Free Web Novel"May the Lord grant them eternal rest."
"May eternal light shine upon them."
"May their souls, and the souls of all the faithful, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."
The priest's voice echoed in the rain.
Hoarse, weary, but still firm.
He stood in the mud, the hem of his black robe soaked in sludge, rain running down his graying hair and dripping onto the already sodden prayer book.
But he did not stop.
He had been reciting since dawn.
Over and over again.
For every person sent to the grave.
The eaves were still dripping.
Drip, drip, like some kind of countdown, or perhaps a dirge.
The torrential downpour had finally turned into a light, drizzling rain.
The gray sky hung low, like a dirty rag draped over the entire city.
The air was filled with a damp, burnt, and decaying scent—the distinct smell left behind after a fire is extinguished.
Charcoal, ash, and death soaked through by the rain.
Frederick sat leaning against the eaves of a building.
His body was covered in bandages.
White bandages, though they were no longer white, stained with ash, blood, and who knows what else.
His eyes were half-open, watching the scene in the distance.
But he seemed to be looking at nothing.
Tired.
So tired.
After fighting those cultists last night, he had continued to participate in the rescue operations.
Carrying people, moving things, putting out fires, digging people out, then carrying people and moving things again.
Until now.
He no longer remembered how many people he had saved, nor did he remember how many corpses he had moved.
He only knew that he could no longer lift his arms.
His legs were unresponsive, too.
His eyelids felt as heavy as lead.
"So, how is your leg?"
His voice was hoarse, as if his throat were filled with sandpaper.
Beside him, Reinhardt sat leaning against the wall.
His right leg was bound with a crude splint, fixed with wooden sticks and bandages.
The posture was awkward.
"Just a fracture."
Reinhardt's voice was no better.
"It'll be fine with some rest."
"How did it happen?"
"Saving a child. The house collapsed, and my leg got pinned."
Reinhardt said it very plainly.
As if he were talking about buying breakfast on his way out today.
"And the child?"
"Survived."
"That's good."
Frederick nodded.
Then both of them fell silent.
Silence.
But not an awkward silence.
It was the kind of silence that comes from being too tired to even speak.
Not far away, Alicia was curled up on a dry stone slab.
Her platinum blonde hair was scattered across the ground, covered in dust, looking like a dirty gray snake.
Her gray cloak was draped over her, the hood pulled low, covering most of her face.
She was asleep.
Sleeping soundly, breathing evenly, occasionally frowning.
Who knows what she was dreaming about.
In the distance, the roar of mechs came intermittently.
Several mechs were clearing rubble in the burnt-out blocks.
Huge metal arms waved, pushing away collapsed walls and dragging out twisted steel beams.
Steam gushed from the joints, forming white mist in the rain.
Other mechs were digging in the cleared open space.
One pit, then another.
The pits were not deep, but deep enough to hold a person.
The mechs moved quickly.
One every few minutes, very efficient, just like an assembly line.
Behind the mechs, young people pushed crude handcarts.
There were corpses on the carts.
Some covered with cloth, some not.
Old people, children, men, women, some intact, some not so much.
They sent the bodies into their respective graves.
Then covered them with earth.
With shovels, with their hands.
Then stomped it down with their feet.
Finally, they inserted a stone in front of the grave.
No name, no date, just a stone.
Picked up from the ruins, still bearing scorch marks.
This was their tombstone.
"May the Lord grant them eternal rest—"
The priest's voice continued to echo.
Over and over again.
Tirelessly.
"I heard three students died."
Reinhardt spoke up suddenly.
"Hmm."
"Did you know them?"
"Honestly, not very well."
Frederick paused.
"But I had seen them."
"From the Dawn Brigade?"
"Two of them. The other one was from the Iron Cross."
"The Iron Cross actually came?"
"Quite a few of them came."
The corners of Frederick's mouth twitched.
He didn't know if he wanted to smile or sigh.
"That Julian led a bunch of people and charged in with mechs."
"Rushing in recklessly."
"Almost crushed a few of our people."
"But they really did help a lot."
Reinhardt was silent for a moment.
"How did that Iron Cross student die?"
"Saving someone."
Frederick said.
"Several buildings were about to collapse together, and there were people inside. He rushed in without regard for himself. He saved quite a few people, but unfortunately, he didn't make it out himself."
"What was his name?"
"Don't know." freewēbnoveℓ.com
Frederick's voice was a bit low.
"But Natasha said she would remember his name."
"She will remember the names of all the dead."
The two fell silent again.
...
Natasha was pushing a handcart with a corpse lying on it.
Igor's corpse.
Her brother.
The wheels of the handcart turned with difficulty in the mud, the creaking sound like some kind of lament.
Igor's body had been found by Anna.
In an alley, together with another corpse.
A civilian woman, auburn hair, a bullet hole in her chest.
No one knew who she was.
No one knew what had happened either.
Only that both of them were dead.
Dead in the same alley, dead in the same rain.
When Anna first found Igor, her face was very pale.
She said nothing.
She just took Natasha's hand and led her to see.
Natasha saw it.
Her brother was lying on the ground, his throat slit.
The blood had already been washed away by the rain.
But the wound was still there, gaping hideously. Like some kind of mockery.
Beside him was a gun, and a money pouch.
Natasha also said nothing.
She just squatted down and picked her brother up.
He was heavy.
Heavier than she had imagined.
And colder than she had imagined.
Ice-cold.
Stiff.
Is this the weight of death?
She put her brother on the handcart.
Then began to push it back.
Step by step.
Towards the direction of the graves.
Natasha could guess what her brother had gone to do tonight.
The operation of the Fire of Freedom in Eisenburg.
Joining forces with the Children of Dawn.
Igniting the fire in the Old City.
To steal that thing called "the sleeper."
For the so-called "war to end all wars."
And what was the result?
Countless people died.
Houses burned, children became orphans, old people were burned alive.
Just like in Lyubertsy Town.
Just like the disaster they had once witnessed with their own eyes.
Only this time.
The perpetrator was not someone else, it was her brother.
Should Natasha hate him? Should she be angry? Should she denounce his crimes?
She felt she should be a little angry.
But when she truly saw him lying there, motionless and cold.
She suddenly didn't know what emotion she should hold.
Now, she just felt empty.
Very empty.
As if a piece had been scooped out of her heart.
Without realizing it, the handcart stopped in front of a grave.
The pit had already been dug.
Not deep, but deep enough to hold a person.
Natasha stood there.
Staring blankly at the pit.
Black, muddy, rainwater was seeping into it.
Was this her brother's final resting place?
"May the Lord accept his soul—"
The priest's voice drifted from afar.
"May he find eternal peace in heaven—"
Natasha bent down.
She picked up her brother's body from the cart.
Very heavy, very cold.
She could feel the stiffness of that body.
She could feel the clothes soaked with blood.
She could feel—
She couldn't feel anything anymore.
She placed her brother into the grave.
Gently, carefully, as if putting down something fragile.
Igor lay there.
His eyes closed, his expression very calm.
No pain, no anger, just calm, as if he were asleep.
Natasha looked at that face.
She remembered that this face had once smiled.
Many years ago.
In those days that had not yet been consumed by the flames of war.
Her brother would smile and ruffle her hair.
Smiling and saying, "I'll protect you from now on."
He would stuff the last piece of bread into her hand.
"Eat it, I'm not hungry."
He said.
But his stomach was clearly growling.
She knew he was lying.
But she ate it anyway.
Because she was too hungry.
How long ago was that?
Six years? Seven years?
She couldn't remember clearly anymore.
She only remembered those smiles, those warm smiles that had once existed.
Natasha began to fill the pit with soil.
One shovel, then another.
The earth fell onto Igor's body.
Covering his feet.
Covering his legs.
Covering his hands.
Covering his chest.
Covering his face.
Finally.
Nothing could be seen anymore.
Only a small mound of earth.
And countless identical mounds.
Lined up together.
Like some kind of silent queue.
Natasha inserted a stone in front of the grave.
Picked up from the ruins, bearing scorch marks.
No name, no date, nothing ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) at all.
Dust to dust.
Earth to earth.
Regardless of what he had done in his life.
Regardless of whether he was a hero or a sinner.
Now.
He was just a handful of soil on this land.
Just like everyone else.
"May their souls, and the souls of all the faithful—"
The priest's voice continued.
"Through the mercy of God, rest in peace—"
Natasha stood in front of the grave.
Motionless.
Rain fell on her hair.
Fell on her shoulders.
Fell on her face.
She couldn't tell if it was rain or something else.
Suddenly, a splash of color appeared in her vision.
Red.
Yellow.
White.
A bouquet of fresh flowers.
Held by a pair of small hands.
Gently placed in front of the grave.
Natasha looked over in surprise.
It was a Little girl.
About ten years old.
Her face was dirty, but her eyes were very bright.
She was wearing an ill-fitting coat, obviously borrowed from somewhere, with the sleeves rolled up several times.
She was still clutching a large bunch of flowers in her arms.
Wildflowers.
Don't know where they were picked from.
The colors were messy, but very vibrant.
In this gray, desolate ruin, they were particularly striking.
Natasha recognized her.
Lillian.
The Little girl Frederick had saved.
"This is..."
Natasha's voice was a bit hoarse.
Lillian looked up at her.
"Father said everyone should have flowers."
Her voice was very soft, but very earnest.
"That way, they won't be lonely on their way to heaven."
Natasha didn't speak.
She looked at that bouquet.
Red.
Yellow.
White.
Gently swaying in the rain.
Very beautiful.
Very fragile.
As if they would wither at any moment.
But now, they were blooming.
Amidst this death and ruin.
Amidst this ash and mud.
Blooming.
Lillian didn't say much more.
She just turned and walked toward the next grave.
Pulled a flower from her arms.
Gently placed it in front of the stone.
Then the next.
And the next.
One flower after another.
The small figure walked among the graves.
Like some kind of ritual, like some kind of blessing.
Natasha watched that back.
Watched for a long time.
Then, she spoke softly.
"Thank you."
The voice was very light.
Almost drowned out by the sound of the rain.
But Lillian seemed to hear it.
She turned her head and gave a small smile.
Then continued to walk forward.
"May the Lord grant them eternal rest—"
The priest's voice still echoed.
"May eternal light shine upon them—"
Natasha just stood there in front of her brother's grave.
Looking at that bouquet of flowers.
Having made some kind of resolution.
