Let go of that monster girl!

Morren coughed twice and said:

"This is also a trade secret."

This is Greek fire, which, compared to modern explosive flamethrowers, is more like a hand-cranked pesticide sprayer.

The copper cans forged by the rat women are designed to be nailed shut wherever there is a leak, making it impossible to store high-pressure gas for a long time. The crank must be turned to pump air before each use.

The high-pressure airflow rushes through the siphon tube, carrying flammable acid liquid with it, and ignites at the nozzle, forming a terrifying stream of acid and fire.

Molen created this device many years ago when he was a carefree playboy, and he only made it to water the orchard.

Now, with just a few parts replaced and a piece of lime to suppress corrosion, it has become an extremely terrifying weapon.

It boasts explosive firepower, but is difficult to maneuver and extremely heavy.

This is precisely why Moren had to cooperate with the cat-and-mouse caravan. The little mouse girl's arms and legs simply couldn't drag this device over long distances; only the caravan's giant cargo rats could handle it.

However, flamethrowers are too slow to turn and have many blind spots, so professional guards are needed on the flanks to prevent monsters from sneaking up on them.

Morren looked at Jimmy.

"So, is this plan sufficient?"

Jimmy stood there, hesitating for a while, looking at the small bottle in his hand.

"The cat followed the meow."

Chapter 10 Foreman's Meeting

Lyme followed Morren through the main mine tunnel, which was covered with glowstone lanterns.

Pale yellow fluorescent lights hung down from overhead, one after another, illuminating the underground passage leading to the residential area like the throat of some kind of giant beast.

A group of newly relieved female rats filed out of the wooden cage of the rat power elevator, dragging hammers and picks, their bodies covered in gray-black mineral powder, and the sweat on their work clothes forming hard crusts.

Their round ears drooped, and their tails dragged limply on the ground, but they all perked up when they saw Morren.

"Greetings, Your Excellency!"

"You've had a good time, Your Excellency!"

Molen waved back at them, but did not stop walking.

The residential area was not a comfortable place, and Lyme smelled many familiar scents.

The dampness, the fermenting sour smell, and the foul odor from a large number of organisms crammed into a small space reminded her of a sewer.

Even someone as dense as Lyme could tell that the entire residential area was converted from an old mine shaft buried more than ten meters underground.

The main mine tunnel serves as a street, while more alleyways and side passages extend deep into the rock mass from between the caves.

One after another, the expanded caverns formed this underground town.

The rock houses that were dug earlier all had exquisite wooden doors and windows, while those dug later were simply covered with cloth curtains or were just dark cave entrances, with the interior completely exposed.

It's clear that the people who originally designed this place put a lot of thought into it; drainage ditches extend along both sides of the mine tunnel, and there's a ventilation shaft every so often.

The earliest rock houses were even quite spacious and comfortable, with smooth, polished stone walls.

But clearly, far more rat girls were crammed into this place than expected.

As far as Lem could see, there were only rat girls.

Many rooms show signs of forced widening, with the rough, burred surfaces of the newly chiseled rock contrasting sharply with the smoothness of the old walls.

The densely packed beds filled every inch of usable space, and every room was piled high with beds.

Stacked three or four layers high, the gaps between the wooden planks were so narrow that even a mouse girl could hardly turn over.

Even so, there were still makeshift beds on both sides of the road, with patched blankets neatly folded on the straw mats, and some cute, inexpensive trinkets on the blankets.

In a slightly more spacious area, resembling a plaza, dozens of rat girls were lining up to have their bodies cleaned, the line stretching from a steaming curtain all the way to the corner.

It was so narrow, cramped, and crowded.

It should have been filled with an atmosphere of death and numbness, just like the sewers that Lyme was familiar with.

But it didn't.

"When we get paid, we're going to buy big mushrooms and fry them in oil."

Wow, just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

On the ground mats on both sides of the road, the mouse girls who had finished work gathered in groups of three or five.

Some were watching and playing a chess game carved from ore fragments, while others sat around, chattering and mending.

There was also the rare literate mouse girl sitting under a large fluorite lamp, loudly reading aloud from a crumpled storybook, which told the legend of the mouse and the sugar mine. No matter how many times she read the story, it always drew gasps of surprise.

A foreman rat, its mouth stuffed full, poked its head out of the rock chamber and mumbled indistinctly as it gnawed on dried mushrooms:

"The Baron is here!"

Molen stopped and bent down to crawl inside.

"Have the tin ore, copper flower, copper, brass, chalcopyrite, calcite, bornite, tin ore, verdigris, and verdigris all arrived?"

Molen rattled off ten names in one breath, all of them minerals, and Lyme vaguely felt that several of them were duplicates.

This cave, which served as a meeting room, was actually the bedroom of the foreman rats.

Several plank beds were lined up against the rock wall. On a rough and simple wooden table were a few fluorite lanterns used for mining. On the table was a plate of half-eaten mushroom pancakes, and on the ground was a thick stack of blueprints that could be used as stools.

The foreman rats huddled together in the small hut, some sitting on the edge of the bed, others leaning against the wall.

The female mouse is extremely fertile. A lucky female mouse can give birth to five to nine mice in one litter, with a gestation period of only four months. She can give birth to more than one hundred offspring in her lifetime.

These mice are often distributed among her less fortunate sisters for upbringing, reaching maturity at age nine, eventually forming a sprawling and extensive family tree.

A few years ago, Molen started implementing an eight-hour, three-shift system, and the ten foremen in front of him are representatives of Aishan's shift.

The girl wouldn't have any fragrance on her, at least not a girl who couldn't afford perfume; the room was filled with a sour, sweaty smell.

But Morren didn't care. He casually picked up an empty bucket from the corner, turned it upside down on the ground, and sat down on it.

He flipped open the thick stack of blueprints, and the low mountains on them were completely different from what he saw on the ground.

The perforated, cheese-like mountain on the surface is just the tip of the iceberg. The real low mountain is the network of mine tunnels that extends 600 meters down from the surface, like an inverted giant tree.

Molen pointed to several large cave areas marked in red on the map and gave a brief instruction:

"Let's skip the formalities. Two things, to make a long story short. Find the copper plate, and put away that mystical water-finding stick. I need more detailed information about the water veins, especially those near these places."

Lyme's head popped out from behind Morren's shoulder, curiously peering at the blueprints, then immediately froze, speechless and dumbfounded.

The area was covered with dense markings and color blocks, filled with technical terms she couldn't understand a single word of.

Molen flipped through the atlas, pointing out the areas that needed to be explored, page by page.

"We don't have much time, we can only give you three days."

"No problem, Your Excellency."

The foreman looked at the blueprints that were as tall as her waist. She picked up a glass of lightly salted water, tilted her head back, and gulped down a mouthful, trying to wash away the food stuck in her throat. She asked indistinctly...

"Chew, chew, chew, what's the second thing, squeak?"

"Everyone will get an extra serving of meat tomorrow."

puff.

The mushroom pancake sprayed out of Foreman Rat's mouth and smeared the face of the foreman opposite him.

Who does the Baron want to kill?

Meat, delicious meat, meat that is difficult to produce in the Dark Zone, meat that even the Baron is reluctant to eat, a rare resource that is only distributed before major events.

Molen closed the book and said calmly:

"I won't kill anyone. I want to rebuild the militia and go to the mushroom forest to get timber."

The foreman rats squeaked and squeaked, each reacting in a different way.

"It's all over, it's all over. Once we go to the Mushroom Forest, we won't be able to come back."

"Great! We're finally going to fight back! I've been wanting to chop those rotten mushroom monsters into pieces for ages!"

"Go ahead and cut it if you can handle it."

"If the Baron says we'll fight, then we'll definitely win. What's there to be afraid of!"

After a period of chattering and squeaking, with some mice happy and others worried, no mouse ultimately questioned Morren's decision.

"That's settled then. Remember to inform the foreman rat who will be on the next shift."

Molen stood up, and Lyme quickly followed him outside.

As they walked through the residential area, a small figure suddenly darted out of an alley and quickly shoved something into Lyme's hand.

"Sister, this is for you. Mom said you're really amazing!"

The mouse wasn't even as tall as Lyme's waist. It had a babyish voice, and its round ears were as wide as its face. After speaking, it turned and ran away, disappearing in a flash around the corner of the alley.

Lyme looked down into her palm. There was a small stone statue, only the size of her thumb, but it was very well made. It had a round head and was clearly in her shape.

However, the pose was sculpted to be majestic and imposing, with hands on hips, chest out and head held high, resembling a great general who has conquered the world, which is completely different from the real person's temperament.

Lyme held the small statue, motionless, as if deep in thought.

Chapter 11 The Macedonian Phalanx

Moren crossed his arms and stood at the end of the long table, smug and self-satisfied, with Lyme huddled beside him.

Jimmy held a large, rough earthenware bowl in both hands, looking as if he had just been robbed of all his possessions, and kept crying and meowing.

"Meow, they're eating cat jerky, and the cats plan to eat it for a month!"

"So many rats."

Lem muttered something under his breath.

Jimmy, with a long face, picked up a small spoon and scooped up a big mouthful of stewed meat, stuffing it into his mouth.

"It's delicious."

Going to the mushroom forest can hardly be called an expedition; it's more like a short journey.

After the news of the formation of the short expedition team spread, the mouse girls had different reactions, but the short expedition team would only recruit brave mouse girls who were inspired by it.

As for delicious stewed meat alone?

Of course, no one would have a problem with delicious stewed meat.

The cook, accompanied by her helper rats, set up several large pots on the edge of the square.

The rich aroma of meat tempted the little rat girls' bellies, and the line stretched from the pot all the way to the mine entrance.

The cook stood in front of the pot, her large iron ladle not trembling at all.

A rat girl, holding a bowl of stewed meat, asked curiously:

"I heard that if you join the militia or work on the dam, you get a spoonful of stewed meat every day. Is that true?"

"Has the young master lied to everyone?"

"The Baron is so squeaky!"

"The Baron is so naughty, meow!"

Jimmy's wails were completely drowned out by the cheers of the rat girls.

Molen hated talking nonsense and had no intention of giving any morale-boosting speeches; he wasn't good at those things.

A full stomach is more effective than any grand speech; anyone who talks about ideals on an empty stomach is either a liar or a madman.

On the flat ground at the top of the mountain, the wind was much stronger than at the foot of the mountain, causing the mice to cover their round ears.

Before long, two hundred volunteer rat-girl militiamen stood in several columns on the mountaintop, facing the same direction.

The militia rats were dressed in their everyday work clothes, some still wearing aprons, and holding pickaxes and spatulas in their little hands.

They stood in a chaotic mess, without any formation whatsoever, a stark contrast to the neatly lined-up lemming guards beside them.

His leather armor was polished to a gleaming shine, his crossbow hung on his back, and he stared straight ahead, motionless.