Chapter 5: A Glimmer of Hope Amidst Despair

“Ah—” Alina let out a heavy sigh, her expression solemn. She exited the room where the elderly man still lay unconscious, closing the door softly behind her. The Councillor and Fran immediately approached.

“The situation isn’t good,” Alina began, “though it’s hardly surprising. Councillor, you must prepare yourself. Your father’s condition is unlikely to improve much, given his age.”

The Councillor’s expression betrayed little panic. With his hands clasped behind his back, he began pacing the corridor, seemingly lost in thought. Beside him, Fran hung his head, a look of profound guilt etched on his face.

‘Perhaps, if he hadn’t shown the old man the news of the defeat, things wouldn’t have come to this,’ Fran thought.

Fran lowered his head, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Perhaps, perhaps it’s my fault, old man…”

“That’s enough, Fran, don’t say another word,” Alina interjected, her tone firm. “The old man is confined to his bed now. A paralytic patient requires even more diligent care, and we’ll need your help more than ever. This is not the time for sorrow.”

“I understand…”

****

For the next three days, the old man lay weakly in his bed, maintaining a motionless, almost catatonic state.

The Councillor remained home for only a few days before venturing out again. How could Fran even describe it? He was absolutely seething with anger at the man.

‘Your father is this ill, yet what exactly are you so busy with?’ Fran wondered.

‘Could the front lines truly be so demanding?’

Fran didn’t know. He walked the streets of Purburg, observing the crowds whose anxiety grew with each passing day. Grocery stores and shops were overflowing with people, and long lines of citizens pushed carts laden with newly purchased provisions toward their homes.

The prices of food and daily necessities soared relentlessly. Fran gazed at the frantic crowd, then clenched his hand and placed it over his chest.

“Thump… thump… thump…”

His heart was beating faster than usual. He took a deep breath, trying to reassure himself that everything was fine, that he shouldn’t frighten himself.

Yet, he couldn’t resist. He rushed to a newsstand, spending a small sum to buy a copy of the day’s newspaper.

Fortunately, the price of paper hadn’t risen significantly. ‘That’s something, at least,’ he mused.

He let out a bitter laugh, clutching the newly bought newspaper. Carrying his groceries, he headed towards the New Bridge that led to the old man’s house.

He had bought the newspaper, but he dared not look at it. It was like a middle school student receiving a graded test: they knew what to expect, yet their hands trembled as they held the paper face down, praying silently while fearing to reveal the red marks.

Indeed, Fran already knew. He could roughly guess what the newspaper contained, as he had read the papers in previous days, and the war on the front lines had never been good.

Troops in the Lowlands had suffered repeated heavy losses. ‘Perhaps we’ll have to withdraw from the Lowlands,’ he thought. ‘Teuton will occupy them, then fight a protracted war of attrition against Francis on the northern border for years, just like twenty years ago.’

‘By then, I might truly have to go to war myself…’

He looked up at the setting sun, its slanted rays painting the sky a dull crimson. He guessed that the sky on the front lines would likely be blood-red, far more terrifying and oppressive than the skies above Purburg’s streets, yet possessing an inexplicable, abstract beauty.

‘Like… that abstract painting of ox-heads and horse-faces by the Castilian artist?’

Hmm… Fran had only seen that painting in a newspaper a few years ago. At the time, he had just been recognized by a teacher in his village and brought to Purburg. He was still illiterate, and the first time he picked up a newspaper, he was utterly startled by what he saw.

What *was* that thing? Animal heads, human faces, limbs, all sorts of geometric shapes haphazardly pieced together. Everything in the painting exuded an aura of pain and death. Yet, amidst the chaotic elements, there was a strict, almost regular arrangement. He remembered holding the painting then, studying it for a long time.

His teacher had called it abstract art, Cubism, Surrealism. Fran could tell that the things depicted in the painting did not quite resemble anything found in the mortal world.

“But it *does* exist in our world,” Alina had said, shaking her head with a sigh. She hadn’t explained much to Fran then, only remarking, “You’ll understand someday.”

Indeed, today, as Fran pondered the painting’s meaning again and again, connecting it to the newspaper’s extensive, bloody, and chilling reports from the front, he sighed.

War was a meat grinder. The ultimate fate of most who marched onto the battlefield was nothing more than a cacophonous, chaotic elegy of flesh and blood.

Like countless citizens of Purburg, an inexpressible melancholy and terror began to rise within him. He reached the bridgehead just as a motorcade of Purburg’s merchant entrepreneurs began to cross the New Bridge.

Fran, the ordinary citizens around him, and the vagrants near the New Bridge found themselves in the path of the motorcade. After a brief exchange of glances, the common folk instinctively stepped back, creating a clear path for the vehicles.

Many citizens even removed their hats. The gentlemen in the open-top cars cast a dismissive glance at the people lining both sides of the bridge, shaking their heads with a hint of disdain. The motorcade continued forward, crossing the New Bridge.

Fran also retreated with the commoners, pressed tightly within the crowd. He didn’t even have the chance to free his hands to remove his hat. As the motorcade passed, his small brown cap evidently pricked the eye of one of the merchants.

The merchant shot him an even more scornful look, as if mocking the child for his lack of etiquette.

Once the motorcade had departed and the crowd began to cross the bridge, Fran, a sense of melancholy washing over him, removed his hat and held it in his hand. He no longer wished to walk, as sadness spread through his heart.

The thought of how many years he’d have to toil to afford a car filled him with despair. He took a deep breath, deciding he needed to do something to distract himself.

Humans were truly contradictory creatures. They harbored a fear of confronting reality, yet possessed an impulsive drive to cast all caution aside.

Fran pulled out the newspaper he had prepared earlier, just as he was about to glance at its contents. Suddenly, a small, swift figure darted out from behind him.

“Oof!”

It wasn’t until the figure collided with Fran’s chest and bounced back that he finally got a clear look. It was a spirited young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old. His face glowed with excitement as he waved a still-warm sheet of paper, shouting at Fran:

“Great victory on the front lines! Twenty thousand Teuton soldiers annihilated! A Teuton general captured! Come see, gentlemen, come see, we’ve won!”

Passersby, drawn by his loud, childlike shouts, immediately swarmed the area, making it impossible for Fran to move.

He took the new newspaper from the boy, who was distributing copies one by one, and looked at it in astonishment. Indeed, the front page headline of the Purburg Daily proclaimed a general had achieved a great victory on the front lines…

It was a resounding, utterly satisfying victory, so profound it almost defied logic. Fran couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had been achieved.

He then checked the news in the newspaper he had bought earlier. It did mention a statement from the Francis forces about an impending counterattack.

But none of that mattered anymore. Fran quickly pushed his way out of the crowd and sprinted towards the building beside the Arc de Triomphe.

He finally stopped at the doorway of the old man’s room, gazing with a mix of excitement and astonishment at the elderly figure now sitting upright within.

Perhaps it was a miracle wrought by the bursts of cheers erupting from the crowd outside the window. The old man’s eyes brightened. He looked at Fran, even managing a weak smile, and stammered twice towards him.

“Vic… victory!”