Chapter 861 — Revival

Sir Golosh fell silent for a moment, then suddenly seemed to let something go. A faint smile appeared on his face as he turned his gaze back to the window—but not toward the south, now left behind. His eyes swept over the vast plains on the east bank of the Gorgon River, over the boundless fields bathed in sunlight and breeze, the well-watered rivers and lakes, and the rolling mountains in the distance. Between river and wilderness, cooking smoke was rising, and metal-forged towers gleamed in the sun.

He had stayed half a month in the Cecilians' imperial capital, and those two weeks seemed to have spanned precisely the phase when the human realm's seasonal changes were most pronounced—temperatures rising day by day, plants growing ever more lush, all social activity and construction work growing busier. When he had first looked out the carriage window at the Holy Spirit Plains, there had still been a trace of winter's lingering desolation in the world; this time, as he looked out at the wilderness, it was already bursting with life.

He could not help but sigh with feeling. "The seasons change so dramatically in the human world—the Holy Dragon Duchy is almost always in winter, while here the two seasons are like two different worlds. I remember these plains being bare last time; now the same places have farmland."

"Perhaps we should be more astonished that this was once land ravaged by war," Asharena said with a gentle shake of her head. "We're passing through the main contamination zone of the Ansu Civil War—the Cecilians are rebuilding it. Those fields and settlements were all built within the past year, and they built the road on this side of the river to transport supplies and people to the reconstruction zone. It isn't only the changing seasons that have turned this land upside down, but also these Cecilians who believe with all their hearts that they can rebuild their homeland."

"...Perhaps that is one of the reasons Grand Duke Bayang'er considers the Cecil Empire worth befriending," Sir Golosh said quietly after two seconds of silence. "Ever since Gaoyang Cecil laid out that new order, the people of this country dare to challenge anything in pursuit of a better life."

Asharena said nothing, only following Golosh's gaze out the window—watching the plants and streams of the plains recede, watching a certain camp that the rebuilders had raised over the past winter dwindle away bit by bit amid the rolling wilderness...

...

A convoy was driving along the Imperial Highway in the distance, and further off one could faintly make out iron towers, cranes, and other engineering structures arrayed along the riverbank.

A tall man stood on the high ground at the edge of the camp, silently gazing at the distant riverbank. He wore the gray-blue work clothes commonly worn by the rebuilders of the Holy Spirit Plains, and the exposed skin of his arms, neck, and a small portion of his cheek was wrapped in white gauze bandages.

In the areas not covered by bandages, one could faintly see the scars left behind where the crystal cluster structures had receded, and even crystal that had not fully faded.

The gray-blue work clothes had been issued by the engineering corps; the style was plain, but the industrial fabric from the Typhon Empire was of superior quality. In the old days, a poor man might go years without a new set of clothes, and to many this newly issued outfit was already a fine thing beyond compare.

The bandages were to conceal and treat the "aftereffects" left by crystal cluster infection—though the dreadful infection could no longer spread, the scars and crystallization left on the body still affected the lives of many who had recovered. The Empire's druids were working on ways to alleviate these residual symptoms, and now they could at least reduce the residual crystal and scarring on survivors' bodies by half. To complement the treatment, "bandages" had become one of the distinctive features of the recovered in the reconstruction zone.

Footsteps suddenly sounded from nearby, and the tall, silent man turned his head to see a dark-skinned man in the same work clothes walking toward him.

"Number Thirty-Two!" the other called, waving in his direction. "So you really are here?"

"It's not time for work yet, is it?" the man called Number Thirty-Two said in a muffled voice. "Got something else for me?"

"Work is all that's on your mind," the dark-skinned man teased with a laugh. "You've gone muddle-headed—did you forget you have the whole afternoon off today?"

Number Thirty-Two was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "...Forgot."

"What are you looking at?" The dark-skinned man walked over and followed Thirty-Two's gaze into the distance. He smacked his lips. "Heh, not bad at all... The railway crew on the far bank has pushed all the way here. They'll likely have the line laid to Saint Sunil before autumn..."

"They're fast, all right... Back in the day, building a single road from Taren to Sorenhold took years."

"You talk like you were the one who built it," the dark-skinned man said, glancing at his work partner. Then he clapped the other on the arm. "Quit standing around in this wind. Get back to camp. There's something good this afternoon. I came to fetch you out of the kindness of my heart. Otherwise you'd have missed it."

"Something good?" Thirty-Two frowned. Even on a face so ruined by bandages, scars, and crystalline growth that it was barely recognizable, a flicker of puzzlement surfaced. "What good thing?"

"Hey, what's that fashionable word again... Benefits! The higher-ups fought to get us benefits!" The dark-skinned man grinned with delight. "I won't tell you yet. Come with me and see for yourself!"

As he spoke, he seized Thirty-Two by the arm and headed toward the camp, leaving the latter no choice but to follow, full of questions. They crossed the open ground outside the camp, passed through the main gate of the Reconstruction Camp, and made for the great hall beside the residential district. The great hall could hold everyone; the camp administrators gathered people there for meetings to announce work schedules or supply conditions, and a "teacher" sent from Pompeii gave the workers lessons there, teaching them letters and arithmetic and "social order." Everyone knew the great hall well. Apart from the warehouses, it was the most important place in the camp.

Many people were already gathering toward the hall.

Thirty-Two stayed at his partner's side, following the crowd forward in confusion. He heard someone nearby murmuring about "magic-shadow plays," someone else mentioning "new technology from the south," and at last his partner stopped keeping him in suspense. The cheerful man, who claimed to come from the Fertile Woodland, said with a smile, "They're showing a magic-shadow play today. You know what that is? It's a drama projected with thaumaturgical technology. Drama used to be something only lords and nobles could watch! Now we get to watch it too, and for free..."

Thirty-Two listened half-comprehendingly to his partner's introduction and boasting. He was certain the fellow had never seen this so-called magic-shadow play either; most of what he was bragging about now had probably been picked up from someone else's mouth just minutes ago.

But there was nothing tiresome about such boasting.

He nodded cooperatively, a small response to his partner's hard work at bragging, then lifted his head toward the outer wall of the great hall not far off. Many figures were moving about there, and on the wall sheathed in thin iron plating hung what appeared to be a huge, brilliantly colored canvas.

Thirty-Two's gaze froze.

He saw a young man standing in that painted scene, clad in armor of an olden age, both hands resting on a longsword. Behind him lay a dark, sunken plain, but a shaft of sunlight fell through and lit the young man's face, gilding that armor of such distinctive design with a layer of light.