Chapter 602: The Ripples Stirred by the Bell Toll Echo in Their Hearts

The curtain on Queen Street rose and fell; tonight's nightfall was thicker than ever. The mist over the Flowing River dampened not only pedestrians' hat brims but also their tear-filled eyes.

At the entrance of the Colin Theater.

The audience did not disperse; many stood beneath the dim glow of gas lamps, bidding farewell to companions who had shared the performance.

In the corner, a young couple embraced tightly.

The girl's shoulders trembled slightly; her swollen eyes brimmed with mist—tears shed for "Eloise."

The boy patted her shoulder and whispered comfort, telling her the events on stage were not real, that such things could not happen in Lei Ming City.

But the girl suddenly lifted her head, her eyes reflecting the scattered streetlights.

"If one day… we ever face something like that, take me away from there."

Her voice carried heavy nasal congestion, suppressed sobs, and sincere emotion.

"I don't care if the bell rings for us, or whose blessings we receive—I only care about you."

That was what Eloise never said, but she believed it was surely her heart's voice… something that needed no lines to express.

The boy fell silent for a moment.

He did not utter any more dismissive words like "It's just the stage" or "Nobles would never notice us."

Instead, he extended his rough index finger and wiped away the still-damp tears on her cheek, looking into the eyes he cherished most.

"Leonora, I feel the same—I don't care if the bell rings. I only care about you."

"If anyone tries to take you from me, I won't beg for anyone's forgiveness… just remember to place a bouquet on my grave."

He had little money.

But if it meant protecting the home he loved, he would pick up a gun.

That heartfelt confession surpassed every lavish performance on stage; the two embraced in a deep kiss, and no one could tear them apart.

The most masterful "seduction" is never sweet words, but words born of the heart.

That night, many souls resonated, lost in their own tender reveries.

Across the entire metropolis, you'd struggle to find a succubus as brilliant as this…

…

The next morning, Lei Ming City awoke early.

Or rather, the city had not slept at all last night.

Before the newsboys' crisp cries could rouse the sleeping, a long line had already formed before the Colin Theater's ticket counter.

Everyone had heard of the miraculous performance; the Iris Troupe's fame was now firmly established by the fictional names of Eloise and Ma Xiu.

Now, the entire city had heard the theater's "bell"—the winding queue stretched halfway down Queen Street!

"Saint Cis above, don't these people have jobs?" Horace, crushed in the crowd, felt like a peanut.

Gazing at the endless line, he couldn't help complaining.

"The Council should pass laws forcing people to queue at home, book by letter—no more loitering on the streets during work hours!"

Clearly, they'd all taken the day off!

"Enough, Horace! Stop boasting about your useless title."

His wife, standing beside him, was complaining too.

From her prominent cheekbones, it was clear she bore the weight of the household; several small children depended entirely on her.

"... Saint Cis above, you're a councilor—can't you find a way for our family? Maybe ask Prince Colin for help?"

Hearing his wife's sarcasm, Horace's expression turned awkward.

He saw Saint Cis's stone statue every day, but he'd never laid eyes on Prince Colin—unless the prince suddenly decided to have a statue of himself erected.

Even if he ever met the prince, he'd never ask for help over something so trivial.

How absurd—Prince Colin sending his secretary to buy a theater ticket… maybe he'd send him on a ship instead.

At that moment, his young son looked up and pointed to the sign beneath the poster, speaking timidly.

"Dad, there's a VIP entrance that doesn't need to queue—and VIP boxes don't need to queue either."

Horace's eyes lit up; he knelt and placed his hand on his son's head.

"Oh, my little Horace, when did you learn to read so many words? Tell me, how much is one?"

"One hundred silver pounds."

How much?!

Hearing that crisp, pleasant voice, Horace instinctively shuddered; his broad palm slid from his son's head to his shoulder.

He stood up.

"Oh… my little Horace, that's no small sum. If it were the eight o'clock show, with Miss Qiqi performing live, I might consider buying one ticket for the whole family."

Though daytime performances were still handled by the Iris Troupe, last night's sensation—"Qiqi" and "Little Eagle"—would not appear in every show.

After all, human stamina is limited; even violinists rotate. How much more so for the energetic young men and women on stage?

This was true of every theater on the Os Continent.

Moreover, popular shows commanded higher prices. If "Eloise" herself performed, one hundred silver pounds wouldn't even buy a baron's box.

Not until her popularity faded, at least.

But Councilor Horace must reiterate—he wasn't short of one hundred silver pounds. He had plenty. He simply wanted to spend every single coin wisely.

That was why, despite lacking a noble title, he was so wealthy.

The children exchanged glances; the eldest whispered quietly.

"But I saw Councilor Dibico go in…"

Horace smiled and patted his shoulder.

"I know. But your father isn't like that kind of person—we stand with the people who support us!"

Behind Horace, his wife stared at him in stunned silence, as if meeting her husband for the first time today.

Saint Cis above…

She had never seen anyone so brazenly shameless!

Citizens in all manner of clothing queued like those in Dusk City waiting for relief rations.

Yet they were not truly the same.

These well-dressed citizens of Lei Ming City received not bread for survival, but "spiritual nourishment."

Tickets ranged from five copper coins for standing room to over a hundred silver pounds for VIP boxes.

But no matter the price, each ticket was bought with their own sweat—not granted by the ticket seller or Prince Colin as charity to exchange for someone else's labor.

Meanwhile, this grand theater differed from Theoden's Summer Palace: the "Bell" on stage rang for every single audience member.

Councilor Dibico sat in the baron's box from yesterday; stingy Mr. Horace squeezed into the theater too.

He and his wife each held a child, pulling the eldest by the hand, standing at the back.

Spotting this familiar face from above, Councilor Dibico spat inwardly, cursing the show-off as utterly shameless and hypocritical.

You don't have a hundred silver pounds? Neither do you, you bastard?

What are you pretending for?

Clear-eyed people clearly weren't fooled—but sadly, in Lei Ming City, year 1054 of the Os Calendar, clear-eyed people were still too few.

At least, the clear-eyed in this theater were far outnumbered by those in the "Third Council" set upstream on the Flowing River.

Not one person—not even Dibico—realized this abstract fool bought a standing ticket simply because he was cheap!

Buying hearts?

Ha! Horace's aides weren't here—he'd brought his family out to play while everyone was at work. He wasn't this clever.

Interestingly, not only Dibico recognized him; several dockworkers who'd bought standing tickets to watch the spectacle recognized his face too.

They'd seen him in the papers—not on the front page, but the quote printed there had moved them.

"... This city belongs not only to the respectable, but also to those not yet respectable."

That was Mr. Horace's speech in the Council.

He didn't just say it.

It was said he proposed the new industrial district's technical school, and even donated an old loom.

Though the machine was broken, the school's head and teachers spent considerable time repairing it.

Though Lei Ming City had many factory owners, he was likely the first—and still the only—willing to invest in the poor's future.

After all, Lei Ming City truly held his "shares."

They whispered among themselves, unable to believe they'd meet this nobleman here, and began betting on tonight's beer.

To decide who would buy the drinks, one bolder fellow stepped forward, feigning delight and extending his right hand.

"Hey, I think I know you—you're… that… uh…"

"Horace!"

Freeing one hand from his child, Horace smiled and gripped the calloused hand, not caring the man didn't know his name, shaking it firmly.

"What's your name?"

"Joe, Joey," replied the chimney-like man, stammering—he hadn't expected Mr. Horace to even acknowledge him, let alone shake his hand.

Saint Cis above… he'd only wanted to confirm it was him.

Nearby, the other workers either punched the air in excitement or removed their hats in dismay—no need to guess who lost the bet.

"Joe? Ha, great name. Have a good day."

With that, Horace glanced sideways and winked at his shy son.

He didn't care about this fish-stinking fellow—he only wanted to prove to his son he hadn't lied.

Look, your father isn't saving money.

He's buying people's support!

Never expected such a noble figure to shake his hand, Joey's cheeks turned as red as a steel mill boiler, and for a moment he didn't know what to do.

Let's be honest, the dockworkers of Lei Ming City are still too naive.

Horace spent not a single coin and still swindled their goodwill.

Watching her husband blather on, his wife said nothing this time, only glared at her eldest son to keep him from wandering off.

No matter how many eye rolls she gave behind closed doors, this stern lady would never say a single word against her husband in public.

Though their love wasn't as grand and boundless as Miss Eloise's, they still had their own little home.

And—

Even the utterly pragmatic Mr. Horace, as the curtain rose and fell, couldn't help shedding a few tears for that tragic love story.

Saint Sis above…

How could anyone be so cruel?

Twenty silver coins just to ring a bell… Say no more—hang this sacred ancient bell at Horace's front door!

He'll work for just five silver coins, absolutely fair to young and old alike. As long as the coins keep falling, his bell will never stop ringing!

"Damn… Fuck, the last time I cried was last time! This evil unequal treaty must be abolished!"

"Two souls united in love is the will of the gods—what right does some bell-ringer have to speak for them? Did he even ask Horace's opinion?!"

Mr. Horace, who had just blurted out a rare sensible remark, wiped his tears with his sleeve—and then offered the same sleeve to his wife, whose eyes were red from crying.

His wife grabbed the sleeve and blew her nose, gazing at him through tear-blurred eyes.

"If it were me… would you do for me what Matthew did?"

Seeing his wife's puffy, tear-swollen eyes, the grieving Horace nearly burst out laughing—it was the funniest joke he'd heard all day.

But of course, he held it in.

Though he was a Campbell man, he wasn't born a warrior, and he had no intention of facing a raging she-demon.

He wiped the sleeve against the hem of his coat.

"My dear, for you, I wouldn't just kneel like Matthew—I'd cut off my knees and send them to the lord as a chamber pot. He wants one? I'll give him two."

His wife glared at him, cheeks flushed.

"I must've been blind to fall for you—you'd rather cut off your own legs than open your purse, wouldn't you? Take your coins to the grave with you!"

"No… do you really think the lord wants money?" Horace said, half-laughing, half-crying. "They're far richer than you or I."

"Enough. Am I married to the lord? You don't understand me—I want your attitude!" His wife glared at him with tear-swollen eyes.

Horace couldn't help a quiet scoff inside—he feared most when women said this, because it usually meant they didn't even know what they wanted themselves.

Fine.

Horace thought seriously: if he were Matthew, and the unseen lord were Prince Corin…

Hmm…

Perhaps he should talk to his wife?

After all, he didn't care about virtue or chastity, his wife was happy, and he'd had the honor of meeting Prince Corin.

Wasn't that all good?

Let's be honest, the Lei Ming City Council wasn't much nobler than His Majesty Theoden's council, even though both carried the name "Council."

But the scripts they received were different, after all.

And the honorable Mr. Horace didn't voice his blasphemous thoughts to his wife—instead, he pulled out the tissue he'd bought long ago but never dared use, and handed it to her.

"My dear, I was indeed rude just now. But this new coat—I saved up for ages to buy it. Next time, use this instead?"

Not only did his wife stop crying and smile, but the children joined in laughing too.

…

The daytime theater was quieter than the nighttime one.

Those who stole moments of leisure were few; most still had to work. Only day-labor dockworkers and citizens on their scheduled breaks had time to come watch.

Even so, that number was still large.

Beyond the theater and the Iris Troupe, who made a fortune, the real winners were the vendors outside selling tissues, handkerchiefs, and silk cloths.

Their goods sold even better than theater tickets.

After all, past operas on Queen Street had never moved people to tears like this, and not every gentleman carried such things with him.

But soon, they'd form a new habit.

The ladies of the northeastern shores of the Vortex Sea would never respect a man more because "Rokse 1053" ended quickly—but perhaps they'd press a hand to their mouths in delight, knowing these young men always kept a tissue in their pockets.

Ladies, too, were the same.

The bell echoing on stage stirred their resonance because everything Eloise cherished was precisely what they cherished.

The name "Eloise" spread like a sudden wildfire, blazing across the entire city overnight.

Giant posters hung on all four walls of the theater—her tender portrait was no longer just a simple painting.

It had become a flag.

Or rather, a symbol.

Though the flag bore no slogans of rebellion, it carried more thunderous power than any tangible banner.

For most laborers who toiled daily, the word "feudal oppression" was too distant, and they could endure it with a sigh.

Complex sociological definitions and theories of personal dependency were even more obscure to common folk who'd never read many serious books.

Not only could they not understand them—they might misunderstand them entirely, and end up kissing the noose as if it were a lifeline.

But the bell everyone had heard made it all tangible.

Campbell people might not have had higher education, but nearly all had known love and endured the pain of reality.

And once pain had a name, became something you could speak of and see, it gained the power to pierce the heart.

Even those who disagreed were pierced by it.

This was what feudalism feared most.

After all, even Baron Gus found resonance in the play—how much more so those living in this age?

…

The bell of feudalism rang out, awakening the citizens of Lei Ming City's longing for republicanism—and it also struck deep within the restless heart of Mr. Andes.

The Andes Bank Building office.

Jan Andes stood by the window, a half-burned cigar pinched between his fingers.