Chapter 136: Dreams

You told me a story, an old Oriental story. ()

An old man dreamed that he had become a butterfly, and the dream was so clear that the old man finally didn't know whether the butterfly dreamed of himself or whether he dreamed of a butterfly.

The story of the Orient is always as simple as its poetry, and this story made me think about it for a long time. I often wake up in a dream and wonder if I am still trapped in some dream, but at this time, I can hear my familiar voice, see the people I know, and I soon stop worrying about what dreams I will stay in.

But what about my father?

That afternoon on the edge of the wetland, was my father still trapped in that dream?

He couldn't tell if he was the martyr of his dreams or the guardian of his family.

On that day, it seemed that the father was finally about to wake up from the butterfly dream, but in the end he turned into a dream butterfly and flew away.

The knight watched as his father threw his last chance to the ground. The knight buckled his mask and shook his head, whispering in a voice that we could just hear, and the soldiers could not catch, "I feel very sorry, Baron of the White Dove Valley. ”

After saying that, the knight chou took out his saber, then clamped the war horse with his crotch, and turned the horse's head towards the main formation.

The horse was as it had been when it had arrived, its muscular hooves gently kicking. I saw the knight's back slightly hunched, in sync with the horses in his crotch as he swayed up and down.

The knight pointed his sword, which was as clear as water, to the sky, and the soldiers looked at him, or rather at the sword in his hand.

Although my father had just made a rebellious declaration in front of everyone, it did not announce the breakdown of the negotiations. Only this knight, who was tasked with pre-war negotiations, could finally announce this.

The knight held up a silent silver flame. It would be nice if his sword had been returned to General Wright's side, in that case the negotiations had been successful, his father would be punished, and the soldiers would have returned to the garrison in glory. But alas, the knight lowered his hand slightly, and put aside the sword in his hand.

Like a bamboo leaf falling in autumn, the sword crossed an arc and pierced into the ground.

Negotiations broke down.

The knight didn't seem to pay any attention to the sword, he stepped over the sword and went straight back to the soldiers, who took the initiative to open a passage to welcome the knight's return, and the soldiers knew that this was the prelude to the slaughter that was about to begin—though the object was only a poor four, with the weight of the NV and the children.

The soldiers of the Empire may feel a little dishonorable about this, but in any case, it was an order from the Emperor himself, and the person who carried out the order was General Wright, who had just been incorporated into the Imperial Family. The soldiers tightened their swords in their hands, tightened the bows and crossbows in front of them, and moved the armor on their bodies slightly.

Everyone knows that the final moment has come.

After the negotiations broke down, a detachment of hussars came out.

The men seemed to have been waiting for a long time, and their leader was a slightly wounded junior officer with a black bandage on his hand—something he had specifically requested, as he thought the white bandage was too bright and looked humiliating. The officer had been slashed by his father a few days earlier and had his horse taken away from him.

He was supposed to hunt down my father from the forest and delay as much as he could, and give General Wright time to make a detour as fast as possible to my father's path. After receiving some information from the people of the Northlands, the officer and his soldiers, who had suffered considerable losses, abandoned the impassable forest and turned instead to the convenient and fast avenue. This allowed them to arrive at General Wright's station, the mouth of the wetland, half a day or so.

Father watched as the domineering officer pulled out a few captives with ropes: these were the longbowmen who had fought for themselves a few days before, wearing green dirty cloaks. Their longbows were either damaged or taken away. Ironically, my father saw in front of him the people who were supposed to be fighting for him behind his back.

"Arcadio," the officer shouted, "traitors have a traitor's fate"

He waved his hand, and several fierce soldiers pushed the longbowmen to the ground. The father didn't see who was in front of him, he didn't know if there were Sagron or Kenlahir among them, but was there any difference between them and not? Aren't those people fighting for themselves?

The soldiers behind the officer all craned their necks to watch the scene unfold.

The longbowmen had their cloaks removed, and they fell to their knees like lambs to the slaughter, muttering their last prayers.

"In place"

The officer roared with a prophecy full of joy.

Several soldiers in light armor with domed helmets and marching hoes walked behind the longbowmen.

The men compared the heads of the longbowmen slightly, and then leaned sideways to say something to the man who was about to be executed by themselves. Then, the men who had made the last preparations stood up straight, swayed from side to side and steadied the ground under their feet, and tightened the handle of the marching hoe with both hands.

Finally, the soldiers turned their faces sideways to look at the wounded officer, signaling that they were ready.

"Hands-on"

The officer's voice came again.

The soldiers raised their hands, and after a moment's pause, slammed the sharp tip of their hoes into the back of the longbowmen's heads.

Bones and brains splattered out, and the posture of the kneeling longbowmen did not change much, except for a sudden twitch of their eyes, and then the whole person fell forward like a puppet with a broken line. One man fell to the ground and his limbs were still writhing spasmally, as if he were still alive. One of the soldiers pulled out his dagger and went one by one to pick up the heads of the longbowmen, picking up their still warm heads with his left hand and slitting their throats with his right hand.

The blood and brains of the longbowmen soon drained open and flowed to the ground.

Looking at all this, we had dismounted, and the goblin covered my eyes.

Father turned around and said to the goblin, "Teacher, let go of Timmy." There was something he should see. ”

"A child should not see blood."

"No," my father shook his head, and I saw a strange glow in his eyes, "it's time for him to see the bloodshed." By the time I saw the bleeding, it was too late. Timmy take a look."

My father called to me, or rather commanded, "Look at it, that's my world, that's your grandfather's world, it's your world, we've covered our eyes and said they don't exist, but it's there to look at Timmy."

My father smiled in a crying voice and said, "Look at it, it's bloody."

My mother stood aside, and then came over and put her arms around my face, and put my head on her chest, "Adult"

"Arcadio," the goblin said in an almost pleading tone, "Tell the Emperor that you're not going to oppose him anymore, don't be stupid, are you still dreaming!" Timmy is going to die, and Adeline is going to die."

My father looked at the sword in his hand, and then at the dead longbowman in the distance, and I saw a look of despair creep up his cheek.

This miserable look has become more and more evident in the days of flight, and I wonder if this is a sign of the change that my father is underway. It's like waking up from a dream, and people can't help but get irritable.

It's painful, but it's necessary. After all, no one can live in a dream forever.

"Arcadio," the goblin yelled, "stop dreaming"

In the past, there was an old man who dreamed that he had become a butterfly—a lifelike butterfly;

Those glorious dreams, making the world an ideal appearance are like those described in those ancient classics - people can earn their own happiness with their own hands, and people can harvest their own future with their dreams. There is no more suffering, and people live in harmony. In the days of heaven, the men would go to the ground with the NV people to see the sown crops; In the summer, the soldiers discarded their armor and weapons and lay asleep in the green fields; In autumn, horse-drawn carriages loaded with ripe fruit drive into the bustling markets of Suno; In the winter, the old people would tell their grandchildren stories of suffering that would never happen again by the hearth.

You said, the old man felt very happy, leisurely, and didn't know who he was;

What a hard effort my father had put in. From the beginning, he used his kindness as the yardstick to govern his words and actions. He once fought to save a little NV child; He once offended his relatives and friends to save a village; Later, he disobeyed orders and attacked on his own just to save some refugees who had been abandoned by others; He went from battlefield to battlefield and never stopped. While doing this, he always felt that this was everything to him. That's his dream. Countless efforts will eventually pay off, and people will get a better world and a better future.

There will never be an old man who freezes to death in winter, and there will be no NV child who can't dance on the grassland in new clothes when the sky is in the sky. Are these my father's dreams, or are they his lives? Or is it better that his life is simply an illusory dream?

You said that suddenly, the old man woke up;

War came and went, but peace did not come. Suffering came and went, but happiness did not. The dream burns and cools, but the moment when it finally comes true never seems to come.

You said that the old man didn't know if he had turned into a butterfly or if the butterfly had turned into himself.

The father staggered two steps forward, his sword freeing itself from his hand and falling to the ground like the knight's.

Was my father's life just an illusory dream? Is it true that his so-called efforts are just bringing constant suffering to those around him?

If that's the case, I think my father will wake up.

The father straightened up, facing the glare of light, looking at the soldiers in the distance.

Yes, it's time to wake up.

The father picked up the sword on the ground, turned around and rode on the war horse, the war horse had a premonition, and he was restless and circled on the ground, restless. Father clenched his sword. In this way, one man and one thin horse, facing this world that does not welcome him.

It's time to wake up.

Even the price of waking up is to pay with life.