By this point in his story, the older man was already choking back tears.
He looked at Rosinante—or rather, at everyone around him—and slowly continued.
"You know, in the moment a beloved family member passes away, you don't feel anything at all. It's only when everything has settled, on some quiet afternoon—the sound of a breeze rustling the curtains, the rumbling of the washing machine, the hiss of a kettle boiling in the kitchen—that you open your mouth to call for them, only to pause. All these little things remind you: after they're gone, there's only this vast emptiness and loneliness.
The loss of a loved one isn't a sudden storm—it's a lifelong dampness. And I'm forever trapped in it, for the rest of my days!"
"None of you are very old, but I won't measure suffering by age. I'm just speaking of my own pain. The truth is, when I saw the ruins of my home, I was completely numb. I might've looked expressionless, or maybe my face was twisted in agony—I don't even remember. But I remember clearly that I couldn't cry. Not a single tear. As I stared at my wife buried under the rubble, at my son and daughter who were barely recognizable… I couldn't cry."
By now, the old man's voice was so choked with emotion it was hard to make out his words.
Yet no one interrupted him, no one urged him to hurry.
Everyone simply watched and listened as he poured out his grief.
After all, happiness—when shared—might multiply or stay the same.
But pain? Once spoken aloud, it lessens, even if just a little.
"That day, I knelt at the entrance of my home. You can't imagine—I spent so long picking up fragments of their bodies. My wife was… killed. A bullet had gone straight through her heart. Though her back was a gaping hole of blood, her front still looked untouched. But my son and daughter… they'd been blown apart. It was horrible. The only thought in my mind was: my children loved dressing up. No matter what, they had to leave this world clean and whole."
"So I dug through the rubble with my bare hands, clawing at the stones until my fingers were shredded and bloody. Though, honestly, my home was so small it didn't even take all ten fingers to reach that state. By the time just five or six were mangled, I'd already filled three or four large bags… with them inside."
As he listened, Rosinante's face paled.
He hadn't witnessed the scene himself, but the mere description was enough to make his stomach churn.
He couldn't imagine it—couldn't fathom that kind of suffering. It was the kind of pain that, just hearing about it, filled you with utter despair.
Noticing Rosinante's ashen expression, the old man offered an apologetic smile.
"I apologize if what I'm about to say may be unpleasant. If it makes you uncomfortable, I deeply regret it."
"There's no need for you to apologize. The fault is mine, I'm sorry."
The old man looked at Rosinante, then shifted to a more cheerful tone as he continued speaking to him.
"After that incident, I've actually wanted to die ever since. Everything I had in this world is gone—my beloved, my children, my parents, my property, my career, everything I fought for has completely vanished. Even my country has become virtually nonexistent. All the things I cared about in my entire life are no more."
"Carrying this thought, when I walked to the edge of a cliff intending to jump, suddenly a voice reached my ears, accompanied by an orange-golden light. Instinctively, I turned around and saw the godlike figure of Jake-sama, his entire body enveloped in a sacred golden glow. The aura emanating from him made me feel warmth for the first time since losing my family."
"I don't know how to describe that feeling to you, because no matter how I put it, it might sound exaggerated. I don't want my foolish mouth to bring Jake-sama the reputation of being a fraud."
As the old man reached this point, the surrounding discussions grew louder.
People shouted to him.
"Don't worry! We know better than anyone what kind of person Jake-sama is, and we'll never allow anyone to insult or slander him!"
"Hahaha, exactly! Are you really worried your words might shame Jake-sama? You just need to praise him—we'll fill in the rest. Because I can assure you, no matter how perfect your words are in describing Jake-sama, they'll never truly capture his essence."
"Do you know why I'm still alive today? It's because I want to see more of Jake-sama every day, to watch him rebuild our broken homeland, Flevance. I know you might have lost all love for Flevance now, but this will always be our native land, the place where our descendants will grow up. This place must never be abandoned!"
Rosinante had now jumped down from the bridge arch.
He looked at the group of homeless men arguing with flushed faces about how to praise Jake, then at the older homeless man with his gentle smile.
Observing their clean clothes and healthy complexions, he quietly asked the elder.
"This is actually the key factor in determining whether you've truly seen Jake-sama. Do you know how we could tell at a glance that you've never met him?"
Hearing this, Rosinante awkwardly examined himself before replying.
"Is it because of my clothes and overly unkempt appearance?"
The older homeless man nodded with a smile and began to explain to Rosinante.
"Jake-sama once said to me, or rather to all of us homeless people, that we are not homeless. We are merely victims of this shattered nation. We shouldn't be treated as homeless—we are human beings who have lost our country. We need clean, dignified appearances and the dignity that belongs to us as people."
"And when we take you to Jake-sama, it's not just to receive food handouts. We have work. We earn our meals through labor."
"Work? What kind of work?"
"Clearing the ruins—the ruins of this nation, and the ruins in our hearts."