use order to help them escape the ridiculous fate of frequent internal strife and form a powerful group."

I leaned back slightly and said in a calm tone, "But under your rule, it seems that not everyone lives in peace and contentment." I glanced meaningfully at the bald man, "And they don't seem to think that what they're doing has any noble meaning."

Despite my provocation, the lord remained calm. "Their lowly lives are of no importance. Without the restraint of order, they are nothing but a pack of headless beasts, less than cheetahs and lions that can hunt for themselves. Not only are their actions meaningless, but their lives are meaningless as well."

"Oh?" I indicated reasonable doubt.

“It’s precisely because the people you’ve killed are meaningless that I’m here talking to you calmly. Do you think they’re some indispensable elite or members?” he said dismissively. “I assembled them into an army to give them a purpose in life, so they could divert their excess energy from women, fame, wealth, and the fields to do some pathetic and laughable tasks. No matter how many you kill, I can replenish and expand my ranks in a shorter time and keep sending them to their deaths.”

If what he says is true, he is no longer a leader, but a madman who treats human life as worthless. In the eyes of this pure teleology, the purpose of all ideas is to predetermine the cause and basis of the existence and development of things and phenomena, as well as the relationships between them; the process itself is meaningless. Whether his subordinates die at my hands or die of old age in their beds makes no difference to these "useless tools."

"That's truly pathetic." I sneered, and silently mourned the fate of these dead for three seconds. After all, they weren't even chips, just a candle that could be extinguished at any moment.

Looking at my performance, the lord said with a self-deprecating smile, "You see, people's joys and sorrows are not always the same. Perhaps I should start by talking about things further back, so as not to waste this meeting."

After he finished speaking, he showed his left hand.

He had kept his left hand hidden behind his back until now, and I only just noticed that it was unusually dark in color. The skin on it lacked the bright, rosy color of normal skin, and instead had a lifeless feel to it, like a finely crafted replica made of rubber.

"This bionic hand is a lesson I learned when I was young. Back then, I was a novice artilleryman who didn't take my teacher's teachings to heart at all. All I could think about was how to make a fortune through artillery skills. I can't deny that I have some talent in this area, but during one march, in order to shorten the interval between firings, I didn't clean the gun barrel thoroughly as required by procedure."

After saying this, his face showed no lingering fear, but rather a look of nostalgia: "Then there was a loud bang, and most of my body was damaged in the explosion. This hand was completely lost, and I could only replace it with an artificial limb through medical technology."

"But from that day on, I understood a principle: everything depends on the purpose of the action. If I wanted to get rich, then the explosion was bound to happen sooner or later. If I could realize this, then I would eventually understand the knowledge I have now."

“After that, I would thoroughly clean the cannon barrel every time, even if I fired a few fewer shots. Later, I even focused on dusting off the cannon during firing. At that time, I no longer cared about wealth and glory; all I thought about was firing the shot cleanly and efficiently. So when others were eagerly firing without any clear target, I was always able to observe and destroy the enemy's key facilities and achieve victory.”

"After I became the faction's top artilleryman, many people tried to find out the secret to my perfect aim, but they were unwilling to believe my story. Because no matter how well they imitated me on the outside, they could not escape the influence of chaotic thoughts and could not truly focus on the series of actions of loading, aiming and firing."

Hearing this, I asked, "Is your demanding requirements for the environment also due to this experience? After all, keeping this room spotless is not a common occurrence."

The lord slightly moved his artificial left hand, feeling the slow electrical feedback from the neuromechanical system, and a look of realization appeared on his wrinkled face.

After observing him closely, I could also see that the wrinkles on his face were not the normal wrinkles that come with old age, but rather stiff, irregular folds caused by the overlapping of skin grafts after extensive burns.

Chapter 333 Nurturing Bandits for Self-Respect

“You really do understand what I mean.” He gave a stiff smile. “There are countless people in this place trying to guess what I’m thinking, but not a single one is willing to think carefully about what I’ve said.”

Your next sentence won't be something like, "You've successfully caught my attention," will it?

The person in front of me seems to be suffering from the "domineering CEO syndrome," always trying to make simple things sound profound.

If I'm not mistaken, it's not that no one can decipher his words, but rather that those who perfectly understood his intentions have already died at his hands, just like the heads on the table.

This is the terrifying aspect of a teleological person. A utilitarian might hold a capable subordinate in high regard, yet he would mercilessly sentence someone to death without any pity or regret when they make a mistake.

After all, someone who understands his mind and wants to rise to power will naturally make more mistakes as he does more things. In the end, he was cut down for a small mistake, leaving others with a ruthless impression.

Was he actually cruel? No, he just didn't care.

"But what does all this have to do with the explanation I need?"

At this point, I snapped and broke the awkward silence. I'm not here to make friends or listen to stand-up comedy. Why are you spouting this useless nonsense? Do you want to charge me by word count?

The lord made a gesture as if pressing down on the air, signaling me to calm down.

"When I arrived in this place to establish my territory, I found that my past experience was not entirely applicable. As a gunner, I could concentrate on one thing and eliminate all distractions. But as a lord, the distractions I eliminate are my purpose."

"Now I can still crush an invading enemy with a single shot, but I can't unify everyone's thoughts in one fell swoop. So I spent a lot of effort, just like cleaning the cannon barrel back then, to clear away the strange noises around me, and finally create this impregnable fortress in the desert."

His words, spoken in a calm tone, carried a hint of bloodshed. His so-called "considerable strength" likely came at the cost of many lives. For someone with such obsessive-compulsive tendencies, a subordinate with ulterior motives was probably more desirable to kill than a menacing enemy.

Hearing this, my voice rang out again, "The person you killed, could it be..."

My question was perfectly timed.

The lord's voice was even more sinister.

"You guessed right. I formed these privateers simply to fight the pirates of Sabre Bay, and incidentally, to use up excess manpower and prevent the towns' ecosystem from collapsing. I bet you've never seen how those ever-expanding towns in this desert easily descend into infighting during even a small food crisis. Slaughter brings chaos, chaos obliterates order, and in towns without order, people are more inclined to rob or even kill their neighbors for food than to slowly cultivate and produce crops..."

Resource crisis and ecological collapse are the inescapable fate of this wasteland. Human resources that may be valuable elsewhere are more like cancer cells here. Once they spread too far, they will get out of control until the entire population dies out.

What he meant was that the killing squad he had assembled was to maintain the population balance in the surrounding area while systematically consuming the excess manpower in the territory, so as to prevent the area from falling into population infighting.

"Unfortunately, your pack of dogs seems to have their own ideas and are planning to find something to eat on their own without their owner's knowledge."

I looked at him with a cold smile.

The privateer at the dinner table who tried to ambush me seems to have taken a risk to help the group eliminate a crisis. In that case, their massacre of Tossong Manor probably wasn't entirely part of this dictatorial lord's plan.

When an invincible weapon develops its own consciousness, and can even resist the user's consciousness, then that weapon is no longer a "divine weapon," but a "demon blade"...

The lord's tone carried a hint of anger—it was too difficult to read his expression from his dead face, so I simply judged it from his tone of voice: "Allerberg, it seems the conflict between the privateers and your artisans' guild is growing."

The old man dressed in a comical red outfit, who had been pretending to be a statue behind him, broke out in a cold sweat upon hearing the lord's words. He said in a trembling voice, "My lord! Our Craftsmen's Guild has never done anything out of line!"