If Erian's capital is the undisputed military and political hub, then Lake Rube in Tasmarin is undoubtedly the economic and cultural center of the land. Both the Southeast Merchants' Guild and the Valke Artists' Association have their headquarters here; their operational models have matured, and they frequently collaborate, striking a fine balance between commerce and art.
A grand, open-access exhibition was unfolding throughout the city, with different neighborhoods featuring distinct themes—ranging from highbrow to lowbrow. People could admire masterpieces by renowned artists in tall, bright exhibition halls, or chat with obscure creators in front of their bizarre works.
"This represents the self-repression of the soul and the mutual scrutiny people engage in amidst their busy lives." an artist remarked solemnly.
"Oh…" Aaron said hesitantly, "So that paint dripping down the walls wasn't an accident…"
Aaron, originally from Amazon, had grown a small mustache early on to offset the youthful appearance caused by his age and freckles. This vice president of the Southeast Chamber of Commerce wasn't nearly as dedicated to his job as the president; he wasn't here to inspect anything, but simply to celebrate the holiday with his family. Unfortunately, his stylish outfit—all the rage in Lake Rebe—gave away his background. Even artists unaware of Vice President Aaron's status were more than happy to gravitate toward him in hopes of securing sponsorship.
"It's about the self-repression of the soul and the mutual scrutiny people engage in amidst their busy lives," the artist repeated solemnly.
"That really is," Aaron paused, maintaining his smile, "a highly innovative form of art."
"Mom, can I have an apple?" Aaron's youngest son's voice came from the background.
"Wait a minute, don't touch it!" his mother, Litixia, said hurriedly. "That's an exhibit!"
While classical art flourished, a branch of the self-styled "New Erian" movement was also emerging. Young artists, as vibrant as spring wildflowers, were energetically exploring new paths. Their unconventional works drew gasps of admiration, though whether the audience was awestruck or utterly baffled was another matter.
"This is also my work. It represents the futility of form and beauty in art; the aesthetic value of art is merely the result of people's preconceptions." " The artist proudly displayed an apple on an armchair. "Just like that bow placed by the entrance—though I don't know who created it, its exquisitely crafted curve, the weathered patina on its surface, and the simple colors with their enigmatic patterns all prove that its creator and I are kindred spirits. After this exhibition, I must have a long talk with him or her."
The vice president's gaze then shifted to the entrance of the exhibition hall, where the flashes of the reporters' cameras were going off in rapid succession, clicking incessantly.
The media is always quite busy during festivals. Reporters linger at every spot that might become a focal point; they document and report, bringing this spectacle to people across the country, allowing readers and viewers to take in the entire city in the midst of its revelry. This was the first time the emerging art of the "New Erian" school had been presented to the public on such a large scale, and unlike most traditional artworks, photography was permitted. Naturally, major media outlets swarmed these exhibition halls like bees to flowers.
"This may look like nothing more than a short bow, but in fact, it is far from it!" a host exclaimed passionately into the microphone. "It highlights the artist's own ideas, unconstrained by any form. This is a stunning challenge to traditional artistic forms! It symbolizes an artistic philosophy that breaks free from material constraints…"
"...representing deep reflection on war and contemplation of the professional." A guest commentator from another newspaper spoke eloquently, "We can see that the piece appears to have been casually placed at the entrance of the exhibition hall. At first glance, it seems out of place with the surroundings, as if an outsider archer had placed it there on a whim. This unrestrained attitude perfectly embodies the artist's noble ideal of yearning for peace..."
Aaron nearly burst out laughing. He turned his head and exchanged an amused yet exasperated glance with his wife. The archer, Litixia, stood just outside the crowd gathered around the shortbow, feeling both amused and helpless, unsure whether she should retrieve the shortbow she had casually placed by the door in front of everyone.
It seems the development of this emerging art form still awaits the test and refinement of time.
On the fifth day of the Red Rain Festival, a grand float parade took place at Lake Rui Bei. At nine o'clock that morning, a long procession of floats gathered on the road between Lake Rui Bei and Red Eucalyptus County. Nearly a hundred floats from various organizations, each vying for attention with their splendor, began their march toward the inner city.
The largest float, towering three stories high, belonged to the wealthy Southeast Merchants' Guild. Built on a powerful magical-powered vehicle, its exterior was resplendent in gold, with the guild's emblem prominently displayed. The float was adorned with a miniature palace stacked in tier upon tier, each level distinct from the next; from a distance, it resembled a majestic, towering cake. While many mocked its appearance as the taste of a nouveau riche, everyone had to admit that it was impressive and unforgettable.
Close behind in scale was the Adventurers' Guild's float: a pumpkin-shaped carriage drawn by six horses, which had once served as a traveling wagon for a circus. Professional performers sit on the horses, inside the carriage, and atop its roof, waving to the crowd and putting on their signature acts at certain stops along the route. A sword dancer on the carriage roof demonstrates the art of carving a flower from a large carrot with a single sword, while spectators laugh and reach up to catch the carrot flowers falling from the sky. Some debate whether the fire-breather is an actor or a wizard, and whether a real wizard would even be willing to stand here. By the time the carriages moved on, they still hadn't reached a conclusion.
The smallest floats were barely taller than a person; strictly speaking, they might not even qualify as floats—calling them "parade formations" would be more accurate. People in costume carried cardboard carts, tossing candy and sponsors' samples to the crowd, making no attempt to hide the product placement; Tall men of giant descent stood together, all dressed as ancient savages, feigning ferocity as they brandished wooden clubs; a few artists in outlandish costumes huffed and puffed along behind the procession, performing some sort of performance art—if they truly couldn't keep up, the patrol staff would escort them away.
The most "appropriate" float was truly a moving flower: a giant impatiens carrying a druid, its green stems and leaves crawling along the road. It appeared to move very slowly, but since it stood several meters tall, even at a leisurely pace, it was able to keep up with the procession. This impatiens was truly an accident—it had been conjured by a druid experimenting with a new spell, yet it could neither fight nor carry anything; its only redeeming quality was its vibrant color. For a festival, however, this proved quite fitting and was widely popular.
The parade began at 9:00 a.m. that morning, with the floats touring the main streets throughout Lake Rui Bei, finally arriving at the central square at 9:00 p.m. that evening, when the procession officially concluded. That day, the main streets were packed with spectators on both sides, teeming with people and filled with constant laughter. Many areas were completely gridlocked, but thanks to the well-trained and well-prepared official departments in charge of maintaining order—who had conducted several drills on "how to evacuate the public during a demon invasion"—a mere parade was no challenge at all, and no incidents occurred to spoil the atmosphere.
When the floats came to a stop, the crowd remained reluctant to leave, lingering long after the parade had ended.
The following day was a celebration for musicians. The first music festival had no set theme; it was simply a showcase of various musical genres. A classical concert was held at the Grand Theater, where the orchestra's brilliant performance left the audience spellbound. Traditional choirs and chorales took the stage at Sarro Church, where the organ's beautiful, solemn tones soared alongside the crystal-clear harmonies of the human voices. Most of the young people gathered in the central square, and compared to the audiences at the other two venues, the participants here were far more passionate and enthusiastic.
"Jacqueline! Jacqueline! Jacqueline!!"
They shouted the minstrel's name at the top of their lungs, their arms tied with violet ribbons matching the color of Jacqueline's eyes. If any uninformed believers had been present, they might have thought the leader of some sect was about to make an appearance. The expensive stage lights were dazzling even in broad daylight, and non-toxic colored fog purchased from the wizard enveloped the entire stage. Jacqueline stepped onto the stage under the spotlight, holding her harp and nodding impassively, and the roar of the crowd surged once more. The crowd's enthusiasm was almost tangible; had they been indoors, the sound alone might have lifted the ceiling.
This minstrel, with her elven heritage, still looked to be only a teenager, much as she had many, many years ago. Her fans called her the Angel of Music. Jacqueline remained as taciturn as ever, but this did nothing to diminish her popularity. At first, her singing was treated as a strategic weapon, but as relations between the Empire and Tasmalin gradually thawed, a merchant who had regained the courage to live thanks to Jacqueline's voice volunteered to become her manager. With the help of her manager and guardian, Jacqueline's enchanting voice—beautiful, melodious, and *truly* magical—quickly conquered most of Eryan.
"Look at the loneliness in those beautiful eyes, and that pitifully icy demeanor—isn't she an angel?" her fans would say. Her inability to grow up and her aloof, taciturn nature—traits once viewed as the hallmarks of a demon deserving of being burned at the stake—were now widely embraced as her unique charm. This even inspired a wave of imitation among later singers, giving rise to baffling terms like "Three-No Attributes," "Legitimate Loli," and "Cosmic Diva"—but that is a story for another time.
The morning featured a showcase of "healing-style" singers, while the afternoon's Central Square was even more… unconventional. After years of development, the avant-garde troubadours who would once have been dragged offstage finally gained a devoted following.
The headliner, sporting shockingly heavy makeup, screamed her lungs out on stage. Her vocals shifted from gloomy and sorrowful to furious and shrill, utterly invasive—like electric drills boring into every listener's skull, making hearts race, heads spin, and leaving one wanting to beat one's chest in frustration. The troubadour Edison managed to produce a death metal sound using nothing but a violin. Within this magical composition, his hopelessly off-key notes and glissandos somehow became perfectly fitting.
Every member of the band is an unfortunate musician—they've been forced into the profession of a wandering minstrel and possess nothing but an innate talent for aggression. In other words, even without unleashing their skill-based attacks, their performances are bound to leave listeners dizzy and disoriented; ordinary people simply cannot appreciate them. The emergence of this new music saved their careers; the mind-shaking magic in their performances became a catalyst for the atmosphere. Just as the spicier the chili in a hot pot, the more addictive it becomes, the more heavy metal enthusiasts were stimulated to the point of a sweet sensation in their throats, the more they felt the performance hit the mark, their blood boiling with excitement.
Incidentally, all the stage effects for the afternoon show were provided by witches. Lesley, the Plague Witch, is a devoted supporter of heavy metal; she finds the bands' stage makeup particularly appealing.
The final evening of the Red Rain Festival was the time for the Fireworks Spectacular and the Masquerade Ball.
Dazzling fireworks bloomed against the dark sky, while on the technological tree of Eryan, magical signal flares lit up the sky before a display of colorful fireworks. Golden and silver streaks sliced through the night sky; amid the whistling sounds, various patterns unfolded in the air, dazzling the eyes. The fireworks crafted by the Dwarven Artisans' Workshop were vividly colored, while the magical fireworks created by mages could even transform mid-air. People marveled at the fairy-like fireworks dancing gracefully in the sky and laughed at the clown-shaped fireworks tossing little balls.
The final round of fireworks resembled a fountain in the sky, with a ceaseless stream of silver sparks blanketing the entire sky above Lake Rube. As the fireworks gradually faded, the night's festivities had only just begun. Dance music began to play, and people in their finest attire gathered at the open-air dance floor.
This was Tasa's suggestion: while Erian had masquerade balls, it lacked a costume party. Dressing up as strange creatures and dancing with others in disguise—when odd-looking outsiders already live among the crowd, this can become quite entertaining.
A person on stilts pretending to be a giant encountered a true descendant of giants, the latter wearing antlers on his head and attempting to pass as a beastman. So many furry ears stood erect on heads that the less observant might have to touch them to tell which were real and which were fake—many lazy participants opted for a single ear headband to get their beastman look done, while many long-eared beastmen chose hats and wigs to disguise themselves as something else.
"I'm a witch today!" exclaimed a little boy wearing a pointed hat, kindly reminding the little girl next to him, "This is a costume party—they won't let you in if you don't dress up!"
"I am in costume!" the little girl replied, lifting her wig to reveal a pair of rabbit ears tucked underneath. "Today I'm a human!"
Dragon Rider Douglas arrived on his dragon. His flashy landing drew plenty of whistles and applause, but also quite a few boos. Acquaintances teased him, saying he hadn't bothered to dress up at all—he'd just come to show off his dragon as usual. "How can you say that?" Douglas protested, pointing to the antlers on the giant dragon's head—which were practically invisible unless you looked closely. "We're portraying the God of Wealth and his sacred reindeer. Look, he's shrunk down to a smaller size, and aren't I carrying a bag?"
Legend has it that the God of Wealth distributes gifts on certain holidays, yet the bag Douglas carried was empty and shriveled—clearly something he'd grabbed from somewhere on the way. The audience burst into laughter, jeering that his costume wasn't authentic at all. So the dragon riders went with the flow and began claiming they were portraying "the God of Wealth, who has fallen from grace and disguised himself as an ordinary dragon rider, and his evil reindeer dragon."
If the God of Wealth gives gifts, then the fallen God of Wealth would naturally accept them. For the rest of the time, the dragon and the Dragon Rider began a symbolic robbery, holding out their bags and begging for gifts from passersby. The dragon was quite satisfied with the smallest coins in the dwarves' purses: golden, hard, and clinking with a jingle—nothing could be better.
"This guy sure loves to show off!" the members of the Griffin Corps grumbled incessantly.
The dragon soared back and forth over Lake Rebe. Even though it showed no signs of fighting, the griffins still kept their distance from the area; no amount of threats or bribes from their master could change their minds. Most of the griffin riders had secretly prepared their costumes, ready to dress up as the commander of the ancient griffin corps from heroic tales. What a rare opportunity! Unlike everyone else in the world, they actually had a living griffin to use as a prop! The riders sighed wistfully; if it weren't for the dragon, half the griffin corps would probably be dressed exactly alike.
And these people actually had the nerve to say that dragon riders loved to show off.
"Ancient heroes riding griffins" had no chance of making an appearance, but "elves riding unicorns" were quite in demand. Young women don white gowns, dye their long hair golden and braid it, mold pointed ears out of dough, and make their entrance on white horses—ever since the tales of unicorns spread throughout Eryan, there have been more young women who love white horses than warriors who do. Those white (or powder-puffed white) horses sported horns of various materials on their heads, and the "fairies" atop them would quickly size each other up whenever they passed—not looking at the rider, but first at the horn. The girls who believed their horns were the finest would flash a reserved, proud smile.
If this unicorn-making contest were to officially begin, the one who would ultimately win would be a young boy—for the simple reason that he was riding the real thing. Little Gabriel blushed easily, but his unicorn companion was quite bold; neither the dragon nor the crowd could deter it from coming to play. Gabriel rode the unicorn nervously, laughing awkwardly at others' compliments, terrified that someone might discover there really was a unicorn here.
"Let's go home early…" he muttered gloomily. "There are so many people. If you get discovered, everyone will want to touch you—they'll rub you bald…"
His companion paid no heed to this, its slender neck swiveling back and forth as it curiously watched the crowd come and go.
The ball didn't serve main courses, but offered light snacks and low-alcohol drinks to liven the mood. An automatic bottle opener—a homemade magical device of recent invention—spectacularly launched the caps of dozens of champagne bottles into the air. Foam spurted out with a thunderous roar, startling Marion, who was standing nearby. The werewolf had been leaning against the table, lost in thought, completely unaware that the self-service magical device on the table could be remotely controlled. Now her ears twitched uncontrollably, drenched by the splashing foam.
"I really do hate magical technology," she muttered, shaking her head in annoyance.
"Here." Hetty, who had come to fetch champagne, smiled as she handed Marion a handkerchief. "I, on the other hand, quite like it."
Hetty, an Amazonian warrior, had lost a leg in a previous war; the Steel Golem had crippled her, but it was also thanks to advances in magical technology that Hetty had received her current leg. This steel prosthesis was agile and convenient, allowing Hetty to move as she always had—she could even return to the battlefield.
About thirty meters away from them, Tasa was at the ball.
She wasn't in disguise at all—or rather, her "disguise" consisted of simply removing her illusions. Tasa stood there in her true form: sharp horns atop her head, dragon claws on her feet, and her demonic wings folded away purely to save space. People cast glance after glance at the Lady Magistrate from afar. They all knew who she was, so everyone paid her their respects from a distance; not a single soul dared to approach.
"Beautiful lady, are you here alone?" a voice feigning surprise rang out from behind her. "Such a lovely person standing all by herself at the edge of the dance floor—could it be that everyone who saw you before me was blind?"
Tasha laughed and reached back.
Her hand was seized, and the person pulling her spun her halfway around. In the next moment, Tasha saw Victor's face. Today, Victor was also proudly sporting demon horns. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his dark, curved horns brushing against her pale, bony ones.
The street vendors were making a killing; a pair of devil's horn hairpins cost about the same as a pair of animal ear headbands—buy one, get one free. On this night of chaotic revelry, no one needed to hide.
"Esteemed Lady Magistrate, may I have this dance?" Victor asked with a smile.
"Haven't you already?" Tasha replied.
Victor's arm wrapped around Tassa's waist, and her hands clasped his back. As the music swelled to a new crescendo, they stepped onto the dance floor, their gazes locked as if whoever looked away first would concede defeat.
Dragon claws clacked against the floor tiles; talons sharp enough to slice through gold and jade landed lightly on the ground, like a pair of stiletto heels. Victor's leather-booted feet danced between those sharp claws. Tashada glanced down and, for some reason, thought of a bird dancing nimbly between a crocodile's teeth. She looked up again, met those amber eyes, and quickly dismissed the thought.
This wasn't a bird at all—it was clearly another crocodile.
The demon with reptilian eyes was leading him, her posture graceful yet her movements far from tender and lingering—exactly to Tasa's taste. Since they knew each other inside out, there was no need to keep up appearances during this dance.
They danced with such grace, their steps lacking the romantic tenderness others might expect; instead, they carried a fierce, warlike intensity, yet remained incredibly intimate. The handsome man with white hair and black horns, and the beautiful woman with black hair and bone-like horns—the Magistrate and her lover. Either combination was striking, yet almost no one could bring themselves to stare at them for long. It was too… too intimate. Though there were no overtly suggestive movements, their tightly entwined dance steps seemed to raise the temperature in the air around them.