Passing the Torch

That had happened quite a few days ago— In the reed marshes along the Everflowing River, an old man standing at the bow of a boat called out toward several young lads hauling in nets on the dock: "Lads, you can't touch those fish. They've all fed on dead bodies." The lads, their skin baked dark by the sun, looked up. One grinned and said to the old man on the boat, "What kind of joke is that, old man? Why shouldn't we eat fish that fed on dead men?" "Exactly!" "Whatever flies in the sky or runs on the ground, once it falls into the water, it belongs to the fish! If they eat until they're fat, they sell even better!" Looking at these fearless, irreverent youngsters, the old man shook his head and sighed. "You know that what flies in the sky and runs on the ground ends up in the water, but do you know what those things ate before they fell in?" The young men looked at each other, struck speechless. In the end, the brash youth pulling the net replied flippantly, "What do I care what snakes, rats, bugs, or birds ate? We net the fish to sell for money, not to put in our own bellies! The fishmongers buying them aren't saying a word, so what are you blabbering about!" Hearing this, the other lads snapped out of their daze and chimed in with clamorous shouts. "Exactly!" "Isn't that a fishing boat you're on too? Have you never fished before?" "The old man's up to no good—probably worried we'll cut into his business!" *Sigh...* The old man shook his head, saying nothing more as he punted his boat away with his long bamboo pole. It was true that he made his living by fishing. He had raised ducks as well, but that was last year. At the start of the year, the ducks he kept on the river had been poisoned to death by something in the water. The fishmonger he usually dealt with stopped taking fish from the Everflowing River altogether, switching instead to seafood. Everyone did business among neighbors, seeing one another every single day. No matter how unscrupulous someone might be, they dared not earn money against their conscience. Then again, the newly arrived fish dealers lately didn't seem picky at all. They bought whatever fish was brought in, just at lower prices; supposedly, their business catered entirely to tourists. No matter what business they were in, the old man couldn't bring himself to haul up things that could kill people and trade them for cash. Unlike those reckless youngsters, he was living day to day, never knowing when he might pass on to meet the Silver Moon Goddess. There was no need to ruin his karma in the afterlife for a pittance of coin. Besides, he was not hurting for money. Back when Wutuo was still around, he already had three ancestral properties rented out. As for why he still drifted through the reed marshes, partly it was because he couldn't bear to sit idle, and partly because City Hall had given him a new job: clearing out the "filth" from the reeds. Only experienced old fishermen could handle this work. When he came across bodies floating on the water, he would poke them twice with his pole. If there was still a sign of life, he would pull them aboard. If not... Naturally, he still hauled them out. He remembered an Alliance researcher visiting some days ago, who had scooped a cup of water from the Everflowing River, swirled it, and then shaken his head. From that day on, he knew this river was completely ruined... The evening glow faded. Having drifted through the reeds all day, he was just preparing to wrap up and head home when a sudden thrashing came from deep within the rushes, like a wild duck abruptly startled awake. Of course, there were no wild ducks on this river. The old man hurriedly punted his pole to turn back, and sure enough, he spotted a person thrashing in the water. Whether snagged by reeds or something else, the figure—face pale from being soaked in river water—struggled frantically. "Grab this!" The old man extended his bamboo pole. Once the person grabbed hold, they finally calmed down a little and stopped flailing wildly. Once the man had worn himself out, the old man carefully edged closer and hauled the forty-something-year-old man onto the fishing boat. He retrieved a blanket from the cabin and handed it to the drenched man. "Wrap yourself up. It gets cold when the wind picks up." The man took the blanket with trembling hands, his face etched with terror, like a frightened rat—the kind that had scrambled out of a trench under machine-gun fire. Scratches covered his body, but fortunately they were all cuts from reed blades, with no gunshot wounds. He had been lucky to survive. These past days, the old man had seen far too many bloated corpses—not all drowned, but simply rotted away by the toxic river water. Shivering violently, the man stammered, "D-don't kill me..." "Relax, no one's going to kill you here." The old man gave a reassuring smile, patted the man's shoulder gently, and handed him his thermos, gesturing that he could drink some if he didn't mind. The man certainly didn't mind; if anything, he worried the old man might find him repulsive. After offering profuse thanks, he unscrewed the cap and gulped down the hot water. The old man lit a brazier, set it beside the man's feet, and then punted toward shore, asking conversationally, "What line of work are you in, friend?" "Fishing..." Ah, a fellow fisherman. No wonder he had managed to swim this far. Yet judging by his panicked state, his wife and children had probably fallen behind along the way... The old man smiled. "Knowing how to fish is good. Once we hit shore, tell the people registering you, and they'll arrange for you to find work at the docks. There are plenty of seafaring fishing boats out there. It's not quite the same as river fishing, but you'll get the hang of it once you're familiar." The man nodded, merely repeating his thanks, saying nothing else. Under the twilight glow, the fishing boat docked. The boys who had been netting fish earlier had already returned laden with their catch, pushing carts toward the market. Watching the bustling streets in the distance, the blanket-draped man suddenly broke down, bursting into tears. The old man squatted down and patted his shoulder to console him. "There, there, you're about to step ashore. What are you crying for?" As if reminded of everyone else who had died along the journey, the man couldn't stop weeping, choking out, "I only curse the blind heavens! Misfortune always hunts down the wretched!" Seeing him like this, the old man chuckled. "If the heavens were blind, would you have made it here? Count your blessings." Still bitter, the man said with rancor, "But I don't understand. Why is it that I have been kind all my life, never committed an evil deed, yet not a single misery of this world has spared me?" The old man shook his head. "Kind all your life... Heh, what does kindness even mean? Not stealing, not robbing, not deceiving, just keeping your head down—that makes you kind? By that logic, the fish in the river look pretty kind to me, the birds in the sky even kinder, and the snakes and bugs in the grass must be the kindest of all." The middle-aged man flushed. "You can't compare it like that. How can people be the same as snakes, rats, bugs, and birds?" "Exactly. So why do you set your standard for kindness to the level of snakes, rats, bugs, and birds?" the old man said with a smile. "You aren't young anymore, yet you've lived such a muddled life, mistaking mere self-preservation for virtue." The man looked at him blankly. "Then... what is kindness?" The old man pondered, not quite sure how to answer either, and simply let out a soft sigh. "Probably... having the people truly bound for hell think you're a fool." The heavens were not blind. Retribution existed. And it arrived sooner than anyone imagined... Hanging his head, the man thought for a long while before looking up at the elder, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Is there any way... to stay out of hell?" The old man was taken aback, then chuckled. "How would I know?" Seeing the man's crestfallen look, the elder fell silent for a moment, then sighed and said, "Once you go ashore, there's a church bearing a crescent moon, and many cats basking in the sun nearby... Go look for a priest named Melchior. Perhaps he knows." ... Tiandu. Beneath the festive, jubilant atmosphere lurked a chilling edge of slaughter. General Grove, who had returned to Tiandu to report on his mission, had basked in glory for the first couple of days, spouting endless hot air at conferences. But within days, just as Sava had predicted, he was brought down by Zayed. Yet the subsequent turn of events unfolded precisely as Committee Member Sava had anticipated. Gopal, the "Gray Wolf," ultimately preceded Grove, the "Iron General," to his demise. Righteously indignant youths barricaded Gopal inside his own mansion, forbidding anyone to enter or leave—including the curry Gopal ate every day. Not long after, searchers uncovered a set of Xilan-era Animal Chess in his residence. Informed by a servant's warning, Gopal knew his days were numbered. Overcome with grief and fury, he finally resolved to lead his old Gray Wolf loyalists in a desperate gamble, only for the plan to leak. A few phone calls that should never have been made became the final straw that broke the camel's back. Plunged into absolute despair, he arranged an escape route for himself and his family. He first leaked word that he was heading for Golden Gallon Port, while covertly readying a launch from West Sail Port to flee to General MacLaren's territory. Perhaps because he had committed too many misdeeds, that day saw a torrential downpour accompanied by thunder and lightning. Those coming to arrest him arrived half an hour early, while those coming to pick him up arrived late. "The heavens seek my doom!" Seeing soldiers entering through the front door, Gopal's face turned ash-pale, reduced to a stray dog. Driven into a corner, he used the excuse of using the latrine to scale the rear wall of the outhouse, never expecting the arresting soldiers to see right through his ruse. Seeing Gopal already straddling the top of the wall, one young soldier grabbed a bamboo pole and jabbed him in the rear. Unaware of his own strength, the thrust knocked the panicked Gopal off balance, sending him plunging headfirst onto the stone pavement. *Boom—!* Perhaps so many vengeful spirits had come to claim his life that even the heavens couldn't bear the sight. A clap of thunder detonated across the sky, its flashing glare illuminating the damp, gloomy alleyway. Caked in muddy water, he twitched on the ground, struggling to push himself up, only to choke on a mouthful of mud. "H-help..." Even then, a breath of life remained in him. Had someone stepped forward to pull him up, he might have survived. Yet to his despair, he saw every surrounding house shuttering their doors and windows, pretending the commotion outside did not exist. A pity. Both had departed on rainy nights, yet one died on his feet while the other perished like a stray dog. Gopal, a legendary "God of War," died in such pathetic disgrace, smashed against the foot of the wall behind his own backyard latrine... The next day. News of Gopal's death swept through the entire city. People clapped with jubilation, cheering that the Gray Wolf was finally dead, just as they had cheered when he entered the city. Under house arrest behind iron bars, Grove heard the clatter of gongs and drums outside. Wondering what festive occasion had arrived, he called out softly to the soldier at the door: "Family... excuse me, what is that racket outside?" The voice was timid and servile, devoid of the slightest trace of the "Iron General's" domineering swagger, sounding instead like a prematurely withered old wretch. The young soldier eyed him coldly, a look that seemed to say, *Who's your family?* Still, with an impassive face, he answered: "Gopal, that traitor, is dead." Grove's head rang with a deafening buzz, as though a two-hundred-pound aerial bomb had exploded right next to him. Perhaps grieving the death of a fellow beast, his face drained of color. He gripped the iron bars with both hands and shouted: "G-Gopal is dead?! How could that be?! How did he die? I don't accept this! No—he was the traitor! I'm innocent! Zayed knows me! Call him again, please! I beg you..." The iron bars rattled under his gaunt wrists, but the soldier acted as though he heard nothing. When it came to deciding who could be kicked while down and who warranted mercy, most Brahmins shared an unspoken consensus—one that, like psionics, required no words. Gopal was finished. Could Grove survive? Even children in Tiandu knew that once the wolf meat was consumed, it was time to slaughter the dog... ... The wolf was dead. The dog was doomed. Sava, the heir apparent, along with the other decorated contributors, sat on a pit of fire, squirming in restlessness as the heat scorched their rears. Tiandu felt like a battlefield without gunsmoke. Those uncouth brutes who knew only how to wage war experienced for the first time how much easier it was to dodge a spear in the open than an arrow from the dark. Yet what truly shattered Gale's worldview was not Gopal's utterly wretched end. It was the fate of Commissioner Kabaha—the man he had once despised most of all, loathed to his very core. It was a bright, sunny morning. Though Tiandu had turned into a scorching fire pit, the boiling blaze had not yet reached inside the gates of Tiandu University. Sitting in the lecture hall, Gale was dozing off in boredom, savoring the memory of the female student from the night before, when a loud *bang* jolted him awake, scaring him so badly his textbook slipped to the floor. Fortunately, the bludgeon had not struck his head, but rather the skull of Commissioner Kabaha. Ever since the joint schooling initiative began, this education commissioner had served as both principal and professor, weathering wind and rain under the roar of bombers without once buckling. Yet this time, nosebleed splattered across the lectern. Commissioner Kabaha seemed caught off guard that such a day would come for him. He stared blankly at the children wielding clubs, then glanced at the adults behind them. Yet in the end he said nothing, quietly picking up the textbook that had fallen onto the lectern. "Class, please turn your textbooks to page thirty-seven. Today we will cover *Mr. L*, a work that an old friend of mine poured their heart and soul into completing—" *Crack!* The club swung like a whirlwind, knocking him to the floor with sweeping fury. "We're asking you a question!" "That day in the theater! What did you say?! And why didn't you applaud?!" Kabaha uttered not a word. Acting as though the people raining punches and kicks upon him did not exist, he reached out for the textbook that condensed the blood and sweat of countless individuals, until it was snatched away and torn to shreds. He stopped reaching for the book, trying instead to stand and speak, only to be struck down. He stood again, fell again... until he was battered bloody, and even several of the clubs snapped. His bones were unyielding indeed; in the end, he still managed to stand. The twelve-year-old child furrowed his brow, stubbornness surging with fury. Raising the broken club, he was about to deliver the finishing blow when the man behind caught his arm. Standing at ease, the man surveyed the students in the classroom and said in a chilling voice: "Students, you are Kabaha's pupils, the ones who know him best. Since he refuses to confess his crimes and reflect upon his faults, you shall speak for him." "One by one." Silence enveloped the lecture hall. Everyone was paralyzed with terror. Including Gale. He felt as though a bullet had pierced his brain, his entire head spinning, unable to regain his senses. Kabaha... The one who should hate this man was *him*! It was this bastard's fault for inventing that grand examination, making a fool of Gale and handing opportunities that rightfully belonged to him over to those mud-legged peasants. These lower-class scum... on what grounds did they get to hate him on Gale's behalf? Why?! It made no sense. He couldn't fathom it. Perhaps because he was too normal, or perhaps because studying had dulled his wits. Right then, he abruptly remembered Nayak—what that devilishly brilliant little flunky had told him before departing: *'I have Generals A, B, C, and D... and I know that sooner or later, I will have to kill them all.'* *'Once you go back, hide yourself well... shrink back whenever you can... imagine yourself as a soft, squirming maggot...'* Gale suddenly felt regret. Perhaps he should have gone with that guy back then. But it was too late for regrets now. Yet... Why run? Gale suddenly let out an internal laugh, because in that single flash of clarity, he realized: everyone around him was a sheep eating dirt. What wonderful sheep they were. When the master craved meat, terrified that the master might go hungry, they didn't even need the master to sharpen his knife. They took the initiative to tear apart the sheep that didn't fit in, offering up his flesh and blood. He remembered Nayak's third sentence: *'Your turn will come. Mark my words.'* As if possessed, Gale stood up. Every pair of eyes in the classroom, front and back, turned toward him. Including Commissioner Kabaha. That bruised, blood-dripping face still wore the same stern, disdainful scowl. The man actually had ways to survive. Yet he stubbornly chose to die on his feet. In that case... Better to make his death meaningful. *Teacher... safe travels on your way,* Gale murmured in his heart. Gazing into those eyes, his face assumed a guise of honest, naive earnestness. This was the first time he acknowledged this man as his teacher, and the first time he addressed him with reverence. And it was from the bottom of his heart. Kabaha looked at him, his sneering gaze unchanged, as if to say, *Even you dare call me teacher?* Sadly, he could no longer speak. Yet— Perhaps it wasn't truly a sneer. Quite possibly, it was a form of protection. Or rather, kindness. Stepping onto the podium, Gale exchanged a glance with a familiar-looking man and took the club from his hands. That was one of his father's soldiers. Uniform or not, Gale recognized him. Gale gripped the club tightly, as though holding a blazing torch. Meeting those cold, distant eyes, he whispered silently in his heart: *Lend me your life for a while.* *Your vengeance—* *Fifty years from now, I will avenge you.* ... Golden Gallon Port, by the Everflowing River. The Red Soil was nowhere to be seen; the sugarcane plantations from Nihak's era had transformed into a bustling marketplace. After leaving Camp Rowell, Ye Shi, Dora, and their companions came here. Tied down by official duties, Mayor Yodu had already returned to City Hall. However, he hadn't left the group hanging, having assigned his secretary to act as their guide and extend hospitality on behalf of the people of Golden Gallon Port. Watching the grilled fish at the food stalls, Dora swallowed hard, craving written all over her face. Though Port French Fries had plenty of barbecue, the grilling style and flavors were entirely different. The spices here were sprinkled on as if they cost nothing, rousing the cravings in her stomach all over again. Ye Shi was getting hungry too, and was just about to pull out money when the local guide sent by Mayor Yodu stopped him. "That's freshwater fish." The guide stammered for a moment, embarrassed to reveal the truth, only mumbling vaguely, "It's... not very hygienic." Ye Shi gave him an odd look. Hearing the word "hygienic" from a local felt strangely out of place, but he took the advice nonetheless and pulled Dora away from the grilled fish stall. There was plenty to eat here, with many other options. "What about that grilled corn? And the pork?" "Those are fine," the guide replied with an apologetic smile. "It's just the fish and shrimp you have to check—whether they're from the river or the sea." Recent news had reported cases of people getting sick from eating fish. The Representative Assembly was debating legislation to ban the sale of harvested river fish on the market, but the laws had yet to catch up. Ye Shi nodded understandingly, then picked up the menu and ordered about a hundred silver coins' worth of barbecue. One hundred silver coins was equivalent to one thousand gallons—plenty to stuff all ten or so of them full. By now, dusk was settling in. Watching the hot-air balloons in the distance, Ye Shi suddenly remembered the question that had puzzled him upon arriving at the port. Looking across the table at the guide, he asked: "What are those balloons for?" The guide followed his gaze and smiled. "You mean those? Those are set up by a priest from the Silver Moon Church. His name seems to be... Melchior." Melchior. Ye Shi felt the name sounded familiar, probably having seen it on the forums before, though he couldn't recall when. "So it's the Silver Moon Sect," Ye Shi nodded in enlightenment. No wonder the balloons had two little tufts on top; turns out they were cat ears. That was way too abstract. Looking at the balloons, a hint of reverence and admiration touched the guide's face. "Speaking of Father Melchior, the old gentleman is quite the celebrity around here... Ever since he moved here from West Sail Port, he's done a lot of real good—building a church, taking in refugees, and teaching poor folks how to read. Even though I don't believe in the Silver Moon Goddess, he really is a good man. I truly don't get why the people out west wanted to drive him out." "Out west?" Dora blinked. "West Sail Port, probably," Ye Shi sighed, gazing up at the balloons in the sky. "Those Wilantes are ruthless enough to tear down even a church." The guide gave a bitter smile without speaking, merely turning his gaze toward the twilight in the distance. "Father Melchior knows some... decent Wilantes, as well as some citizens who made money in the early years. They made these hot-air balloons, loaded them with dry rations, and let them drift westward. Once the fuel runs out, the balloons descend like parachutes, landing wherever they happen to fall." Ye Shi gave him an astonished look. "How... how many people can that possibly save?" The guide shook his head. "Whoever they can save, I suppose. Maybe someone out there only needs that one bite to stay alive." Dora asked in confusion, "Is there no food there?" The guide shook his head. "Not exactly." She suddenly remembered that food had to be bought with money, so she asked timidly, "Then... is there no money?" "Not that either." "Then why—" "Don't ask anymore." Seeing the guide's reddened eyes, Ye Shi tactfully patted Dora's shoulder. "We're heading to Silver Moon Bay tomorrow anyway... By the way, try and see if you can perceive a broodmother around here. Or anything similar?" That last question was a sudden whim of his, and a long-standing debate on the official forum. Although Brahma Province didn't have a broodmother, rumor had it that during the design of Red Soil, mutant slime mold DNA had been referenced and modified. Dora blinked, closed her eyes, and meditated for a moment. Then she opened them and shook her head. "Nothing." "Not even a trace?" Ye Shi pressed, reluctant to give up. "What about the soil? Does it—" "I can feel that it's alive. The soil is actually alive, which is truly incredible..." With wonder painted across her face, Dora continued in a tiny whisper: "But it seems... it is merely alive."