Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

If Castel did not welcome them, then they would simply leave. Grisha was already a warrior; he was no longer a weak child, and the Resistance Army would never abandon its resistance.

His small hands opened the paper box, and Grisha’s eyes widened abruptly.

Inside was a box of yellow strips, along with diamond-shaped pieces. Grisha did not know what they were, but his nose answered for him.

“It smells so good.”

Grisha pinched one of the long strips between his fingertips, lifted it before his eyes, and examined it carefully. It was golden—truly golden—its tapered edges slightly charred. The fragrance of fried food mixed with oil instantly filled his nose, and Grisha swallowed hard.

He hesitated for a moment and glanced at the Expeditionary Army soldiers before him. No one was paying attention. He clenched his jaw and slowly placed the long strip into his mouth to chew.

A moment later, his hands began to tremble, and two lines of tears rolled down.

The charred aroma of the fries was crispy on the outside, yet soft like mashed potatoes within. The fragrance of frying surged from his tongue straight into his mind.

The Northlands produced no oil, and Grisha’s family was nothing more than impoverished hunters. Many people lived their entire lives without ever tasting fried food.

This was a delicacy that had never once appeared in his dreams.

Grisha turned over the box. Printed on it in exaggerated lettering was a sentence, along with a smiling girl’s face.

Grisha could not read, but he firmly etched the girl’s appearance into his heart.

“Grisha? What’s wrong? Did someone outside bully you? Don’t be afraid—Uncle Wood will beat them up for you!”

“Yeah, Grisha, why are you crying? Boys aren’t supposed to cry!”

Grisha hurriedly wiped his eyes and finally noticed that everyone in the train car was looking at him with concern.

“I—I’m fine. It’s good outside. Castel is very good.”

Uncle Wood, seeing that nothing was wrong, let out a breath. His loud voice then erupted again: “Grisha, outside—what’s it like outside?”

Halfway through speaking, his tone suddenly grew cautious. Grisha raised his head and saw that this usually brash man was actually shrinking back a little.

When a bullet had been dug out of his leg, he had not even frowned. Yet when speaking of the outside—just one train car away—he became timid.

Grisha looked around and found everyone the same: some avoiding his eyes, some pretending to be calm, some turning their heads away while keeping their ears perked.

Castel was the shared dream of the Resistance Army, the only glimmer of starlight in the darkest nights—the distant fire and light ahead.

Gwen had told them about Castel many times; they themselves had spoken of Castel many times. Who had not dreamed of that beautiful land—the second home of the Northlanders?

But it was too beautiful. Now that it was before them, fear crept in that it might be nothing but a fragile dream, a soap bubble under the sun—something that would vanish the moment they blinked, leaving them back in another hell.

Faced with their burning gazes, Grisha suddenly froze. He stretched out his hands, trying to describe everything he had seen, but had no idea where to start.

He was only a child—so he decided to solve the problem in a child’s way.

He reached into the box and took out fries and fried fish, carefully dividing them among everyone.

“Hey, don’t give fried food to the wounded so casually! It’s hard to digest.” A young Expeditionary Army soldier near the door widened his eyes. Just as he was about to protest further, his companion patted his shoulder and dragged him out.

Grisha limped from person to person, handing out everything in the box. The Resistance members stared in surprise at what lay in their hands.

There was no doubt—this was food. Noses did not lie, and they had seen Grisha eat it moments ago.

One by one, they put the fries and fried fish into their mouths. The train car fell silent.

Grisha straightened his expression and solemnly addressed the Resistance fighters:

“This is Castel.”

No one questioned it. No one refuted it. The people in the train car accepted Grisha’s unusual “introduction” just like that. They merely savored the taste in their mouths. Unknowingly, their expressions softened, and smiles appeared.

They could not explain it, but their hearts felt inexplicably at ease.

This truly was the home they had longed and suffered for—the sacred land that haunted their dreams.

Unfortunately, they did not have long to savor it. Doctors and nurses had already arrived to receive them. Some were supported, some carried out of the train car. Seeing the towering forest of concrete outside, many people burst into tears.

They shouted Castel’s name, refusing to change it no matter how many people called this place Blood Harbor.

Grisha was supported as he stepped out of the car. He looked at the people waving to him, looked at the bright sunlight, and drew in a deep breath of sea breeze.

Warm. Damp. No trace of the Northlands’ bone-piercing cold.

He, too, smiled.

A carefree smile—one that only children could have.

Hughes watched the jubilant platform and felt his heart ease.

Their half-year of effort had not been in vain. Rescuing these Resistance fighters meant that this expedition to the Northlands had completed half its mission.

As for the other half—of course, it was to bring Bazel back to Castel for judgment.

Hughes was not worried. The Northlands were indeed vast, but as long as the train could pass through, there was nowhere they could not reach.

“How are things on the Northlands side now?”

“Plenty of good news, my lord.” Standing behind him was Hodge. The man stood respectfully at his side, occasionally glancing outside at the disembarking Resistance fighters, his eyes full of emotion.

He had been a Rhine man, accidentally exiled to Castel. Originally, he had only planned to stay temporarily before returning to Rhine. Unexpectedly, he ended up staying for a very long time.

He understood those people’s feelings all too well.

He had been the same when he first came—worried, fearful, afraid this place would be a desolate wasteland that would bury the rest of his life.

But when he saw the towering workshops and the clean, orderly assembly lines, many things quietly changed.

These suffering Northlanders would come to love this land too. This was a miraculous place, possessing the most precious treasure in the world—hope.

Hodge was willing to use every beautiful word to describe Castel’s greatness and was willing to spill his last drop of blood for it.

He had been a labor slave who traded his life for money, worth little more than the coal shoveled into the boiler—yet Castel had given meaning to his life, so fragile and insignificant like a weed.

Even having enough to eat had once been a luxury. He had never imagined that someone as lowly as him could possess hope.

Looking at the people outside, Hodge unconsciously smiled.

These refugees would have hope as well.