【Construction Corps】

But Vivian was no idealist—

She lucidly grasped the real resistances, the thorns in such rousing ire.

The Demon Clan had its flaws: myriad races, prone to savagery, quick to wrath.

Yet they were also simpler souls.

Revering might, idolizing the strong.

Fist biggest meant truth absolute.

While inter-racial habits, values diverged vastly.

Forcing uniform standards would breed backlash.

And speaking of, the shift itself was repression, torment.

For career soldiers—those who earned respect on battlefields, blood thrumming with belligerence—

To grip plowshares, swing pickaxes, tend furrows?

In their entrenched views, this was debasement, disgrace!

A plunge from heavens to mire!

After all, to them, farming, coal-digging, ore-hewing—

Those were the lowliest commons’ drudgery.

Mindsets shifted slower, harder than mana swelled.

Vivian never fancied a stirring oration or soul-probing query

Would flip these root-bound subordinates on a dime.

Send them joyfully to mines and fields.

But for now, in the short term, the Evernight Territory needed productivity revived.

Clinging to “make do” mindsets guaranteed no perfect fulfillment of quotas.

Nor peak efficiency.

Old Stonehammer wasn’t just a seasoned fighter.

He was a mighty obsidian giant troll.

Able to endure the pits far longer.

His yield and pace outstripped other trolls.

While the freed labor could tackle baser tasks.

Needing scant mana or brawn.

Like road-laying, house-raising.

Thus, gradualism remained key.

A notion surfaced naturally in Vivian’s mind.

Old Stonehammer relays to the rest: I’m not severing you from combat rolls.

Given the Evernight Territory’s rebuild needs, I require your talents poured into every efficiency-boosting link—

“…Demon Lord, you mean…?”

“I’ll roster all Demon Clansfolk fit for and apt in production work into a parallel system—

The [Construction Corps].

In lulls from pressing campaigns, Corps members shift to productive toil.

But when need arises, I’ll call you to readiness.”

The [Construction Corps].

Retain military framing.

Bind production to honor!

She first reemphasized Blackrock Town’s mine as the Evernight Territory’s absolute core strategic linchpin.

Affirmed Old Stonehammer and crew’s irreplaceable expertise and fealty.

Then, incrementally reshape their outlooks.

“Once mine output stabilizes preliminarily, I’ll institute rotations—

Troll squads excelling, completing key extractions, earn periodic swaps.

Back to combat rosters, for patrols, beast-culls, such outlying duties.”

She hadn’t sealed their return to battle outright.

She pledged rotations, framed as “sustaining combat edge” and “upholding martial pride.”

Ensuring, to a degree, these production-tied Demon Clansfolk wouldn’t atrophy in fighting trim.

Concurrently, elevate status: a special title for Old Stonehammer and the mine-assigned crew—

The [Veinstone Vigilants].

With pay and rank equaling frontline combatants.

This acknowledged their grueling labors.

And assayed recasting “producers'” standing.

Hoisting it to parity with “defenders'” vital role.

She sought to offset their psychic drop with prestige and perks.

“Further: standout units or individuals in reconstruction—vast contributions—gain precedence in future land grants, resource tilts, even merit-noble awards.”

“This guides the shift with tangible, visible gains.”

Such tactical concessions, for the nonce, soothed Old Stonehammer and kin’s qualms.

Letting them fold into pit work with relative equanimity.

Vivian knew: uprooting millennial malaises demanded time.

Ongoing institutional builds.

Above all, proof via reconstruction’s triumphs and lives’ tangible mends.

When those ex-warriors beheld crystals they hewed traded for life-saving grain.

Saw homes they raised shelter kin from storm.

Watched Evernight City quicken day by day under their sweat…

Perhaps then, that “ever thus” mindset’s iron seal would truly soften.

This was a protracted reform, racing time and inertia.

“Ah…”

Work provisionally done, Vivian rubbed her brows.

Exhaling.

Though her warriors below were elites—drill-sharp, loyalty ironclad—

They were living souls, each.

Not thoughtless, emotionless cogs.

Thus, Vivian couldn’t just ram through plans and regimes.

She had to tend her subordinates’ moods.

Lest fervent change heap resentments.

This outstripped gaming’s toil by leagues!

‘Bai An couldn’t help a wry inner laugh.’

In games, one mouse-click sufficed.

Commands issued, underlings obeyed sans gripe.

Execution at one hundred percent.

Efficiencies maxed.

Even in vaunted hardcore sims, discontent flashed in glaring bars.

Or outright alerts.

Worst case: reload, retry with near-boundless mulligans.

But here, on this real soil, no metrics glowed.

No save points.

No do-overs.

Each choice risked cascades.

Every hardline push sowed tripwires—

She trod eggshells, every step a fortification.

Weariness crashed like waves.

Subconsciously, she reached for the smooth Evernight crystal ore beside.

Pure dark mana flooded in like sweet spring.

Nourishing core and psyche.

Yet amid this energy’s plush repleteness, an odd, insistent detachment arose.

She sensed keenly: a fair portion of absorbed power bypassed limbs and frame.

Drawn, as by a minuscule, unseen eddy.

To her faintly swelled abdomen.

More precisely: the nascent life within.

Like a voracious, unwitting wee black hole.

Actively, ceaselessly siphoning this pristine flow!