As reported by the patrol team, the Hawk Merchant Caravan that arrived this time was far larger than any previous convoy. A total of sixteen vehicles—massive trucks loaded with supplies or buses, all hauled by sturdy Cracked-Hoof Bulls—formed an enormous caravan. As they made their way toward the settlement, Michael, standing atop the city walls with a pair of binoculars, could clearly see the dust cloud rising over ten meters high behind them. The ground beneath the wheels bore deep, lasting impressions of the convoy's passage.
It seemed that, after Michael's ambitious plans had been shared with the old scoundrel Hawk, the man had taken extra care this time, even digging into his own savings to make sure everything was in order. Naturally, with the increased quantity and quality of goods, Hawk must have feared the wild bandits would be drawn to his caravan, so he had brought along more protection than last time.
The caravan's security force was noticeably stronger, with nearly a hundred guards, half of whom were armed with firearms. The rest, wielding cold weapons, appeared highly trained, and Michael could spot several experts who radiated battle energy. Even though many of the fifty guns were outdated hunting rifles or homemade, single-shot carbines, they were still formidable enough to command respect in the wasteland.
In the past, Michael might have felt a pang of apprehension at the sight of such a heavily armed merchant group. But now, not a flicker of worry crossed his mind. After all, he still had the broken Magic 2 battle mech, which he hadn't returned to the base 0005 yet. He planned to keep it until after the Detroit operation, and at this moment, it was tucked away inside a tent next to the building, fully charged, ready for action.
If Hawk had any ill intentions, even if these supplies were being delivered free of charge, they would have served as nothing more than a delivery service for Michael.
With that thought in mind, Michael shouted to his old companion, Old Limp: "Quick, prepare a few large vacuum-sealed bags of food, and make some soup with instant noodles and seaweed. We need to get ready to welcome our guests. They probably haven't had lunch yet."
Old Limp, marveling at Michael's generosity, quickly went off to prepare the meal.
As Michael surveyed the caravan, Hawk, standing on his own convoy's lead truck, was also observing the town through a pair of binoculars.
Hawk took in the towering city walls, the bright halogen lights and searchlights mounted on top, and the hundreds of workers and soldiers outside, busy with labor or training. But what really caught his eye were the powerful excavators and bulldozers working tirelessly on the construction site.
A cold breath escaped his lips as he realized that any plans for a backup strategy would be futile. It seemed his earlier preparations for a different approach would be wasted.
With a subtle glance toward the third-to-last bus in the convoy, Hawk was reminded that only a few trusted subordinates knew the true nature of the caravan. That bus, its windows covered by thick curtains, hid a secret—a powerful presence within.
Indeed, as Michael had imagined, Hawk had come prepared this time. He had invested years' worth of savings into securing top-quality goods, as per Michael's earlier request. But Hawk wasn't satisfied just with the trade; he was also thinking about how to get those coveted goods without the need for a deal.
His true desire was clear: to capture Harry Potter—Michael, that yellow-skinned man—and gain access to even more valuable resources. This, after all, was the real reason he had brought an even larger force of guards and hidden the ultimate trump card on that bus.
Should the opportunity arise, Hawk had no hesitation in turning the trade into a full-blown raid. As for what might happen to Harry Potter when captured, Hawk wasn't concerned in the slightest. He knew that in Winner City, there were mage towers, where the noble mages held vast knowledge and magic at their disposal. A sufficient offering, and they would reveal whatever was needed.
But looking at the town of Coal Dust, now swelling with power, Hawk knew that his backup plans had to be abandoned.
He turned to one of his most trusted subordinates. "Go, and make sure everyone knows this is a normal trade. Put on your best smiles and make sure all weapons are put away."
After the orders were given, Hawk leaned out of the driver's seat, waving enthusiastically at Michael atop the city walls.
The town's response was equally warm, with waves and cheers exchanged between the two sides.
When the two leaders finally embraced at the town's entrance, the atmosphere between them seemed completely cordial and friendly.
Seaweed, a rare and luxurious food, had been a recent addition to Michael's thoughts when he traveled back to the wasteland. He had thought it would be a perfect way to balance the nutrition for his many subordinates who lived off rice, porridge, and occasionally dried meat. He had initially wanted to bring a type of pickled mustard, but that would take up too much space in his limited inventory.
It was then that Fat Woman's restaurant had gifted him with a delicious seafood soup, sparking the idea of using dried seaweed as a more portable, nutritious supplement. A single serving of dried seaweed could provide ample amounts of iodine to prevent goiter, dietary fiber, and strengthen the immune system. There were even rumors online that it could help protect against radiation, though its veracity was uncertain.
Its deep green color was also an instant hit with the wasteland's natives, so much so that "Lizard Egg Seaweed Soup" quickly became a popular delicacy in the area.
For Hawk's caravan, this seaweed-based soup proved just as satisfying. Even Hawk, typically the dignified and reserved man, couldn't resist drinking two full bowls before setting down his spoon, clearly enjoying the unexpected treat. But his true intention remained clear: he was eager to begin the trade negotiations with Michael.
Sitting back in Michael's office, Hawk, unable to resist, finally asked, "Lord Harry Potter, I wonder if you've prepared the hemorrhoid medicine you mentioned last time?"
Without saying a word, Michael reached under his desk and pulled out a large trash bag. From within it, he retrieved a box of "Mayinglong Musk Hemorrhoid Ointment," then handed it to Hawk with a confident smile. "The bathroom is just across the hall. You can test its effects yourself. It works wonders, I assure you."
Hawk took the ointment, his face a bit puzzled, but he left the office and made his way toward the bathroom.
Michael, watching him leave, couldn't help but think, It's no big deal, the stuff works wonders. Anyone who uses it knows its magic.
But after a few moments, the unease set in. Michael suddenly paled, realizing something went terribly wrong. He bolted out of the office and ran toward the bathroom, shouting as he went, "Hawk, I forgot to tell you! That stuff is meant to be applied externally, not ingested!"
From within the bathroom, Hawk's voice echoed with a loud, stomach-turning retch. Michael froze, his face filled with regret. Yet, he couldn't help but think, It's not my fault. If only the man had learned a bit of Chinese, maybe he would've read the instructions.