199: Chapter 200: A Lament for the Fall of the People

The further they walked into the city, the quieter the people of the Ten Cities became.

It wasn't the kind of silence born from fear where they dared not speak.

It was because there was too much to see.

Clear water flowed through the irrigation ditches on both sides of the road, and low-growing Spiritual Plants were planted along the banks. When the wind blew, a faint cyan light shimmered between the blades of grass.

Mercenaries on patrol passed by the street corner; their armor was not new, but it was polished clean.

Several children emerged from a courtyard that looked like a school, holding wooden tablets and books. They snuck glances at the group as they passed, only to be called back by a gentle cough from their teacher.

A school.

When this word spread through the crowd, it left people even more stunned than the word "Military Camp."

Someone asked in a low voice, "Can children go to school here?"

A school was a proper place for education, completely different from apprenticing under a master.

No one answered his question.

But there was a sign hanging on the courtyard gate.

Elementary School.

The characters were written neatly.

The few scholars who hadn't managed to secure a spot as temporary clerks earlier slowed their pace here.

They stared at the three characters "Elementary School," their expressions even more complex than when they had looked at the Spiritual Rice earlier.

So, Flower City didn't just need people to write rosters.

Flower City also needed people to teach children how to read.

Someone's lips moved, as if they wanted to ask if the school was still hiring, but the clerk leading the group had already raised a hand and pointed forward: "Get settled first. Those who are literate will go to the Professional registration shed later; no one will be missed."

Only then did those few people continue walking forward.

However, they all held their bundles tighter against their chests.

On the other side, several young men were taken to the Professional registration shed.

They had originally been pale, thinking this meant being conscripted into the army.

But there were no military officers in the shed.

There were several Flower City clerks dressed in short tunics. Beside them were bundles of coarse cloth wrist guards, old leather boots, wooden tags, and rows of Black Iron Rank tools.

Axes, hoes, short shovels, and iron hooks for wall repairs were arranged by category, with a few sets of basic protective gear nearby.

"Those with a Professional Rank, stand over here."

"Those who haven't undergone Awakening but are strong, stand over there."

"Those who know how to farm, register first. Those who can handle heavy lifting, register as well. No heavy labor will be assigned today; collect your tags first, and work will be assigned by district tomorrow."

A young man couldn't help but ask: "We aren't going to the Military Camp?"

The Flower City clerk glanced at him and smiled: "The threshold for the Military Camp is quite high. Right now, you need at least a Black Iron Rank six-star Rank to even have a chance of entering. Do you have that?"

The young man's face flushed red in an instant.

Black Iron Rank six-star!

Heavens!

Just to enter the Military Camp requires such high strength?

And that's only having a chance to enter?

And he had the nerve to ask that question, when he wasn't even a Professional yet!

The clerk didn't dwell on the question, simply handing him a pair of old leather boots.

"The pair on your feet is ruined. Change them first."

The young man looked down and saw that his straw sandals had two holes worn through the front.

He didn't take them.

The clerk pushed the boots forward: "Take them. All registered temporary Professionals get a pair. They aren't free; the cost will be deducted from your future wages, but you don't have to pay for today."

Only then did the young man reach out.

When the boots landed in his arms, his lips trembled.

He had been prepared to be dragged off to do hard labor.

Yet Flower City had given him a pair of shoes that would allow him to walk.

...

The settlement area was larger than they had imagined.

Rows of tents were laid out along the road, with an open path in the middle wide enough for two carts to pass side-by-side.

A small sign stood in front of every ten tents, indicating the district number and tent number.

Water vats had already been set up, with wooden ladles beside them.

Cooking stoves had been built, and several people from Flower City were adding rice to the pots.

It wasn't thin, watery soup where you could see your own reflection.

It was Spiritual Rice porridge.

As the fragrance of the rice wafted out, suppressed sounds finally erupted from the crowd.

Some people swallowed.

Some subconsciously rubbed their stomachs.

A child's eyes lit up, and just as he took a half-step forward, he was held back tightly by an adult.

"Don't move around."

"That's not for us."

"Just watch, don't cause trouble."

These words were spoken urgently and softly.

It was as if they were afraid the people of Flower City would hear them, and also afraid that the child would actually believe they were entitled to get close.

But the clerk leading the group turned around, his face still wearing that smile that left people feeling at a loss.

"Put your bundles away according to your tent numbers first. The elderly and children eat first. The young men will eat later; the pots are still cooking. There is enough for everyone."

There is enough for everyone.

When these words landed, the crowd didn't move immediately.

Instead, everyone became even quieter.

Old Man Cui stood before Tent 37 in District East 5, looking at the straw mats already spread out inside the tent and two neatly folded thin quilts; he didn't step inside for a long time.

His little grandson crawled in first, touching the straw mat and then the quilt with his small hands, before turning back with a smile, "Grandpa, it's dry! It's so soft!"

Dry.

Soft!

Not damp straw.

Not a muddy floor.

Nor a corner in a ruined temple that had been trampled by others.

Old Man Cui's throat felt as if it were blocked by something.

His son took his wife off his back, and just as he was about to let her lean against the side of the tent, someone outside arrived carrying a stretcher.

"Tent 37? Is there an elderly person in the family with limited mobility?"

Old Man Cui nodded quickly.

"Take her to the Medical Tent to be checked. It's shock combined with an old ailment; let her rest first. Medicine will be delivered in a while. If she develops a fever at night, go to the district entrance and call the patrol."

After saying this, the person placed a small paper packet at the tent entrance and pointed to the wooden sign hanging outside.

"This is your tent number; don't take it down. Use this number for collecting grain, water, and reporting illnesses."

Old Man Cui looked down at the paper packet.

The scent of medicine seeped through the paper.

He didn't dare touch it.

Beside him, his little grandson was so hooked by the fragrance of the rice that he couldn't stand still, clutching the tent entrance and looking outside.

In front of the porridge station, the people of Flower City were distributing bowls.

Coarse pottery bowls were lined up, filled to the brim with porridge. Beside them was a small dish of pickled vegetables and a few pieces of sliced purple fruit; the flesh was glistening and carried a faint fragrance.

Old Man Cui couldn't recognize what it was.

But one thing was certain: that stuff was definitely not something people like them could eat.

No, even their previous City Lord couldn't afford to eat it!

The clerk leading the group walked up to Tent 37, and seeing that their family was still standing there, handed over two bowls.

"The elderly and children eat first. The adults wait for the next pot."

Old Man Cui didn't take them.

The clerk thought he hadn't heard clearly and pushed them forward again: "Eat first; you've run all this way, you must be tired."

Old Man Cui looked down at the bowl of porridge.

The sheen of the Spiritual Rice floated on the surface of the porridge, and the steam hit his face, carrying the fragrance of rice he hadn't smelled in many years.

Beside the bowl sat half a purple fruit, its cut clean, with juice slowly seeping out along the flesh.

The wooden staff in his hand suddenly trembled.

With this tremor, his whole body seemed to shrink a little.

He thought of Liang City.

He remembered how every year when paying taxes, their grain bags would be kicked over by officials.

He remembered how when his wife had been ill for three days, he had taken his last few copper coins to the pharmacy, and the shopkeeper wouldn't even let him in the door.

He remembered how, when the city fell last night, he sat on the threshold and told his little grandson to just survive for now.

But now, the people of Flower City were handing a bowl of hot porridge to him.

Saying the elderly and children eat first.

Old Man Cui slowly looked up.

The clerk was still waiting for him, with no impatience on his face, even a bit of confusion, as if he didn't understand why anyone would hesitate for so long over a bowl of porridge.

Old Man Cui's lips moved.

No sound came out the first time.

The second time, the voice squeezed out from his throat, hoarse and strained.

"This..."

He looked at the bowl of porridge, then at the tent, then at the wide road in the distance and the houses in the trees, and finally his gaze returned to the clerk's face.

The old man held the wooden sign, his hands shaking so much he could barely hold it.

"This... is this really for us?"

...

Wang Shuai had finished smashing the last item in the hall.

He picked up the teacup, glanced at it, and put it back... only then to smash it with a single palm strike.

It shattered slowly, so slowly that the sound of every shard of porcelain slipping through his fingers could be heard clearly.

After smashing it, he stood in the wreckage for a long time. Long enough for the shadow of the old locust tree outside the window to move from the corner of the veranda to the threshold.

He suddenly bent down, grabbed the overturned chair, and set it upright. He bent down again to pick up the teapot lid that had rolled into the corner, placing it back on the table. His movements were neither fast nor slow. It was as if nothing had happened.

Finally, he walked to the wall and pushed open the window. The morning light flooded in, making the shards of porcelain all over the floor glitter.

"Come in." His voice was very flat, so flat that it didn't sound like a man who had just smashed an entire room. "Clean up the council hall. In the time it takes for one stick of incense to burn, everyone return to the council hall."

Outside the door, Old Dao suddenly looked up.

He had been guarding under the veranda for a full hour.

He was there when Wang Shuai was smashing things, he was there when Wang Shuai was cursing, and he was still there after Wang Shuai had chased everyone out and only heavy, ragged breathing remained inside.

He heard Wang Shuai's voice coming through the gap in the door... sound after sound, ground out from the deepest part of his throat, like stone grinding against stone.

Now, hearing this calm order from inside the door, his back felt even colder.

Because he understood Wang Shuai.

The more this person could hide, the deeper the pain.

Old Dao turned and walked quickly to summon the others.

His steps were hurried, but his heart felt very heavy.

There was one thing that had been stuck in his chest since last night... Liang City.

The defender of Liang City was his brother. A brother who had crawled out of a pile of dead bodies with him years ago.

Luo Ming.

Last night, the Ten Cities all fell. So what had happened to Luo Ming, the defender of Liang City?

Old Dao knew the answer. But he dared not think further.

When he was walking back after summoning everyone, his hand unconsciously gripped the hilt of his saber. He gripped it and released it, released it and gripped it again. His palms were covered in sweat.

After the time it took for one stick of incense to burn, the council hall had been cleaned up.

The broken porcelain had been swept away, the overturned tables and chairs were set upright, and even the tea stains on the floor had been wiped clean.

If not for the lamp stand in the corner that had been smashed crooked and hadn't been replaced yet, one could hardly tell what had happened here last night.

Everyone filed in and took their seats. The Minister of Interior sat on the left, the Minister of Military Affairs sat on the right, and the Minister of Commerce and several key staff members were lined up in order.

No one spoke first. Because everyone was secretly watching Wang Shuai.

Wang Shuai sat in the main seat.

Compared to an hour ago, he looked like a different person.

His robes were changed for new ones, and his hair was combed without a single strand out of place.

The expression on his face was very calm, so calm that it could almost be called composed.

A cup of freshly brewed tea sat in front of him, the steam still hot.

He even picked up the teacup, blew on it gently, and took a sip. Then he set it down.

It was as if today were just an ordinary day, as if the news of the fall of the Ten Cities last night were just an unimportant, routine official document.

But precisely because it was too normal, it made everyone feel even more uneasy.

Old Dao sat in a position towards the back on the right, head lowered, fingers resting on his knees, his knuckles digging into his palms one by one.

He didn't drink tea. He didn't look at Wang Shuai either. He kept thinking about Liang City. Thinking about Luo Ming.

He wanted his brain to stop thinking about it, but he couldn't control it, and his eyes grew sore from thinking.

At this moment, Wang Shuai suddenly spoke.

"Old Dao."

Old Dao's whole body jolted, and he looked up sharply.

Wang Shuai was looking at him, his gaze very peaceful, even carrying a hint of a faint smile, "You've been frowning since you walked in just now. What's wrong?"

Old Dao's throat moved.

He hadn't expected Wang Shuai to call his name. And he hadn't expected Wang Shuai to notice his expression at a time like this.

"Subordinate..." Old Dao opened his mouth, his voice a bit hoarse, "Subordinate was just..."

Wang Shuai didn't urge him, simply holding his tea and waiting quietly.

That silence made Old Dao even less sure how to begin.

"My brother..." Old Dao finally said it, his voice kept very low, "Liang City... the defender of Liang City, Luo Ming, is my brother. Last night, the Ten Cities were all... all destroyed. I am worried about him..."

Speaking to this point, he couldn't continue.

The teacup in Wang Shuai's hand stopped in mid-air.

He didn't put it down immediately, nor did he speak immediately, simply moving his gaze slowly from Old Dao's face and letting it fall onto the tea in front of him.

A small bit of tea foam floated on the surface of the tea, gently swaying in the steam.

Then, he set the teacup down.

He set it down very lightly. So lightly that there was almost no sound.

"Liang City." Wang Shuai's voice lowered, as if reciting a very heavy name, "Luo Ming."

Old Dao's heart tightened severely.

"I remember." Wang Shuai looked up, his gaze falling once again upon Old Dao. This time, there was something very heavy in his eyes, something that could almost be called grief, "A very excellent commander. I noticed him very early on. Steady, daring, not greedy for merit. I had originally intended to focus on cultivating him."

He paused. His Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

"It's just, I didn't expect..."

With these last three words, he cut off his sentence, deliberately swallowing the rest.

He shifted his gaze toward the window, as if dazzled by the morning light, or as if forcing himself to hold something back.

Old Dao saw clearly... Wang Shuai's eyes were slightly red.

Very faintly.

It circled the edge of his eyes, then was forcibly suppressed.

It was so faint it was almost imperceptible, but precisely because it was suppressed so quickly, it seemed even more genuine.

Old Dao's own eyes turned red as well.

Wang Shuai stood up from the main seat and walked slowly to Old Dao.

He didn't speak, simply reaching out and patting Old Dao on the shoulder.

When that hand pressed down, Old Dao's knees couldn't help but sink.

"The dead cannot return to life." Wang Shuai's voice was not loud, but every word landed firmly, "My condolences. Brother Luo Ming fought for my Ten Cities until the very last moment; I will not forget this loyalty and bravery."

He withdrew his hand, turned around, and faced everyone present.

"I will certainly set up a cenotaph for Brother Luo Ming and bury him with honors. Let everyone remember his contribution and sacrifice."

As his voice fell, the hall was silent for a moment.

Then...

With a "thud," Old Dao knelt down.

His knees hit the stone floor, and the muffled sound echoed throughout the entire council hall. He lowered his head, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"Thank you, City Lord!" His voice was choked with sobs, but he shouted it out with all his might, "Thank you! City Lord!"