Night had fully fallen. In the open ground at the center of Greenwood Village, a huge bonfire blazed. Orange-red firelight leapt in the night wind, casting the thick tree trunks and ancient vines around them into shifting brightness and shadow. The night in the primeval forest-sea was not quiet—unknown insects chirped, night birds cried, and distant beastly growls rumbled faintly, weaving together into a living symphony.
However, at the long-table area where the Capitano's crew sat, the loudest sound was a certain captain's utterly shameless belch.
"Burp— I can't, I can't…"
Giovanni lay sprawled in a wide wooden chair lined with soft animal hide. He had undone several buttons of his normally crisp, gorgeous red coat, exposing the white silk shirt beneath. He rubbed his belly—which had clearly grown a size—and stared lifelessly up at the starry sky between the treetops.
"I swear, this is the wildest meal I've ever had—and also the most impossible to stop eating. The High Priestess's cooking is god-tier… but, whew, this captain's stomach capacity has reached a physical limit. Even if someone put dragon meat in front of me right now, I absolutely, absolutely couldn't eat another bite!"
Across from him, Miguel was picking his teeth with a sharpened twig. Hearing Giovanni complain, Miguel rolled his eyes hard and snorted out mercilessly:
"You've got the nerve to say you can't eat anymore? You're the one who ate the most! That whole leg—don't know what beast it was—dozens of pounds. At least half of it went into your belly! I thought you were the reincarnation of some sea monster that hadn't eaten in half a month. Your table manners were more savage than those Federation bandits."
"This is called respect for cuisine! A taste-dead idiot like you who can only burn his tongue numb with chili wouldn't understand." Giovanni retorted weakly. He didn't even have the strength to lift a hand and argue with Miguel anymore.
Hearing the two bicker, Anya—carrying a plate of fresh berries—couldn't help covering her mouth and giggling.
She had changed out of her formal dress and now wore a light, coarse-cloth skirt, looking especially lively in the firelight. She set the berries on the table and said with an apologetic yet faintly proud tone:
"It's okay. If you Drifters can't eat anymore today, you can save room and eat tomorrow. Because starting tomorrow, there will be twelve consecutive days of the most important festival for Greenwood Village—and even for the natives of the entire continent. Everyone will have many, many chances to share food together!"
"Twelve consecutive days?"
Giovanni forced himself upright. In his always-curious eyes, a flicker of surprise appeared.
"That's a serious undertaking. Honestly, little Anya, this captain has sailed between oceans and continents for years—I've seen quite a lot. I've seen sea god festivals that last three days and three nights, and mask balls that go on till dawn, but a custom where twelve straight days are all festivals… that's truly unheard of. Can your stomachs and stamina handle that?"
Anya blinked, her expression turning solemn and mysterious. She raised a slender finger and pointed toward the deepest part of the village, in the direction of the darkest forest where even moonlight couldn't penetrate.
"Because this time it's different." Anya's voice softened, as if afraid to disturb some sleeping, magnificent existence. "Because the sacred tree's rings have reached 21,998 turns. When we reach 22,000 the day after tomorrow, we'll welcome the new Annual Ring Era!"
"Annual Ring Era?" Giovanni was clearly unfamiliar with this earthy term. He lifted a brow. "What kind of unit is that? From 21,998 to 22,000… your tree grows pretty casually, huh?"
At this moment, Frank—who had been sitting nearby, sketching and writing in his notebook by firelight—paused his charcoal pencil. He pushed up his glasses. In those eyes that always carried a hint of laziness, the wise glow of a historian now shone.
"Oh, I've actually heard of this."
Frank let out a faint smoke ring and began explaining at an unhurried pace:
"'Annual Ring Era' should be the native timekeeping unit on this primeval continent. Unlike the outside world, which uses solar calendars or lunar calendars, they calculate time based on the number of rings on that legendary 'sacred tree.' For a civilization that lives symbiotically with the forest, the growth grain of a tree is the most sacred history book."
He turned to Giovanni and offered an easy analogy. "So the '22,000' arriving the day after tomorrow has extraordinary significance. It's probably like the outside world celebrating a new century, or a millennium. A great junction where a long era ends and a new era begins. No wonder the celebration must be so grand."
As he spoke, Frank's gaze shifted to Anya, his tone carrying a scholar's probing interest:
"However, Miss Anya—you just said that starting tomorrow, there are twelve consecutive festival days. Since this is a major rite welcoming a new era, I'd assume each day has complex and special sacrificial meaning and tedious procedures? Like day one worshiping the earth, day two worshiping the water source, and so on?"
"Uh…"
To Frank's surprise, Anya scratched her cheek awkwardly and waved her hands repeatedly.
"It's really not as complicated as you described. Other than midnight on the final day—when everyone underage in the village must gather in front of the temple to undergo the coming-of-age ceremony of 'receiving memory'… during the first eleven days, there won't be any other sacrificial activities."
"No sacrificial activities?" This time, Faith was the one surprised. The strategist who believed in logic and efficiency frowned slightly and asked in confusion, "Then what are villagers doing during a festival that lasts twelve days?"
"Sharing food, singing, dancing, and resting." Anya answered as if it were obvious. "In the end, what we need to do is strictly follow the teachings passed down by our ancestors—during the sacred days when the old rings and new rings change over, we put down our farm tools and weapons, let the forest and the land breathe, and let people's hearts return to peace. That's how we celebrate."
Faith's frown deepened.
"Uh… I don't really understand." Faith shook his head, analyzing in an extremely rational tone. "If a festival lasts twelve days but lacks systematic rituals to strengthen the cohesion of belief, and exists merely for rest and pleasure, then from a sociological and social-management standpoint, it's very inefficient. It's difficult for it to form a sufficient spiritual barrier when facing external threats—like the Federation troops earlier today."
Hearing Faith's utilitarian, "modern civilization illness" kind of remark, Giovanni couldn't help bursting into laughter.
"Hahaha! Faith, my good strategist—did the gears in Port Alexandra jam your brain?"
Giovanni stood up, walked to Faith, and slapped his shoulder hard.
"You have to understand: faith has never been reasonable. Before faith, you can only choose 'believe' or 'don't believe,' not dissect it with your cold logic to decide whether you 'understand' or 'don't understand.'"
Giovanni turned and looked at the villagers by the bonfire, holding hands and dancing in a cheerful, utterly unstructured way. Pure smiles spread across their faces; there was no sign that they had faced life-and-death danger earlier in the day.
"But if you look at it another way." Giovanni's gaze grew a little deeper. "This kind of custom that seems inefficient to outsiders—even strange and casual—is actually the unique human spirit here. They revere nature, yet don't torment themselves with pointless formalities; they face war, yet still sing at night with full voice."
"Human spirit?"
Anya caught the unfamiliar term. She tilted her head like a sponge thirsty for water and stared at Giovanni curiously. "What is that? Is it something you can eat, or some powerful spell?"
"Uh…"
Giovanni immediately got stuck. As a pirate captain, tricking people or giving battle speeches was his specialty; but precisely defining a term from philosophy and history was absolutely deadly.
"This… is really not easy to explain." Giovanni rubbed his nose awkwardly and decisively tossed the hot potato to the professional beside him. "Hey, you over there—historian, our ship's chief cultural consultant! Got a good way to summarize this 'spirit' thing?"
Frank shot Giovanni an annoyed look, but he still set down his charcoal pencil. Facing Anya's clear, eager eyes, he thought for a moment and organized his words.
"Uh, let me think."
Frank's voice was low and steady, carrying a calm power that quieted the heart.
"Simply put, 'humanistic spirit' is a tradition of thought and cultural pursuit centered on human value, dignity, freedom, and full development. It advocates being people-oriented, respecting human nature, and paying attention to human living conditions and the inner world—rather than treating people as tools, or as expendable material under some grand narrative."
He gestured toward the laughing villagers by the bonfire, then toward Anya.
"Like your festival. If you followed rigid religious rules, for these twelve days you might have to kneel in the mud every day, fast, and torture yourselves to prove piety. But your ancestors didn't do that. They let you eat and stay warm. They let you sing and dance."
"By that standard, people like you, Miss Anya—future clergy—your village's priestesses across generations have actually done very well. You know how to adapt; you know compassion. You should try not to force everyone into fanatical belief, harsh compliance, or moral standards identical to yours. You allow villagers to have their own joy—that is a great humanistic spirit."
Anya listened, spellbound. Firelight danced over her face, and in those young eyes something like awakening understanding flickered.
"Mm… I think I understand."
Anya lowered her head slightly and looked at her hands, rough from years of gathering herbs.
"Grandma always says 'memory' is too heavy. It records the rise and fall and suffering of countless Annual Ring Eras on this continent. Ordinary people's souls are too fragile—if everyone had to carry those heavy pasts, they would lose their smiles, like those Federation soldiers, turning into monsters that only obey orders."
She lifted her head. Though small, she now burst with a moving, stubborn toughness.
"So I am the next 'Memory Guardian.' I am the tree god—meaning that vast 'memory'—incarnated in this village. This heavy duty… only needs me alone to bear it. As long as I can still stand, as long as I can still hold the weight of the past for them, the villagers can keep dancing like this by the bonfire, carefree."
Hearing the girl's near-sacrificial confession, Miguel couldn't help frowning. He hated this kind of foolish behavior—taking every responsibility onto oneself alone.
He was about to speak in rebuttal, but Frank lifted a hand to stop him.
Frank looked at Anya, his eyes filled with an elder's gentleness and reassurance.
"Oh, alright. Having such awareness is indeed admirable, Miss Anya."
Frank picked up the unlit cigarette and toyed with it between his fingers, his tone long and poetic like an ancient verse.
"But you also don't have to see everything as a cross you must bear alone."
"After all, every person—even a village, even a civilization—is only a child gradually growing up in the passage of years."
Frank's gaze pierced through the firelight, as if seeing the river of history rushing past.
"In childhood, they believe priestesses, leaders, even tree gods and ancestors are omniscient fathers and mothers. They depend on you blindly and hide beneath your wings for shelter. But one day they will grow up. They will realize their 'father' and 'mother' are not all-powerful. They will see the tears of gods, and the weakness of priestesses."
"And when that day comes, they will understand: no one can protect anyone forever. All survival and destruction, in the end, can only rely on oneself."
Frank smiled slightly. His voice in the night wind was especially clear.
"But this isn't something to be sad or panicked about. On the contrary, it's a sign that a person—a people—has truly reached 'adulthood.'"
"Because when they no longer blindly depend on gods, no longer hand their fate to a single 'guardian,' that proves they already have enough reason and courage to take responsibility for all their actions, all their choices."
"It proves they are completely free."
—Completely free.
Those words struck like lightning, cleaving the fog inside Anya's mind.
The girl froze in place, staring blankly at Frank. The crackling bonfire, the villagers' laughter, the rustle of leaves—all of it seemed to drift far away. Only those two words echoed in her head.
Free.
If she took on the burden of the "Memory Guardian," would she have to become like Grandma—keeping this forest forever frozen in the past, letting the villagers remain "children" sheltered forever?
"Freedom…"
Anya silently repeated the word in her heart. It sounded so unfamiliar, yet carried a surging power that made her blood stir.
She turned and looked at the villagers celebrating the coming "Annual Ring Era." Their smiles were so real; their lives so vivid. They should not become sacrifices made to protect memory. Nor should they become sheep penned forever in a greenhouse.
They should have the right to choose their own future.
A brand-new understanding and courage stirred in the girl's chest. She drew in a deep breath of the cool night air. In that moment, she seemed to see a road no one had ever walked before—a new path belonging to Greenwood Village's future.
Anya clenched her fists. The confusion in her eyes was gone; now they were crystal clear and unwavering. In her heart, like a promise carved into stone, she made herself a vow:
"Yes."
"Twelve days from now… at the final midnight rite."
"I will use 'freedom' as the theme of this handover ceremony."
The night grew deeper. And in this ancient forest, a seed named "change" had already quietly taken root and begun to sprout in the soil of a new era.