Above The Sky
Chapter 911 - 911 69 This Time We Will Not Lose!

911: Chapter 69 This Time, We Will Not Lose!

(6600, first update) 911: Chapter 69 This Time, We Will Not Lose!

(6600, first update) She was an ordinary village girl from the mountains, born into a tribe of moderate size, with parents who occasionally quarreled but were mostly harmonious, and a brother who was stubborn with her but always listened after his resistance.

She grew up in an environment that was neither strict nor easy, learned the family craft of weaving reeds and raising fish and shrimp in the reed ponds, knew children from a few neighboring families, played together, worked together, and thus grew up gradually.

One soft and sunny afternoon, she met the man who would become her husband.

It was a bright autumn day, with the lakeside forest tinged a light yellow, reflecting the dazzling, golden sunlight.

His deep blue eyes that seemed to speak stopped her in her tracks as she held her grass-cutting sickle, and he too stood rooted to the spot, locking eyes with the owner of those pale silver orbs, and then shyly smiled.

They quickly became familiar with each other.

He was a herbalist’s son who invited her to dance at the winter mountain-sealing festival.

Without hesitation, she accepted.

And by the next spring, they had married and soon welcomed a child, who inherited his father’s blue eyes, bright and lively, often giggling, irresistibly adorable.

These were her happiest days.

Her son was growing, she was expecting another child, and though her husband’s job was grueling, each time he returned from gathering herbs, he would bring her a potted plant.

Their stone cottage was simple but exceedingly cozy.

The backyard was filled with variegated colors, and when she stood there, surrounded by blooms, he would praise her as the most beautiful sight amongst the mountains.

The day she fell pregnant for the second time, they planted a Fifty Year Orchid in the backyard’s center.

This plant with deep blue blossoms lives long but grows slowly.

It takes ten months from sprouting to budding, coincidentally when the child would be born.

He told her that if it were a boy, then his future sons would not lack flowers to court girls with.

And if it were a girl, she would have the most exquisite and beautiful floral crown to wear at her wedding, second to none, not even a Chieftain’s daughter.

She didn’t speak, but instead leaned on his shoulder, happily gazing at the newly planted Fifty Year Orchid as if envisioning the long-term happiness ahead, filled with hope.

Then the famine came.

And soon after, War.

—There’s a group of Mountain People incited by the Fiery Flame Land instigating rebellion; we must stop these lunatics from destroying our homes and traditions, from desecrating our beliefs and honor!

—We’ll pick up swords and spears, we’ll draw bows and arrows, to defend our homelands, to protect our kin!

These were the Chieftain’s words.

The normally calm and somewhat simple Chieftain bellowed loudly, his voice echoing through the mountains.

No one could object, no one could refuse, because the War was not of their making; they were but forced to meet it.

The Chieftain took many of them away, including him.

In the backyard of the stone house, the Fifty Year Orchid grew slowly, spreading its roots, drawing sustenance from the earth and rainwater, while flowers bloomed in succession over time.

Yet she seemed drained of vitality, her heart unsettled, filled with apprehension and fear.

She gradually grew haggard but forced herself to eat plenty, for the child in her womb.

The food tasted bland, but she still stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed mechanically.

One piece of bad news after another came.

Their side was in constant retreat in the War, many had died, and most tribes were either swayed or conquered by the Independent Villagers.

Only those among the shores and lakes, according to the Imperial People, that is the Mountain People in the Frodo Autonomous Region, were still resisting.

Why resist?

Why did she wish not to resist?

Sometimes she pondered these questions, but then extreme panic would stop her thoughts short, unable to continue this train of thought.

But the reality was cold and indifferent, harsh and unmerciful.

On a gloomy, cloud-covered afternoon, she faced the day she had dreaded, the day when her worst premonitions became real.

A wooden coffin was brought back.

How lucky.

So many people disappear without a trace, the might of the Alchemical Cannons could not only smash city walls and fortresses but also the bones and corpses of men, while the power of firearms could rip apart Flesh and Blood, shatter bones, and distort bodies beyond recognition by those who held them dearest.

This was fortunate.

She staggered out of the stone cottage, and saw her husband’s parents wailing and throwing themselves on the wooden coffin.

The crudely made lid was opened, revealing a mostly intact but mangled corpse, those once deep blue eyes now starting to decay, filled with a murky Crystal haze.

She knelt to the ground, crawling toward the coffin.

She did not remember if she cried or how she made it back to bed.

She only knew that the next day the coffin was buried, and he would never return.

Half a month passed, and the Chieftain returned with news of victory.

But he also brought back many people who had lost limbs and parts of their bodies.

The news of victory could not wash away the gloom.

The streets of the tribe often saw disabled soldiers walking about, visibly panic-stricken, as if someone could shoot them from around any corner.

They would suddenly scream out loud, lock themselves in their homes, weep incessantly, and tremble facing the sun.