People from all walks of life were working tirelessly to prepare for the impending war, but that didn't mean all entertainment had come to a complete halt.
Thanks to the efforts of Abyss researchers, combined with the psychic connection between Tasa and Victor, the exact date the Abyss portal would open could now be predicted. This prediction was highly reliable, with a margin of error of no more than two months. With more than half a year remaining until that date, the rush to complete preparations had largely come to an end. There was absolutely no time to launch the next major phase of operations, so the remaining tasks simply needed to proceed according to plan. Under these circumstances, the residents of Eryan were like students with the college entrance exams and summer vacation just around the corner—they all began to feel restless.
It was at this very moment that Eryan held a nationwide celebration.
Twenty years prior, an upgraded version of the bloodline detector had been completed in Tasmalin State. A crimson cloud spread across the sky, and a "red rain" swept across the entire land of Eryan. The red light fell upon nearly everyone's head, revealing long-hidden non-human bloodlines that had been invisible to the naked eye. Many who had always considered themselves ordinary citizens of the Empire discovered for the first time in their lives that they possessed non-human ancestry. It was a day that shook the entire Empire—a day that shook every sentient being still remaining on the Main Material Plane.
Thus, a festival centered on this event came to encompass everyone.
The existence of the Day of the Red Rain has already been incorporated into today's textbooks; in future history books and popular discourse, it is bound to receive even more lengthy and complex praise and criticism—but for the current Erian, the most fitting aspect of the Day of the Red Rain lies in its perfectly timed date. If it were held earlier, there would be time for anticipation and preparation; if it were held later, it would allow those who had celebrated to return to their normal lives. The day the Red Rain fell is the perfect time for a carnival.
Twenty years after the Red Rain, this day was officially designated as "Red Rain Festival."
To remind people how absurd it is to harbor unwarranted hatred toward other races, to commemorate the great unity, love, and friendship among the races of the human world in the past, to celebrate the transition of the once war-torn Erian toward peace... and so on and so forth—the reasons for establishing the festival were noble and entirely reasonable. More importantly, who doesn't love a holiday?
The inevitable tension and lethargy vanished the moment preparations began, swept away like a breeze dispersing stagnant air. Whether the Empire, the Tasmalin, or the Orcs, all generously set aside a full week of vacation time, giving people ample leisure to participate in this unprecedented celebration. The authorities organized a wide variety of events, with highlights every day and fun to be had everywhere. Major media outlets frequently revealed new details about the preparations, and the diverse promotional campaigns were captivating, serving as a guidebook that enticed everyone to join this fresh celebration.
And indeed, people did join in.
In the days leading up to the first Red Rain Festival, the entire continent of Eryan was already steeped in a festive atmosphere, its fervor rivaling that of Christmas in the West and the Spring Festival in the East. The first two days of the festival were free time. Since this unprecedented celebration hadn't yet developed any traditional customs, and Red Rain itself symbolized diverse races and civilizations, the first Red Rain Festival turned into a magical melting pot. People of all kinds brought the most joyful elements of their own festivals and gathered them here.
The Amazonians, bows and arrows strapped to their backs, entered the forest in groups to hunt the deer herds. The traditional deer hunt takes place during the New Year; the Amazonians consider finding a herd a sign of good luck and do not hunt excessively, as winter is a difficult time for all living creatures. But now it is early autumn, and the deer in the Angaso Forest are plump and robust—it is the peak of hunting season. For ecological reasons, and to support the development of the various nature-aligned races and professions, many regions have established designated closed seasons and hunting seasons. Returning with a herd of succulent game during the hunting season, cooking and sharing the roasted meat—even the most serious forest druids would not complain about this.
The Druids' approach to celebration has indeed caused these nature-worshippers quite a bit of head-scratching over the years. They hold deep affection for all four seasons—whether it's the spring when all things come to life or the winter when the earth lies dormant—for the beauty of nature exists in every moment, and there are no specific holidays worth commemorating. The Great Druids of the past were one with nature, sensing the changing seasons with their bodies and souls, and were even indifferent to dates. Asking them to establish traditional holidays was something of a tall order. When listing the Druids' major events, the only one that immediately comes to mind is the day of the trial, when apprentices seek recognition from the Heart of Nature.
On this day, the apprentice druids listen to riddles from ravens or oak trees, complete various challenges, and ultimately seek the Heart of Nature's acknowledgment… though it would be rather grim to use a festival solely for preparing for a ritual. After a month or so of deliberation, the druids finally decided to bring forward the reward for the trial.
On the Day of the Red Rain, the Druid mentors distribute special seeds to the apprentices. These seeds, imbued by high-ranking Tree-speakers, have been endorsed by the Heart of Nature. By holding them beneath their tongues, the apprentices can clearly hear the languages of trees and birds. The apprentices are thrilled by this, as if a naturally nearsighted person had suddenly put on glasses, and the entire world became crystal clear. With this aid, they could see the path ahead. Even though the seeds would lose their potency in less than a day, they treasured them as if they were precious gems.
The Artisans, however, had no need to worry about how to celebrate. Their festival always followed certain indispensable rituals, making it quite predictable. Before the festival began, the artisans would work overtime to craft gifts for themselves or their loved ones. This must be completed before the festival begins, not because the festival requires a break—the carefree Artisan Dwarves are actually quite fond of their forging work and don't find it a burden—but because the festival demands drinking, and drinking must be done to one's heart's content. Approaching the forge after drinking one's fill is quite dangerous. Even if you don't bang your arms or legs, having your beard singed off by the fire isn't exactly ideal.
In the days leading up to the Red Rain Festival, the forges and workshops ring with the clanging of hammers, and the hardworking craftsmen stay up all night; but within the first hour of the festival's arrival, not a single soul remains in these workplaces. Artisans from other races are inevitably dragged along by their dwarf colleagues to their drinking feasts, where they watch them dance and prance among the various wine jars, regardless of age or gender. The dwarves' drinking culture has deep roots; here you'll find everything from the sharpest spirits to fruit wines even children can enjoy a few sips of, so even those who can't hold their liquor needn't worry about being pressured. Funnily enough, most Dwarf Artisans aren't actually very good at holding their liquor. Their feasts start with a bang and end just as abruptly; the jubilant little folk don't last long before they're sprawled out on tables or the floor.
While most festival-goers love the gift-exchange ritual, for members of the Thieves' Guild, the practice takes a completely different form. Many wanderers hone their skills in ways that aren't exactly suitable for public view, so they certainly can't gather together in a cozy, festive atmosphere—lest some terrible mishap occur. For instance, a group of assassins might meet only to discover they have major conflicts of interest, or a group of thieves might find themselves seated next to a paladin who's also out celebrating the holiday.
The Thieves' Guild's holiday event is rather unconventional: precious gifts are placed in safe houses across their major strongholds, each equipped with various traps and guarded by capable sentries. Members interested in joining the festivities are free to use whatever methods they see fit—whether it's stealing, snatching, infiltrating by disguising as a guard, or deceiving the sentries… As long as you can enter and exit safely, you're free to take one item of your choice from the room.
This is a fun holiday event; participants are not allowed to harm the guards, though harming them is actually much harder than taking the gifts (or rather, the loot). The guards are also members of the Thieves' Guild. If a challenger is caught red-handed due to poor skills, the rules dictate that one item of their loot will be confiscated—and, surprisingly enough, the guards' favorite spoils aren't money or weapons, but the losers' underwear. The behavior of these bored individuals is just as full of dark humor as the traps inside the safe house.
The guards won't harm challengers, nor will the traps in the room. They'll only inflict a lingering stench, paint that won't wash off for a day or two, and mysterious potions that'll make your life a living hell for a while (presumably lab failures or official witchcraft merchandise)—things like that. It's all very gentle.
"Spike the Headless," the man who founded the Thieves' Guild, has retired. This former kingpin of Lame Street never imagined he'd live to see the day he could step down in peace. Now, "Toothless Larry"—who sports several gold fillings—has also successfully retired from the game over the years, as his mind was never cut out for backstabbing. He never rose through the ranks of a gang nor took the reins of a security firm, but he lives a peaceful and contented life, and lately, he's even started to develop a bit of a paunch.
When people talk about Larry, the first thing that comes to mind is his wife, Michelle, the president of the Southeast Chamber of Commerce. Everyone under Michelle's direct supervision knows that the president and her husband are famously devoted to each other, throwing weddings every few days (and collecting gift money), and sending a different pair of their children off on a honeymoon every year.
That said, despite Michelle's vanity, greed, and various other exasperating quirks, her talent and professionalism as Chamber president are beyond reproach. While people were still daydreaming about the Red Rain Festival holiday, she had already swiftly seized the business opportunity it presented. In addition to sponsoring festival events across the region and securing naming rights, the Southeast Chamber of Commerce single-handedly created a new category of festive traditions.
Researchers sponsored by the Chamber traced the festive activities of dwarves in the past. This race, known for their love of wealth and knack for making money, largely worshipped the God of Wealth and celebrated six or seven festivals related to wealth each year. Driven by payment for their work, a flurry of reports hit the press: "How Dwarves Celebrate the Festival of Wealth," "Traditional Customs of the AA/BB/CC Groups (These festive items from all corners of the world are now available at Southeast Mall!)," "It's the Grand Annual Festival—Why Not Treat Your Family and Yourself a Little Better?"… The series of reports was dizzying, yet they all boiled down to a single message.
Buy! Buy, buy, buy!
From blatant shopping promotions to warm, gentle persuasion; from ads disguised as news to seemingly serious yet secretly self-serving "educational" pieces ("Did you know that wealth comes and goes? Emptying your pockets at the right time is a crucial step in accumulating wealth—the Dwarves' prosperity fully proves this point."), —the Southeast Merchants' Guild, flying the banner of "reviving the Lost Dwarf Wealth Festival to align with the Red Rain Festival's inclusive spirit," launched massive sales under false pretenses. They cleared out a huge stockpile of goods in one fell swoop, while customers who managed to make a purchase felt they'd scored a tremendous bargain. The merchants of the Southeast Merchants' Guild were grinning from ear to ear at their soaring profits, happily working overtime.
The beastmen living in the mountains were temporarily unable to join this shopping spree, so they returned to their tribes to celebrate in their own ways—strictly speaking, "beastmen" is a collective term for many races; as one might expect, rabbit-men and lion-men would not live in the same tribe. The railway was extending to more and more places, able to transport travelers back home in a relatively short time. As a holiday perk, the military was covering the cost of round-trip tickets this time, and many beastmen experienced the convenience of the magical trains for the first time. They pressed their faces against the windows, watching the surrounding scenery rush by at lightning speed.
"We'll be home in just a day or two!" they marveled. "That's faster than the Leopards, isn't it?"
"If they could build the tracks a bit further inland, it'd make it so much easier for merchants to come and go," another orc remarked. "Making a few extra trips a year could earn me more than my monthly salary!"
The beastmen, who had always harbored resistance and wariness toward magical technology, muttered that building roads into the mountains was practically inviting enemies to their doorstep, or that imperialist ambitions to destroy them were far from dead. Yet in the end, they had to admit it was indeed quite convenient.
The imperial residents, who were the subject of the beastmen's grumbling, were currently too busy to spare a moment for thoughts of destroying anyone. Humans—that is, those who identify with human culture—constitute the largest ethnic group in Eryan. They flock to every gathering, observing and even participating in their neighbors' peculiar festivals as if attending a massive carnival. Furthermore, the festive customs of ordinary Eryans are quite well-developed, and given Eryan's vast territory, residents in the north, south, east, and west each have their own distinct traditions.
Southern residents have a New Year's custom of drawing a smile on a child's thumb using a mixture of syrup and fruit juice, symbolizing good health and constant joy in the coming year. The smile on the thumb can be eaten after New Year's Eve, and the remaining syrup and juice can be consumed as well. In the past, when resources were scarce, this was a rare moment for children to satisfy their sweet tooth. Now that living standards have improved significantly, sugar is no longer a scarce commodity, and parents who take the time to draw the smiley faces can afford to be a bit more generous, covering the entire palm with the syrup mixture.
Parents who do this will soon regret it—restless children are a dime a dozen, and the syrup smeared on walls and clothes is incredibly difficult to clean. It's therefore easy to understand why, after several years of evolution, the "sugar smiley faces" of Red Rain Festival have transformed into the practice of "arranging candies on a child's bed to form a smiley face." This way, more candy is distributed while less cleaning is required—a win-win situation.
Residents near the capital choose to make their traditional food, a pastry known as "Milk Hills" that is very popular in the northern regions of Erian and indispensable during festivals. Sifted white flour is mixed with eggs, milk, and sugar, then beaten until light and airy, and immediately cooked in the fat drippings from roasted beef. Under high heat, the bubbles in the batter expand rapidly, pushing up the still-fluid outer shell, as if inflating a thin-skinned balloon. The finished pastries are similar in size but vary in shape; the unevenly heated crust forms a peculiar texture that looks like rock but feels soft to the touch, resembling tiny hills.
It is said that in the past, housewives used to practice fortune-telling with Milk Hills. Although the reliability of this practice is highly questionable, it is still somewhat regrettable that the tradition has been lost.
For diners, eating Milk Hills does indeed involve an element of luck, as the filling inside each "hill" varies. By hollowing out a cavity in the center of the milk hill, the maker can fill it with pudding, syrup, cream, or even glutinous rice soaked in sweet wine. The rich aroma of the milk hill's crust masks the scent of the filling, so you won't know what's inside until you take a bite. Some families hide a raisin inside one of the milk hills; whoever finds it is believed to have great luck that day.
Residents of the western mountainous regions dress up goats; these animals, clad in elaborate costumes, look majestic as they line up in two rows under the referee's urging to compete in a tug-of-war. People in eastern Eryan prefer to select the roundest, plumpest turnips, hollow them out, carve ghostly faces into them, and turn them into turnip lanterns, which they carry while strolling through the night. The custom of going into the forest in groups on New Year's Eve to search for "golden bells" is widely practiced, though the fruit that resembles a golden bell doesn't begin to grow until early winter, so it's not available at this time of year.
Nevertheless, many people continue a modified version of the "Golden Bell" hunt. The day before, they hang real metal bells in the trees, then go out in the dark on the night of the Red Rain Festival to search for them; finding a bell is considered a symbol of good luck.
"Does a metal bell you tied up yourself count?" an onlooker couldn't help but laugh. "That's cheating—can that really bring good luck?"
"Of course!" The veteran with the bell slung around his neck climbed down from the tree, smiled fondly, and nodded earnestly. "Back then, finding a golden bell like this was a stroke of incredible luck."
Several years before the Day of the Crimson Rain, the Dungeon had been huddled in a corner of Eryan, its strength far too meager to do anything but develop in secret. A single governor's younger brother was enough to confine them to the southeast, where they suffered from a shortage of food and clothing. The Angaso Forest had been reduced to a barren wasteland by the rampage of magical weapons; that winter, let alone golden bell fruits, it was hard enough just to find a tree. The Amazonians tied metal bells to newly planted trees to comfort the soldiers who could not return home.
All the soldiers who had served under Captain Halit had since retired with honor, yet they still remembered those good times. In the eyes of the surviving veterans, the Golden Bells had clearly brought tangible good fortune.
Speaking of that difficult New Year's past, now a fond memory, one cannot help but mention the current Sarro Church. Once led by a lone, penniless Holy Son, the Sarro Church has grown rapidly over the years; the pitiful sight of the Holy Son himself going door-to-door in a suit (worn inside out, no less) to solicit donations is a thing of the past. That bewildered Holy Son, Samuel—who once insisted on persuading everyone not to eat meat during the New Year, only to be met with scornful glances and pelted with candy wrappers—has now become the mature and reliable Pope of the Sarro Church. The approach the Sarro Church has adopted for the new holiday is also quite pragmatic.
The Sarro Church still observes fasting on certain special days, but not on New Year's Day or Red Rain Day. On Red Rain Day, the Sarro Pope holds Mass in the cathedral, where every seat is filled, and the choir's singing carries out beyond the church walls.
After the Mass, the priest distributes a type of holy wafer. Though called a holy wafer, it looks more like jelly—about the size of a baby's fist, crystal-clear and translucent, with a charming appearance as it wobbles in a small dish. These bite-sized holy cakes melt in your mouth, tasting delicious and packed with calories, warming both hearts and stomachs especially after the several-hour-long Mass. In fact, they are a kind of simmered meat jelly, with many religiously symbolic interpretations, representing a pure heart. However, even those unfamiliar with the Sarro faith's lore would likely feel a touch of spiritual emotion upon eating the holy cake on a chilly autumn night.
Every group celebrates the holiday in its own way, and the boundaries between them are actually quite blurred. Race, religion, profession… there is significant overlap among these categories, and instances of conflict are rare. A beastman might also be a druid apprentice, and a commoner could certainly enjoy Milk Hill before moving on to the Holy Wafer. The Dungeon Watchtowers have sprung up all over Eryan, overlooking the land from a broad vantage point. Tasha found this quite fascinating, as if she were witnessing her ancestors making their way through various temples—monks consulting Taoist fortune-tellers.
"It's like a kaleidoscope," Victor said. "Different blocks of color overlap, yet they don't blend into a single hue; instead, they produce so many dazzling new shades. How fascinating."
Finding it amusing as well, Tasa chuckled at how vastly different our mental associations were. Truly, he lived up to his reputation as an artistic demon.
Victor gazed at present-day Eryan through Tasa's eyes, his tone unusually devoid of any trace of sarcasm. Sitting in his chair with his chin resting in his hand, he resembled a child collecting seashells on the beach, clearly captivated by the scene.
For a demon hailing from the Abyss, this profound curiosity about the world and all living things was likely no different from "loving this world."
The Red Rain Festival lasted seven days. The first three days were a holiday left entirely to the public's discretion, while the following four featured officially organized events. These activities were both independent and interconnected; different regions had distinct themes, but there were also small exhibition halls where exhibits were exchanged between locations.
The capital of the Eryan Empire hosted a magical technology exhibition, a rare occasion showcasing a vast array of magical technological products applicable to everyday life. Visitors could not only view the exhibits but also interact with them, making the experience both entertaining and inspiring, while filling people with hope for the future. Tasa had considered organizing a matching magical technology exhibition here, but given that most mages were too lazy to come out for the festival, the event held at Lake Rubei turned out to be, as expected, an arts festival.