Chapter 861: Resurrection

This seemed like a story about heroes and knights.

But it wasn’t really a story about heroes and knights.

In Thirty-Two’s memory, no play had ever set its tone with such an image—one that carried a suffocating weight of raw reality, yet radiated an indescribable power, as if the scent of steel and fire quietly seeped from the depths of the scene, swirling around the young knight clad in armor.

It wasn’t glamorous or refined, nor did it bear the usual symbols of religion or royal authority. The nobles, accustomed to traditional dramas, would never have liked it—especially not the blood smeared across the knight’s face or the crisscrossing scars on his armor. These details were real, but too “ugly” in their realism.

The old aristocrats preferred to see knights in dazzling, ostentatious golden armor, vanquishing evil under divine protection, or princesses and knights wandering between castles and manors, reciting grand but hollow verses. Even the battlefield was just a backdrop, a palette to paint love stories.

Those pampered canaries couldn’t endure the scorch of iron and fire.

But ordinary people, who had never touched “high society,” wouldn’t think of these things. They didn’t know what the lofty nobles did every day. To them, this was simply part of the “drama,” and they gathered around the large, exquisite painting, whispering among themselves.

Thirty-Two stood for a long time beneath the outer wall of the great hall, gazing up at the massive painting over three meters tall. The original was likely the work of some artist, but what hung here now was probably a machine-made reproduction. For nearly half a minute, the tall, silent man simply stared, his bandaged face as unmoving as stone.

Until his partner’s voice broke the silence: “Hey—Thirty-Two, what’s wrong?”

The tall man blinked, as if waking from a dream. He tore his gaze away from the promotional poster for the magic shadow play, looking around in confusion, as if unsure whether he was in reality or a dream, or why he was here at all. But soon he snapped back and muttered, “Nothing.”

“You always say so little,” the dark-skinned man shook his head. “You must’ve been stunned—honestly, I was too at first glance. What a beautiful painting! You don’t see things like this out in the countryside…”

As he spoke, the crowd began to stir. It seemed the great hall was finally opening. Thirty-Two heard a whistle from the direction of the main gate—not far off. It was the copper whistle the construction captain always wore around his neck, its sharp, piercing sound familiar to everyone here.

His partner nudged him again. “Come on, hurry up! If we miss it, we won’t get a good spot! I heard from the machinist who delivered supplies last time that the magic shadow play is a rare treat—there aren’t many cities in the south that get to see it!”

Ah, rare treats—there were so many of those in this era.

Thirty-Two said nothing. His partner pushed him forward, and they slipped into the crowd flowing into the great hall. The place, usually used for morning meetings and classes, quickly filled with people. On the wooden stage at the front, a large magical apparatus had been set up—far more complex and massive than the magic network terminals used for communication in the camp.

A triangular base supported several projection crystals of varying sizes, arranged in a crystalline array. A faint glow shimmered above the array, clearly indicating it was ready.

Thirty-Two sat down with the others beneath the wooden platform. His partner chattered excitedly, sharing his thoughts before the play began. They’d managed to snag a spot near the front, which put him in a good mood. The whole hall buzzed with excitement.

Then, the mechanical bell in the hall rang sharply and urgently. The complex magical device on the stage whirred to life. A vast magical projection filled the platform, accompanied by a deep, solemn music. The noisy crowd gradually quieted.

It was starting.

At first, some thought it was just a special magic network broadcast. But when a story, vivid and lifelike, suddenly unfolded before their eyes, everyone’s attention was captured.

It was a gripping tale—of disaster, of human tragedy, of a brave knight, of countless victims falling like grass, of courageous fighters, and of a noble, tragic sacrifice. The great hall fell silent, every voice stilled. Yet faint whispers began to ripple from the corners.

This was no traditional drama favored by nobles. It shed the usual pomp and obscurity, discarded the long, complex verses and hollow heroic monologues that took years of study to understand. Instead, it told a straightforward story, as if narrated by someone who had lived through it. This plainness made it easy for the audience to grasp the content quickly—and soon they realized it was the disaster they had all experienced, seen from another perspective.

“Ah, that windmill!” Thirty-Two’s partner suddenly whispered, unable to contain himself. The man, born and raised on the Holy Spirit Plains, stared fixedly at the projection, repeating, “The windmill at Cabre… that’s Cabre’s windmill… my nephew’s family lives there…”

Someone nearby murmured, “Isn’t that Solinfort? I know the walls there…”

“Wait… someone actually recorded everything that happened? How on earth did they do that…”

“No, no, it’s a play—plays are fake, I know that. Those are actors and sets…”

“But it looks so real. It looks exactly like it happened!”

“Yeah, it looks too real…”

Familiar scenes appeared before everyone, then faded one by one. The hall grew quiet again—quieter than before.

Thirty-Two sat like a silent statue among the still crowd, watching the unstoppable disaster unfold step by step in the magical images, watching the last knight on the fallen land embark on his final journey.

He watched quietly.

Time slipped by unnoticed. The incredible “play” finally reached its end.

But no one moved. Thirty-Two remained seated, silent like everyone else.

Only when the words “The End” appeared on the projection, followed by the creators’ credits and a low, mournful closing song, did the dark-skinned partner take a deep breath, as if calming himself. Then he noticed Thirty-Two still staring at the screen. He forced a smile and nudged him. “Thirty-Two, you’re still watching—it’s over.”

“Ah… yeah… it’s over…”

“You’re usually so quiet, didn’t expect you’d get caught up in this,” the partner laughed, but his smile faded at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, it really pulls you in… so this is what the old nobles called ‘drama’… definitely something else…”

“The nobles’ dramas aren’t like this,” Thirty-Two muttered.

“Like you’d know,” the partner shook his head, then muttered thoughtfully, “It’s all gone now…”

Thirty-Two said nothing. He looked at the stage. The projection hadn’t shut off with the play’s end. The credits kept scrolling, now near the bottom. Then, after the last name, large words suddenly appeared, drawing many eyes again.

“This play is dedicated to every victim of war, to every brave soldier and commander, to those who lost their loved ones, and to those who survived.

“To this land we love deeply, to its rebuilders.

“To—Belk Loren.”

The magical projection above the wooden stage slowly faded away. Moments later, the sound of a bell came from the hall’s exit.

One by one, people stood and left. But one man remained, sitting quietly as if he hadn’t heard the bell.

“Thirty-Two?” The dark-skinned man nudged his partner’s arm, concern in his voice. “Thirty-Two! It’s time to go, the bell rang.”

But the tall man, covered in bandages and crystalline scars, didn’t move. He seemed lost, as if his soul had left his body, still immersed in the story that had ended. Only after several nudges did he snap back with a startled “Ah!”

“You didn’t get stuck watching, did you?” his partner asked, puzzled. “This isn’t like you.”

“I…” Thirty-Two opened his mouth but said nothing.

The partner glanced back at the now-dark projection device, pursed his lips, and after a moment muttered, “But I’m no better… that story felt so real… Thirty-Two, do you think it’s true?”

Thirty-Two finally stood slowly, his voice low: “We’re rebuilding this place. At least that part is true.”

The partner looked at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected such a positive response. Then the dark-skinned man grinned. “Of course. This is the land our ancestors lived on.”

“I gave myself a name,” Thirty-Two said suddenly.

“Huh?” His partner struggled to keep up, but then caught on. “Oh, good! You’re finally giving yourself a name—though I’m used to calling you Thirty-Two… So, what name did you pick?”

Thirty-Two was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Sam.”

His partner blinked, then laughed wryly. “You thought for a long time and came up with that? And you can read and write! You know there are dozens of Sams just in this camp, right?”

“I think it’s a good name.”

“But it’s so plain. There’s a saying: ‘The lord’s granaries stand in rows, and forty Sams are busy inside.’ The farmers are Sams, the miners are Sams, the horse tenders and woodcutters too—everyone working the land is a Sam!”

Thirty-Two smiled suddenly.

The bandaged, scarred, crystalline face looked a little eerie in that smile, but his bright eyes shone with light.

With a hint of happiness, he said, “That’s why it’s a good name.”

“Suit yourself,” his partner shrugged helplessly. “Anyway, we have to go—the place is almost empty.”

By the exit of the hall, a man in uniform stood waiting, his gaze urging the last few stragglers to leave.

Number Thirty-Two nodded and followed his partner, straightening his chest like a soldier just recovered, and headed toward the exit.

There, hanging above the doorway, was a large poster titled “Beacon Fire.” A young knight stood proudly on the earth, sword in hand, his eyes blazing with determination.

Though the actors in the Shadow Play bore some resemblance to this young man, it was this image on the poster that matched the face etched in his memory.

He paused briefly before the poster, whispering so softly that no one could hear:

“Goodbye, son.”

Then, Sam walked away.

(End of chapter)