When the holy fire burns out, what will be born from the ashes?
Is it a new flame, or eternal darkness?
Five hundred years before the Holy Era, no one would ask this question.
At that time, seven holy fires burned across the land, and seven divine envoys resided high above the firmament, dividing the world into seven perfect puzzle pieces.
Wind, Water, Earth, Thunder, Ice, Fire, and Grass—seven elements flowed quietly in their respective kingdoms, like seven rivers that never converged.
It was an era of peace.
It was also an era of stagnation.
Five hundred years after the Holy Era, the divine envoys passed away, the elemental barriers shattered, and the world ushered in a frantic dawn.
People discovered amidst blood and fire that flames could devour flames, and ice could freeze thunder.
War swept across the continent like a wildfire; new elements were born in the slaughter: Light, Dark, Rock, and the desires buried deep within the human heart.
Five hundred years of peace were traded for five hundred years of war.
And in that autumn of the 870th year of the Holy Era, when the Land Battleship Titan of the German Empire broke through the gates of Paris.
No one would have imagined that in this all-consuming war, the crying of an infant would become the final elegy and the initial overture for France.
That infant had a name.
Furina de Fontaine.
(Because the author is terrible at naming, the protagonist’s name before transmigration is replaced with xxx; it’s not important anyway.)
Earth, 2026 AD, early summer.
xxx (the protagonist) got up early and checked her makeup in the mirror one last time.
In the mirror, she was wearing an exquisite blue and white dress, with that iconic top hat on her head, and a long, gradient-colored wig hanging down one side.
She spun around, her skirt lifting slightly, and nodded with satisfaction.
Furina.
The Hydro Archon, Furina.
Honestly, xxx didn’t play Genshin Impact; she was a “cloud player” who hadn’t even left the newbie village.
But the algorithm of Bilibili knew her too well; three months ago, it pushed a character montage of Furina.
Those heterochromatic eyes, that half-smiling curve, that temperament of nobility tinged with a sense of fragility, instantly struck her heart.
She watched that video seventeen times and then spent two months’ worth of living expenses to get this cosplay outfit.
“Comic Con, here I come!”
She winked at herself in the mirror, and those eyes wearing heterochromatic contacts winked back.
Sometimes fate is just like that, giving you a turn when you least expect it.
xxx walked on the way to the subway station, calculating in her heart how many cosers she would collect photos with today and how much merchandise she would buy.
She didn’t notice the red light at the pedestrian crossing, nor did she notice that out-of-control Dayun truck.
(Dayun: I’m coming~)
A huge crash.
Intense pain.
Then, endless darkness.
In the darkness, something was calling her.
A voice, distant yet clear, as if coming from the very bottom of deep water.
The voice was saying a word, over and over again.
France, France, France…
870th year of the Holy Era, autumn, Paris.
Fire.
Fire was everywhere.
The Iron Cross Titan Knights of the German Empire rolled over the streets of Paris like a torrent of steel.
Those three-meter-tall behemoths were pitch black, the runes of alchemy flickering at their joints, and with every step they took, the paved road cracked.
The knights controlling them were one with the Titan Knights, like giants stepping out of myths.
The French Army’s rifle bullets hit the Titan Knights, sparking tiny flames before being deflected.
Artillery shells could leave some marks on the Titan Knights, but those were merely marks.
Those wounds healed slowly under the influence of alchemy, and like a wounded beast, they became even more violent.
“Retreat!
Retreat!” The shouts of the French Army officer were drowned out by the explosions.
A Titan Knights raised its giant arm, the alchemical runes on its arm suddenly lit up, and a crimson beam of light erupted from its palm.
The barricade in front, along with the twenty French Army soldiers guarding it, instantly evaporated, leaving only a scorched, smoking crater in their place.
The spire of Notre-Dame de Paris appeared exceptionally lonely in the firelight.
The surface of the Seine River reflected the burning city, as if the entire river had turned into flowing fire.
And in some corner of the city, in an unnamed alley, an infant was crying.
No one knew where she came from.
The alley originally contained only burning ruins and two corpses: one was an old man in a priest’s robe, the other a young mother who had maintained the posture of protecting her arms until her death, but what she was protecting was only a tattered rag doll.
When the soldiers of the German passed by this alley, they didn’t even glance inside; a dead woman and a rag doll were not worth wasting any time on.
But after the soldiers’ footsteps faded away, an infant suddenly appeared out of thin air in the depths of the alley.
She just appeared there, lying on the cold ground, wrapped in a blue and white fabric.
The material of the fabric was unknown; it shimmered slightly under the firelight, embroidered with incomprehensible patterns that looked like flowing water, or perhaps some ancient runes.
The infant opened her eyes.
They were heterochromatic eyes; the left eye was a deep blue, and the right eye was a pale ice color.
In those eyes, the burning Paris was reflected, the collapsed houses were reflected, and the giant figures vaguely visible in the distant firelight were reflected.
The infant opened her mouth and began to cry loudly.
The crying was not loud, almost imperceptible amidst the explosions and shouts of killing.
But there was a strange power in that sound, as if it penetrated the flames, the smoke, and time and space itself.
An old man followed the sound and found her.
His name was Pierre Molière, formerly a theology professor at the University of Paris, a believer in the Holy Goddess, who had spent his whole life studying theological texts.
When the army of the German attacked, he did not flee.
At seventy-eight years old, where could he even run to?
He just locked himself in his study, flipping through those yellowed manuscripts for the last time, waiting for fate to arrive.
But he didn’t wait for death; he waited for a cry.
The sound passed through the walls, through the windows, through the roar in his ears, clear as if it were ringing right beside him.
He put down the manuscripts, walked out the door, and followed the direction of the sound.
He saw the infant.
The old man knelt down and picked up the infant with trembling hands.
The infant stopped crying, and those heterochromatic eyes looked at him quietly, as if asking, “Who are you?”
The old man saw the fabric wrapping the infant, with a name embroidered on it.
Furina de Fontaine.
Fontaine.
He had never heard of this surname.
But Furina, Furina, he had seen this name in an ancient book.
It was an angel under the Holy Goddess, the angel in charge of pure water.
The old man looked up, watching the burning city and the silhouettes of those steel giants in the distance.
“Are you a gift from God to France?” he muttered, “Or proof that God has abandoned France?”
The infant, of course, would not answer.
She just reached out her tiny hand and grabbed one of the old man’s fingers.
At that moment, the old man felt something flow into his body.
It was warmth, it was peace, something he had never felt in his seventy-eight years of life.
His eyes moistened.
“Let’s go, little Furina.”
He stood up, holding the infant.
“No matter who you are, from now on, we only have each other.”
…
The army of the German Empire ravaged Paris for seven days and seven nights.
They burned the palace, ransacked the churches, and took everything they could take.
The books in the National Library of France were used as fuel, and the paintings in the Louvre were used to start fires.
The only things they did not destroy were the bridges over the Seine River.
Not because they were merciful, but because they needed these bridges to transport the plundered wealth.
Seven days later, they left Paris in a grand procession, carrying their full load of supplies.
Before leaving, the empire’s general stood on top of the highest building in Paris, overlooking the city that had once been glorious.
“Is this the place abandoned by the Holy Goddess?”
He asked the adjutant beside him.
“Yes, General.
There is a lack of magic here; our mages have stayed here for seven days, and their magic levels have already dropped by fifteen percent.
If we were to occupy this place for a long time, it would be a huge drain on the empire’s mages.”
The general sneered.
“A barren land, a group of lowly people abandoned by God.
Let them live; living is more painful than dying.”
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