Silent Crown

Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio

Snow fell from the sky and landed on Charles' hair.

He looked down at the pale face in the pool of blood and watched as the soldier on the ground struggled to breathe. The last remaining heat of the soldier's body turned into a white mist and rose from his nose and mouth, flying into the sky. It then condensing into frost in the wind and fell silently, freezing the blood that was gradually turning cold.

The pain caused the soldier's face to convulse. He groaned and gazed at Charles, reaching out with all his might, trying to touch Charles. His lips moved weakly, but no sound could be heard.

"Hold on for a little longer." Charles gripped the soldier's hand hard, feeling a bone-chilling iciness, the coldness seeped into his bones, causing him to panic. "I'll find someone to attend to you right away, just hold on for a little bit longer. Doctor! Doctor! There's one more person here…"

In the hustle and bustle, only groans in the distance responded. The snow continued to fall from the sky as if it would never stop, sprinkling all over the frozen soil. On the plains that had survived the war, the fires from the battle had yet to be extinguished, but the bodies had already turned cold completely.

Was it thousands of people that had died? Or was it tens of thousands?

For their new country, they fell in this war, fell in this place that was cold enough that even hell would be frozen. They looked up to the sky until death took them until the powder-like snow covered their faces.

The medics staggered as they made their way through the plains, moving the soldiers who were still breathing onto the stretchers, one by one. Then, they used their swords to stab the soldiers whose injuries were too far gone for them to be saved through their hearts, one by one. This way, the soldiers who had next to a zero percent chance of surviving need not suffer any longer.

Charles' shouts were drowned out by the shattered snow, and no one responded. Not far behind Charles, Wolf Flute was smoking a cigarette. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself and simply watched on without saying a word.

Charles withdrew his gaze dismally but saw the dying soldier smile.

The soldier smiled as if heaven was in sight.

"Ah, ah, the Holy Son…" He held Charles' hand, his dry lips moving, and exhausted the last of his strength as he implored, "Please… bestow redemption upon me…"

Charles opened his mouth but didn't know what to say. He didn't have the heart to avoid the man's gaze, hesitating as he tried to compose his thoughts into words. In the end, he could only nod wordlessly. The soldier, who was missing half of his body, smiled as if he had finally gotten silent acquiescence to pass on.

The gates of the kingdom of heaven opened in front of him.

He closed his eyes with satisfaction.

His last breath dissipated.

His body had no more warmth in it.

Charles let go and watched the soldier's arm fell onto the frozen pool of blood. Even though the man was already dead, he still seemed to be holding something in his hand, but his palm was empty as if he was clutching on to invisible hope.

For a brief moment, Charles saw it. He saw a faint and vague figure rise from the man's body. Just like the last cloud of white mist that was exhaled from his mouth and nose, the figure slowly rose into the sky.

He didn't only see one figure but hundreds and thousands of them. Innumerable blurry figures soared in the sky and walked into an invisible doorway. It was as if they had really walked into the kingdom of heaven.

Charles thought that the illusion plaguing him had returned once more, but when he looked at his hands, he found that no illusory blood was on them—the blood on them was real—and when he looked up again, he couldn't see the figures anymore.

They had already left. The wind and the snow were all that was left, sweeping across the plains, covering the battlefield, and eliminating the last remaining traces.

"Are those real?" Charles looked at the sky blankly.

Wolf Flute didn't get it. "What?"

"Nah." Charles shook his head, gave a laugh of self-mockery, and withdrew his gaze. "Nah, nothing."

Wolf Flute sighed and handed him a packet of cigarettes. Supplies were short on the battlefield. Food was allocated on a per capita basis. Every two persons would get a cotton shirt to share between them and must take turns to wear it, but only tobacco was in unlimited supply.

The inferior tobacco leaves produced in East India were chopped with a sickle and cured in a simple and rough manner, then wrapped with white paper that was very thin and coarse. The cigarettes didn't even come with filters.

"Too bad there isn't any wine." Charles ignited the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Pungent smoke gushed into his lungs, scraping his throat like sandpaper, and brought a sense of misery similar to that of swallowing gravel. Smoke spurted out of his nose and mouth and flew into the sky.

Is it flying to the place the souls are at? Charles couldn't help wondering.

"Allow yourself to relax, we're at war." Wolf Flute patted his shoulder. "It's not the first, nor will it be the last, and there's definitely more to come in the future. The war will continue for as long as it takes for the countries to recognize the revolution that has taken place here."

"I know," Charles replied.

"But you have to understand." Wolf Flute sighed. "How many times have you done it? On our way here, how many men have you tried to save? You are a leader, you are their hope, but you are not a medic. Just give up. You can't save everyone, but you can ensure that they died a worthy death."

Charles was silent. After a long time, he asked softly, "Do they truly believe that I am some Holy Son?"

"Yes," Wolf Flute replied curtly.

"But I'm not." Charles shook his head. "I know that I'm not. I have no-goddamn-thing to do with that bullshit of a god. He has never loved me."

Wolf Flute pondered quietly for a good while and finally found an answer. "Then maybe you're not His own?"

Charles said nothing.

Wolf Flute shrugged with a fair amount of disappointment. "I thought the joke was good."

"Where is Mr. Gaius?" Charles snuffed out the cigarette and asked suddenly, "I need to look for him for certain matters."

Wolf Flute thought for a moment and said, "He should be very busy right now."

"I know." Charles turned back and gazed at the vast battlefield covered in snow. "Titles like the Holy Son are totally meaningless for this place. I don't want to merely be a mascot, Wolf Flute."

"Gaius will never agree to let you fight," Wolf Flute answered straightforwardly. "You are a symbol, Charles, you're the proof that miracles exist, you must hold yourself aloft.

"If you get involved in the war, other countries will have a reason to mobilize their scepter musicians and catastrophe-level weapons, and maybe even saints… Gaius will never allow you to roll up your sleeves and join in out of impulse. " As he said so, he pointed towards the far end of the battlefield. At the end of the horizon, in the camps in the distance, a huge aether wave rose into the sky from afar, declaring its own existence.

"See? We can't allow ourselves to fall into a passive position," Wolf Flute said. "Whoever succumbs to the temptation first loses."

"Rest assured, I won't be the one." Charles laughed self-mockingly and lowered his head, looking at the cold face in the blood and snow. He murmured softly, "I just feel like I should help out a little bit…even if it's just a little bit."

…

It was three hours later in the White Mountain Research Institute. No semblance of heat could be found in the icy room, and it was so cold that it made one's lungs convulse. Even the house itself had just been built and was only good for blocking out the wind with its four walls. The fireplace was burning in the corner of the room but failed to provide any warmth.

Old men sat by the table, wrapped in thick coats, mugs of hot water in their hands, but they were all still shivering from the cold.

No one spoke in the silence.

They quietly looked at the drawings on the table with full concentration, not letting any loopholes or errors slip past them.

Footsteps sounded from a distance. A young researcher opened the door and ran in, holding a bulge of mass in his arms. Despite the snowy weather, he was sweating profusely from running. The drops of sweat on his face turned into ice and were almost frozen stiff.

"We only have so many left in storage, I have taken all of them here." He put the gray iron-like ingots he was holding on the table. The iron-like ingots which were about one thumb thick fell onto the table and collided with each other, producing crisp, clear sounds.

Solder. All the ingots were made of solder.

The old men examined the solder on the table, then looked at each other with uncertain expressions, and started discussing.

"Is it really feasible?"

"No one has gone down this train of thought before, and the principle behind is fairly simple, I don't see any major problems with it."

"Similar designs have been carried out before, but they had their fair share of flaws. Plus, we lack a better alloy formula."

"The Sacred City has imposed a technical blockade on us. If we are to conduct the necessary research on our own, it will take another four years."

"The idea is very good, but we don't have so much time."

"Let's make a batch of prototypes based on this design first. Maksim, you have more manpower in your department, how long will it take?"

"The carpenter apprentices and blacksmith apprentices who have just been recruited have to undergo training before they can be of use to us. If you want to make prototypes of acceptable standards, it will take about three months."

Behind the table, Charles listened to their opinions quietly. After a long time, he slowly shook his head. "It won't take so long. If you all are alright with the design, it can be done now."

"Now?" one of the old men asked.

"Yep, now." Charles nodded and spread his palms.

A crisp sound rang out. As if an earthquake suddenly came, the sound of the tables and chairs shaking rang out, and the glass on the wall suddenly fractured, revealing innumerable cracks, and fell apart. The old men looked at each other in confusion and couldn't help but want to back away.

Bang! A chair collapsed suddenly, and the person sitting on it fell and tumbled. He raised his head in shock, only to see iron nails breaking free from their bonds and flying towards Charles' palm.

The wind bellowed. A fog-like cloud of gray dust gushed in from the window and gathered around Charles. One could vaguely see the innumerable coarse grains of metal in it.

The cold wind whistling and poured into the room from the window, but no hint of coldness could be felt anymore. It was because born in the palm was a high temperature much hotter than lava. It was like a furnace.

Countless alchemy arrays were born and destroyed in an instant. As they were gathered and moved around by the five fingers, an abstract furnace was formed. A dazzling flame of pure white was brewing up in it, and the temperature high enough to vaporize the entire room in an instant was restrained within the grasp of the hand.

The mere trace of leaked heat was enough to make the room so hot that it was suffocating. It made the old men's beards curl and they retreated into the corners.

When steel fell into the furnace, it became a liquid, and the impurities evaporated instantaneously. Then, countless fine particles of dust flowed into the furnace. The dust consisted of powder-form minerals contained in the depths layers of the frozen soil. An invisible hand had extracted them from the soil and add them to the furnace to be smelted in the terrifying temperature.

Heating, hammering, purification, formation, reprocessing, casting, quenching… In a flash, the lengthy process had been completed in one-shot.

In Charles' hand, dozens of parts had been forged, and the fire had been extinguished. The parts collided and scraped against each other, then pieced together, assembled, and finally formed the prototype of his creation.

It was an odd iron tube that came with a grip.

"It's done." Charles placed it on the table. "As long as no errors have been made, we can test it now."