912: Chapter 69 This Ti, We Will Not Lose!
(6600, second update) 912: Chapter 69 This Ti, We Will Not Lose!
(6600, second update) Where exactly did they beco like this?
What kind of blow had they suffered that left them so devastated?
If this is called victory, then what really is victory?
In the tribe, only the cries of the victims’ relatives and friends could be heard, while others went about their lives as usual, so even with a hint of celebration.
Victory.
Victory…
She chewed over this term, unable to comprehend it.
Where exactly is the victory?
If the Mountain People seeking independence are victorious, does it an that they all have to die?
Yes.
Perhaps.
Perhaps it’s even crueler than death, but how can one celebrate such a victory now?
She hated.
She hated those who returned alive, disabled or not, they had lived to see the day of victory, lived to return to their holand.
She hated.
She hated the Chieftain’s proclaid Dragon God’s Emissary.
Why didn’t that legendary hero, the heir, intervene sooner, bring victory sooner, and save him?
She hated.
She detested the Independent Villagers, despised Fiery Fla Land, loathed The Empire, and all those naless figures hidden behind the war.
Do they truly understand what they have destroyed?
But perhaps they simply don’t care, don’t care what their actions lead to, don’t care that a widow, a mother, and many more hate them.
Yes.
That’s how it is.
Hating achieves nothing.
Her brother and her husband’s brother, both of whom went to war and returned alive, ca to comfort her, knelt before her, the two n weeping bitterly and telling her that her husband was brave and fearless, that he died protecting a flanking force, that he was a warrior of the tribe.
They swore to the Dragon God, the ancestors, and the Elves of heaven and earth that they would protect her, her children, the bloodline of their own brother, with the Chieftain as witness.
This was very fortunate already.
Occasionally, such a thought would erge in her heart; she still has relatives and children, friends and family, he died a hero, and after grieving for him, she should celebrate his valor, as is the tradition of the Mountain People.
Not to ntion, she is not the most pitiful one…
There are far more tragic things than her widowhood—mothers who lost their only sons, fathers who lost their cherished sons, those young warriors who died without progeny, their parents constantly crying without a shred of comfort.
She held the hand of her four-year-old son and touched her protruding belly, looking into his innocent blue eyes, feeling the gentle throb of the heartbeat within her, and the sorrow in her heart slightly waned.
But this comfort was like a gust of wind whipping up in her heart, lifting her thorn-pierced, shattered heart from the scarred earth into the air, drifting lightly, temporarily distancing from the source of pain.
But soon, oh so soon, this drifting heart will fall back to the earth, to be pierced by pain once again.
These pains are not direct deaths, but a silence in the kitchen, a caress-like gentle breeze, a gaze into a pair of similar eyes, and the abrupt mories surging at night—like a volcanic eruption, uncontrollable fond mories mixed with the thunderous pain flooding her mind, followed by almost despairing bewildernt.
She understands, she has always understood, what do others’ pain have to do with her?
No one can comprehend others, nor can anyone truly conceal their own grief with soone else’s sorrow.
She often dreams of her husband, bearing scars, returning ho where they make pies as before, he kneading dough, she peeling shrimp, the house filled with the aroma of wheat cakes baking, children laughing rrily, waiting for the steaming shrimp pies to be served.
And now, when she wakes up each morning to see the dawn, it feels as though the sun is about to extinguish.
The Chieftain is saying sothing, stirring sothing, convincing many people, including her parents, so she followed the Chieftain, leaving her hotown for the distant Holy Ground, the canyon surrounding Qiang Steel Sacred Mountain.
It wasn’t a long journey, but many Mountain People would never leave their tribal dominions, the mountains they inhabit, in their lifetis.
Yet that day, people from all directions converged, bustling and reverently looking up at the summit of Holy Mountain, at the Dragon God Sacrificial Fire that shone brighter than the sun yet not blinding, they gazed at the ruins of the tower that called down thunder, and upon those ruins, the white-haired Emissary.
That was the Dragon God’s Emissary, with stories of his seniors in legends past, with his renown in the present war.
He was the one who brought victory, his re presence caused all the Mountain People to hold their breath, bringing silence to the valley.
She gently grasped her child’s hand, leading him, quietly raising her head to look at the barely visible figure, but one that undoubtedly gave everyone a distinct sense of presence, while a row of towering Iron Knights stood on both sides of the path leading to the mountain top, the Magnetic Storm Generator pulsing with the brilliance of lightning, mingling with the thunder running through the stormy sky.
[I am here not to tell you of a victory worthy of celebration, but to warn you that hardship and winter are coming]
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