As evening fell, the light cast by the greyish-white storm wall rapidly dimmed.
In the square south of the production district, the air was thick with the heavy stench of sweat, billowing dust, and an almost solidified aura of despair.
Workers, their bodies crushed by life and labor, converged from all directions. Their eyes were numb, like lifeless marionettes, with only low, muffled pleas issuing from their throats, sounding like prayers and sobs all at once.
In the center of the square, a simple wooden platform, half a man's height and ten meters square, had been erected at some point.
On the platform sat a dozen baskets piled high with heavy, hardtack-like black bread.
A squad of lightly armored cavalry, spears in hand, surrounded the platform, forming a cold human wall. Their spears slanted outward, blocking the crowd that might surge toward the food.
The nobleman Vladimir slowly ascended the stage.
He was lavishly dressed, his velvet coat still shimmering with an incongruous luster in the dim twilight.
His pace seemed unhurried, but his brow betrayed a trace of unconcealable weariness and indifference.
Once he stopped, he subtly shifted his right leg and frowned. The five hours of 'devout' standing without moving an inch during the day had left his pampered muscles sore, especially his legs, which still felt stiff.
He himself had been forced to stand in the biting wind while these commoners got to stay in their hovels; a nameless anger flared in his heart.
He didn't dare seek revenge on Amos openly, so he could only vent his fury on the masses before him.
He casually picked up a piece of black bread from a nearby basket, the motion less like taking food and more like picking up some trivial object.
He began to speak, his tone exceptionally calm, even carrying a chilling rationality, as if stating a self-evident truth.
"I know you are all very tired." His voice was not loud, but it clearly cut through the noise from below.
"But this morning, all of us, myself included, prayed devoutly for five hours, offering our faith to the King. For those five hours, the workshops did not operate, and the fields were not tended. Since the working hours were halved, it is only natural that everyone's rations for today are also halved. That's fair, isn't it?"
"Rations halved..."
These two words, like a cold curse, instantly sucked all the sound out of the square.
The crowd fell into a deathly silence. Their numb faces first showed confusion, then a look of incredulous horror.
Previously, an adult's daily ration was one such piece of black bread, just enough for a family struggling on the poverty line to scrape by, to keep the children from crying from hunger through the night.
Half a loaf? This meant someone in the family would have to go hungry. It could be the elderly parents, the growing children, or themselves, their strength already squeezed dry.
After the dead silence, scattered, tearful pleas erupted, like dying embers making a final struggle.
"My lord, have mercy... I beg you..."
"I have a child at home, he can't go hungry..."
"Half a loaf... people will die..."
A barely perceptible sneer touched Vladimir's lips as he raised his voice.
"In the past, there were always some who were dissatisfied with our rules for distributing grain, who felt it was unfair. Very well," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the desperate faces below, "this time, you can divide it yourselves!"
Before his words had even faded, he flicked his wrist, tossing the black bread in his hand onto the cold stone floor of the square as if throwing a scrap to a stray dog.
The bread rolled a few times in the dust, coming to a stop, its surface covered in grimy black stains.
He turned his head and whispered with a light laugh to his equally well-dressed companion, "Just watch. For a piece of bread, they'll fight like wild dogs."
As if to prove his words, the cavalrymen surrounding the stage also began to move.
They sneered, grabbing loaves of bread from the baskets and throwing them one by one in different directions into the crowd below.
A "rain" of black bread fell among the people, kicking up more dust.
At first, no one moved.
The last shred of dignity, like a fragile string, was stretched taut in everyone's heart. They stared at the bread on the ground, their eyes filled with struggle.
Until a man, thin as a reed, remembered his child at home, sick with fever and hungry for a full day.
The last glimmer of light in his eyes was swallowed by fatherly love and despair.
He let out a beast-like growl and was the first to charge, pouncing on the nearest piece of dust-covered bread.
A dozen more people, their eyes bloodshot, joined the fray. Dozens, then hundreds... In an instant, they surged like a burst dam toward the small, black targets scattered on the ground.
The scene descended into complete chaos. Curses, cries, shoves, and scuffles mingled together.
In the chaotic pushing and trampling, the father who had rushed out first was violently knocked over from the side the moment he grabbed a piece of bread.
His frail body hit the ground, and before he could protect his head and face, countless frantic or scrambling feet trampled mercilessly over him.
He couldn't even let out a proper scream, only a short, muffled grunt before being drowned out by the roaring crowd.
Only when the frenzied mob slightly dispersed, having temporarily lost its targets, did his body become visible.
Motionless, curled up, still clutching tightly the piece of bread stained with his own blood and dust.
The air seemed to freeze at that moment. All the arguing, snatching, and crying ceased abruptly.
As if collectively choked, the people stared blankly at the silent corpse.
A cold, blood-tinged fear and shame seized everyone's heart. They looked at each other's contorted faces, at their own hands stained with mud and even blood. Their own beast-like behavior from just moments ago felt alien and sickening.
On the high platform, Vladimir frowned, seemingly displeased by this unexpected death, but more so with the annoyance that events had slightly exceeded his expectations.
The nobles beside him wore expressions of either disgust or amusement, as if watching a poorly staged play.
Just then, from somewhere, a loud, hoarse voice cut through the dead silence like a sharp sword:
"That tyrant doesn't care if we live or die! These bloodsucking parasites want us dead too! They don't just want us dead, they want to trample our dignity!"
The voice struck like a heavy hammer, shattering the daze and self-recrimination born from their comrade's death.
Immediately after, another voice rang out: "Everyone, stop fighting each other for food! If you're going to fight, go fight the nobles! Their granaries are full of food! And it's much better than this dirty, hard stuff!"
"That's right!" another voice joined in, seeming to fear the people still dared not resist, and added urgently,
"Don't be afraid, everyone! This morning, a bunch of people cursed the tyrant in the square, and he didn't do a thing! Over in the residential district, we chased away the tyrant's Elite Guard! All this time has passed, and not a peep from above!"
That voice grew louder, almost a roar:
"Are these nobles any scarier than that tyrant? Are these knights any tougher than the Elite Guard?!"
"We work ourselves to death to make these things, so why should they control it all?!"
"Let's take back what should be ours!"
"Fight!"
The people's expressions froze for a moment, as if digesting the unprecedented power contained in these words.
Then, a flame mixed with anger and fervor ignited in their once-numb eyes.
Vladimir's composure vanished.
He subconsciously took two or three steps back, feeling the danger in the increasingly unified and aggressive gazes from below.
He immediately turned, wanting to quickly leave this place that was about to spiral out of control.
Just as he turned—
"Whoosh—!"
A fist-sized rock, whistling through the air, flew from the crowd, carving an angry arc and striking Vladimir squarely in the back!
"Argh!" Vladimir cried out, stumbling forward a few steps.
His magnificent robe was stained with dust as he fell wretchedly to the ground.
That single stone, as if carrying immense force, not only knocked down a nobleman but also shattered the shackles of fear of authority that had bound the hearts of Mondstadt's people for four hundred years!
"Fight!"
Someone shouted, and the knights protecting the nobles now also showed fear on their faces.
News of the Elite Guard's defeat at the hands of the populace that morning had already spread quietly, and they knew well the terror of an angry crowd.
Seeing their lord fall and the crowd below seething with fury, they exchanged glances and began to discreetly tighten their formation, preparing to retreat.
Among the populace, a few of the boldest youths, their eyes crimson, roared and charged bare-fisted toward the wooden platform!
Seeing this beast-like momentum, the already retreating knights could no longer be bothered with their duty.
Like startled white-tailed deer, they abruptly scattered backward, not even bothering to help up the fallen Vladimir, merely dragging the other few terrified nobles as they hastily leaped off the platform and fled from the square.
"The best bread is in the warehouse! Follow us!" someone yelled, raising an arm.
The next moment, the surging tide of people changed direction, flooding toward the workshops and granaries where they toiled day and night but had never truly possessed.
The few guards stationed at the warehouse saw this overwhelming tide of rage and were scared out of their wits. After a symbolic resistance, their keys were snatched, and they fled, covering their heads.
The heavy granary doors were rammed open by countless hands.
The scene inside stunned everyone who rushed in.
In stark contrast to the poverty and gloom outside, the warehouse interior was dry and tidy.
On rows of tall shelves were piled bags of snow-white flour, baskets of specially cultivated fruits and vegetables, and even strings of sausages, large slabs of cured meat, and sealed jars of honey...
The air was filled with the aroma of grain and fat, a stark contrast between heaven and hell compared to the dust and sweat of the square.
The whitest flour they had milled with their own hands, the sweet honey they had never tasted, the meat they could only imagine in their dreams—piled up like mountains here, yet completely unrelated to their daily hunger.
A brief silence was followed by a deeper anger and a liberating ecstasy.
But this time, chaos did not ensue.
Someone stood up and shouted, "Don't snatch! There's plenty of food! Form a line, one by one! There's enough for everyone!"
Surprisingly, the agitated crowd slowly regained order. They spontaneously formed long lines, their eyes fixed eagerly on the food they could only ever admire from afar.
An old man, his hair almost completely white and his face a roadmap of wrinkles, tremblingly accepted a whole, surprisingly white and soft loaf of bread from a distributor.
He eagerly took the first bite.
The delicate, sweet flavor melted in his mouth, a taste he had never experienced in his entire life of labor.
Silent tears instantly welled up, streaming down his deep wrinkles and dripping onto the white bread.
He murmured to himself, his voice choked with emotion, "So this... this is what the bread I make... actually tastes like."
The people carefully carried the deceased father to a clean, well-ventilated tool shed next to the warehouse.
A few people found some new linen cloth from the noble's warehouse, wiped the blood and dust from his face, straightened his tattered clothes, and covered his entire body with a piece of fine white cloth.
Around his body, someone silently placed a few pieces of the best white bread from the granary. It was the last meal he could bring to his sick child.
Though unorganized, people spontaneously paused at the door, casting a brief glance inside.
Their gazes were a mixture of sorrow, guilt, and a more resolute determination.
The injured were also tended to.
Those with some knowledge of healing cleaned their wounds with fresh water and bandaged them with torn strips of clean cloth.
Almost as soon as the unrest erupted in the production district, the news reached Gunnhildr and the others.
She and Coppelia immediately rushed over with a relatively well-equipped squad of resistance members, followed by many commoners who had heard the news and wanted to help their families and friends.
At nearly the same time, the cavalry unit dispatched by the nobles to suppress the riot also arrived near the square.
The two sides collided in the open space outside the warehouse district. Without any preamble, battle erupted instantly.
Gunnhildr was a master swordswoman and led from the front. Though her resistance fighters were poorly equipped, their morale was high.
The fighting was not elegant; it was more of a primitive struggle.
A cavalryman charged into the crowd, raising his sword to strike, but a dozen hands immediately shot out, using scavenged wooden clubs to beat him to the ground, forcing him to kneel and beg for mercy while covering his head.
Soon, the workers who had just seized the warehouses and workshops also swarmed in, armed with hammers, clubs, and bricks, joining the fray.
With superior numbers and a common enemy, the noble's cavalry was overwhelmed. After leaving behind a few bodies and wounded, they broke and fled in disarray.
The fighting subsided for the moment.
Gunnhildr found the few people who had initially led the seizure of the granary and organized the distribution of food.
They still bore the marks of battle, their faces a mix of fatigue, excitement, and a hint of uncertainty.
When they saw Gunnhildr—the woman who had led them to drive away the Elite Guard in the residential district not long ago, and who now led armed forces to confront the suppression troops head-on—their eyes immediately filled with reverence and trust.
Gunnhildr walked up to them and, without any pleasantries, asked directly,
"Interested in joining the resistance?"
When Lumiere, in disguise, stealthily arrived at the contact point, he found only a handful of people there.
But the atmosphere was completely different from the desolation he had expected; instead, it was filled with a suppressed excitement.
A resistance member in the room saw him and came up excitedly.
"Lumiere! You're finally here! The fire has been lit!"
He pulled the somewhat bewildered Lumiere, quickly left the contact point, and led him through the streets, finally arriving at the production district and entering a large workshop warehouse.
The warehouse's original machinery and materials had been cleared out, making it feel exceptionally spacious.
In the center stood a large wooden table, hastily assembled.
Around the table, a dense crowd of people had gathered!
There were some familiar old faces, but far more were strangers in work clothes or tattered rags, holding a variety of weapons—proper longswords, but also hammers and pitchforks.
Everyone's eyes were unusually bright, shining with a hope and determination he had rarely seen in the eyes of Mondstadt's common folk.
Gunnhildr was standing by the table, seeming to be arranging something.
Seeing Lumiere arrive, she looked up and announced to the crowd,
"Everyone, this is Lumiere, the original leader of the resistance."
Lumiere looked at this organization, which was countless times larger than the 'small-time' resistance force he had known. He saw the 'army' under Gunnhildr's command—though ragged, they showed the beginnings of discipline and had resolute eyes.
Thinking back on his own past actions, which were limited to secret sabotage and sporadic protests, he was overcome with a mix of emotions.
He lowered his head slightly, a bitter, self-deprecating smile on his lips.
He looked up at Gunnhildr, his voice sincere and respectful.
"No, Gunnhildr. You are the one who should be their leader... You've done something I never could."
Gunnhildr shook her head.
Her gaze swept over every face present before returning to Lumiere.
"We have taken the workshops and granaries. The things the people produce will now be distributed by the people themselves, so at least for now, no one has to worry about starving. But," her tone turned solemn, "not everyone dares to stand up and resist yet. We need a victory to ignite the courage of the rest. Lumiere, only you can bring us that victory."
Lumiere took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and cast aside his extraneous thoughts.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Rescue our people's families and comrades from the prison."
The night was as black as ink, enveloping Mondstadt City. The greyish-white storm wall blurred in the darkness, with only scattered torches in the inner ring flickering in the oppressive atmosphere.
On the eastern edge of the inner ring, at the border of the noble's manor district.
Gunnhildr stood on a low, ruined wall, the night wind lifting her pale golden hair.
Behind her was a dark mass of people, no longer numb as they were during the day, their eyes burning with a desperate resolve.
"Light the fires!" Her clear voice cut through the silence.
Several pre-piled stacks of firewood were instantly ignited. Flames shot into the sky, dispelling the darkness and illuminating the incensed expressions on people's faces.
Next came a deafening clamor. People furiously banged on sheets of iron, broken pots, and rusted farm tools brought from the workshops—anything that could make a loud noise.
The chaotic and immense sound converged into an invisible flood, crashing toward the quiet and magnificent manors.
"Down with the nobles!"
"Give us back our things!"
"Charge!"
The slogans were chanted in unison, accompanied by the towering flames and the metallic roar, creating the terrifying impression of an army of thousands about to trample the manors.
Inside the manors, the lit windows went dark one by one, and faint sounds of terrified screams and frantic running could be heard.
At almost the same moment, at the prison on the west side of the inner ring.
Lumiere had shed his all-black night gear and changed into his familiar knight's attire. His polished silver breastplate gleamed coldly in the faint starlight.
Behind him was an elite squad of less than ten, all former colleagues from the Knightly Order who had secretly joined the resistance long ago.
They traveled light, their footsteps nearly silent on the stone pavement.
As a former cavalry captain, Lumiere knew the prison's defensive weaknesses like the back of his hand: the shift change intervals for the watchtowers, the section of the southeast wall that was half a foot shorter due to disrepair, and the jailer at the back gate who loved his drink and would surely be dozing with a wineskin right now.
One team member, imitating a messenger's tone and holding a forged transfer order, easily lured away the two drowsy guards at the main gate, claiming an emergency in the manor district required immediate reinforcements.
Almost as soon as the guards were out of sight, Lumiere raised his crossbow and aimed at a blurry figure in the high watchtower.
"Thwip—" With a very faint sound, the bolt sank into the shadows.
The sentry on the tower went limp, collapsing without a sound.
Lumiere moved like a ghost to the back gate and took out a ring of keys.
He had spent months secretly duplicating them using his official position.
The heaviest iron key slid into the lock, and with a soft 'click,' the heavy, iron-banded wooden door opened a crack.
The squad slipped inside.
The damp, foul air of the prison, mixed with the stench of mildew and blood, hit them.
They quickly and cleanly dispatched the few guards in the corridor.
Lumiere strode to a row of cells.
By the dim light of the oil lamps on the walls, he saw the emaciated figures huddled inside.
Their eyes were vacant, they wore shackles, and their bodies were covered in whip marks and grime.
When the cell doors opened, some recoiled in fear until they saw Lumiere's knightly armor and the kindness in his eyes, so different from the cold guards of yesterday.
"Don't be afraid, we're here to rescue you." Lumiere lowered his voice, crouching down and using another specially made key to quickly unlock the heavy iron shackles on their ankles and wrists.
"Clank… clank…" The sound of chains falling to the floor was especially loud in the quiet cells.
The freed commoners stared in disbelief at their liberated hands and feet.
Some sobbed quietly, others trembled with emotion, but at the squad members' gestures to remain silent, they bit their lips hard, suppressing all their feelings in their throats.
The squad was prepared.
They quickly handed out large black cloaks they had brought, draping them over the ragged commoners to hide their faces and figures.
The group moved like a stream melting into the night, quickly retreating along a pre-scouted path.
Along the way, others were waiting at various street corners to take over guiding them, ensuring their safe passage to the northern production district, now the resistance's base of operations.
The entire process was fast, precise, and quiet, a cold and stark contrast to the deafening clamor from the eastern manor district.
The Knightly Order's encampment was brightly lit.
The Commander, in full armor, stood before the command post, his brow furrowed.
His subordinates were assembling, preparing to march to the manor district to suppress what sounded like an unprecedented 'riot'.
"The noise is too uniform..." the Commander muttered, his unease growing stronger.
"It's as if someone is coordinating it."
He looked around and asked sharply, "Where is Captain Lumiere? Is he on leave again?"
"Reporting to the Commander, Captain Lumiere stated he was feeling unwell this evening and has returned to his quarters to rest."
Just then, a cavalryman galloped into the camp, panting as he reported,
"Commander! The prison in the west... there's unusual activity at the prison! We've lost contact with the watchtower guard, the back gate was opened by unknown means, and there are sounds of fighting and... and keys unlocking cells inside!"
The Commander's pupils contracted.
He roared, "Quick! Split off a team, change direction immediately, and reinforce the prison at top speed! You must stop them!"
Deep inside the prison, Lumiere had just unlocked the last cell door and was preparing to escort the final few black-cloaked commoners out.
Just as they were about to step out the side gate of the prison, they ran headlong into the cavalry squad sent to reinforce it!
Both sides stopped abruptly in the narrow alley, the atmosphere instantly tensing.
The reinforcement squad's captain looked at Lumiere and the black-robed figures behind him, whose movements were somewhat slow, his face full of confusion.
"What is this...?"
Lumiere's heart sank, but his face instantly contorted with urgency.
He spoke first, his voice laced with rebuke,
"You're too slow! The rebels are using a feint! Their main force is inside breaking prisoners out! Quick, follow me and we'll outflank them. We can't let them escape!"
As he spoke, he said to the team members beside him,
"Quickly, take them on their mission!"
Understanding, a few team members immediately led the black-cloaked individuals and turned down another side path.
However, the black-cloaked commoners had been imprisoned for a long time and were weak. Their movements were inevitably clumsy and slow, completely unlike trained soldiers.
The reinforcement captain's suspicion grew, and his hand went to his sword hilt.
"Wait! Captain Lumiere, those men of yours..."
Lumiere immediately cut him off, his tone even more urgent, bordering on angry.
"They're just attendants I pulled from the barracks! Untrained! There's no time to explain! Every moment we delay, more prisoners will be freed! Do you want to let them join the resistance?! Keep up!"
His acting and accumulated authority worked. Although the reinforcement captain still had doubts, faced with Lumiere's 'urgent' reprimand and the pressing need to 'chase the main force,' he temporarily suppressed his suspicions.
"Alright! Follow me!" he commanded, leading his men to follow Lumiere into the more complex and dark alleys beside the prison.
Lumiere knew this area like the back of his hand.
He deliberately led the reinforcement squad in circles through the labyrinthine alleys, soon leading them into a dead end.
Just as the squad became slightly disorganized from confusion and the captain turned to ask for directions, Lumiere growled,
"Now!"
He and his squad members suddenly launched a surprise attack from behind! Sword pommels struck the backs of necks, crossbows fired at close range, clean and decisive.
The reinforcement squad, completely unprepared for an attack from 'their own,' offered almost no meaningful resistance before being swiftly defeated and knocked unconscious in the narrow alley.
Mission successful.
After confirming that the last group of freed commoners was safely away and no pursuers were heading in their direction, Lumiere led his squad, cleaned up their tracks, and returned nonchalantly to the Knightly Order's barracks on the edge of the inner ring.
The barracks were in a relatively separate camp area.
A few windproof lanterns swayed between the buildings, casting restless, dancing shadows.
However, in front of his small courtyard, the Commander of the Knightly Order himself stood waiting with seven or eight fully armed elite knights.
His cold gaze pierced the night, locking firmly onto the returning Lumiere and his team.
The atmosphere instantly dropped to freezing point.
The Commander strode forward, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over Lumiere and his slightly weary team members.
His voice held no warmth.
"Disarm, first."
Lumiere's heart went cold, but his face remained expressionless.
He glanced at his comrades and was the first to unbuckle his sword, scabbard and all, and drop it on the ground. The rest of the squad silently followed suit, the clash of metal on stone echoing crisply.
The Commander walked up to Lumiere, his presence overwhelming.
"Before the tax officer was attacked, his travel route was only known to those at the rank of squad captain and above in the Knightly Order."
He paused, his gaze as sharp as a blade.
"And, on the night the noble's mansion in the east inner ring was blown up, where were you, Lumiere?"
His voice rose, thick with suppressed fury.
"Tonight, why is it that you, of all people, were 'on leave'? Why is it that the moment you're 'on leave,' these rebels suddenly become so well-trained, so knowledgeable of feint attacks?!"
His questions grew heavier with each word, like a hammer striking everyone's heart.
"Perhaps," the Commander said finally, his tone icy, "we need to have a long talk."
At that moment, Lumiere's mind was strangely clear.
He met the Commander's piercing gaze and spoke calmly, his voice even carrying a hint of relief.
"Alright. I'll go put away my heavy gear," he gestured to his heavy breastplate, "and grab my keys to lock up. Then I'll go with you."
The Commander narrowed his eyes, studying him for a moment before giving a slight nod to a trusted knight beside him.
Lumiere turned and walked unhurriedly toward his barracks room.
The elite knight followed closely behind, his hand never leaving his sword hilt.
The two entered the dim barracks room, one after the other. The door was left ajar, and some faint noises came from within.
After a moment, the wooden door was suddenly thrown open!
Only Lumiere burst out like a whirlwind! He covered the distance in three great strides, a massive greatsword held in his right hand, his eyes sharp as lightning as he brought it down on the Commander's head!
The attack was too fast, too sudden!
The Commander, who used a one-handed sword, dared not block the powerful blow head-on and could only retreat hastily to the side to dodge.
"Stop him!" the Commander roared. The elite knights he had brought drew their swords and rushed forward.
Lumiere's squad members moved at almost the same instant! As if rehearsed countless times, they lunged for the disarmed weapons on the ground, instantly grappling with the Commander's personal guards, trying to reclaim their blades!
"Reinforcements! Call for reinforcements!" the Commander bellowed as he parried Lumiere's relentless, storm-like attacks.
The sound of shuffling feet and shouts immediately came from the far side of the camp. More torches converged on their location, and the situation instantly became dire for Lumiere and his team!
They were trapped in the small courtyard, about to be surrounded.
"Create chaos!" Lumiere shouted to his teammates amidst the fierce clash.
One team member, quick-witted, snatched a torch from a nearby fence, found an oil can in a corner, and with all his might, hurled it toward a nearby mountain of supplies.
Lumiere had anticipated this day and had already prepared dry, flammable hay and wood nearby!
The oil can shattered, soaking the tarp covering the materials, and the torch landed a moment later.
"BOOM—!"
Flames erupted instantly, consuming the dry hay and wood. The fire, fanned by the wind, spread violently, quickly igniting a woodpile next to a nearby warehouse!
Roaring flames shot into the sky, illuminating half the camp as if it were day!
The explosive fire danced wildly as if divinely aided. The searing heatwave forced the encircling soldiers back again and again, as sparks flew everywhere.
In the firelight, Lumiere fought to cover his teammates, using his heavy greatsword to block a fatal thrust from the Commander aimed at one of his men's backs.
But flying splinters and boiling oil, carrying flames, also landed on him. He felt a searing pain on his left arm and cheek, the edges of his red hair were singed black, and several cuts opened on his body, blood mixing with soot as it trickled down.
His squad members were also all injured, their clothes tattered, struggling to hold on amidst the sea of fire.
But that fire also became their best shield.
Under the cover of the sudden, immense chaos and the scorching heatwave, Lumiere's squad broke through the now-loosened encirclement and plunged into the dark, complex alleys outside the camp.
Relying on their familiarity with the terrain, they moved swiftly through the streets and alleys, finally shaking off their pursuers for the time being.
Behind a hidden low wall, they stopped to catch their breath, looking back toward the barracks.
It was now a towering inferno, dyeing the night sky of Mondstadt red.
Lumiere coughed violently, the burns and wounds stinging fiercely.
His squad members supported each other, all injured and in a wretched state, but their eyes were exceptionally bright, fixed on that blaze.
Lumiere stared at the fire for a while, then said softly, as if to himself, or perhaps to all of Mondstadt:
"I hope this fire can illuminate the 'Darkness' a little before the 'Dawn' arrives..."
Then, he turned resolutely and led his squad toward the north, toward the resistance base.
He felt the night wind on his burned cheek, bringing a hint of coolness. In this wind, there truly seemed to be a taste of something called freedom.
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