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墨書 Inktalez
Rain's words were like a match, igniting a deep-seated desire within the crowd.
More pedestrians stopped in their tracks—originally just passing office workers, laborers, vendors, and even a few delivery cyclists—drawn in by the emotion that spread like wildfire. The crowd began to gather around the convoy, growing denser, as if it were an instinctive trend; everyone seemed eager to hear a voice they could resonate with, longing to find a sense of belonging in this indifferent society.
Carter was no exception.
He had initially stood on the outskirts, quietly observing, but before he knew it, his feet began to move forward, inch by inch, drawn into the throng. He hadn’t done so intentionally; he wasn’t even aware he was moving. He simply felt a force pulling him—a vague attraction, an indescribable yearning.
He wanted to get closer.
He wanted to see this person more clearly.
He wanted to determine whether Francis Rain, standing atop the convoy, was genuine or just another scheming politician like all the others.
Navigating through the crowd, he felt shoulders jostling against him and heard snippets of conversation around him: “This guy’s words are way better than those useless people in government!” “Finally, someone is speaking for us!” “Damn it, this country really needs to change!”
Carter paid no mind to those voices; he continued forward, like a piece of driftwood pushed along by the tide, gradually moving toward the center.
At last, he reached the front row, with less than ten feet separating him from Rain—close enough to see every subtle expression on the man’s face, every gesture, every bead of sweat glistening in the dim sunlight.
Rain remained by the door of the vehicle, holding a megaphone as he waved his hands and spoke. His demeanor was passionate, his tone resonant and powerful; his eyes held a conviction that suggested every word he uttered was an unshakable truth. His smile was just right—not the forced grin of a trained politician but rather an authentic blend of confidence and approachability. Every gesture and pause seemed rehearsed countless times yet appeared completely natural and unforced.
Carter stared at him, trying to discern any flaws in this man's performance.
Was this real? Or merely a perfectly packaged act?
Was this man truly speaking for the people? Or was he just a master manipulator of hearts in this new era?
Carter's heart raced uncontrollably as his eyes locked onto Rain, desperately trying to decipher the truth from his gaze, his tone, and the arc of his waving hand.
Yet he found himself unable to be certain—
If this was a deception, it was executed so well that even he could not easily unravel it.
Rain stood by the car door, a loudspeaker firmly in his grip. His voice cut through the city's clamor like a sharp dagger, piercing directly into the ears of the crowd.
"Look at this country! Look at our government!" His tone was filled with anger and sorrow, rising and falling with intensity, each word packed with force.
"They tell us everything is wonderful, that the economy is growing, that society is progressing. But look at yourselves, look around you—Is it really like that?!"
Murmurs arose from the crowd; some frowned, while others nodded vigorously in agreement with his words.
Rain extended his hand, sweeping it across the entire street as if showcasing the true face of the city.
"Our factories have closed, our jobs have vanished, yet those bastards are raking in profits! Our communities are impoverished while the government takes our money to fill those so-called aid programs, feeding vampires that don’t even belong to our country!"
"Is this fairness?!"
A low roar of anger erupted from the crowd; some clenched their fists, their faces etched with long-suppressed dissatisfaction and frustration.
Rain's voice grew louder as he swung his hand dramatically, his gaze sweeping over everyone: "But the saddest part is not these economic failures; it is that—this country has lost its soul!"
"We have lost our patriots!"
The words struck like a heavy hammer, landing hard on the hearts of everyone present.
"Our ancestors shed blood and sacrificed their lives for this land, but what about now?" His voice was filled with sorrow and accusation. "People today only care about hiding in their little nests, scrolling through their phones, ordering takeout, doing meaningless jobs, completely indifferent to the future of this country!"
"They have forgotten what war is, forgotten what division means, forgotten what sacrifice entails!"
"They hide in their safe zones, living comfortable lives, yet they forget those who fought valiantly for this nation! Do you think this is fair?!"
A voice from the crowd shouted, "Unfair!"
"Do you think those warriors who fought for the country should be forgotten like this?!"
"They should not!" The crowd's shout grew louder this time, even tinged with anger.
Carter stood at the front of the crowd, his gaze fixed on Rain, his heartbeat quickening involuntarily.
He listened to these words as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat, making his breath come in quick gasps. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging deep into his palms as his blood began to boil.
Rain's words pierced deep into his heart, striking at a pain and anger he could not articulate.
Because this was exactly how he felt.
He was also one of those forgotten warriors.
Suddenly, Rain paused, scanning the crowd before raising a megaphone. His voice rang out powerfully, echoing down the street—
"Is there anyone here who has participated in the Civil War?!"
The words reverberated in the air, yet there was no response.
The entire square fell silent in an instant. The supporters who had been shouting and the people engaged in fervent discussions seemed to have suddenly lost their voices.
All that remained was the sound of the wind and the faint noise of traffic in the distance.
Carter stood at the front of the crowd, his heart pounding heavily against his chest.
Civil War...
For this group of people, that war had long since faded into a broken black-and-white image from the last century, existing only in some distant corner of history textbooks. But for him, it was a reality etched into his being with his own hands, with blood, and with the bodies of his brothers.
His body instinctively raised a hand.
It was such a natural motion that he didn't even realize he was doing it, like the daily training in the military, a conditioned reflex to obey orders.
Then he noticed that he was the only one raising his hand.
The only soldier present.
Rain's gaze immediately locked onto him, and the people around began to turn their heads, murmuring among themselves.
"Oh my God, he participated?"
"Is that true? Wasn't that battle a long time ago?"
"I thought those were things only old people experienced..."
"He doesn't look like a Veteran, though..."
Doesn't look like one?
When Carter heard this, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, a hint of helpless mockery rising within him.
To them, should "Veteran" be a group of people sitting in wheelchairs, wearing tattered jackets, wallowing in self-pity at the bar? Or those disabled soldiers holding their discharge medals during parades, pleading with the government for assistance?
No, he was not one of those.
But he was a part of all of them.
He stood there, bearing all their gazes, suddenly feeling like a specimen, like an ancient relic encased in glass, open for discussion and scrutiny about the era to which he once belonged.
But Rain did not hesitate.
His eyes flickered for a moment, then he raised his hand, pointed at Carter, and exclaimed—
"Friend, what is your name?"
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