This seems to be a story about heroes and knights.

But it’s not really a story about heroes and knights.

In the existing memories of Number Thirty-Two, no drama has ever set its tone with such an image—it carries a suffocating oppression yet reveals an indescribable power, as if the scent of steel and fire continuously emanates from the depths of the scene, surrounding the young knight in battle attire.

It isn’t glamorous, nor is it exquisite, and lacks symbols of religion or royal authority—the aristocrats accustomed to traditional dramas wouldn’t like it, especially not the bloodstains on the young knight’s face or the intertwining scars on his armor. Although real, the reality is too "ugly."

The aristocrats of old preferred seeing knights clad in flamboyant golden armor, vanquishing evil under the gods’ protection, or watching the princesses and knights roam between castles and estates, singing elegant yet hollow Chapters. Even if there’s a battlefield, it’s just "paint" used to embellish love.

Those gilded canaries couldn’t withstand the scorching of iron and fire.

However, ordinary people who have never been in contact with "high society" couldn’t imagine these things. They didn’t know what the aristocrats were doing every day; they only thought what they saw was part of the "drama" and gathered around the large, exquisite portrait, discussing it animatedly.

Number Thirty-Two stood for a long time under the outer wall of the grand hall, looking up at the giant painting over three meters high—it might have originally been by a painter, but the one hanging here now was likely a machine-produced copy. For half a minute, the tall and silent man simply stared quietly, without saying a word, his bandage-covered face resembling stone.

Until his partner’s voice came from the side: "Hey—Number Thirty-Two, what’s wrong?"

The tall man suddenly snapped out of his daze, blinking and looking around confusedly, as if unsure if he was in reality or in a dream, unsure why he was there. But he quickly gathered himself and muttered, "Nothing."

"You always speak so little," the dark-skinned man shook his head, "You must be captivated—it was the same for me at first, such a beautiful painting! You can’t see stuff like this in the countryside..."

As he spoke, the crowd started to move—it must have been the hour the grand hall was opening to the public. Number Thirty-Two heard the whistle coming from the direction of the door—it must have been the copper whistle the construction captain wore around his neck every day, its sharp and loud sound known by everyone here.

The partner nudged him again: "Hurry up and keep up, or there won’t be any good seats left! I heard from the machinist transporting supplies last time that the Magic Shadow Drama is quite rare, even southern cities don’t have many that can see it!"

Ah, rare things—there are so many rare things in this era.

Number Thirty-Two said nothing; he had already been pushed into the crowd by his partner and followed them into the grand hall. Many squeezed in, this place ordinarily used for morning meetings and classes quickly filled with people, and the wooden platform at the hall’s front now had a large set of ancient magical devices than usual.

It looked like a Magic Web Terminal but was much larger and more complex than the one used for communication in the camp. On the triangular large base, several differently sized Projection Crystals formed a Crystal Array, with faint lights flickering above, clearly already prepared.

Number Thirty-Two sat down, joining the people sitting beneath the wooden platform, his partner beside him chattering excitedly. Before the Magic Shadow Drama began, he started giving his opinions: they finally got a slightly forward position, which made him quite pleased, and he wasn’t the only excited one, the whole hall was lively because of it.

Then, the mechanical bell in the grand hall rang rapidly and sharply, and the complex and large magic machineries on the wooden platform began to operate. Accompanied by a Magic Projection covering the entire platform and a deep solemn music, the once lively place gradually quieted down.

It’s started.

People who had been busy voicing opinions and making guesses were quickly drawn to what appeared before them—

Initially, when the projection and sound first appeared, some thought it was just a special Magic Web broadcast. However, when a story as if it was happening in reality suddenly appeared in their view, everyone’s attention was firmly held by what was in the projection.

It was a gripping story about a disaster, a human tragedy, a brave knight, fallen sacrifices like grass blades, a group of brave fighters, and a noble and tragic sacrifice—the people in the grand hall held their breaths, everyone lowered their voices, but slowly, faint whispers started coming from every corner.

This wasn’t the traditional drama aristocrats watched; it discarded traditional drama’s exaggerated obscurity and the long and short poems and useless hero self-disclosures requiring ten years of literary accumulation to understand. It was a straightforwardly narrated story, making everything seem like a participant’s recounting, easy to understand. This simplicity quickly allowed people in the hall to comprehend the play’s content and quickly realize it was the disaster they had experienced—recorded from another perspective.

"Ah, that windmill!" The partner beside Number Thirty-Two couldn’t help but exclaim softly, this man born and raised on the Plains of the Holy Spirits stared straight at the projection on the platform, repeatedly saying, "Kabrei’s windmill... that’s Kabrei’s windmill... my nephew’s family lives there..."

Someone nearby whispered, "Isn’t that Sorinburg? I recognize those walls..."

"Did someone document what happened at the time? My god, how did they do it..."

"Definitely not, didn’t they say this was drama—the drama is fake, I know that, those are actors and scenery..."

"But they look too real, it looks just like reality!"

"Yes, it looks too real..."

Before everyone, many familiar things appeared, and then those familiar things disappeared one by one. Soon, people in the hall were once again silent and even quieter than before.

Number Thirty-Two sat like a silent statue among these silent people, watching the unfolding irreversibly disaster step by step in the magic projection, observing the last knight on that fallen land setting out on his final journey.

He watched it all quietly.

Time slipped by unconsciously, this unbelievable "drama" finally reached its end.

Yet no one moved from their spots, Number Thirty-Two also sat silently like everyone else.

Until the words signaling the story’s end appeared on the projection, until the creators’ list and a low, winding end song appeared simultaneously, the dark-skinned partner beside him suddenly took a deep breath as if calming himself, then noticed Number Thirty-Two still staring at the projection. He squeezed out a smile and nudged his arm: "Number Thirty-Two, you’re still watching—it’s over."

"Ah... Yes... It’s over..."

"You usually don’t say much, I didn’t expect you’d be attracted by this thing," the dark-skinned partner said with a smile, but as he smiled, his eyes drooped, "Indeed, indeed attractive... Is this the ’drama’ that the aristocratic lords used to watch... Definitely unusual, unusual..."

"The dramas watched by the aristocracy aren’t like this," Number 32 said sullenly.

"It’s as if you’ve seen it," the partner shook his head, then muttered thoughtfully, "It’s all gone..."

Number 32 said nothing, watching the stage. There, the projection didn’t extinguish with the end of the ’drama’. The subtitles kept scrolling upwards, now reaching the end. After the final credits, large words suddenly appeared, drawing many people’s attention again.

"Dedicated to every sacrifice made in the war, dedicated to every brave warrior and commander, dedicated to those who lost their dearly loved ones, dedicated to those who survived.

"Dedicated to this land we love dearly, dedicated to the rebuilders of this land.

"Dedicated to—Belk Loren."

The magical projection above the wooden platform finally gradually dissipated. Moments later, a bell sounded from the direction of the hall’s exit.

People got up one by one, leaving, but one person remained in place, sitting silently as if not hearing the bell. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

"Number 32?" The dark-skinned man nudged his partner’s arm, calling softly with concern, "Number 32! Time to go, the bell rang."

However, the tall man, whose crystal cluster scars were covered with bandages, just sat there motionless, as if his soul had left his body, not saying a word for a long time, seemingly still immersed in the story that had ended, until the partner pushed him several times, he finally woke up like from a dream, saying "Ah."

"Did you get mesmerized?" The partner looked over in confusion, "This isn’t like you usually are."

"I..." Number 32 opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.

The partner looked back at the extinguished projection device, pursing his lips. Two seconds later, he muttered, "But I’m not much better off... The things inside looked like reality... Number 32, do you think the story is true?"

Number 32 finally stood up slowly and said in a low voice, "We are rebuilding this place, at least that’s true."

The partner looked at him unexpectedly, seemingly surprised that the other would voluntarily express such a positive thought. Then the dark-skinned man grinned and laughed, "It is, this is the place where generations have lived."

"I gave myself a name," Number 32 suddenly said.

"Ah?" The partner felt a bit behind Number 32’s thought, but soon reacted, "Ah, that’s good! You’ve finally decided to give yourself a name—although I’m quite used to calling you Number 32... So, what name did you give yourself?"

Number 32 was silent for a few seconds, then said slowly, "Just call me Sam."

The partner was stunned for a moment, then laughed and cried, "You thought of such a name—considering you’re literate, do you know how many Sams there are in just this camp?"

"I think it’s a good name."

"But it’s terribly common. Isn’t there a saying, ’In the lord’s wheat stack row, forty Sams labor’—the farmhand is Sam, the miner is Sam, the horse feeder and wood cutter are also Sam, everyone working the land is Sam!"

Number 32 suddenly smiled.

The face covered with bandages, scars, and crystal clusters appeared somewhat eerie with this smile, but those bright eyes shone brightly.

He said with a hint of happiness in his voice, "So, it’s a good name."

"Suit yourself," the partner shrugged helplessly, "Anyway, we must go—everyone’s almost gone."

By the hall’s exit, a man in uniform stood there, urging the last few people left in the hall with his eyes.

Number 32 nodded, following the partner, straightening like a soldier fresh from recovery, heading toward the hall’s exit.

At the exit, there was a large ’poster’ of a ’fire beacon’, featuring a young knight standing valiantly on the ground, eyes resolute.

The ’actors’ in the Magic Shadow Drama bore a resemblance, but in the end, the ’poster’ is how he remembers him.

As he passed by the poster, his steps paused slightly, and he said softly in a voice no one could hear:

"Goodbye, son."

Then, Sam left.