Leaving the factory, Clemenceau took her to the last stop: the shelter.
It was a dilapidated old church, its steeple cross crooked, half the stained-glass windows shattered.
A long line stretched out the door, endless.
The queue was filled with everyone—the elderly, children, women, men; some with missing legs, some blind, others covered in wounds.
They stood in silence, soundless and expressionless.
Furina stood in the distance, watching them.
She saw a young mother cradling an infant.
The baby was crying, a thin, weak sound like a kitten mewling.
The mother lowered her head, kissing the baby’s forehead with chapped lips, tears sliding down silently.
She saw an old man, his back bent like a bow, leaning on a broken wooden stick.
He stood for a while, his legs beginning to tremble, before he slowly slid down and sat on the ground.
People nearby glanced at him, but no one reached out to help.
She saw a boy, perhaps in his teens, leaning against the wall.
His eyes gazed into the distance, toward a direction invisible from the shelter.
Furina’s eyes felt hot.
She turned, looking at Clemenceau.
The old man stood quietly behind her, saying nothing.
He simply watched her.
“Anything else?” Furina asked.
“There is much more,” Clemenceau said.
“This is just a corner of Paris.
Throughout all of France, such places are everywhere.”
Furina remained silent for a long time.
The sun had slanted westward, the sunset’s afterglow spilling onto the dilapidated church, plating those gray figures in a faint gold.
Someone started singing, an ancient hymn.
The singing was intermittent and uneven, but in this twilight, it held an indescribable tragic grandeur.
Furina suddenly remembered the day she was born.
Paris was Burning that day, too.
The flames reddened half the sky; everywhere, there were cries of slaughter and weeping.
But she had survived.
Why?
She did not know.
But she knew that the old man who had picked her up had given her the chance to live.
And what of those children?
Those children laboring in factories, those waiting to die in alleys, those husks queuing at the shelter’s entrance…
Who would give them a chance?
“Mr.
Clemenceau.”
“Hmm?”
“If I agree, what do I need to do?”
Clemenceau looked at her, silent for a moment.
“Have you decided?”
“Not yet,” Furina said, “but I am willing to try.”
Clemenceau nodded.
“If you agree, first, you must join the Radical Party and succeed as its leader.
Then, you must run for President.
The election is in December; there is less than three months left.”
“Three months…”
“In these three months, you must travel across France, go to every city, every town, and meet everyone you can.
You must let them see you and hear you speak.”
“What should I say?”
“Say what you want to say,” Clemenceau said.
“Don’t use those political clichés.
Just say what you saw today, how you feel, and what you want to do.
Keep it simple and authentic.”
Furina was silent for a while.
“And if I am elected?”
“If you are elected, I will be by your side.
I will help you handle the things you don’t understand and deal with those old foxes.
You only need to do one thing.”
“What thing?”
“Don’t forget today.”
Clemenceau looked at her.
“Don’t forget these people, these places.
This is the starting point for everything you do.”
Furina looked at him and nodded earnestly.
“I won’t forget.”
Clemenceau smiled.
“Good.
Let’s go back.
There is much to prepare for tomorrow.”
The carriage carried them through the streets of Paris.
The scenery outside the window changed from slums to factories, from factories to ordinary neighborhoods, and from ordinary neighborhoods to the wealthy district.
Passing through each district was like crossing into an entirely different world.
Furina watched out the window, saying nothing.
She didn’t know if this decision was right or wrong.
She didn’t understand politics or statecraft; she was just an actress.
But those children…
Those children laboring in factories, those waiting to die in alleys, those husks queuing at the shelter’s entrance…
If she didn’t do it, who could?
She thought of her past life, of that distant Earth she could never return to.
Those lessons taught her: when poor, cultivate your own virtue; when prosperous, bring good to the world.
She had never been “prosperous.” Just an ordinary girl.
But now, she had fame, influence, fifth-tier magic, and three loyal attendants.
She possessed so much.
How could she pretend not to see?
The carriage stopped at the entrance of Furina’s apartment.
Clemenceau stepped out first, then reached out to help her down.
“At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, I will send someone to pick you up.
First, go to the Radical Party headquarters to meet the members.
In the afternoon, there is a press conference to announce your joining and succession as party leader.”
“Okay.”
Clemenceau looked at her, hesitating to speak.
“Is there something else?”
“There is one thing I want to tell you.” The old man weighed his words.
“From today on, many people will be watching you.
Some want to use you, some want to harm you, and some want to bring you down.
You must be careful.”
“I know.”
“And…” he paused, “no matter what happens, don’t forget today.”
Furina nodded.
“I won’t forget.”
Clemenceau smiled, turned, and got into the carriage.
The carriage slowly departed, vanishing into the twilight.
Furina stood at the entrance, watching the direction the carriage had gone for a long time.
“Master?” Lady Haima’s voice came from behind.
“You’re back?”
Furina turned, seeing that gentle, concerned face.
“Yes.”
“Dinner is ready.
Miss Sebeleida tried a new recipe today, and Lord Uther bought the bread you love…”
Furina listened to her chatter, a Warmth surging in her heart.
No matter how cold the outside world was, she always had her family in this small apartment.
“Haima.”
“Hmm?”
“Starting tomorrow, I might become busy.”
Lady Haima froze for a moment, then smiled.
“It’s fine, Master.
We will follow you.”
Furina nodded and walked through the door.
The living room was lit with warm light; Miss Sebeleida was plating food, and Lord Uther was helping in the kitchen.
Everything was as usual.
But everything was different.
That night, Furina lay in bed, unable to sleep for a long time.
She stared at the ceiling, thinking of everything she had seen today.
Those people in the alleys, those children in the factories, those husks queuing at the shelter’s entrance.
And Clemenceau’s words.
“Don’t forget these people, these places.”
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual.
Early the next morning, the streets and alleys of Paris exploded with commotion.
The front page of the Paris Daily used an entire section to publish an explosive piece of news.
“The Rose of France joins the Radical Party!
Ms.
Furina succeeds as party leader and will run for President!” New chapters come out on g.com first.
Below the news was a photo.
In the photo, Furina stood at the entrance of the Radical Party headquarters, wearing a simple blue suit, offering a faint smile to the camera.
All of Paris was discussing this matter.
In a café, several workers were discussing it while drinking watered-down, inferior coffee.
“Did you hear?
That actress Furina is running for President.”
“I heard.
Quite interesting.”
“What’s interesting?
It’s all the same whoever you vote for.”
“That’s not the same.
I saw that girl once, on the street.
When those eyes of hers look at you, you just feel…”
“Feel what?”
“Feel…
that living is still somewhat meaningful.”
The newsboy on the street corner held up the newspaper, shouting at the top of his lungs: “Extra!
Extra!
Ms.
Furina running for President!”
The newspapers were quickly sold out.
Ordinary people who usually never cared about politics began to discuss the election for the first time.
“Who are you voting for?”
“Furina, I guess.
You?”
“I’m voting for her too.
I don’t know the others anyway.”
“But she’s an actress…”
“So what if she’s an actress?
At least actresses haven’t been greedy for money, right?”
“…That makes sense.”
In the wealthy district, several noblewomen were discussing it at a tea party.
“That actress running for President?
What a joke.”
“Indeed.
What does she know about politics?”
“Though…
I do quite like watching her plays.
She looks so good on stage.”
“Yes, those eyes, absolutely stunning.”
“So who are you voting for?”
“Me?
I’m obviously voting for whoever my husband supports.
But my husband said that if Furina really runs, he might consider it.”
“Consider it?
Consider voting for her?”
“Yes.
Since they’re all rotten anyway, why not choose one that’s good-looking?”
In the slums, a few people were huddled around a tattered newspaper.
“Furina?
That actress?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Running for President…
what can she do?”
“Don’t know.
But surely better than these bastards right now, right?”
“True.”
Someone looked at the photo in the paper, staring at those eyes for a long time.
“These eyes…
why do they make me want to cry when I look at them?”
“Me too.
Don’t know why, just feel very warm.”
“Maybe…
maybe she really can do it?”
“Maybe.”
On this day, all of Paris was talking about the same name.
Furina de Fontaine.