Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game - Chapter 169: Public Carriages

The monster battlefield was only accessible in the game from ten in the morning to ten at night. Seizing the last few hours, players launched relentless sprints toward the objective.

At midnight on Earth, which marked the close of the day’s monster battlefield activity in game, the group led by Vanilla Pudding (Qin Guan) finally achieved their maiden victory, claiming the first triumph on the monster battlefield.

“Wooohoooo~!”

Emerging from the battlefield, the Vanilla Pudding’s group celebrated in jubilation just outside the Town Hall, flaunting their victory over Brother Lahong’s team, who had just failed by a hair’s breadth.

Cursing under his breath, Brother Lahong dropped a “we try again tomorrow” and led his dejected companions away.

“That felt good! Hahaha!” Qin Guan was reveling in delight, his previous frustrations at being outpaced by Brother Lahong now completely washed away.

“With this first level mission conquered, we will probably have a new battle mission the next time we enter. Who knows how insanely difficult the second level missions would be,” Blossoming Strokes remarked, still suffering from lingering trauma over the previous mission.

“It’s fine. We’ll scope out the second level mission tomorrow, and if it’s really impossible, we can just change the group leader,” Qin Guan suggested nonchalantly.

Missions within the monster battlefield were allocated based on the record of the group leader’s ID. Having surmounted a first level mission, Qin Guan’s group would be presented with a more challenging second level mission on their next entry unless they switched a group leader for the subsequent battlefield lineup.

“But that would be counterproductive, wouldn’t it? We’re the first to conquer the first level, after all. Changing leaders would essentially reset our progress,” Blossoming Strokes argued. “Completing the first level mission already gives the entire team 500 honor points, so the rewards for the second level mission can only be higher. In this monster battlefield, the more advanced the fixed group’s progress, the greater the rewards.”

Advancing from the basic Civilian to Auxiliary required 200 honor points, and advancing to the next rank of Soldier took another 400 honor points. As of now, every member of their group had already been promoted to Soldier.

Eight hundred honor points were needed to advance from Soldier to Elite Soldier—if they could conquer the second-tier task, their entire group would be Elite Soldiers!

Redeeming rewards from the quartermasters, a higher military rank, meant better stuff could be exchanged.

As if realizing something, Qin Guan looked intently at Unceasing Entropy, Yang Ying, Tang Jia, and Jia Luo.

Unceasing Entropy knew exactly what he was hinting at; her response was straightforward, “If there’s room in your blood alliance, count the four of us in.”

“Yes, yes, yes. There’s definitely room.” Qin Guan was beaming and promptly added the four capable ladies he had long coveted into the blood alliance.

Tang Jia followed Unceasing Entropy’s lead without question; Yang Ying and Jia Luo, too, had no qualms about Qin Guan’s blood alliance and had always maintained a good relationship with Blossoming Strokes, not to mention their occasional team-ups with Fallen Mulberry Leaves when the latter had no guild commitments.

After exchanging greetings with familiar faces in the blood alliance channel, Unceasing Entropy led her usual gang off for regular team activities and took to the team channel to explain, “The monster battlefield isn’t viable for unaffiliated players; this game mode is clearly designed for large groups. The higher the fixed team’s mission difficulty, the better the rewards and the more honor points are required for each rank advancement. Without joining a guild or a fixed team, our ranks would fall behind the majority.”

Although Unceasing Entropy was capable of leading a raid group herself, she was still a student, and academics remained her top priority.

“I see, so that’s why you suddenly decided to join the blood alliance.” Jia Luo nodded in understanding.

Yang Ying considered this and agreed as well. “Running our own blood alliance would be too much hassle; joining another is fine too, since outside of battlefield hours, we’re still our own team.”

“I just feel there’s something about Vanilla that I don’t quite like,” Tang Jia confessed. “He seems to always consider benefits and rewards first and foremost.”

“Being that way isn’t necessarily a flaw,” Unceasing Entropy responded with a smile. “Without such goal-oriented leaders, it would be hard for a guild to sustain itself. Besides, compared to groups made up of close friends, Vanilla maintains much higher standards.”

Tang Jia couldn’t help nodding upon hearing this… Indeed, in the world of online gaming, those seemingly close-knit circles of “own people” often harbored as much, if not more, drama and pettiness as the larger, more diverse guilds and alliances—squabbles over trivial gains or rifts caused by the selfish desires; such tales of close friends-only circles souring were all too common.

Their semi-regular teammate, Fallen Mulberry Leaves, for example, experienced such a falling out with her original circle and was unceremoniously kicked out due to her job selection.

“Someone able to cater to a broader group and lead a larger team, even if driven by self-interest, can still maintain fairness on a broader scale,” Unceasing Entropy explained. “After all, they tend to be more image-conscious and careful about their reputation. Vanilla has managed to expand a small circle of a dozen friends into a large guild of nearly a hundred; surely he has his own charisma. Don’t underestimate him too much, Tang Jia.”

“Alright.” Tang Jia nodded obediently.

“Good girl,” Jia Luo teased, playfully patting Tang Jia on the head.

“What are you doing!”

Watching them bicker playfully, Unceasing Entropy quietly pondering the implications of the monster battlefield’s introduction at this juncture.

All online games encourage social interaction and teamwork for a simple reason: games that relied solely on gameplay struggled to retain players over the long term. Without a steady influx of new players, even the best of games faded into obscurity.

Only games that cultivated a rich community atmosphere, transforming themselves into social platforms, managed to thrive indefinitely.

But the “Otherworld” game… had a style that had always been unique. It was neither innocently charming nor blatantly lurid, but more like a reclusive madman with social anxiety—even the introduction of friend lists and private messaging had been delayed until nearly two months after launch. Any other game would have cooled off long before.

The sudden push for players to adopt a fixed, large-group play style in “OtherWorld,” a game that had yet to introduce even basic inventory and storage systems, seemed suspect to Unceasing Entropy. She wasn’t quite convinced that the game had suddenly recognized the importance of social dynamics!

“Forcing players into a fixed, large group playing route all of a sudden… I feel like there must be a hidden agenda,” Unceasing Entropy muttered to herself.

“Qing Yue, hurry up!” Yang Ying noticed Unceasing Entropy lagging behind and called out.

“Coming!” Unceasing Entropy snapped out of her daze and quickly caught up with her friends.

It was November 30 on Earth, and “OtherWorld” had also entered its 11th month.

Today was a perfect day with clear and sunny weather. After midday, the farmers in the countryside surrounding Weisshem began gathering their sun-dried corn cobs and soybeans, packing them into bulging sacks, and transporting them to the country roads by carrying or using hand-pushed carts.

Soon, a horse-drawn carriage, making rounds every half-hour along the country roads before returning to town, appeared at the end of the road.

This “circum-town carriage” was a recent innovation. Weisshem, largely flat with few mountains, allowed carriages to access most areas, though the road conditions left much to be desired, making for a less than comfortable ride.

The coachman, employed by the town hall’s Carriage Department, waved to the waiting villagers from afar. “This ride’s full, wait for the next one!”

Those trying to hail the carriage from the middle of the road could only retreat, disappointed.

“Why are so many people heading into town today?” The villagers, having waited for a while, grumbled to each other as they looked expectantly down the road.

Less than half an hour later, another carriage from the Carriage Department appeared.

The last carriage had been crowded, but this one offered a bit more space. The villagers, who had been waiting for a while, happily loaded their goods onto the carriage. Some hung their wares on the newly installed large iron hooks on the sides of the carriage, while others stacked their goods on the roof, securing them with sturdy canvas straps—the compartment beneath the carriage designated for cargo was already filled to capacity.

A farmer in his forties, who appeared much older due to the wear of hard labor, had just secured several large bags of corn onto the carriage. Worrying about the reliability of the iron hooks, he asked the coachman in a thickly accented common tongue, “Are these hooks sturdy enough? They won’t come loose, will they?”

The coachman, evidently accustomed to such inquiries, replied nonchalantly without turning his head, “Don’t worry, these carriages are custom-made by the transport department built entirely of high-quality steel. The hooks are welded directly onto the carriage; your stuff will be fine.”

Hearing this, the old farmer tapped the side of the carriage and was surprised by the metallic echo. “I-it’s really made of fine steel?”

“That’s right, these carriages are as sturdy as they come. Even the carriages of nobles might not match their durability,” boasted the coachman. “Hurry up and get on, we’re about to depart!”

The old farmer quickly scrambled aboard…

These special carriages, with a load limit of five tons due to the tire capacity and the structural integrity of the chassis, weren’t native to this world but came from a machinery factory in G Province.

Custom-ordered by Yang Qiu under the guise of carriages for scenic spots, these were modified from tractor wagons with added roofs and interior seating made of synthetic leather over wooden frames (designed to seat six, but could squeeze in a few more). The all-purpose tractor tires were retained, as was the driver’s area in the tractor cabin.

With no engine installed (and thus no front end), the cost per unit was about half that of a new all-purpose tractor, while Yang Qiu was willing to pay two-thirds the price of a new tractor (around 20,000 yuan for a brand-new agricultural all-purpose tractor)…

Consequently, the factory was more than happy to customize the carriages to Yang Qiu’s specifications, adding roof racks, body-mounted hook racks, and undercarriage shelves with as generous a use of materials as possible.

The resulting modified carriages were unsightly to say the least, but since the passengers didn’t mind, it hardly mattered.

These durable and sturdy carriages, when fully loaded, required the strength of two robust single-horned gray horses to pull. Thanks should be given to the Sokri merchant caravan that once attacked Lakeside Village, for without their “generous donation” of over two hundred such horses, the Carriage Department couldn’t have launched this convenient public service for the rural areas so swiftly.

Once everyone was aboard, the coachman, sitting in the driver’s seat (the cabin had no windshield to avoid looking too much like a tractor), cracked his whip, and the two strong horses began to move.

The passengers, packed in the carriage like sardines, skillfully opened the sliding windows to enjoy the cool breeze of late autumn. Despite the bumpy ride due to the poor road conditions, the farmers’ spirits remained high.

In previous years, transporting crops to town had been a grueling task, requiring families to set out before dawn and leaving everyone exhausted by the time they reached town. Now, with carriages charging only one copper coin per person and an additional copper coin as long as their goods didn’t exceed 200 kilograms, the convenience was unparalleled.

Currently, Weisshem Town lacked dedicated carriage stations, but since the farmers’ destination was always the procurement points along Main Street, the carriages made that their final stop.

On the south end of Main Street, near the town gate, the procurement point catering to farmers stood from building numbers 126 to 131.

As the carriage came to a halt, the old farmer and his son disembarked, unloading the bags of corn from the large iron hooks on the side of the carriage and carrying them together into the procurement point.

While the farmers unloaded their goods, security squad personnel would approach and stand watch not far from the carriage, scrutinizing everyone who passed by.

In the past, the militiamen wouldn’t have been concerned if a farmer’s bag of corn or half a bag of soybeans were stolen on the way to town. But now, if a theft occurred and the thief wasn’t caught, the entire security squad would face a deduction in their bonuses—something none of them were willing to lose.

The elderly farmer headed toward building number 126, where a jovial young clerk was in charge. The old man had spoken to the clerk on a previous visit to town for tax payments and had taken a liking to him. He was confident that this clerk wouldn’t cheat him on the weight of his corn—a common occurrence when Baron Markus’ steward handled the tithe collection where fifty kilograms of corn on their scales would scarcely measure up to forty.

“Forty-two kilograms of soybeans at 12 copper coins a kilogram totals 5 silver and 4 copper.” The clerk swiftly calculated the bill for the farmer and his son after weighing their goods. “And for the 161 kilograms of corn, since it’s unshelled and still on the cob, we can only offer you 1.4 copper coins per kilogram, making it 225 coppers in total, which is 2 silver 25 copper.”

“Ah? The price differs for unshelled corn?” the farmer asked in surprise

“Yes.” The clerk nodded. “We buy corn to grind into flour. Unshelled corn needs to have its net weight adjusted and undergoes an additional process. If you’re willing to shell it before selling, we can pay two additional copper coins per kilogram.”

He then gestured toward an adjacent empty room. “You can use the shelling tools there. You’re welcome to shell your corn first and then come back for settlement.”

The farmer hesitated. Shelling all that sun-dried corn would take at least half a day’s work for him and his son, and staying overnight in town to finish the job would mean additional expenses.

“Let’s just sell it as is,” the farmer conceded, albeit reluctantly.

The clerk, understanding the farmers’ reluctance to spend money on lodging in town, proceeded to settle their payment.

“With plenty of daylight left, why not stay and earn some extra by doing odd jobs here?” the clerk suggested after settling their accounts. “We pay two copper coins an hour for shelling corn. Or, if you head over to the new factory area on Main Street, you can earn three coppers an hour for general labor like cleaning and moving machinery, and a meal will even be included.”

The farmer’s eyes bulged in surprise. “You get paid to shell corn?!”

In the countryside, shelling dried corn was a task where neighbors helped each other out of goodwill, with no expectation of payment. The only perk was being able to take home the shelled cobs for kindling.