The smoke of the great battle gradually dispersed, and the world was like a wounded person waking up from a nightmare. Although it was beginning to awaken from that catastrophic disaster, the scars left by the war remained like hideous wounds everywhere, stinging everyone's eyes and hearts.
Within the city, the joy of victory bloomed in people's hearts like brilliant fireworks, yet a heavy sense of having survived a catastrophe hung over everyone like a haze. In the streets, people were busy clearing the ruins; those mountains of rubble and splintered wood seemed like a silent accusation left behind by the war. Construction workers had beads of sweat covering their foreheads as they laboriously hauled huge stones, every step solid and heavy. The weight of those stones was not merely a physical burden, but a symbol of the suffering brought by the war. Masons meticulously coated the walls, their tools acting like an artist's brush, attempting to paint a picture of newborn hope upon this canvas full of wounds. Blacksmiths toiled beside roaring furnaces, forging new tools; the glowing red fires and the crisp sound of hammering seemed to play a symphony for the rebuilding of the world.
Children also joined the ranks of the rebuilding, their small figures darting through the bustling crowd, brimming with vitality. They helped pass tools, their tender little hands gripping the implements tightly, their eyes filled with earnestness and focus, as if what they were passing was not ju…
Chapter 145