"Damn weather."
Sentinel Warren spat on the ground, the cheap cigarettes leaving a foul taste in his mouth. But without a few puffs, he couldn't muster the energy to endure this miserable weather.
Snow had begun to fall.
The thick frost that blanketed the ground a few mornings ago had heralded autumn's departure and winter's arrival. Each day brought colder temperatures, and today, the falling rain finally crystallized into snow. Snow around New Year's was considered auspicious—provided it fell outside while you stayed inside. In past years, this wasn't an issue. Even the stingiest employers granted their workers time off before New Year's Eve, lest their luck sour the following year. Legends about fortune held sway over people from every walk of life; it had always been that way.
But soldiers were different.
Ever since the Defense War—no, perhaps since the founding of Erian—soldiers have enjoyed both higher status and greater peril. And when the enemy is linked to alien entities, don't even think about complaining about duty on your supposed holiday. You'd be lucky to survive if ordered to jump into a volcanic crater. Warren was today's unlucky soul, assigned to the New Year's Eve shift. He wouldn't be going home tonight.
Less than a hundred kilometers south of Lake Rebe, on what was once the only route to Tasmarin's southeastern corner, this newly built defense line had stood for months—nearly half a year now. The border guards stationed here day and night started with a squadron, then dwindled to a platoon, and now just six men. Warren doubted six men could do a damn thing against the alien threat. Fire a signal flare? But orders were orders. They were to keep watch, and watch they would. Soldiers didn't ask questions; soldiers obeyed.
"Don't complain yet," said Dennis, the other unlucky sentry. "It's not our turn."
The six men worked in two shifts. The current watch belonged to the other group, so Warren and Dennis could slip into the shelter for a smoke. Hiding behind the sentry box, they listened to the wind howling around them, snowflakes tumbling and swirling in the gale, slapping against anything the wind caught. The thought of standing at the checkpoint soon, snow pelting their faces, made Warren's shoulders slump.
"Damn the higher-ups." Warren grumbled, the last two words muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. He took another harsh drag, squinting into the distance where the other end of the line was equally shrouded in the blizzard, indistinct and hazy. He pulled the flask of hot ginger wine from his belt, sipped a small mouthful, and couldn't help but complain again.
"When will this job ever end?" he said. "I mean, we've wasted half a year out here digging trenches, building roadblocks, maybe shooting a few arrows at whoever came by, and then nothing. Not a soul all autumn, not even a bird. They say our people cleared the whole forest and cut off the trade routes, so what are we defending anymore? I heard those towns down south were built to guard against the wasteland and the forest creatures. Supplies come through us. They've been cut off for half a year! I bet they're dying off over there... What's wrong?"
Warren paused, noticing his companion had drifted off, the cigarette in his hand untouched for so long it nearly fell to the ground.
"There's a county town down south." Dennis murmured. "That's a lot of people..."
Warren shrugged. "War, huh."
Soldiers don't ask questions, but soldiers have brains and ears. They'd heard earlier that this time they'd be facing the forest's aberrations. Then the stragglers who'd fled back described trees sprouting legs, monsters clad in women's skins slaughtering everything in their path. Those who fled back were utterly terrified, yet they were still the fortunate ones. The unlucky stragglers who ran south were later incorporated into another expeditionary force, only to face even more terrifying enemies and ultimately remain trapped in the southeast corner.
The higher-ups declared it a necromancer who wielded plagues. Anyone from the southeast corner could be a potential carrier. Allowing them through the defenses would be like inviting wolves into the house. Earlier discussions of this matter would have drawn severe punishment. Only after half a year had passed could soldiers whisper about it privately.
With no outsiders present demanding loyalty pledges, Warren needn't recite platitudes about "fighting the alien threat with courage for those who died in vain." He merely glanced knowingly at his distracted companion and asked, "Do you know anyone there?"
"I have a distant cousin there," Dennis admitted after a moment's hesitation. "He just got married two years ago. Not long ago, he wrote saying his wife was pregnant... By my calculations, the baby should have been born last month."
"..."
"He looked out for me when we were kids. I was a real idiot back then, and he took care of me," Dennis said, taking another flavorless drag. "His wife was a good person. She always reminded me of my mom. She's been dead for over ten years now... I hadn't visited them in a while. I really should have gone last year."
"Oh." Warren said.
What else could he say? Hope they didn't die in the necromancer's attack? If not turned into the undead, they'd likely perish from starvation and freezing in the blockade—and we sentinels were complicit in that. Hope they died quickly and painlessly? If they died early, the child in her womb wouldn't have a chance to be born, never meeting its parents, never catching a glimpse of what this world had become. If they died later, that infant would still perish. Warren knew how devastating it was for parents to lose a long-awaited child.
"Not that I'd hesitate if they actually became enemies," Dennis added, covering his tracks. "If I saw them charging the gate, I wouldn't hold back. Don't mention this to anyone, okay?"
"Of course," Warren said, patting Dennis on the shoulder.
The sentinels were all outsiders. When selecting garrison troops, higher-ups had screened out those with family left in the Southeast Corner. After that, the rejected soldiers found themselves in an awkward position. Colleagues and superiors watched them suspiciously, forcing them to feign full support for the decision lest their loyalty to Erian be questioned. Dennis must have bottled it up for a long time. His slip today was probably down to the magic of New Year's Eve.
Truth be told, having no family there didn't mean they had no thoughts about the blockade.
Red Gum County boasted the finest fruit wine, but Warren hesitated to order it at Lake Rebe's tavern, afraid his colleagues might discover his taste for such juice-like beverages. So he'd only indulge during holidays, heading south where no one knew him to quench his craving. He'd helped the tavern owner toss out a few drunks passed out in puddles, and the owner gave him discounts.
He'd also ventured to the edge of Angarsor Forest, where a hunter in Antler Town taught him to hunt. He never bagged a single rabbit, so he'd spend a few coins buying game from the hunter to satisfy his craving. The hunter would skin the prey with a beautiful knife, chatting idly with him all the while, sharing their mutual opinion that rich folks were all idiots. That hunter could hum a tune that sounded lovely but had no discernible words. Back then, Warren should have asked him to teach it to him, instead of letting pride get in the way, thinking he'd ask next time.
Warren spat out the undigestible part of his cigarette, patted Dennis on the shoulder, and told him it was time to head back.
Not long after they changed shifts, a carriage pulled up to the sentry post.
Stepping out was Major Benson. The sentries snapped to attention and saluted. The major returned the salute and had someone unload a strange bird from the carriage.
What a bird it was! Its wingspan stretched as wide as an adult's outstretched arms. Its body was covered in gray feathers, but no flesh showed between the feather joints—it had more of a lacquered texture. Each of its main wings bore an additional pair, and another pair adorned its head and tail. Its head was flat and bizarre, reminiscent of a red hound. As this thought crossed their minds, the creature's eyes suddenly flashed brightly, startling the sentry peering at it.
The strange bird, lifted by several men, took flight.
Its main wings remained motionless, but the secondary wings on its head, tail, and body began to rotate—not flapping up and down, but spinning. The sentries stared in astonishment. They watched the creature ascend steadily until it became a black speck, appearing almost like an ordinary bird at that distance.
The bird crossed the defensive line, flying southward until dusk fell before returning. It landed steadily on the carriage canopy, the vivid red glow in its eyes intensifying. All the sentries noticed Major Benson's face darken abruptly. Whatever he saw in the bird left him looking dreadful, his complexion as dark as rain-soaked leather.
Well, Warren thought to himself, no one gets a good New Year's Eve. Fair enough.
...
New Year's Eve in the southeast corner was bustling.
For days, the festive atmosphere had made people restless, transforming most into middle schoolers anticipating winter break. "New Year's Day is almost here!" "Only three days left!" "Two days!" " Tomorrow!" they blurted out in their opening greetings, chatter inevitably veering toward the holiday after just a few words.
"Do you celebrate the New Year too?" asked the surface dwellers.
"Who doesn't celebrate the New Year!" replied the underground city residents.
Then they began chatting, sharing their own New Year customs and listening to the other's holiday activities. Tasha listened from the sidelines, smiling at the universal traits of sentient beings. New Year, huh? It meant new clothes, good food, lively noise, and playing after a full belly! People everywhere—humans, otherworldly beings, even non-humans—seemed to have a primal longing for festivals. Tasha suspected that after exchanging stories, they'd end up adopting each other's New Year traditions as excuses to eat more and play harder.
Fortunately, celebrations cost money. Many with empty pockets worked diligently to save for the holidays, striving for extra bonuses. Because of this, overall work efficiency in the southeast corner not only held steady but actually increased.
The exchange bustles daily. Housewives watch the foreign vendors' display counters like ospreys, ready to pounce the moment today's ingredients appear. Soon, long queues snake around the square before the day's menu is even revealed. People want to buy everything, the more the better, forcing Tasha to impose purchase limits.
The Amazonians lacked the patience for service industries, and the Dwarves of the Forge lacked the nerve for economics. Now, the ones working at the dungeon's external trade window were humans hired by Tasha. Tasha enjoyed the perks of a monopoly business owner, effortlessly recruiting useful employees and resources. The board of directors consisted solely of her, and all power rested with her—it was truly exhilarating.
Finally, tonight was New Year's Eve.
All shops hung closed signs, civil servants put down their pens, and employees cheerfully headed home. Children ran wild in open spaces, trampling footprints into the thin layer of snow. Because of these impatient little rascals, that patch wouldn't accumulate snow for quite some time. Parents chased these little rascals everywhere, determined to paint a smiling face on their thumbs. This symbolized a year free from illness and filled with laughter—for the paint was a mixture of syrup and fruit juice. No matter how many times parents warned them, those thumb smiles usually ended up in the children's stomachs before New Year's Eve even arrived.
In the forge chambers of the underground city, artisan dwarves stoked their furnaces to brilliant heights. They upheld the custom of "burning the furnace through the New Year to bless the coming year with prosperity." In the past, they had to calculate the fuel needed for a single night, but now, with magical flames at their disposal, they couldn't be happier. Fire it up! Start burning first thing in the morning! Clan Chief Hogan excitedly made the anvil clang, his beard, meticulously groomed with a human wooden comb, was exceptionally smooth. Braided into several small plaits, it resembled a Chinese knot dangling from his chin.
Housewives in every household began preparing dinner early. Cold dishes could be made first, while stews and broths needed to simmer long before the feast. This year brought many new recipes to try. The pointy-eared cook never hid her methods; noticing the housewives' curious glances, she even opened a weekly cooking class. Now, with ingredients exchanged from the market, the teacher's guidance, and new recipes, this year's New Year's feast was destined to be more lavish than ever—there was no sense that the place was under siege.
Perhaps only one person was not pleased.
Samuel, the Son of Saro, wore his ceremonial robes today. He tirelessly knocked on every door, proclaiming Saro's Day of Fasting. Unlike the secular folk, the Saro sect advocated abstaining from food and fire on New Year's Eve, welcoming the first rays of the new year with purified bodies. Samuel's missionary work suffered its first major setback—not a single person who had once listened to him was swayed this time.
The people of Erian believed that if the cupboards weren't stuffed with wine and delicacies on New Year's Eve, and if the children's pockets weren't filled with sweets, the coming year would surely be a bad one—especially when their eager mouths and stomachs disagreed! Some rudely shut the door, while others chuckled and stuffed treats into his arms. Samuel tried persuading the children instead, but they giggled and ran off, making faces, licking their thumbs, eating candy, and scattering shiny wrappers onto the pastor's head.
The Amazonians prepared bonfire gathering spots in the forest. Now that most of the forest had been cleared, the Amazonians—who preferred living on the ground—rebuilt their homes within the woodland, though the surrounding area remained largely open. The Captain's troops received their invitation, not at Tarsha's behest, but as a spontaneous gesture from the Amazonians.
Since civilians had undertaken most of the forest clearing, the Amazonians and soldiers resumed their training and security duties, often sparring together. Though the soldiers were frequently beaten, their relationship improved considerably. The cold war was transforming into a healthy rivalry marked by punches and kicks.
As night fell, all soldiers unable to return home were invited to gather.
A massive bonfire painted half the sky crimson. Meat sizzled on grills, dripping fat; sliced fruits and raw vegetables lay on platters, freely available to all. Wine filled cups—a sweet brew made by quarter-elves, palatable even to children, and a white liquor potent enough to knock out seasoned warriors. Amazonian songs drifted toward the horizon. They had no tradition of musical instruments, but one soldier happened to bring a harmonica.
The soldiers were astonished to discover that several tigresses, ferocious in battle, possessed sweet singing voices. The Amazons found that some unassuming soldiers could play intricate tunes and perform dazzling tap dances. Soon they took turns performing. As ancient ballads of battle and homeland echoed in chorus, soldiers who could never return and Amazons who had lost loved ones wept silently.
"Come!" Queen Amazon abruptly rose, seizing a torch. "Let us seek the Golden Bells!"
Just as the Amazonians traditionally sought deer herds for blessings on New Year's Eve, the people of Erian would journey together with torches on New Year's Eve to search for the "golden bells" in the nearby forest. These fruits, resembling golden bells, grew in early winter, hidden among snow and dead branches. Finding them was said to signify immense fortune. But the forest hadn't grown back yet—what could they possibly find?
Despite this, the captain nodded with a smile. Soldiers and Amazonians alike rose, took up torches, and set off with the lighthearted stride of picnickers, many wearing enigmatic smiles. They traversed the pitch-black wilderness, passed the scattered stones and dead branches beside them, and finally reached the edge of the forest where trees still stood.
"Look!" someone cried out.
Golden flashes danced among the trees.
A gust of wind swept through, making the leaves and branches sing with a crisp, clear sound. No—it wasn't the branches ringing, but golden bells nestled between them. Days ago, the artisan dwarves had forged these golden bells, and at dawn today, the Amazons had hung them in the trees.
"It seems you've all been very fortunate," the Amazonian queen laughed.
Shouts and whistles erupted among the soldiers. The captain paused, then burst into laughter.
At almost the same moment, the sound of hooves drew nearer—a herd of deer was running toward them. Ah, closer inspection revealed the deception. The "deer's" antlers were strapped to their foreheads with reins, their size was off, and closer look revealed warhorse markings on their hindquarters. The "deer" marched toward them in perfect formation, paused briefly, then trotted away in a series of small, quick steps. The Amazons caught on, and cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd.
"See? You're lucky too," the captain remarked.
Tasha surveyed the New Year's Eve town from atop the bell tower in Red Gum County.
Under the guise of renovation, this tower had been converted into a dungeon lookout, granting Tasha a commanding view of the entire settlement. She scrambled up the snow-covered exterior walls to the summit, perching on the edge. Victor asked, "What are you doing here?"
The dungeon could survey the entire area through the tower; there was no need to climb up in Wolfhead's body just for the view. Tasha wasn't here for sightseeing; it was more about training. Her training had continued uninterrupted these past months. Her archery remained mediocre, but her agility had improved dramatically—enough to scale the tower's exterior in one breath.
"Do you miss home?" Tasha asked.
"What's there to miss about that hellhole?" Victor snapped. "You miss home? Ha! A homesick dungeon? You've never even seen the Abyss."
Tasha's home wasn't the Abyss, of course—it was another world. The festive atmosphere stirred a faint pang of nostalgia within her, but it was merely a fleeting sensation, not a heavy burden of homesickness.
The past was gone, and the future held endless possibilities. In her ambitious blueprint, there was no room for melancholy.
A rustle came from behind her. Without turning, Tasha patted the spot beside her and said, "Come here."
The hooded beast-eared girl sat beside Tasha, her expression deeply troubled. Tasha didn't need to eavesdrop to guess what she was thinking.
"I don't want to go down there anymore," Marion finally managed. "I hate how they look at me."
Tasha required the dwarves and Amazons to trade regularly in human towns, and she required Marion to go too. She obeyed, though each time filled her with intense restlessness. On this New Year's Eve, Tasha suggested Marion shouldn't stay cooped up in the dungeon—for this obedient girl, a suggestion carried the same weight as an order.
"Why not?" Tasha asked. "Marion is so adorable."
Two patches of crimson spread across Marion's cheeks, her skin appearing a shade darker. She touched her nose and muttered resentfully, "I don't want them looking at me! They don't mean well!"
Half-beasts were far more common than elves, and their situation was worse. People had grown accustomed to dismissing these creatures with animal ears or tails as "half-beasts," treating them as slaves. A pair of beast ears often drew malicious stares. Marion had always hated humans staring at her ears; even innocent glances made her jumpy.
"Do you want to go back underground?" Tasha asked.
Marion nodded.
"But it's them being rude and disrespectful. Why should you be the one hiding?" Tasha pressed.
Marion's eyes widened; she'd clearly never considered this.
"Are you some kind of shameful existence? No, I think Marion is beautiful." Tasha spoke, removing Marion's hood. "You are a child of this continent, a descendant of wolves, the offspring of your parents. You deserve to walk tall anywhere. There's nothing you need to hide. If they stare, let them stare, just as you stare at them. If they are rude, let them learn manners. Within my sight, I will grant you 'justice'."
Marion trembled slightly, though she couldn't articulate what stirred her.
"Marion, why do you think I brought you into a human town?" Tasha asked again.
The werewolf girl forced her mind to work. "You... want them to get used to my presence?"
"I'm not putting you on display," Tasha laughed. "This is a rehearsal—a rehearsal destined for much broader stages. Marion, look down."
Households glowed with lamplight, the scent of food and laughter drifting through streets and alleys. The priest of Saro still dressed like a dressed-up white rabbit—the hat was finally on right, though the nickname stuck—his fasting exhortations drew boos, but at least no one grabbed him; only candy-eating children teased him. In the distant forest, bonfires and torches glowed. Tasha and Marion shared the view, watching Amazonians and soldiers singing in unison. As the bell tower struck twelve, everyone exchanged New Year's greetings. A drunken soldier hugged a tree and shouted, "Happy New Year!" The oak tree he embraced had just awakened from its long slumber. It opened one eye and replied, "Happy New Year to you too."
"Whoa, I think I'm really drunk," the soldier mumbled, chuckling foolishly. "Happy New Year, tree!"
It was a scene... indescribably lively.
Marion seemed to understand something, yet remained utterly baffled. She turned back, meeting the flickering fire in the hollows of the white bones.
"One day," her master said, "I will make this happen in every corner of Erian. One day, Marion, you'll walk tall in every city of Erian, fearing no one's gaze."
What would that sight be like? The werewolf girl couldn't imagine it—she couldn't see that far ahead. But it didn't matter.
It didn't matter, Marion thought. She only needed to know one thing—
The future this noble lady could see must, absolutely must, be an incredibly beautiful new world.