Alice in the Land of Steam

Chapter 1340: Has the story returned to its starting point?
Saint Charlotte closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. Her pupils transformed into pure golden vortexes, reflecting countless crisscrossing, surging threads of destiny. As time was traced back to its end, and the cause and effect of the world began to repeat themselves, she was no longer an observer, but the most cautious craftsman, the most meticulous weaver, and also the most resolute destroyer and reshaper—destroying existing destinies and reshaping future ones.

As she reached out, the thread, like a tangible being, gathered at her fingertips, awaiting a touch. Was it an invitation? Or an impatient request? Even fate itself wanted to change, for to it lay the unknown. The unknown is mysterious, the mysterious is profound, and the profound is the destiny of all beings, like an eternally tranquil homeland. Perhaps when Mother created destiny, she had already foreshadowed change? But before she could ponder the answer, her fingertips had already gently touched a delicate thread, or rather, a sturdy string.

The first thread belongs to a soldier from an obscure port town in the Mindelias Empire. The town is perpetually shrouded in the salty sea breeze, its narrow streets damp and muddy, a place where the smells of fishing and poverty mingle. He had a less-than-ideal childhood, irresponsible parents, and a less-than-warm family. Perhaps this is why he yearns so deeply for emotional comfort. He is lonely and lost, like many wandering souls in this world. But a chance encounter changes him; a warm moment becomes an unforgettable memory, and a marriage that unfolds naturally truly redeems him. To fulfill his responsibilities as a husband and father, he ponders the inflammatory slogans on the recruitment leaflet all night before finally boarding the ship bound for a foreign land, promising to bring her the happiness she desires when they meet again, even at the cost of the misfortunes of many strangers. In the end, he breaks his promise, not even dying on the battlefield, but succumbing to illness caused by the unfamiliar environment, still longing for his family on his deathbed.

Fate recorded everything about him, like a black and white storybook, filled with regrets. But oh, mortal, if you were given a second chance, would you understand that true happiness lies not in how much you possess, but in how much you can grasp? The maiden Wang Quan, named Fate, gently guided him, her fingertips trembling slightly. The string, plucked by her will, changed its slight curve, connecting to a brand new future. In that future, she saw the man suddenly realize his mistake, tearing the flyer to shreds, letting it be blown away by the sea breeze, vanishing without a trace. He didn't choose to leave, but stayed, living a simple life with his wife and daughters. Their days, though bitter like sea salt, were not without their joys. When he woke up in the middle of the night, embracing his wife and crying, "I dreamt I lost you both," he would receive the gentlest reply, "Please don't be afraid, we've always been by your side."

Fate has always been by your side.

Saint Charlotte felt a gentle force being drained from her body, but she didn't take it to heart and continued to pluck the next string.

The second string belongs to a young rebel soldier, who should have been struck by a stray bullet on the charge, his blood spilled on the cold earth. Sainte-Charlie's fingers, with undeniable strength, forcefully plucked the string representing death. The soldier returned to his homeland, standing stunned on the endless ridges of the fields, seeing the golden waves of wheat—the harvest season. The man who had once helped him, now gruffly berating him, had a familiar yet so strange face. He vaguely remembered being called "Father," a title that, though never truly gone, stirred a powerful urge to tears.

The soldier, sickle in hand, clumsily followed the man, mimicking his posture and movements, awkwardly and clumsily harvesting the ripe crops in the field. As the sickle struck the wheat stalks, he experienced a hallucination, mistaking the golden ears of wheat for a blood-stained head, and the sickle for a rusty sword. He brandished the sword, about to sever the man's head, a movement far more practiced than his wheat-harvesting. The man was startled, then realized everything was normal. Had he just imagined it? He told himself, "I've never killed anyone."

From now on, you will no longer need to kill anyone.

More strength was draining away, like blood gushing from a wound. A slight fatigue, like exhaustion after a long journey, made the girl momentarily dazed, but she remained unmoved.

The third string, the fourth string… countless strings. She plucked them precisely, correcting them, causing a colonial officer to be accidentally knocked away by his comrade before pulling the trigger; causing a group of soldiers who were supposed to break into the rebel army's secret camp to deviate from their course because of a startled hare; causing a crucial artillery bombardment to be delayed by fatal seconds due to a delayed order… Every tiny change, like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, created tiny ripples in the countercurrent of fate, leading countless predetermined deaths to the fork in the road of life.

Fate has its own destiny. Changing one's fate cannot change the fate of the world. Therefore, those historical events that profoundly affect the world order will still happen: the colonial legions of the Mindrias Empire are still approaching, the war between the Axis powers and the Kingdom of Noah will still break out, and the Gray Hills will still face the threat of losing freedom and peace... But the girl firmly believes that as long as enough fates are changed, even the smallest ripple can stir up a storm.

At least, those who are already alive will live happier lives, those who should have died will have a second chance, and those who should have died long ago should not linger on... Meetings, encounters, separations and reunions, all kinds of fates in the mortal world are contained within this.

Among the countless strings plucked by these hands, familiar faces would always be touched. When fingertips brushed against certain particularly resilient threads, shimmering with a unique brilliance, the girl felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Saint Charlotte did not intend to change the path of those who held firm beliefs and lofty ideals, but she would do her best to clear obstacles for them, preventing the many unwarranted sorrows that would arise in the process of practicing their beliefs and pursuing their ideals.

Who says great undertakings must be accompanied by pain and sacrifice? Surely there are less difficult paths too?

The war between the Kingdom of Noah and the Mindrias colonial legion continues, its shadow looming over this ancient land. As expected, Roglia, the original God of Night, perched atop his throne, makes the same choice. In his life's creed, betrayal, sacrifice, and abandonment seem to have become instinctive. Meanwhile, the noble descendant of the Borg family, the protectors of the faith, also chooses the latter, rebelling against the gods. But this time, he will not allow a momentary lapse to cause the original God of Night to be severely wounded and forced to flee, nor will his plan fail. Under the manipulation of an unseen hand, fate subtly shifts. Perhaps it was merely a whim that caused the deeply suspicious original God of Night to emerge unprepared from his most fortified shell; perhaps it was just an unintentional encounter that led the helpless son of the protectors to accidentally acquire another powerful sacred relic…

Countless coincidences shaped their final fate. The God of the Night, who had attempted to betray the church and its followers to save his own life, ultimately died at the hands of his own most devout believer. The son of the protector of the church, who had personally slain the god, ascended to demigodhood after this battle and naturally became the backbone of the now-deposed Church of the Night. He did not abandon his ideals despite his changed status and power, and without hesitation led the Church of the Night into the war against the colonizers. Under his charismatic influence, civilian rebels, adventurers, and even mercenaries from the Grayhills flocked to fight for the ideals of freedom and peace. A new banner was rising high. Whether by coincidence or historical inevitability, Carson Borg still named this great alliance the Liberator Front, and he still received the title destined to accompany him for life: the Eagle of Grayhills.

Under the fierce resistance of the Liberators' Front, the Mindrias Empire's colonial army encountered fierce resistance as soon as they set foot on the Gray Hills, making no progress for a long time. Even when they managed to capture one or two important strategic targets, such as the mining town of Lostella, they were quickly lost again under the cruel hand of fate. When the Western Continent colonists attempted to control the town of Lostella to provide them with a continuous supply of minerals and iron, a mining foreman named Giovanni resolutely led his spirited miners in an uprising against the colonists' tyranny. This time, there were no traitors to betray their plans, so the uprising progressed exceptionally smoothly, sweeping across the entire mining area like wildfire. The unsuspecting colonial army was ruthlessly driven out of this town named after rocks. After the war, among the cheering crowds, you would see the figure of a red-haired girl; although she was young, her eyes were full of liveliness and intelligence. Years later, Giovanni entrusted the resistance organization he had built, the Brotherhood of Miners, to a young girl named Regina. Regina led the Brotherhood to join the Liberator Front, fighting alongside many like-minded comrades for peace in Grayhill. At the Liberator Front headquarters in the Grayhill city of Suarez, the girl met the man revered as the Eagle of Grayhill. For some reason, seeing the legendary hero in person didn't make her nervous; instead, she felt a sense of déjà vu, as if she had seen this man long ago, a feeling shared by the man himself. What they discussed that day remains unknown; all that is known is that from then on, the Eagle of Grayhill was often seen accompanied by a graceful red-haired figure, like the wings of an eagle.

The story continues, altering the fates of many. A man named José Aschel, a squire, murders his lord, to whom he swore allegiance, for failing to fight the colonists and contemplating surrender, thus betraying his knightly honor. He believes that his act of regicide condemns him to a life of exile and wandering. However, as the young squire leads his weary horse along a muddy border path, rain mingling with blood streaming from his armor, he looks up to see the eagle of Gray Hill riding towards him through the rain, followed by his loyal followers. Upon learning of his deeds, the followers smile with admiration, recognizing the true virtues of a knight, and invite him to join the rebellion, to fight once more for freedom and justice. And so, the pale knight's shadow quietly melted into the river of his past life, and the new knight galloped across the battlefield, fighting for his homeland and earning the respect of all.

Thanks to the relentless resistance of the Liberators' Front, the flames of war raged only on the border, not yet reaching the deeper heartland. Thus, this small, inconspicuous territory remained peaceful; no one discussed the war, as if it had never existed. Except for the youngest daughter of a scribe whose family had served the lord for generations. She seemed particularly interested in the distant war, constantly searching for traces of its existence in books, the poems of bards, and the rumors circulating in the countryside. This seemed like a strange hobby for a girl, but the naturally taciturn girl neither explained nor mentioned it to anyone. She always harbored a premonition that one day she would personally participate in that war, laughing joyfully or weeping sorrowfully for many people she didn't yet know.

Such a premonition was illogical, yet the girl believed it without question. Three months after the outbreak of war, she left a letter, bid farewell to her hometown, and embarked on a path that seemed unknown, but was actually predetermined many years ago, perhaps even longer. Three months later, as she stood before the towering walls of Suarez, a memory flashed through her mind, only to be interrupted by a hesitant and stiff voice: "Um, hello, are you also... also here to join the rebels?"

She turned around and found a boy about her age standing in front of her. He looked travel-worn, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He had short, slightly curled blond hair and bright amber eyes, and was looking at her with a cautious yet expectant gaze.

Still the same as before... so silly.

The girl couldn't help but think about it, but she didn't realize that this was actually their first meeting a long time ago.

“No,” the girl replied calmly, “I have come to become a follower of the goddess.”

The boy was completely bewildered: "Which goddess?"

"The one and only goddess." The girl pursed her lips and added, "The goddess in my dreams."

The impromptu conversation didn't continue because the boy couldn't understand her. But that's alright; she seemed like an easy person to get along with. Perhaps he'd found a suitable companion?
"By the way, my name is Mitch. What's yours?"

"...Kadora."

……

The story goes around in circles, returning to its starting point and then to its end.

Give me some cats