Chapter 862 — Resurrection
Blade of Dawn · Page 3 of 4
"You don't usually talk, but I never thought you'd be caught up by this too," the dark-skinned partner said with a laugh, but as he laughed the corners of his eyes drooped. "True, true, it does draw you in... so this is the 'theater' the lords used to watch... truly extraordinary, extraordinary..."
"The theater the nobles watch isn't like this," Number Thirty-Two said in a muffled voice.
"As if you'd ever seen it," his partner said, shaking his head, and then muttered thoughtfully, "It's all gone..."
Number Thirty-Two said nothing. He looked at the stage, where the projection had not gone dark with the end of the "play"; the subtitles were still scrolling upward, and had now reached the end. And after the final list of names concluded, lines of large words suddenly emerged, once again drawing many people's gaze.
"This play is dedicated to every victim of the war, to every brave soldier and commander, to those who lost their loved ones, to those who survived.
"To this land we love so deeply, and to the rebuilders of this land.
"To—Belk Loren."
The magical projection above the wooden platform finally faded away, and a moment later, a bell rang out from the direction of the hall's exit.
One by one, people rose and left, but one man remained where he was, sitting quietly as though he had not heard the bell.
"Number Thirty-Two?" The dark-skinned man nudged his partner's arm and called out in a low voice, a note of concern in it. "Number Thirty-Two! Time to go—the bell's rung."
But the tall man, his whole body covered in crystal-scarred flesh wrapped in bandages, sat there without stirring, as though his soul had left him, silent for a long while. He seemed still submerged in that story which had already ended, and only when his partner had shaken him several times in a row did he come awake with a start and an "Ah."
"Don't tell me you were staring spellbound?" His partner looked over in puzzlement. "That's not like you at all."
"I..." Number Thirty-Two opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
His partner glanced back at the projection device, now dark. The dark-skinned man pressed his lips together, and two seconds later muttered under his breath, "Then again, I'm no better off than you... The things in there looked real as anything... Number Thirty-Two, do you reckon that story's true?"
Number Thirty-Two finally rose slowly to his feet and said in a low, deep voice, "We're rebuilding this place. That much is true."
His partner gave him a rather surprised look, as though he had not expected the other man to volunteer such an earnest thought; then the dark-skinned man's face split into a grin and he laughed. "Damn right. This is the place our fathers and grandfathers lived in, generation after generation."
"I've given myself a name," Number Thirty-Two said suddenly.
"Huh?" His partner felt he could barely follow Number Thirty-Two's train of thought, but he caught on quickly enough. "Ah—well, good! So you've finally decided to give yourself a name—though I've gotten used to calling you Number Thirty-Two... Say, what name did you pick?"
Number Thirty-Two was silent a few seconds, then bit out the words: "Just call me Sam."
His partner stared blankly for a moment, then did not know whether to laugh or cry. "You think that long and come up with a name like that—and you, a man who can read, no less. Do you know how many Sams there are in this one camp alone?"
"I think it's a good name."
"It's hopelessly rustic, is what it is. Isn't there a saying—the lord's grain stacks stand in rows, and forty Sams are busy in them—the farmer's called Sam, the miner's called Sam, the one who feeds the horses and the one who cuts the firewood are called Sam too. Every man working the land is a Sam!"
Number Thirty-Two suddenly smiled.
On that face covered in bandages, scars, and crystal clusters, the smile looked a little uncanny, yet those bright eyes were shining.