Chapter 1034: Passing the Torch

Chapter 1034: Passing the Flame

It was a matter of some days past—

By the reed marshes of the Eternal Flow River, an old man standing at the prow of his boat called out to a few young lads on the dock, who were hauling nets and groping for fish.

“Lads, don’t touch those fish—they’ve all fed on the dead.”

The several young men, their skin tanned dark by the sun, looked up and saw the old man on the boat smiling as he spoke.

“What joke is that, old man? Why can’t we eat fish that’ve fed on the dead?”

“Yeah!”

“Whatever flies in the sky, runs on the ground, or falls into the water—it’s all fish food. The fatter they are, the better they sell!”

Seeing these reckless youngsters who knew no reverence, the old man shook his head and sighed.

“You know that whatever flies in the sky and runs on the ground ends up in the water. But do you know what they ate before they fell in?”

The lads exchanged glances, all struck dumb.

Finally, the young one tugging the net, ignorant of the world’s dangers, answered cheekily.

“What do I care what snakes, rats, bugs, or birds ate? We net fish to sell for money—we don’t put ’em in our own bellies! If the fish buyer doesn’t complain, why should you?”

The other lads snapped back to their senses and chimed in with shouts.

“Yeah!”

“Aren’t you a fisherman too? Haven’t you ever cast a net?”

“That old geezer’s no good—he’s probably afraid we’ll ruin his business!”

Ah...

The old man shook his head, said no more, and poled away with his long bamboo pole.

He was indeed a fisherman by trade, and had once kept ducks too—but that was last year.

At the start of the year, his ducks in the river had been poisoned by something in the water, and the fishmonger he usually worked with stopped buying fish from the Eternal Flow River, switching to the seafood trade instead.

They were all neighbors doing business in the same market, seeing each other every day. Even the least scrupulous wouldn’t dare earn money that blackened the conscience.

But then again, lately a new fishmonger had appeared who seemed to take anything—any fish at all, just at a lower price. Word had it he catered to tourists.

Whatever business they did, the old man couldn’t bring himself to haul up things that could kill people and trade them for coin.

Unlike those young lads, he lived one day at a time. Who knew when he’d go to see the Silver Moon Goddess? No need to squander his karma for a few petty coins.

Besides, he wasn’t short of money.

Even back when Wutuo was still around, he had three ancestral houses rented out.

As for why he still drifted on the reed marshes—first, he couldn’t bear to be idle; second, the city hall had given him a new job: to clean up the “filth” in the reeds.

Only seasoned old fishermen could handle such work.

Whenever he spotted someone floating on the water, he’d poke with his pole twice. If there was still movement, he’d haul them aboard.

If not...

Well, he’d still haul them up.

He remembered a few days ago, some researchers from the Alliance came by, scooped a cup of water from the Eternal Flow River, swirled it, and shook their heads.

From that day on, he knew this river was thoroughly ruined...

The sunset glow fell.

After drifting through the reed marshes all day, he was about to pack up and head home when suddenly there was a thrashing deep in the reeds, like a startled wild duck.

Of course, there were no wild ducks on this river. The old man quickly poled back and sure enough, saw a person floundering in the water.

Whether his foot was tangled in reeds or something else, the man—his face pale from the river’s soak—struggled wildly.

“Grab it!”

The old man thrust his bamboo pole toward him. The man caught it and calmed down a little, ceasing his frantic thrashing.

When the man had no strength left, the old man slowly edged closer and hauled the forty-something fellow onto the fishing boat.

He fetched a blanket from the cabin and handed it to the soaking wet man.

“Wrap yourself in this. The wind’s picking up—it’s cold.”

The man shivered as he took the blanket, his face full of terror, like a frightened rat—one that had crawled out of a trench, dodging machine-gun fire.

His body was covered in cuts, but luckily they were just grass scratches, not bullet wounds.

He was lucky to be alive.

These days, the old man had seen too many bloated corpses—not all drowned, just rotted by the river water.

The man trembled and stammered,

“Don’t... don’t kill me...”

“Don’t worry, no one’s killing you here.”

The old man smiled reassuringly, patted his shoulder gently, and handed him his thermos, gesturing that he could drink if he didn’t mind.

Of course the man didn’t mind—he was more worried the old man might mind him. He thanked him profusely before unscrewing the cap and gulping down the hot water.

The old man lit a small stove and set it by the man’s feet, then poled toward the shore while making small talk.

“What do you do, friend?”

“Fisherman...”

Ah, a fellow tradesman.

No wonder he’d managed to swim this far.

But judging by his panicked state, his wife and children had probably been left behind...

The old man smiled.

“Fishing’s a good skill. Once we get ashore, you tell the people who register you, and they’ll arrange work at the docks. There are plenty of boats going out to sea. It’s a bit different from river fishing, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

The man just nodded and kept saying thank you, saying nothing else.

The fishing boat glided toward the dock in the sunset glow. The lads who had been netting fish earlier had already returned with full loads, pushing their carts toward the market.

Looking at the bustling streets in the distance, the man wrapped in the blanket suddenly broke down sobbing.

The old man crouched beside him, patted his shoulder, and comforted him.

“There, there—we’re almost ashore. What are you crying for?”

As if remembering others who had died on the road, the man couldn’t stop his sobs. He choked out,

“I only hate that heaven has no eyes—misfortune always hunts the wretched.”

The old man looked at him and chuckled.

“If heaven had no eyes, would you have made it here? Be grateful.”

The man still nursed his grievance, speaking with bitterness.

"But I don't understand—why, when I've been kind all my life and never done evil, has suffering never let me off?"

The old man shook his head.

"A lifetime of kindness... Ha! What is kindness? Not stealing, not robbing, not cheating, being honest and simple—that's kindness? Then I'd say the fish in the river are quite kind, the birds in the sky even kinder, and the snakes and insects in the grass—they're the kindest of all."

The middle-aged man's face reddened.

"You can't say that. How can humans be compared to snakes, rats, birds, and insects?"

"Yes, how can you set the standard for kindness on the same level as snakes, rats, birds, and insects?" the old man said with a smile. "You're not young anymore—how can you live so muddle-headedly, mistaking mere survival for kindness?"

The man stared at him blankly.

"Then... what is kindness?"

The old man thought for a moment, unsure how to answer, and let out a soft sigh.

"Probably... it's when someone truly bound for hell thinks you're a fool."

Heaven is not blind.

Retribution does exist.

And it comes sooner than you think...

The man hung his head, pondered for a long while, then suddenly looked up at the old man. His Adam's apple bobbed as he spoke.

"Is there any way... to avoid going to hell?"

The old man was taken aback, then smiled.

"Well... how would I know?"

Watching the dejected man, the old man was silent for a moment, then sighed and said,

"On the shore, there's a church with a crescent moon hanging above it. Near the church, there are many cats basking in the sun... Go find a pastor named Melchior. He might know."

...

The Celestial Capital.

A festive cheer hid an undercurrent of grim menace.

General Grove, returning to the capital to report, spent his first two days in glory, rambling recklessly at meetings, only to be taken down by Zayed within days, just as Sava had predicted.

But the ensuing script matched exactly what Sava, the grand councilor, had guessed.

Gopal, the "Gray Wolf," had ultimately preceded Grove, the "Iron General."

Indignant young men cornered Gopal in his own mansion, barring anyone from entering or leaving—even the curry Gopal ate daily.

Soon after, people found Xilan-era animal chess pieces in his home.

Hearing the servant's tip-off, Gopal knew his end was near. In a fury of grief and indignation, he resolved to fight to the death with his Gray Wolf remnants, but his plan was exposed—a few ill-advised phone calls became the last straw.

In utter despair, he arranged his own and his family's escape route: first leaking news of heading to Golden Galleon Port, while secretly preparing a boat at West Sail Port to flee to General MacLennan's territory.

But perhaps because he had done too many evil deeds, that day a heavy rain fell, with thunder and lightning.

Those coming to arrest him arrived half an hour early; those coming to pick him up arrived late.

"Heaven wants me dead!"

Seeing the soldiers entering through the front gate, Gopal's face turned ashen, like a stray dog.

With no way out, he pretended to use the restroom, planning to escape over the wall of the backyard latrine, but the soldiers saw through his trick.

The young soldier, seeing Gopal already straddling the wall, grabbed a bamboo pole and jabbed at his rear, but misjudged his strength, knocking the panicked Gopal off—he landed headfirst on the cobblestone path.

"Boom—!"

Perhaps too many vengeful spirits were claiming him, and even Heaven could no longer bear it.

A thunderclap roared in the sky, its flash illuminating the damp, narrow alley.

Covered in mud, he lay on the ground convulsing, trying to struggle up, but choked on a mouthful of muddy water.

"Help... me..."

Up to that point, he still had a breath left—if someone had just helped him up, he might have lived.

But to his despair, he saw every household around close their doors and windows, as if nothing was happening outside.

A pity.

On the same rainy night, some departed standing tall, while others crawled away like wild dogs.

The once "War God" Gopal died ignominiously, crashing at the base of the wall behind his own backyard latrine...

The next day.

News of Gopal's death spread throughout the city.

People clapped and cheered with joy, celebrating the Gray Wolf's demise, just as they had cheered his arrival.

Grove, under house arrest behind iron bars, heard the clamor of gongs and drums outside and wondered what festive day it was. He whispered to the soldier at the door,

"Brother... may I ask what all that noise outside is about?"

His voice was timid, lacking any trace of the "Iron General's" might, more like a prematurely aged old fool.

The young soldier eyed him coldly, his look saying, "Who's your brother?" but replied with a stony face,

"Gopal the traitor is dead."

Grove felt his head buzz, as if a 200-pound bomb had exploded beside him.

Perhaps it was the fox mourning the hare.

He was horrified, gripping the iron bars and shouting,

"G-Gopal is dead?! How is that possible?! How did he die? I don't agree! No—he's the traitor! I'm innocent! Zayed knows me—call him again! Please..."

The iron bars rattled under his bony wrists, but the soldier acted as if he hadn't heard.

On the matter of "who to kick when they're down and who to spare," most Boro people shared an unspoken consensus, like a psychic force needing no words.

Gopal was finished.

Could Grove survive?

Even a child in the Celestial Capital knew: after the wolf's meat is eaten, it's time to butcher the dog...

...

The wolf is dead.

The dog is doomed.

Sava, the crown prince, and his fellow ministers sat on the fire pit, roasted and restless, their backsides burning.

The Celestial Capital seemed plunged into a war without gunpowder; the rough-and-tumble soldiers, who only knew how to fight, experienced for the first time what it meant that open attacks are easy to dodge, but hidden arrows are hard to defend against.

Yet what truly shattered Gael's worldview was not Gopal's miserable end.

It was the fate of Councilor Kabaha, the man he had once most despised, even loathed to the bone.

It was a fine, sunny morning.

Although the sky had already turned into a blazing pit of fire, the boiling inferno had yet to breach the gates of Tiandu University for now.

Sitting in the classroom, Gale was drowsily nodding off, savoring the memory of last night’s female student, when he was jolted awake by a loud bang, startling him so much that his textbook fell to the floor.

Fortunately, the club didn’t strike his head—it landed on the skull of Commissioner Kabaha.

Ever since the joint school system was established, this education commissioner had served as both principal and professor, weathering storms under the roar of bombers without ever falling. But this time, his nose bled onto the lectern.

Commissioner Kabaha seemed not to have anticipated this day would come. He stared blankly at the few children wielding clubs, then at the adults behind them.

In the end, however, he said nothing, silently picking up the textbook that had fallen onto the lectern.

“Class, turn your textbooks to page 37. Today we’ll discuss ‘Mr. L,’ a work painstakingly completed by an old friend of mine—”

Smack!

The club swung like the wind, sweeping him to the ground in a whirlwind.

“We’re asking you a question!”

“That day at the theater! What did you say? And why didn’t you clap?”

Kabaha said nothing, acting as if those kicking and punching him didn’t exist, reaching for the textbook that embodied countless people’s efforts—until it was snatched away and torn apart.

He no longer touched the textbook, instead trying to stand and speak, but was knocked down again. He rose, fell, rose again, fell again… until he was battered and bleeding, and even the clubs snapped.

His bones were indeed hard; in the end, he stood up once more.

That twelve-year-old child furrowed his brow, his stubbornness flaring with his temper, raising the broken club for a final blow—but the man behind him held him back.

The man stood at ease, gazing at the students in the classroom, his voice icy.

“Classmates, you are Kabaha’s students, the ones who know him best. Since he refuses to confess his crimes or reflect on his faults, you will speak for him.”

“One by one.”

The classroom fell into dead silence.

Everyone was terrified.

Including Gale.

He felt as if his brain had been shot, his mind dazed and unable to snap back.

Kabaha…

He was the one I should hate. It’s all his fault—that big exam made me look foolish, giving away the opportunities that should have been mine to those dirt-poor commoners. These lowlifes… why should they hate him for me?

Why?

It doesn’t make sense.

He couldn’t figure it out.

Perhaps because he was too normal, or perhaps because studying had made him stupid.

And just then, he suddenly remembered Nayak—that clever, almost demonic younger brother’s parting words.

‘I have four great generals: A, B, C, D… I know I’ll have to kill them all sooner or later.’

‘After you go back, hide yourself well… be as meek as possible… imagine yourself as a soft maggot…’

Gale suddenly regretted it.

Maybe he should have gone with that guy back then, but now it was too late to change his mind.

Still…

Why should he leave?

A laugh suddenly rose in Gale’s heart, because in that instant he realized—all around him were sheep grazing on dirt.

What fine sheep.

The master wanted meat, afraid the master wouldn’t have enough, not even needing the master to sharpen the knife himself.

They had taken the initiative to bite that nonconforming sheep to death and offered up its flesh and blood.

He remembered Nayak’s third sentence.

‘Your turn will come, I said so.’

As if possessed, Gale stood up. Pairs of eyes from the front and back of the classroom turned to him.

Including Commissioner Kabaha’s.

That bruised, blood-streaked face still wore the same cold, defiant expression.

He actually had a way to survive.

But he chose to die standing.

So then…

Better to die meaningfully.

“Teacher… go in peace.”

Gale silently murmured in his heart, staring into those eyes, his face putting on a look of honest loyalty.

This was the first time he acknowledged this man as his teacher, and the first time he addressed him with respect.

And it was sincere.

Kabaha looked at him, that cold sneer in his eyes as always, as if saying, “You’re not worthy to call me teacher,” but he could no longer speak.

Yet—

That might not have been a real sneer.

Perhaps it was a form of protection.

Or kindness.

Standing at the lectern, Gale exchanged a glance with a vaguely familiar man and took the club from his hand.

That was his father’s soldier.

He would recognize him whether he wore a uniform or not.

Gale gripped the club tightly, as if holding a blazing torch.

Staring into those indifferent eyes, he whispered in his heart.

“Lend me your life for a moment.”

“Your vengeance—”

“Fifty years from now, I’ll take it for you.”

…

At Golden Ganga Port, by the Eternal Flow River.

The red earth was nowhere to be seen; the sugarcane plantation from the Nihak era had turned into a bustling market.

After leaving the Lowell Camp, Night Ten and Dora’s group had come here.

Yordu, busy with official duties, had already returned to the city hall.

But he did not leave the party standing idly; instead, he assigned his secretary to accompany them as a guide, acting as host on behalf of the people of Goldenport Harbor.

Watching the grilled fish at the snack stall, Dora’s mouth watered with craving, her face a canvas of longing.

Though French Fries Port had no shortage of barbecue, the methods and flavors were entirely different.

The spices here were sprinkled as if they cost nothing, stirring up the greedy bugs in her stomach once more.

Night Ten also felt hungry from the sight and was about to pull out money to buy some, but the local guide sent by Mayor Yodu stopped him.

“Those are freshwater fish.”

The guide hemmed and hawed for a moment, too embarrassed to tell the truth, and only mumbled vaguely.

“Not very hygienic.”

Night Ten gave him a strange look, finding it odd to hear the word “hygienic” from a local, but he heeded the advice and pulled Dora away from the grilled fish stall.

There was plenty to eat here, with other varieties to try.

“What about that grilled corn? And the pork?”

“Those are fine,” the guide said with an apologetic smile. “Just have to check the fish and shrimp—whether they’re from the river or the sea.”

Recent news had reported cases of stomach trouble from eating fish, and the council was discussing a ban on catching river fish for market, though the relevant regulations hadn’t caught up yet.

Night Ten nodded in understanding, then picked up the menu and ordered about a hundred silver coins’ worth of barbecue.

A hundred silver coins equaled a thousand gallons, enough to stuff their dozen or so people to bursting.

By then, the sky was gradually darkening.

Gazing at the hot air balloons in the distance, Night Ten suddenly recalled the curiosity he’d felt upon first arriving at the port, so he turned to the guide sitting across the table and asked.

“What are those balloons for?”

The guide followed his gaze and then said with a smile.

“Oh, those? They’re made by a priest from the Silver Moon Church, named… Melchior, I think.”

Melchior.

The name felt familiar, like he’d seen it on the forum, but he couldn’t remember when.

“So it’s the Silver Moon Sect,” Night Ten said with a dawning nod.

No wonder those balloons had two little tufts on top—turns out they were cat ears.

How abstract.

Looking at the balloons, the guide’s face bore a trace of reverence and a hint of admiration.

“Speaking of Mr. Melchior, he’s quite a famous figure around here… Ever since he moved here from Westsail Port, he’s done many practical deeds—building a church, aiding refugees, teaching the poor to read. Though I don’t believe in the Silver Moon Goddess, he’s truly a kind man. I can’t understand why those people in the west drove him away.”

“The west?” Dora blinked.

“It must be Westsail Port,” Night Ten said with a sigh, looking at the balloons in the sky. “The Wilantians are ruthless—they even tore down the church.”

The guide gave a bitter laugh and said nothing, only turning his gaze to the distant sunset glow.

“Mr. Melchior knows some… good Wilantians, and some citizens who made money in earlier days. They made hot air balloons, put dry rations inside, and let them drift westward. When the fuel runs out, the balloons fall like parachutes, landing wherever they may.”

Night Ten looked at him in surprise.

“This… how many can it save?”

The guide shook his head and said.

“Save as many as we can. Maybe someone just needs that one mouthful to live.”

Dora asked in confusion.

“Isn’t there food there?”

The guide shook his head.

“That’s not it.”

She suddenly remembered that the food she ate required money to buy, so she asked timidly again.

“Then… is there no money?”

“That’s not it either.”

“Then what—”

“Don’t ask.” Seeing the guide’s reddened eyes, Night Ten patted Dora’s shoulder with high emotional intelligence. “Tomorrow we’ll head to Silver Moon Bay… By the way, try to sense if there’s a hive here? Or something similar?”

That last sentence was a sudden whim of his, and also a long-standing debate on the official forum.

Though there were no hives in the Brahmin Province, he’d heard that the design of Red Earth seemed to reference and improve upon the DNA of variant slime molds.

Dora was taken aback, closed her eyes, meditated for a while, then opened them and shook her head.

“No.”

“Not at all?” Night Ten still wouldn’t give up. “What about the soil? Does it—”

“I can feel it’s alive. This soil is actually alive—it’s really amazing…”

With an expression of disbelief, Dora continued in a very, very small voice.

“But it seems… just alive.”