Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game

Embracing the opportunity to earn additional copper coins, the father and son duo, now considerably wealthier with several silver coins jingling in their pockets, readily accepted the proposition.

After a brief deliberation, the father decided to undertake the less physically demanding task of corn shelling, while his robust son opted for the more lucrative labor at the new factory zone.

Led by the clerk to the shelling area behind the procurement point, the old farmer entered the backyard, expecting to see a group of individuals manually stripping corn cobs with wooden blocksa common sight in rural communities where shelling was a communal, unpaid effort.

What he saw, though, confounded his rustic expectations. There were indeed many people seated in rows, surrounded by wooden basins, sacks of corn kernels, and piles of corn cobs. However, instead of wooden blocks, they wielded peculiar, palm-sized cylindrical tools.

When inserting a cob into the cylinder with one hand and cranking a handle with the other, kernels cascaded out with a satisfying clatter. The old farmer, with all his life's wisdom, only needed a moment to recognize the ingenious purpose of these strange contraptions and couldn't help marveling at their convenience.

If even such a mundane task like corn shelling could be revolutionized and made into child's play, what other marvels could the townsfolk possess?!

"Here for the odd jobs?" A young man, momentarily pausing from his task of sifting through shelled corn to remove bits of shell, greeted the farmer with a nod.

"Yes. Yes, sir," the farmer responded, somewhat intimidated by the young man's formidable physique, hurriedly bowing his head in respect.

"Don't be mistaken; I'm no 'sir,'" the young man replied, setting aside his winnowing basket and wiping his brow with a towel. He gestured for the farmer to approach. "Come, get your tools."

The farmer was handed a lightweight, portable hand-cranked corn sheller (a steal at just a fraction over 8 yuan per piece), a wooden basin, and a roll of burlap sacks.

The robust young man then led the farmer to a corner of the yard, pointing to a stack of corn cobs. "Start shelling from this pile. I'll start timing your work once you begin; you'll earn a copper every half hour. Any questions?"

"No, none at all," the farmer assured.

Nodding, the young man glanced at the farmer's weathered face, then fetched a straw mat from a nearby building. "You're older, so it's best to not sit directly on the ground."

This casual act of consideration, seemingly routine for the young man, left the old farmer touched and slightly overwhelmed

Without dwelling much on it, the young man returned to his desk, jotting down the farmer's name and work commencement time in a ledger, ensuring accuracy with the clock mounted on the yard wall.

Then, the young man continued his task of sifting through the corn kennels and filtering out dirt and other stuff that might have gotten mixed inside

This young man's name was Paul Hank, brother of Sam Hank, the town hall staff who was currently out of Weisshem doing a job.

As the major construction project on Main Street was winding down and with work getting scarce, Paul, like many other townsfolk, also found himself idle for a few days.

But in no time, Paul found a job. His older brother was a town hall staff after all, and his mother, Mrs. Hank, was well regarded in the Logistics Office. Even if his family didn't think to use their "connections" to find Paul work, other people would remember him, which led to him taking charge of the Logistics Office's procurement point.

This particular job stirred mixed feelings in Paul, and he spent quite a few days reflecting on the situation.

He was 19 this year and no longer a clueless child Just like how his brother, Sam, had chided him before he left, were it in Indahl, someone like him would have had to rely on connections just to find factory work or resign himself to manual labor in a tannery or as an apprentice.

The reputable shops in the southern districts would never consider someone with his rugged appearance and unrefined demeanor, fearing it might dampen the relaxed atmosphere for their esteemed clientele.

Yet, here in Weisshem, the town hall had provided him with an education in basic literacy and arithmetic, entrusting him with the oversight of a work site, managing laborers' hours, and dispensing wagesa responsibility Paul knew all too well he would never have been afforded in Indahl, where his humble origins and coarse appearance would have him regarded with the same wariness one might reserve for a common thief.

Paul vividly remembered the humiliation he felt at 13 when he first made a delivery for his mother's tailor shop, returning a mended gentleman's coat to the Grantham District. The butler that received him meticulously inspected each of the coat's buttons carefully, ensuring none were missing before allowing him to leave.

That butler had been worried Paul would have stolen the brass buttons on the coat during the delivery.

This humiliation had always been deeply etched in Paul's mind.

And there were countless other instances of prejudice and suspicion he'd faced simply due to his appearance: being watched closely when he was casually picking fruit at a stall, or chased away from resting near the side or back doors of shops.

These experiences were not unique to Paul but shared by many young men in Marley Commercial District who, lacking education and formal employment, eked out a living through odd jobs.

The notion of entrusting someone perceived as a "street rat" with any significant responsibility was crazy, yet this very trust had been extended to him in Weisshem, a town he had once deemed less promising than Indahl.

Paul carried on with his duties with the diligence instilled in him by Mrs. Hank, his mother, taking pride in his work that ensured his family's sustenance and stability. He wasn't one for many words and didn't express emotions as well as his brother Sam. Paul's inner turmoil, sensitivity, and vibrant feelings remained his alone to know.

"Paul, we've come for the corn!" called out two young men as they pushed open the gate to the shelling area and rode tricycles in.

"Right away," Paul responded, quickly hauling over the bags of corn he had personally sifted. "This is all I have for now; I haven't checked the rest."

"Load them all up; there's no need to sift through each one. The factory has machines that can sort and wash automatically," chuckled the older of the two, clearly a few years Paul's senior.

Surprised but uncomplaining, Paul joined the men in loading the bags onto their vehicle. Once the task was done and the men departed, Paul too picked up a hand-cranked sheller, settling down to strip the cobs of their kernels.

No one had asked him, the person in charge of the shelling yard, to perform the same labor as those he supervised. Yet, having seen the slender clerks from the town hall contribute to the worksite in whatever ways they could, Paul saw no reason to consider himself above the task at hand.

As dusk arrived, the Logistics Office delivered the day's second meal earlier than usual.

The Logistics Office was currently training up a culinary team so that the town hall could see to its own work meals and not burden the undead delicatessen in the near future.

And naturally, these new chefs were the family members of the former city defense force soldiers. Even Paul's sprightly 15-year-old sister, Joan, found her place among the ranks of the Logistics Office's workforce.

It was Joan who arrived with a push cart to deliver the meals this time. When she entered, Joan excitedly flaunted something small nestled in a plastic dish. "Look, Paul, look at what this is!"

Joan was the most lively among the Hank family of four. The number of words Paul said in a year wouldn't amount to what Joan said in two weeks. Paul, accustomed to his sister's bursts of enthusiasm, cast a curious glance at the item in her hand and was astonished. "Cake? How is there cake?"

"We made it ourselves!" Joan puffed up with pride. "Can you believe it, Paul? The wheat mill can produce cake flour! The clerk said that when wheat and corn flour is fed into those strange machines, out comes cake flour!"

The revelation left Paul's mouth agape

Marley Commercial District also had a cake shop, with delights coveted by many kids, though they knew they would never get close to; cakes were several times as expensive as bread, and most families wouldn't indulge in such a luxury unless it was a special occasion.

"Wheat and corn flour can be turned into cake? Then why are cakes so much more expensive then bread?" Paul pondered aloud, baffled. Corn flour was several times cheaper than wheat flour.

The cakes of this world wasn't because cake shops were devoid of conscience, but rather, it was an issue of the constraints of cost. A special low-gluten flour was required.

Weisshem generally grew medium-gluten wheat (which contains more gluten and more suitable for making bread) that was not suitable for making cakes.

And here lay the triumph of Earth's industrial might: corn was transformed into starch through mills, mixed with the local wheat flour to synthesize a low-gluten variant, yielding an affordable cake flour.

The baking process itself embraced a brute force approach, with machines from G Province's mechanical factories churning out cakes and, with a simple change of molds, biscuits. The latter, durable and portable, was poised to become a flagship product of the agricultural processing industry.

As Paul savored a piece of cake from his meal ration, a mere stone's throw away in the factory zone, a significant evaluation was underway.

Ji Tang, Zhao Zhenzhen, and Rex stood amid the newly operational food processing plant, scrutinizing the first batch of biscuits to emerge from the production line. These biscuits were a blend of synthetic low-gluten flour, eggs, soybean oil, green onions, salt, and corn syrup.

Ji Tang and Zhao Zhenzhen couldn't partake in the tasting, so the responsibility fell on Rex. As the supervising clerk and workers watched anxiously, he picked up a warm, square biscuit and took a bite.

The savory-sweet flavor, enhanced with a hint of green onion and the gentle aroma of egg, delighted him after just one morsel. "It's good. Paired with milk and it would be great for breakfast."

The supervisor and workers all burst into wide smiles.

"I told you it would be good; it smells so fragrant," one of the newly recruited workers exclaimed, his face beaming with pride.

"Everyone, have a taste. Come appreciate the fruits of our labor." Rex gestured them over.

"Heheh, it's mostly the machines' work; we didn't do much" another worker admitted modestly as he reached for the biscuits.

"These are delicious, even better than the treats at my wedding!"

"Yeah, they are amazing. To think we actually made these"

"I never knew corn could make sugar; it's so sweet!"

The workers, who had been meticulously observed on the construction sites of Weisshem's main street and passed the night school exams to secure their positions, were deeply moved by the product of their labor.

The old farmer's son, who had come to the factory zone for odd jobs, was present too. Though he had only been tasked with cleaning and carrying, the aroma of the biscuits made him salivate.

"Here, lad, have one too," a fellow worker offered kindly, noticing the young man and breaking a piece off for him.

"Thank you so much," the farmer's son said, overwhelmed by the gesture. He eagerly took a bite and smiled. "It's really tasty."

"It is, isn't it?" The worker laughed heartily. "The wheat and corn for these biscuits were grown by you folks. You have a share in this, too."

The young man, his hands rough and skin tanned from labor, half understood, marveling, "It's incredible that wheat and corn can be turned into something so delicious. This must be worth much more than just the grains, right, sir?"

"Absolutely," the worker replied with pride. "Our biscuits are sure to be more popular than plain bread."

Overhearing this exchange, Rex smiled at Ji Tang and Zhao Zhenzhen.

"Come, let's go check on the flour mill next," Ji Tang suggested, leading the way.

As the trio left the puffed food processing plant, they were met with an unexpected sighta procession of undead parading through the town.

"Why have the undead come here? Is there another enemy attack?" Rex asked, startled.

"Umm I don't think so," Ji Tang muttered, glancing at the "system time" before realization dawned on him. "Oh, right, we completely lost track of time. It's the day we battle the Radiant Sun Church, isn't it?"

"Ehh?!!" Rex was taken aback. "Th-then, don't we have to make preparations?"

"Since Yang didn't notify us, it means there's no need." Ji Tang waved dismissively. "War is his business. We just have to do our jobs well."

As this was said, the trio saw Lowell, dressed in exceptionally conspicuous and luxurious noble attire (actually a rented cosplay costume), riding a towering lizard horse, pass by the street in front of the factory zone.

"Look, you don't even need to make an appearance; Yang has already made all the preparations," Ji Tang said as he pointed to the street.

Rex: ""

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