Chapter 828 — The Spring Wind
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 4
For the people living in the eastern reaches of the Holy Spirit Plain at this moment, the arrival of spring meant far more than the end of winter and the warming of the weather—it marked the most critical turning point in a "campaign."
Having weathered the suppression of a whole winter, the reconstruction of the Holy Spirit Plain would get back on track with the coming of the Month of Revival; the day the ice thawed was the day humanity would once again set out toward its former homes.
The southern outpost of the Red Maple Reconstruction Camp.
A druid physician in a white uniform trimmed with green sat behind a desk, leafing through a form before him. After his eyes swept over the records, the tall, lean young man looked up at the towering figure standing silently across the desk, hood drawn over his head.
"From the eastern border region? Volunteered yourself?"
The hooded man gave a brief grunt, as though unwilling to speak.
The druid physician in charge of registration was used to such things by now. He had received hundreds of the cured, and crystalline infection had left them with unimaginable trauma—trauma that went beyond the body alone—but he believed every last one of the cured deserved a chance to return to a normal life. At the very least, this place would take them in.
"Take off the hood," the physician said. "No need to be nervous. I've seen plenty."
The tall man remained silent, but at least he was cooperative enough. He reached up, pulled the hood from his head, and then unwound the scarf that had covered his face.
A countenance covered in black scabs and lingering crystal appeared before the physician; the scars left by the crystal's erosion spread down along his cheeks, and even vanished beneath his collar.
"...It's a wonder you survived at all," the young physician said after studying those scars and crystals for a moment, shaking his head with a touch of emotion. "But there's no need to worry. There are plenty of people here just like you—the crystal cluster contamination left tens of thousands infected, but this land still welcomes you all. Here is your number tag."
The young physician handed the "cured" man before him a metal plate stamped out by machine, its surface glinting with fine grid lines and a bold number—32.
"Number thirty-two..." the tall man murmured, reading the number aloud, his voice hoarse, marked by the wounds the crystalline infection had left behind.
"You can write your name on the back if you like, or leave it blank—plenty of the cured have given themselves new names, and you can do the same. But the statistics department only recognizes your number. That's the same for everyone."
The tall man made no reply. Only after a moment of silence did he rasp, "When do I start work?"
"Don't worry, someone will take you to the worksite tomorrow morning," the young physician said with a smile. "Before then, you can get familiar with this place, with the atmosphere here—"
The roar of machinery came through the window, mingled with the workers' shouts.
The tall, silent man looked out the window and saw large canvas-covered vehicles parked on the open ground, workers hauling together the sacks unloaded from them. A young official in uniform stood nearby, deep in conversation with the convoy's leader, and among the workers unloading the trucks were healthy ordinary folk as well as the cured, their bodies still bearing scars and crystal remnants.
The physician rose from behind the desk and came to the window. "Welcome to the Red Maple Reconstruction Zone. Everything will get better—just like this land, everything will be rebuilt in the end."
Another large canvas-covered truck rolled into the camp. The ever-warmer wind swept past the flagpole in the square, tugging at the straps that secured the canvas along the truck's side, and more builders surged forward, working with practiced coordination to unload the crates and sacks.