Let MapleStory experience the Fourth Calamity

Chapter 32 Sweeping Away Hunger

Deep within the black market, in the secret chamber of the old one-eyed man.

The air was incredibly heavy. After listening to his trusted subordinate's report, the old one-eyed man's single eye widened in shock, and he gripped the handle of his cane tightly.

"Say it again? What did they buy?"

"Fermented sour flour that's grown green mold, and... and a whole basin of mutated, blistered pork fat." The subordinate swallowed hard. "The people in the black market watched them push it back."

Old One-Eyed gasped, feeling as if he were being pricked by needles.

As a seasoned veteran who had spent decades navigating shipwreck areas, he knew all too well what that mutated lard was.

That thing doesn't even eat the mutated three-eyed octopus monsters in the abandoned city. If a person gets even a little bit on it, they'll either get a rash all over their body or suffer severe intestinal perforation.

"He's insane... Lynn is a complete madman!"

Old One-Eye gritted his teeth, arriving at a terrifying conclusion: "Acidic substances combined with corpse venom—this must be some ancient and vicious alchemical formula! He's not trying to compete in business; he's trying to create a potent biological gas to poison the docks in Bolton!"

Old One-Eye abruptly stood up and urgently issued orders: "Pass down the order to withdraw all our men! Send a few spies to keep a close watch on Lynn's camp. If they push those biological weapons near Bolton's mess hall or water source, do not interfere, but stay as far away as possible! I invested in a chartered port; I don't want to face the wrath of the Committee's regular army with him!"

…………

Meanwhile, the terrifying biochemical laboratory that Old One-Eyed had imagined was wafting a strange fragrance.

In the center of the camp.

Iron Pot Stew Master skillfully neutralized the sour flour with alkaline solution extracted from wood ash, kneading it into fluffy, large dough balls.

On the other side, the roasted whole lamb, enduring the initial stench, poured the pot of highly toxic mutated lard into the red-hot iron pot. As it continued to cook at high temperatures, the toxins, impurities, and moisture deposited in the fat were quickly extracted and evaporated.

Before long, that disgusting pile of waste was physically removed by high temperature and boiled into a pot of clear, transparent, and golden-yellow pure oil.

"Put it in the pot!"

The cut noodles were thrown into boiling oil, and with a "sizzle," they quickly expanded into giant oil cakes as thick as an adult's forearm under the combined effect of high temperature and carbon dioxide bubbles.

The goose couldn't wait to use the tongs to pick up a piece, ignoring the heat, and took a big bite.

The crispy pastry exploded in his mouth. There were no cold system pop-ups; what he felt was an extremely real physical response.

The rich animal fat mixed with high-purity carbohydrates enters the stomach and instantly transforms into a warm current.

The most direct feeling is that warmth flows through the blood and washes over the limbs and bones. The muscle spasms and weakness in the hands and feet caused by burning cement and moving bricks for days are swept away in the face of pure calories.

A sense of power returned to this body.

When I was stewing the pork in the iron pot, I felt a dryness and tightness in my throat. That was probably a slight side effect left over from the purification of the mutated lard.

"Holy crap! Guys!" He excitedly raised the remaining half of the fried dough stick and yelled at the players around him.

"This stuff makes my stomach feel like it's on fire, and my strength is instantly restored! This is definitely a top-tier stamina recovery potion, but it uses a lot of water, probably because it comes with a hidden debuff of extreme thirst!"

Lynn stood aside, watching the golden butter cakes fill several wooden carts; everything was currently under his control.

As someone who had been through it, he knew all too well how devastating this thing was to porters.

"Push them onto the cart," Lynn gave the order to set off. "Go tell Bolton's men what real hard currency is."

…………

The air at the old docks under Bolton's jurisdiction was suffocatingly heavy.

Old John, dragging his cramped legs, unloaded the last heavy chest of spices onto the deck.

He experienced bouts of dizziness and a ringing in his ears. This was physiological dizziness caused by a severe lack of salt and calories.

"Clang, clang, clang"

The rusty iron basin was struck, signaling the time for serving the meal and settling the bill.

Old John moved to the ration station, where the piece clerk expressionlessly tossed out five filthy wooden tokens.

Before Old John could even grasp it tightly, the overseer beside him had already reached out his hand.

"Two coins for the wear and tear of the walkway, one coin for the freshwater supply tax in the work area. Give them to me."

Old John stared blankly at the two tokens remaining in his palm, too exhausted to even argue.

Within this tightly controlled loop of exploitation, they can only ever earn enough to barely stay afloat.

He turned around, his cloudy gaze involuntarily drifting to the top shelf of the ration station. There, a small bottle of somewhat cloudy safe vegetable oil was sealed with a cork.

The price tag below reads: 500 tokens.

That was an absolute luxury that he couldn't afford even if he didn't eat or drink for half a year.

Old John quickly looked away, his hands trembling uncontrollably, as he handed over the two wooden coins he had earned with half his life, in exchange for a bowl of green seaweed paste floating with white foam.

He squatted on the muddy ground, barely chewing, and poured the bowl of meatless porridge directly down his throat.

"A bunch of ungrateful maggots!" the foreman yelled, brandishing his whip in a condescending tone. "If it weren't for Lord Bolton's mercy in giving you tokens, you'd all be rotting in the stinking ditches of the shipwreck area by now! Finish your food and get back to work!"

Old John licked the bottom of the bowl, his stomach still convulsing wildly from extreme hunger.

Just then, the direction of the sea breeze changed.

A scent, a blend of animal fat and high-calorie carbohydrates, drifted silently into the crowded dock.

The workers froze.

The overseer, who was wielding a whip, stopped.

Even the irritable merchant ship captain on deck couldn't help but sniff hard, his mouth involuntarily drooling.

For the porters at Pearl Harbor, who struggle to make ends meet year-round, the allure of warmth ingrained in their DNA instantly overwhelms their cerebral cortex.

Hundreds of laborers turned their heads in unison, staring intently in the direction from which the aroma was coming.

A few outsiders wearing white T-shirts and some laborers who looked similar to them swaggered to a stop outside Bolton's police line, pushing several wooden carts that were steaming and smelling strongly of heat.

The climbing snail raised its homemade tin megaphone and shouted wildly:

"New dock hiring! No more of those broken wooden tokens today! Move a ton of goods, get two big fried dough sticks! First bite, free trial!"

The air froze for a full five seconds.

All the coolies' eyes turned red, and they made frantic swallowing sounds in their throats.

But intimidated by Bolton's long-standing oppressive rule, not a single person dared to take the first step.

Bolton's foreman immediately realized what was happening. He drew his iron knife and, with a cold laugh, loudly exposed the truth:

"Don't be fooled by these country bumpkins! Don't you know how expensive clean grease is in the Upper City? Who would give this stuff away for free?! Let me tell you, they bought mutated corpse oil from the black market! It's bait to poison you! Anyone who dares to step out of this line, I'll chop them down right now!"

Upon hearing this, the nascent desire in the laborers' eyes was instantly suppressed by their fear of poison and tyranny.

Yes, how could such a good thing happen out of nowhere?

The players in the distance looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Does this NPC's quest system have some serious illness?" the agent muttered speechlessly. "Even with this strong fragrance, they still won't accept the quest? And they still insist we poisoned them?"

To establish his authority, the foreman arrogantly walked to the cordon. He used the tip of his knife to pick up a golden butter cake from the edge of the cart and casually tossed it into the foul-smelling, muddy puddle at his feet.

"Get out of here!!!"

Before the words were finished, a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.

Old John, like a completely mad dog, shoved aside the coolies in front of him and lunged into the muddy pit.

He was so hungry; his body was protesting. Faced with absolute hunger, the fear of poison was nothing.

Even if it's just to have a good meal before I die, it's worth it!

Old John shoved the overseer's leg aside, lay face down in the mud, and with trembling hands picked up the half-crushed, mud-covered frying pancake, stuffing it into his mouth without hesitation and chewing it heartily.

Muddy water and sand, mixed with extremely rich grease and crispy carbohydrates, slid down the throat into the stomach.

There was no death from poisoning, and no foaming at the mouth.

Instead, old John felt as if a fire was warming his stomach. That incredible heat was repairing his collapsing bodily functions.

"You fucking want to die!" The foreman roared in fury, raised his barbed whip, and lashed it hard across the man's back.

However, the whip had not yet fallen.

Old John, who was lying in the mud, suddenly raised his head.

He is not dead.

Those eyes, which were originally cloudy and numb, now burst forth with an unprecedented ferocity.

He stared intently at the overseer who had raised his whip, and slowly stood up from the mud pit.