Old Buck

The sun of Colchis hung as ever in the orange-red, sickly sky, casting scorching and lifeless light. Old Buck straightened his slightly aching back, placing the final piece carefully wrapped in Colchis paper into a specialized wooden box and filling it with shock-absorbing dry moss. He wiped a thin bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling a strange sense of grounded peace in his heart.

Paper. He subconsciously touched the rough yet lightweight grey-brown paper pages beside him used for recording inventory. Even now, he sometimes still felt dazed. With grass stalks, pulp residue, and a bit of clay, one could make this sort of writable thing, light as nothing? In his over sixty years of life in Colchis, this was a miracle he would not have dared to dream of.

No, not a miracle. Old Buck corrected himself in his mind. It was a "divine miracle" brought by Pastor Beichen and the Child of God. Just like that creaking windmill providing steady power, like that mortar making buildings rock-solid, like those tender green crop beds in a place that previously could never have survived.

He trundled out of the stone house dedicated to storing and repairing the "Relics of Divine Descent" (this was what believers called those technological creations brought by Zhou Beichen), the afternoon sunlight somewhat glaring. He habitually squinted his eyes, weathered by wind and sand with deep ravine-like wrinkles at the corners, looking out toward this familiar yet unfamiliar land before him.

Highland Settlement.

In his memory, this used to be merely a barren rock terrace eroded by wind and sand, with only a few of the poorest, most desperate wanderers building shacks here, scraping by on a few pathetic roots and catching the occasional sand rat to survive. Back then, he lived here too, barely managing to mend junk with a tiny bit of skill learned in his youth at some abandoned mine regarding tinkering with rusted gears and damaged circuits, trading it for a mouthful of spoiled, hard food.

The days back then were grey, endless. Every time he woke up, all he thought about was how to survive today. People's gazes were numb, like stones ground bare of all luster by the wind and sand, and even despair appeared feeble. The air was permeated with poverty, body odor, and a deeper despair toward the future. Priests of the Covenant Church occasionally came, preaching endurance of suffering and serving the Father God in exchange for blessings in the afterlife, before taking away the people's already meager offerings.

Old Buck had once been devout, too, but years upon years of bitter hardship caused that sliver of devotion to crack gradually under the scorching sun, shattering into powder.

When had the change begun?

Old Buck's thoughts drifted back to that vague, tumultuous afternoon. It seemed... not long after Pastor Beichen arrived at this dilapidated small church? He could no longer remember the specific details, only that young Eastern face, whose gaze lacked the emptiness or greed of other priests, bringing a different aura. The things he said were somewhat odd, talking of "investment" and "returns," sounding heretical, yet somehow, they stirred ripples in hearts that had long since died.

Then came the descent of the "Child of God."

Old Buck would never forget that day. Pastor Beichen held an infant, standing on high as the sunlight seemed to particularly favor that direction. He proclaimed that this was an emissary sent by the Father God, the "Child of God" who would lead them out of suffering. At first, Old Buck, like most people, was half-in-doubt.

Were there ever a shortage of scams and lies on Colchis?

Yet very soon, suspicion was shattered by a succession of incredible facts.

Child of God Lorgar grew at a visible rate, possessing boundless strength and penetrating wisdom. Not only could he effortlessly move boulders that multiple strong men could not lift, but he could also precisely locate underground water sources and predict approaching sandstorms. Old Buck had witnessed Lorgar gaze with those violet eyes at the wreckage of a nearly scrapped water purifier, then point out with his finger subtle cracks and blockages that Old Buck himself had overlooked.

What shocked Old Buck even more was the unique temperament about Lorgar. He lacked the hypocritical arrogance of the Covenant Church's upper echelons, nor did he possess the submissiveness or numbness common among the lower classes. He was silent, yet reassuring; powerful, yet never bullying the weak. He would patiently listen to the most ordinary believer recount family difficulties, using those huge palms, which should have been full of destructive might, to carefully help children bandage wounds.

That fusion of compassion and majesty was something Old Buck had never seen in any big shot.

As for Pastor Beichen, he was like the executor of the Child of God's will, the one who transformed illusory "divine miracles" into real, tangible benefits. It was he who led everyone to mix ubiquitous wormwood grass and a certain clay, firing sturdy mortar to turn shacks into stone houses and giving the settlement decent walls. It was he who directed the Child of God and everyone to build that giant windmill, utilizing the ceaseless wind of Colchis to bring power previously undreamed of. It was he who improved salt-making methods, even producing glass that, though murky, was fully usable.

And then... papermaking.

Old Buck lowered his head, looking at his own calloused hands, the gaps in his fingernails still stained with traces of mortar and grass scraps. These hands had fiddled with cold metal, repaired damaged circuits, and trembled from hunger. Now, these hands, under Pastor Beichen's seemingly whimsical command, had actually participated in producing "paper."

He still remembered the miserable failures of those initial times, the foul-smelling pulp, the "grass cakes" that could not be scooped up or fell apart at the slightest touch. At the time, he could not help harboring doubts in his heart, feeling that Pastor Beichen might have really gone off track this time. Clay tablets were heavy, but at least they were familiar. Yet Pastor Beichen did not give up, locking himself in the workshop to experiment repeatedly, his eyes—which always flickered with calculating brilliance—bloodshot.

Until the moment clay powder was added, until the first rough yet intact sheet of paper was successfully peeled off... Old Buck still remembered the violent pounding of his heart back then. That was not due to awe of a divine miracle, but rather a sort of... pure excitement of participating in the creation of something entirely new. He, Old Buck, an old craftsman struggling at the bottom of Colchis, could actually make something like "paper" with his own hands!

This excitement was a hundred times stronger than when he had first repaired an old machine that still hummed in his youth.

The settlement's changes were all-encompassing. It was not merely that the houses lived in were sturdier, the food eaten more stable, nor was it just having windmill power and magical paper. More profound changes occurred on people's faces and in their eyes.

Numbness vanished, replaced by a busy, hopeful radiance. Children no longer huddled in corners sallow and emaciated, instead chasing and playing outside the schoolhouse, or scribbling with charcoal on precious paper. Adults no longer guarded against or quarreled with each other over scraps of food, but worked with assigned roles under the Faith Guard's organization, striving together toward the goal of that "Earthly Heaven." Even those who initially harbored doubts about Lorgar's identity gradually gave their allegiance after witnessing the settlement's concrete changes firsthand.

Order existed here, an order based on fair distribution and common goals, different from the oppressive rule of the Covenant Church. Vitality existed here, an active, upward vitality different from the hedonistic or lifeless nature of Ralte. Dignity existed here all the more. Through their own labor to earn food and clothing, learn knowledge, and participate in construction, everyone living here held their heads a little higher unconsciously.

Old Buck walked to the workshop district. The windmill's giant blades turned slowly and powerfully in the wind, transmitting power to every corner through an increasingly complex set of gears and belts. Grinding stone wheels spun rapidly, emitting a uniform humming noise; small furnaces melting glass breathed out scorching heat; several young people, under his guidance, attempted to copy a complex gear structure diagram using the newly made paper.

He looked at all this, his heart filled with indescribable emotion. In his youth, he too had once had dreams, dreaming of using these hands of his to create useful things and make life a little better. But in cruel Colchis, this dream was quickly ground to dust by reality. He thought he would die quietly in some forgotten corner like most wandering craftsmen, buried by the yellow sands along with his meager trade.

Unexpectedly, in the twilight of his life, upon these Southern Highlands, his nearly forgotten trade was not buried at all; instead, it was endowed with unprecedented value. Pastor Beichen trusted him, handing those precious Relics of Divine Descent over to him for safekeeping and maintenance; the Child of God Lorgar respected him, occasionally coming to consult him on matters of materials and structure; the settlement's youth were willing to learn from him, calling him "Master Buck."

This feeling of being needed and respected made him feel warmer and more fulfilled than any piece of purified salt brick or tanned sand beast hide.

"Grandpa Buck!" A crisp child's voice interrupted his thoughts. It was a little girl studying at the schoolhouse, running over with a flushed face and holding up a sheet of paper. "Look! I learned to write my name today!"

On the rough grey-brown paper, several crooked yet very earnest characters were written in charcoal. Old Buck could not read, but he recognized it as the little girl's name, taught by Pastor Lavoisier. He extended his rough hand, carefully touching those written marks, a heartfelt smile blooming on his face like a parched riverbed moistened by spring rain.

"Good, good child..." His voice was somewhat hoarse. "Study well, and make more useful things for our settlement in the future."

The little girl nodded vigorously and ran off cheerfully.

Old Buck gazed at her lively back, then looked back at this vibrant settlement before him. The windmill turned, cooking smoke rose, people bustled, and children laughed. All of this stemmed from the arrival of that Eastern pastor and the birth of that violet-eyed Child of God.

He thought of Ralte. That gloomy, oppressive city where people wore only numb or flattering expressions on their faces. He thought of the bloated upper-echelon priests of the Covenant Church and their hollow dogmas. By comparison, this place was the truly heaven-favored land.

Pastor Beichen had said they were building the "Earthly Heaven." Old Buck did not understand so many grand principles, but he felt that if heaven truly existed, it was probably just like this before his eyes—having food to eat, a house to live in, work to do, hope, and dignity.

The setting sun began to dip westward, dyeing the orange-red sky even more intensely and gilding the entire settlement with a warm golden rim. Old Buck paced slowly toward his stone house. His house was no longer the drafty shack from the beginning, but a sturdy, dry cottage built from mortar and stones. Inside, there was even a lamp made from cloudy glass and acetylene gas, allowing him to study the structural diagrams of those damaged parts given to him by Zhou Beichen by lamplight at night.

He knew he was old, his physical strength inferior to the youths, and he learned many new technologies slowly. Yet these old eyes of his had seen the deepest despair of Colchis and witnessed the most incredible rise on this land. These hands of his could still move and accomplish things. He would do his utmost to guard this hard-won heaven, for the Child of God, for Pastor Beichen, and for these children whose faces had regained smiles.

He stood at his doorway, casting one last glance at the settlement whose outlines grew increasingly clear in the twilight. The giant silhouette of the windmill reflected against the brilliant yet sickly afterglow, resembling a silent, steadfast guardian.

A calm, satisfied smile appeared on Old Buck's wrinkled face.