Spessay had once been an ordinary northern town, ten miles from the nearest coastline. It had missed the wave of the Age of Exploration and had no vast plains to bring prosperous agriculture.
Its specialties were pasture grass and coal mines, but after large-scale coal mining and factory construction, the pasture grass had also declined.
On the road, Sam, whose injuries had improved somewhat, told Cyren about Spessay, rambling on about its once ubiquitous cattle and sheep, cold-resistant ryegrass and white clover, workers in the coal mines, and smoke covering the sky.
He was a Spessay native who had previously wandered to the south due to famine, then settled down and worked as a carpenter. Because he knew the conductor of the Northern Holy Seat train, he had secretly hitched a ride.
As he spoke of the Spessay in his memory, the young soldier beside him kept looking at him, wanting to speak but hesitating.
Finally, at a certain moment, the tyrannical wind and snow suddenly weakened. A massive dark shadow emerged nearby. The flying snow everywhere collided chaotically against black steel, then fell dejectedly to the ground, powerlessly gazing at the only heretic on the snowy ground.
That towering city wall and buildings appeared before everyone. Sam rubbed his eyes for a long time, unable to believe this was the Spessay in his memory.
Enormous dark gray granite blocks formed thick, sloping rock walls twenty meters high, like an insurmountable natural barrier. Some brass pipes and ornaments were distributed across it. White gas lamps blazing with intense light decorated the middle section of the wall like stars. The huge steel gate was not far ahead of them.
This was perhaps the last high-walled fortress of modern times. As early as the previous century, the use of artillery had turned newly built castles into bastion-style earthen slopes with low walls, facilitating crossfire and penetrating shots. But the designers who built the Spessay shelter didn't know what they would face.
So they built an enlarged version of a bastion according to the style of "big is good, thick is beautiful," retaining the bastion's slope while also erecting huge high walls.
At this time, many villagers from surrounding areas were also near the main gate. They wore shabby winter clothes and led their livestock, gathering at the entrance like refugees.
Four guards stood at the gate checking the coming and going villagers, but progress was very slow, causing quite a crowd at the entrance.
Cyren squeezed into the crowd. Because his coat covered his purple-black bishop's robe, and the pastoral staff in his hand wasn't really any different from a shepherd's crook, no one recognized his identity.
"No pushing! No pushing! Everyone must be inspected before entering!" the guards shouted loudly.
"Please, sir, please have mercy... The child is too young and will freeze to death..." A woman knelt on the ground, constantly kowtowing, her right hand holding a little girl's hand.
"Go to the back of the line! No sneaking into the city!" The guard kicked her.
It was reasonable enough that entry into the city required inspection and screening, but Cyren clearly saw a farmer leading two pigs and a cow secretly slip a guard a silver penny and go straight into the city, while others had to undergo drawn-out inspections and questioning.
Cyren's face darkened. Now that evening was approaching, the outside temperature had reached -18°C, with a perceived temperature probably in the negative thirties. Many commoners didn't even have a winter coat stuffed with cotton or wool. The holes were all patched up with burlap.
He grabbed the sled and pulled it toward the inside.
"You there! Stop! Submit to inspection!" a guard immediately barked.
Cyren stopped and pulled out a gold pound from his coat, handing it to the guard.
Under the golden light, the guard's face showed shock and greed as he reached his hand toward it.
"Ahhhhh!!!!"
But the moment he touched the gold pound, he screamed in agony. That gold pound was as scalding as red-hot iron, and Cyren pressed it directly into his palm.
The guard knelt down clutching his right hand. In the center of his palm, a branded image of Queen Victoria's head was clearly visible, with a circular ring around the outside.
"Stop!" The other three guards, alarmed by the sudden change, immediately drew three rifles and aimed them at Cyren.
Cyren looked coldly at the guard kneeling on the ground clutching his hand, "Would you even accept bribes from God?"
The pastoral staff was planted in the snow. Holy fire burned fiercely. That gold pound fell onto the snow and immediately made a "tsss" sound as the scalding gold melted the surrounding accumulated snow.
"You..." The guard wanted to say something more, but Cyren had already turned his back to them.
"People who are freezing!" he called out loudly. "Follow me into the city!"
Three guns pressed against his back, but no one dared to fire. Cyren turned around and walked straight into the city. Kyle and Logan immediately ran over to guard both sides. Aldridge and Matilda pulled the sled close behind. The people behind followed with a roar.
This was the first time he had faced gun barrels. Was he afraid? Of course he was afraid. Although Cyren had secretly whispered the incantation for [Halt], he also wasn't clear whether that transparent wall could stop bullets.
But since he possessed supernatural power, he should do things ordinary people dared not do. Otherwise what meaning did the supernatural have? Oppressing others?
In his previous life as a psychoanalyst, he had seen far too many cases: depression, anxiety, hysteria... Some had their life's desires drained by work, some were disciplined by feudal remnants into obsessive-compulsive disorder and phobias.
He might be able to cure one case, two cases, three cases, but that capitalist structure and feudal vestiges were structurally producing these patients!
Whenever patients asked in anguish, "What exactly must I do to satisfy xxx," those accusations against the big Other of society made Cyren feel deeply powerless. It wasn't the patients' problem, it was society's problem, but he was powerless. He could only repeatedly work to help patients coexist with their symptoms.
Now he finally had power, though not much, but he chose to practice his once-repressed desire:
Solve the root of the disease, and there would be no patients.
The crowd surged through the gate like a river. Dark, tattered clothes converged into a black torrent. Golden holy light shone ahead. The raised pastoral staff guided the flock.
Matilda smiled as she watched him. From her perspective, Cyren's left hand behind his back trembled constantly, but his right hand was as steady as a rock. She murmured in a voice only she could hear, "Go, don't be afraid."
…
"Is that so? He didn't die." The man stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.
This was a weathered man. Even sitting, his posture was as upright as an oak tree. Silver-gray hair was combed back, revealing a vicissitude-marked face covered in scars. Deep eye sockets were filled with shadow.
He wore a black military uniform with golden epaulettes, a sword, belt, and medals. A deep red sash crossed his upper body diagonally. A crown emblem indicated his identity.
He was the Governor of Spessay appointed by the Queen herself, an Imperial General.
Rain Hoffman.
Reading Settings
#1a1a1a
#ef4444
Comments