Deep beneath the earth, where countless "guards" stood, the flames flickering within the belly of the doll called Furnace Cowboy grew weaker and weaker. The warmth they gave off was fading. Among the survivors gathered in a circle, the strong men on the outermost edge were already losing consciousness. They were about to die.
"Scratch."
A match flared to life, instantly replenishing the dying furnace.
But whether it was the little girl, the survivors, or the postman Walter Cranston, their eyes held nothing but sorrow and despair.
The matchbox in the girl's hand was empty.
That had been the last one.
And their prayers seemed to have done nothing.
"Perhaps this is our fate. This planet, every life here, must calmly accept the coming of death."
"Leave, messenger who brought the divine object. We are grateful to you. At least you brought us one final warmth. It is enough. It is already enough."
The dancing flames illuminated an aged figure.
He was the only old man among the survivors, small in stature and leaning on a cane, as if he could die at any moment. Yet beneath his snowy-white brows were a pair of eyes filled with wisdom.
His voice was gentle and calm, his gaze incomparably kind.
If the world recovered, with such a "wise man" leading them, this surviving group could prosper again... Just as this thought flashed through Walter Cranston's mind, he saw the wise man take the little girl's hand. Together with the other survivors, they began softly chanting a song.
The language was unknown, the tune strange, yet it did not stop Walter from hearing the calm and open-mindedness within it, enough to move him deeply.
"They are all ready. They are using the Death Knell Song to bid farewell to those guard warriors, and