Past and Present

More than two centuries ago, biting winds ripped across the desolate earth. Even Camp Rowell, nestled near the equator, found little relief. Two figures trudged through the gale, limping as they walked. One wore power armor, while the other was clad in a full-body protective suit emblazoned with a research institute's insignia, and judging from the condensation fogging the inside of their visors, both must have been severely injured. In truth, fierce resistance was never without cost. Their thermal insulation systems were already compromised. At thirty degrees below zero, even slime mold was rendered powerless, let alone two mortals about to lose their last defense against the bitter frost. Once that vapor froze into ice, death would not be far behind. Yet even so, their condition was far better than that of the corpse they dragged between them. The blood oozing from his wounds had already congealed into scarlet ice, sealing the bullet holes, freezing his contorted face, and locking away his near-frenzied ambition. That blood-rimmed mouth seemed frozen mid-shout, silently crying out: 'Why didn't you listen to me?' Why... The soldier's lips twisted into a grimace. He exhaled a turbid breath, fogging his translucent visor. That was their general. As for why they had executed him, that was a long story. In short, he had no desire to recall the fungal-infected subjects who had perished in the laboratory, nor the people put to death for daring to oppose that honorable lord... After all, his own hands were stained with blood. Yes. He was an accomplice. Then again, who wasn't? Let the past stay in the past. There was no need for their children to carry such a crushing memory forward. All humans possessed a streak of compassion, and an ordinary soldier like him was naturally no exception. They had squandered vast quantities of resources, killed countless innocent people, and missed their prime window for self-rescue—only to save not a single soul in the end... All because of Rowell's grand slogan: to save the survivors fleeing from the center of the world into Brahma Province, they needed a "domesticated fungus capable of functioning at thirty to fifty degrees below zero." In other words, the so-called red soil... He did not know how history would judge his deeds, but it took courage merely to become a laughingstock in the mouths of others. The pair cast the corpse onto the freezing wilderness. Pulling out entrenching shovels, they summoned every ounce of their remaining strength, hacking through the permafrost just as planned to excavate a large pit. Then they threw their general's body and all the research archives into the depths. The Wasteland Era would eventually come to an end. When everything was said and done, when their children's children unearthed these relics, perhaps they would look from a broader vantage and render a more objective judgment on what had transpired here—rather than simply labeling Rowell good or evil, or dividing those who backed or opposed him into righteous and wicked. Only when this entire stretch of memory truly became history would they cease to be laughingstocks, and only then would it all reach a fitting conclusion. They were merely duckweed caught in a surging tide, dandelions blown to a forgotten corner of the world by an explosive shockwave. Nothing more. At least, that was how the soldier saw himself. Just as they prepared to fill the pit, the researcher beside him raised a hand to stop him. "This is the final sample." Lifting an aching arm, the researcher entered a passcode with a trembling index finger and drew a crimson test tube from the vacuum sample case at his hip. The crimson hue resembled blood. Indistinguishable from the blood on Rowell's body, the moment it was exposed to the open air, the howling wind frosted the glass until it turned entirely to ice. Almost like a mockery of that insane endeavor... "Look closely with your eyes wide open..." Staring down at the hideous face in the trench, the researcher curled his stiff lips, violently hurling the test tube down against Rowell's rock-hard corpse. "At minus thirty, water freezes in an instant! What kind of goddamn spore... could germinate at minus thirty degrees! Do you expect me to conjure silicon-based life out of that pathetic lab of yours?" "Why didn't you just invite God into the lab!" That idiot... Even on the brink of death, he refused to admit his mistakes. Having exhausted his fury, the researcher yanked up his shovel from the frozen ground and, as if venting his despair, shoveled the churned soil and dirty snow into the pit. Digging and filling took the two of them an entire day. Yet to both men, this day felt more meaningful than any that had preceded it. Because from this day forward, they were no longer enemies; they were compatriots once more. Even if they had precious few days left to live... Glancing at his dwindling energy reserves, the soldier caught the researcher as he turned to head back to the outpost, shaking his head. The researcher paused in mild surprise, but quickly grasped the meaning. A wry smile touched his lips, and he nodded. Indeed. There was no point in returning. Opening the research facility's airlock one fewer time might buy the people inside two extra days of life. Better to leave what energy and nutrients remained to the survivors... Besides, what kind of hell that place would become once the power and provisions ran out was anyone's guess. Death? They had long since grown indifferent to it. If one had to go sooner or later, going a bit earlier made little difference. Moreover, the only legacy left behind by this history shouldn't be Rowell's corpse alone. They were the final bricks of the tombstone. Someone had to accompany him into the dark. Only then could those who came after know what had truly unfolded here... With everything settled, neither man turned back. Instead, they pressed forward into the freezing wilderness until they found a petrified tree that appeared reasonably sturdy. They exchanged a glance, instantly reading each other's thoughts. This was the place... With wordless understanding, they stepped forward, smoothed out the snow beneath the trunk, sat down side by side, and leaned against the rock-hard bark. The howling wind truly seemed somewhat blunted by the desiccated trunk—though perhaps their senses were merely fading. The researcher hurled his entrenching shovel away; they would have no further use for it. The soldier fished out a pack of cigarettes he had been too stingy to smoke, wishing for one last drag, only to realize his helmet stood in the way. He smiled bitterly and gave up. Emulating the researcher, he hurled the half-empty pack into the snow as well. Consider it quitting. From now on, his name would be "Jieyan." The mist on the visor had frozen into a sheet of frost, and the flashing warning lights had gone dark. The soldier closed his eyes, zoning out for a while before abruptly speaking. "Rowell sent a transmission to the Post-War Reconstruction Committee before he died... Dammit, who knows how he slandered us in that message. Do you think he blamed the whole 'red soil' scheme on us?" "Whatever. Let them send a squad to see for themselves," the researcher murmured, curling his lips. Who cared about that when they were about to die? "Doubtful..." The soldier shook his head, then thought of something else and called out to the researcher, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep. "Hey." "...What?" "You're a scientist... Tell me the truth. Will this planet ever get better?" Half-asleep, the researcher shook his head. "I don't know. Nobody knows. But we've done everything we could... As long as a single person survives to the end, we've won this war." Some had fled toward Sunset Province—the granary of the Era of Prosperity. If the survivors there could keep the "River Levee" operational, perhaps they could preserve a few oases. Besides, that place wasn't far from the Great Rift Valley; the folks from the Reconstruction Committee should be able to lend a hand. The soldier fell silent for a moment and sighed. "I really fucking regret it..." "...Regret what now?" "I was such a fool. Why did I ever believe him... Damn it, if only I hadn't bought into his bullshit. And it's your fault too—why didn't you people tell the truth..." "Heh... Did no one ever say it?" Hearing that self-deprecating reply, the soldier went quiet, sighing softly a moment later. "Fair point..." Man could not conquer nature. He could only conquer himself. Only in his final moments did he understand that their greatest enemy had never been Gaia, nor the bitter winter, nor even Rowell and the stubborn accomplices who had followed him to the bitter end... It was themselves. It always had been. The dead became fuel for the living, swallowed up in the dust of history. The era of the Human Alliance had drawn to a close. If Camp Rowell was viewed as a local campaign, they had both won and lost... Because it was all over. "Tell me... how do you think future generations will judge us?" There was no answer. The soldier turned his head toward the companion beside him, only to find he had already merged with the frost behind him, looking no different from the frozen corpse of General Rowell they had buried. At thirty degrees below zero, not even red soil could survive, let alone flesh and blood... Yet in the face of approaching death, the soldier felt no fear. Consider it paying off a debt... Hopefully, they wouldn't end up like Cretaceous dinosaurs, where their memories could only be burned as fossil fuels. He sighed softly in his heart and looked up toward the gray sky, where not a single beam of light could pierce the shroud. "...I'm sorry, children. We took a wrong turn." No matter what, winter would eventually pass... Clinging to that conviction, the soldier drew his final breath and melted entirely into the snow-covered expanse. Time flowed like water, fleeting as a white colt flashing past a crevice. The howling winds raged for half a century, but in the end, they could not hold back the blazing sun. The long winter finally ended. Fresh blades of green grass sprouted from the earth, and creatures that had cowered in dens and burrows curiously poked their heads out, greeting a blue sky unseen for ages. This was the equator. Recovery began here first. Survivors emerged from dugouts and dilapidated shelters, building settlements of varying sizes along the banks of the Everflowing River. They hunted wild game, erected totem poles to celebrate one victory after another, and slowly scavenged the fragments of the Era of Prosperity... Barbarism and bloodshed here were no less prevalent than anywhere else in the wasteland, yet the environment was far less merciless. At least there were no dust storms or colossal beasts from the Great Desert, no deathclaws like those in River Valley Province, and no poisonous insects like those in Sunset Province. It was almost like a natural sanctuary. Civilization was slowly rekindling. Up to this point, red soil had not made its formal debut on the stage of Brahma Province, and the history of Camp Rowell appeared utterly forgotten. Not that it mattered. This natural refuge held everything. The fauna left behind from the Era of Prosperity provided enough delicacies for the locals to feast on, after which they could farm and hone their culinary craft. It was a bittersweet era of growth, and the seeds of civilization steadily sprouted amid the struggle. Time marched forward. Survivors in Boulder City raised their chips high in their council chambers, seeing off the last elder who had witnessed the Era of Prosperity. Meanwhile, as populations swelled, the tribal skirmishes across Brahma Province swiftly evolved into wars between kingdoms. The Human Alliance language was the greatest legacy the Era of Prosperity had bequeathed to the Wasteland Era. The local survivors had no need to waste excessive time on trial and error. Even if they could no longer recall the lessons of history, scattered fragments lingering in distant memory allowed them to rapidly adopt societal models suited to their productivity. After chieftains came kings. Thirteen kings soon emerged across the four-million-square-kilometer province, corresponding to thirteen sanctuaries—or thirteen "states." It was around this time that the ambitious "Moon King" summoned a wealthy plantation owner. With nothing more than a modestly sized plantation, that owner had managed to sustain over a hundred thousand slaves! And in that very moment, the farmer held a handful of crimson soil in his hands... Only then did the wheel of reincarnation come full circle. In the present day, the thirteen states of Brahma Province no longer included a Moon State, though one had existed long ago. Yet as the moon set and the sun rose, the ascendant Xilan Empire had renamed Moon State to Rowell State. That, however, belonged to another turbulent epoch... ... Time returned to the present. No one knew what had transpired over the past two centuries. Even the Alliance, which had built a survey station on the ruins of Camp Rowell in Golden Gallon Port, could only salvage limited historical records from beneath the rubble. Among the many projects undertaken by the Alliance's Institute of Social Sciences, research on Brahma Province was merely one major track—classified alongside numbered vaults like Vault 70, 79, 100, 101, 117, and 401 as an "unnumbered shelter." Naturally, the Chief of the Great Rift Valley had no way of knowing that history either. Due to interference rippling through radioactive dust and orbital debris, Rowell's final transmission had never even reached the headquarters of the Post-War Reconstruction Committee... The barriers to long-range wireless communications on the wasteland persisted to this day. The Alliance had only achieved instantaneous cross-border communication through hardwired cables. Having departed from the Great Rift Valley's Chief, Absaik looked visibly lost, as if he had understood everything and yet understood nothing. Glancing at Internal Affairs Commissioner Vadiya, who was following closely with an anxious expression, Absaik suddenly chuckled and rubbed his chin. "That old man wanted to save my life..." Vadiya froze, failing to catch his leader's drift. Remembering they were on foreign soil, he offered a bitter smile and cautioned in a hushed tone: "Your Excellency Grand Marshal... we are in the Great Rift Valley. Addressing their leader like that—" "I know, it doesn't matter. That old... gentleman doesn't care," Absaik waved a hand, cutting off whatever Vadiya was about to say. "Leave me be for a bit. I need some quiet to sort things out. If I need anything, I'll let you know." He had originally intended to pay Chu Guang a visit, but on second thought, it seemed unnecessary. What would a meeting change? Brahma's issues ultimately had to be resolved by its own people; they truly couldn't keep running around looking for a savior. Besides, with a population so colossal, no outside party could carry them, and those who could help had already extended plenty of aid. Technology, capital, machinery, production methods, ideological enlightenment, local talent, and even "sociological archives that had originally belonged to them, only to be lost by their own ancestors"... He truly couldn't fathom what else he could shamelessly ask for on behalf of Brahma Province's survivors. Any more, and they would have to ask for the Manager himself. Furthermore, in the lead-up to the summit, the Alliance's Manager surely had his own packed schedule. For instance, discussions regarding post-war matters would certainly require meetings with the three former legion commanders and the Consul of Triumph City, wouldn't they? Tyr probably wouldn't dare show up, and even if he did, it would be pointless; even Absaik, as Grand Marshal of the State of Brahma, could see that the Southern Legion was doomed. Then there were the discussions on bringing an end to the Wasteland Era—surely the Chief Technology Officer of the Academy and the directors of Ideal City would need an audience, wouldn't they? The schedule was crammed to the brim. Better not to trouble that gentleman. Once the summit concluded, they could meet if time permitted... ... Inside a bright, spacious room, a bruised and swollen Zhou Xianlin was having his injuries tended to by an elderly steward. As the leader of the Dam Alliance, when had he ever suffered such humiliation? To have his collar grabbed and his lip split open! That soldier in power armor shouldn't have pulled him away. He had been this close to biting that bastard's ear off! Unfortunately, he hadn't managed to show those River Valley bastards the sheer ferocity of the Yuema people. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Zhou Xianlin glared murderously at the old steward and snarled: "Where is the Red River Alliance? Find them on the map for me! Motherfuckers, dare to rub dirt in my face? Just wait till I chop them into mince and feed them to the dogs!" The old steward shuddered, nearly spilling the povidone-iodine in his hands. Sweating profusely, he stammered: "Young Master... the Red River Alliance... they might really have fought marauders. And the ones they locked in their mine shafts might actually be real marauders." Zhou Xianlin paused, his face darkening as he stared at the old steward. "...What do you mean? We haven't fought marauders?" "We have, we have!" The old steward nodded vigorously, close to tears. "I only mean... the Bone Chewer tribe is different. They're not like ordinary marauders. Besides, the Red River Alliance has Alliance garrison troops. Even if it's only one or two hundred men, it's best not to provoke them." In truth, the harder problem was how to project force that far. They couldn't very well ride the Alliance's trains just to go beat someone up, could they? Fortunately, his young master finally seemed to understand reason this time and swallowed his fury. Zhou Xianlin sneered. "I wondered who they were... Just a dog on a leash! Whatever, you don't beat a dog without looking at its master. I'll leave that leashed cur for my elder brother to deal with!" The old steward: "..." ... Elsewhere, inside a conference room carved from solid granite, the Praetorian Guards of Triumph City and the Alliance's guards completed their sweep, exited the chamber, and pulled the doors shut. Only the Consul of Triumph City and the Manager of the Alliance remained inside. With no third party present, Battlefield Guy, seated inside his golden armor, slumped back into his chair with a look of pure exhaustion. To his dismay, a sharp crack echoed through the room as the backrest snapped clean in two, nearly sending him tumbling backward onto the floor. Meeting Chu Guang's amused, stifled grin, he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry... embarrassing myself here." Chu Guang gave a faint smile. "Don't worry about it. I've seen it plenty of times. When I first put on power armor, I broke my fair share of chairs too." Players were always mistaking him for an ordinary NPC, spouting memes or engaging in performance art right in front of him. Others took advantage of his quiet demeanor and tight lips, treating him like an emotional sounding board and dumping all sorts of bizarre stories on him—some even asking how to have children with NPCs. Way back during the alpha phase, he had already perfected the art of keeping a straight face. Taking another seat, Battlefield Guy refrained from leaning back this time, placing his forearms on the table just like Chu Guang. Befitting a professional tin can, this posture proved far more stable. Battlefield Guy sighed. Struggling to find an opening, he ended up speaking in circles. "To be blunt, I'm not a good person. The Wilante of Triumph City have probably misunderstood something about me. Sure, thanks to the forum—er, I mean, thanks to my staff, I've managed to bumble through this Consul gig reasonably well. But I haven't the faintest idea what comes next. Honestly, I've thought about resigning more than once. Maybe you can point me in the right direction." Seeing that Battlefield Atmosphere Group was genuinely troubled rather than treating everything like a mere game, Chu Guang smiled and spoke in an easy, conversational tone: "In this world, there is no absolute good person. There are only bad people, and people who have begun to examine their own hearts." Battlefield Atmosphere Group blinked. "...What does that mean?" Rather than answering directly, Chu Guang looked into his eyes and asked, "Are you a bad person?" Battlefield Atmosphere Group's gaze wandered for a moment. He wanted to say no, yet couldn't bring himself to be certain. After all, he had indeed lied about his identity, and to this day he hadn't figured out how to face Rezer's trial or come clean to the Wilante of Triumph City. He shook his head, admitting candidly, "I don't know." A glimmer of approval showed in Chu Guang's eyes, and he spread his right hand outward. "When you tell me you don't know, you're at least no longer a bad person—or rather, a 'bad Consul'... You should realize that you have already begun to examine your own heart." Surprise flickered across Battlefield Atmosphere Group's face. He furrowed his brows and pondered for a moment, realizing it made sense. In those brief thirty seconds, he had reflected on his entire life—at least, his life within this game world. When truth is treated as fiction, fiction becomes truth... Regardless of whether his initial motives were noble, he, the 'Pangolin,' had stayed true to his conscience and genuinely pondered what conscience meant. He was no savior to the Wilante, nor had he ever intended to be one. He had simply done what he believed was right and necessary. For someone like him, a mixed legacy of praise and blame was well-deserved, even if he were to strip off his disguise before all the Wilante. Noticing the dawn of understanding in Battlefield Atmosphere Group's eyes, Chu Guang continued warmly: "Soon, you will identify your shortcomings, patch them up, and climb out of the dry well trapping you... This is an indispensable part of growing up." "You want to tell me you're unfit to be Consul, but I think you've done remarkably well. Most people spend their entire lives just to notice their own well, and fewer still ever attempt to climb out. You are already on the ascent." He rarely dished out such chicken soup, but this young player was like his own child; he had truly watched him grow step by step. Though that senile old man had spouted plenty of nonsense, one thing had hit the mark. Chu Guang had indeed felt what it was like to be a father, and he had felt it long ago. Unlike that old man who babbled about 'good being the opposite of evil, and fortune leaning upon disaster' while leaving his children to be disciplined by the wasteland, Chu Guang preferred to be a strict yet open-minded parent. Perhaps the old man's insights were accurate; having lived through countless cycles, it was only natural for him to discern their patterns. Yet the children of the Alliance could not march into the future burdened by such nihilism. They had to stand as the 'agents of change,' gazing upon the immutable mountains, rivers, sun, moon, and stars, striding forward with greater courage and vitality to forge a future none of the ancients had ever seen! Such was Chu Guang's expectation for the descendants of the Alliance. Only then would their journey have been worthwhile... "Maybe so. I'm just afraid of letting their trust down." Battlefield Atmosphere Group looked up, staring at the ceiling. Accustomed to such dilemmas, Chu Guang smiled. "Do you know why you're afraid of letting their trust down?" Battlefield Atmosphere Group asked reflexively, "Why?" Chu Guang cut straight to the core: "Because... you became Consul through their trust. The ascent itself was untainted by conspiracy. You earned that trust through sincerity—you didn't steal it, and it wasn't dropped into your lap." Battlefield Atmosphere Group's eyes brightened, though he cleared his throat a second later. "I actually came hoping for specific advice..." "Regrettably, encouragement is all I can offer you," Chu Guang paused, then added with a smile, "Why not seek counsel from other Wilante? Think about why you gained their support, and why they back you instead of someone else." "Once you figure that out, you can set up a podium where you gave your speeches, open for anyone to step up and speak their mind. You can place suggestion boxes where people cheered for you, and establish rules requiring future Consuls to openly declare their dreams and fulfill their promises just as you did—and spell out the consequences if they fail... These are things you must conceive yourself." A wave of clarity washed over Battlefield Atmosphere Group. He sat up straight with a solemn expression. "I understand." Chu Guang nodded. "Now that you understand, let's talk business." Battlefield Atmosphere Group blinked. "B-Business?" Hadn't they just been talking business? Chu Guang nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world, adding: "Of course. You are the Consul of Triumph City, and I am the Manager of the Alliance. You represent no fewer people than I do... You didn't think those two opening pleasantries counted as official business, did you?" "...Not at all," Battlefield Atmosphere Group lied through his teeth, shrinking slightly under Chu Guang's half-smiling gaze. Wasn't that official business? Besides, if there were truly something important, couldn't he just issue a quest from the quest log?.. Come to think of it, ever since he had replied with [Acknowledged] last time, no new notifications had popped up. Chu Guang was not joking with him. Clearing his throat, he said: "To reduce friction, I propose establishing an enduring, effective dialogue mechanism between Triumph City and Dawn City. I plan to lay a cable line to Triumph City... and we can cover the cost. This is not just for the present, but for the future as well." Battlefield Atmosphere Group nodded. "No problem." This was indeed a good thing. He couldn't remain Consul forever, and the next Consul wouldn't have a "quest log." Chu Guang continued: "Furthermore, as exchanges between the eastern and western coasts of the central continent grow increasingly frequent, we plan to open a direct railway line to Triumph City alongside maritime trade routes. This railway will start from Bist Town in Sunset Province, cross the Great Desert, and traverse the vast steppes of the Eastern Empire, potentially spreading the spark of civilization everywhere it touches... To this end, we are willing to fund sixty percent of the investment, while you only need to cover forty percent. Considering your strained finances, the Alliance's bank can advance the funds to you on credit." "No problem." Battlefield Atmosphere Group found himself completely unable to interject, left with nothing to do but nod. Chu Guang looked at him intently. "Do you have anything to add?" Battlefield Atmosphere Group almost said no, but under that sharp gaze, he swallowed the reflexive denial. "Wilante Province has a massive refugee population, and Batoya Province needs reconstruction... As you know, we're broke. Since you're already investing in a railway, why not invest a little more elsewhere? The roads in Triumph City need renovation too. How about you chip in some capital to set up a development bank? That way you don't lose, and we don't lose... What's the phrase again? A win-win?" Chu Guang smiled and nodded. "A fine idea. I believe the Enterprise would be more than happy to help you with that as well, not just us." "Done, then." Battlefield Atmosphere Group threw up his hands, almost leaning back against his chair again before catching himself just in time. "Ahem... By the way, if we wrap up everything we need to discuss now, what are we supposed to talk about when the Human Summit actually begins?" Truth be told, the only proposal he had brought with him was "asking for money." From Bannote to the other civilian ministers, everyone had been whispering in his ear before he set out, urging him to squeeze whatever funds he could out of the Alliance. As for the Manager's proposals, he understood them well enough—they boiled down to a single word: "communication." Resolving differences through communication, eliminating estrangement through communication, melting hatred through communication... This was precisely what the Wilante had to do to integrate into the wider world. He truly had no reason to refuse. Looking at the bewildered Consul, Chu Guang burst into laughter. "Isn't that simple? Speak freely." "It's rare for the Great Rift Valley to be so lively, with so many people gathered. Naturally, we can talk about whatever comes to mind."