This seemed to be a story about heroes and knights.
But it was not a story about heroes and knights.
In Thirty-Two's existing memories, never had any play opened with such an image—it carried a suffocatingly real sense of oppression, yet also revealed an indescribable power, as though the scent of steel and fire constantly drifted from the depths of the picture, gathering around the young knight in full armor.
It was not magnificent enough, not refined enough, nor did it bear any symbols of religion or Royal Authority—those nobles accustomed to traditional plays would not like it, especially not the bloodstains on the young knight's face or the crisscrossing scars on his armor. Though real, they were simply too "ugly."
The nobles of old preferred to watch knights clad in extravagant golden armor purge evil beneath the gods' protection, or watch princesses and knights wander between castles and manors, singing ornate yet hollow verses. Even if there was a battlefield, it was merely "paint" to embellish love.
Those powdered canaries could not endure the searing heat of iron and fire.
Yet ordinary people who had never come into contact with "high society" would never think of such things. They did not know what those lofty noble lords used to do every day. They merely assumed that what lay before their eyes was part of the "play," and gathered around the enormous, exquisite painting to discuss it in a buzz.
Thirty-Two also stood beneath the outer wall of the grand hall for a long while, looking up at the massive painting more than three meters tall—it might originally have been painted by some artist, but the one hanging here was likely a machine-made copy. For a full half minute, the tall, silent man merely stared without saying a word, his