DLERB -Chapter 153 One Hundred Dead? Fusu: Record It as One Hundred Units of Loss

“Big Brother!”

“A gift for you!”

Ying Ziye’s voice still echoed in the sea wind.

Two days later.

Dongying Island, Ishimi Silver Mine.

Two Qin elite soldiers dragged a foul-smelling human-shaped object into the center of the mining site.

“Thud.”

They threw it to the ground.

It was Xu Fu.

The whale oil on his body had not been fully washed off, mixed with dirt—he looked like a rotting mass of fermented flesh.

Fusu stood there.

He wore pure black armor, holding a freshly refined silver ingot in his hand.

He did not even look down at the man on the ground.

“Your Highness,” a soldier reported respectfully.

“The ‘gift’ sent by the Ninth Prince has arrived.”

Fusu rubbed the edge of the silver ingot with his thumb, feeling its cold surface.

He asked:

“Can he read and do arithmetic?”

The soldier paused, then glanced at Xu Fu.

“Replying to Your Highness, this man was once a fangshi (alchemist), literate and capable of writing documents.”

“Mm.”

Fusu responded calmly, as if confirming whether a tool still functioned.

“Then send him to the accounting office.”

His voice, like the silver in his hand, carried no warmth.

“Do not let him die.”

“Yes!”

The soldier obeyed.

Xu Fu was dragged up again like a dead dog.

He tried to struggle, to scream—

but the moment he lifted his head, he met Fusu’s gaze.

It was not human eyes.

It was a wolf’s.

The eyes of the most starving, coldest alpha wolf on the grasslands.

All strength in Xu Fu’s body instantly drained away.

He was dragged into a crude wooden shack at the edge of the mine.

This was his new place.

His new prison.

The accounting office.

The Ishimi Silver Mine was no longer what it once was.

The entire mountain looked like a beast that had been skinned alive.

Countless black dots moved across its surface.

Laborers.

Two thousand Qin death-row prisoners and tens of thousands of conquered natives.

The air was filled with a choking stench.

Metal dust, sweat, and faint traces of blood.

“Snap!”

A whip cracked through the air.

A native who moved too slowly was instantly left with a bloody mark on his back.

He screamed and worked faster.

This was hell on earth.

And Xu Fu… was its recorder.

Inside the wooden shack.

Xu Fu changed into the roughest hemp clothing.

He sat on the ground, two stacks of bamboo slips in front of him.

One recorded daily ore production.

The other recorded daily death counts.

His hand holding the carving knife trembled violently.

The characters on the bamboo slips were crooked and uneven.

“I, Xu Shi…”

He looked at his hands.

These hands had once refined elixirs for the First Emperor.

Once pointed at the world from a position of power.

Once been revered as the envoy of immortals before three thousand boys and girls.

Now—

they were only fit to record the lives and deaths of ants.

The ever-burning lamp had gone out.

He thought he had escaped one hell.

He did not realize he had fallen into another, darker, more hopeless one.

Here, he was not living.

He was being slowly burned in a different way.

Seven days later.

Fusu entered.

His black armor was spotless.

Every step precise, as if measured by a ruler.

He did not look at Xu Fu.

His gaze landed directly on the bamboo slips recording production.

He picked one up casually.

Unrolled it.

“Today’s output is half a percent lower than yesterday.”

His voice was flat, as if stating an unrelated fact.

Xu Fu’s body jolted violently.

He crawled forward in panic.

“Y-Your Highness…”

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping.

“The shallow veins are almost exhausted.”

“The deeper layers… the rock is too hard, pickaxes wear out too quickly.”

“And the laborers… they are… they are truly too exhausted.”

Fusu said nothing.

He set down the production record.

Then picked up another bamboo slip.

The death record.

He tapped the carved marks lightly with his knuckles.

“Tap.”

“Tap.”

“Tap.”

Each sound struck Xu Fu’s heart like a hammer.

“Tool wear—go to the armory and get replacements.”

Fusu finally spoke.

“As for laborers being exhausted?”

He paused.

Xu Fu saw the corner of his mouth lift slightly.

It was not a smile.

“Then let them die inside the tunnels.”

“That way, we save on evening rations.”

Xu Fu’s mind went completely blank.

He collapsed to the ground, staring at Fusu as if looking at a demon.

At that moment—

“Your Highness!!”

A supervisor stumbled into the shack.

Covered in dirt, face filled with terror.

“It’s bad! The west… West Tunnel No. 3…”

“Collapsed!!”

“A whole squad was buried inside!”

Fusu’s brow finally furrowed.

Not because people had died—

but because this accident disrupted his perfect production plan.

He slowly turned.

His gaze landed on the incoherent supervisor.

“West mining area. Tunnel No. 3.”

His voice was terrifyingly calm.

“One standard squad is one hundred people.”

“Next time, speak clearly.”

The supervisor froze mid-scream.

He stared at Fusu, mouth open, unable to say a word.

Fusu ignored him.

He did not even go to the site.

He turned back to Xu Fu.

Picked up an empty bamboo slip from the death record pile.

“Clack.”

He threw it at Xu Fu’s feet.

“Record it.”

Xu Fu trembled like a leaf in the wind.

He picked up the slip and carving knife, looking up at Fusu.

“H-How… how should I record it?”

Fusu looked down at him.

Those eyes were like they were looking at worthless trash.

“Loss.”

His voice had no fluctuation.

“One hundred units.”

Then he turned and walked out of the shack.

His emotionless voice spread across the entire mine, clearly reaching every ear:

“Pass my order.”

“All tunnels must make up today’s output loss from Tunnel No. 3.”

“Any unit that fails to meet the target…”

“will not receive food tonight.”