21 Conversations and Greetings

The intense focus that had gripped nearly everyone in the Strategy Room came to an abrupt end. Little Ross—Wu Qingchen—had left the chapel, and the six enormous projection screens at the center of the room shifted their background to blue skies and rolling hills. The Major General immediately straightened his posture and clapped his hands sharply. “We’ve got work incoming, soldiers, gentlemen, get yourselves ready… George, connect to the Intelligence Center at once… Joseph, switch the fifth and seventh projections to IRS images… Cecil, hey… Cecil, kill the damn terrain mapping, connect to the Integrated Processing Center, let’s first see what our dear priest and our Qingchen have been saying…”

A volley of instructions from the Major General sent the room into a flurry of activity. Within two minutes, everything settled into place, and calm was restored. At the left console, the so-called Mr. Cecil—a young soldier with headphones—watched his devices intently, awaiting the Integrated Processing Center's response and ready to switch feeds at a moment’s notice.

A soft beep sounded, and the young soldier spun around swiftly. “General, it’s ready.”

The Major General nodded, and the soldier pressed a button. Instantly, the six projection screens at the center of the room split their display, now showing the scene inside the chapel where the priest and Little Ross—Wu Qingchen—were conversing.

The playback, naturally, was adjusted so humans could watch at thirty times slower than real time. The room fell silent; Cecil pressed another button, and the speakers around the room all came to life.

“Good day, I remember you—you’re the William family’s Little Ross.”

“Good day, Father.”

Had Wu Qingchen been in the room at that moment, he would have instinctively dug at his ears, for the voices emanating from the speakers matched his tone and cadence during his conversation with Playa perfectly—yet he wouldn’t have understood a single word.

That was only natural; the voices from the speakers were pure French.

To date, research from various countries had shown that the celestial event’s sky projection always followed Wu Qingchen’s activity path in the medieval world, centered on him with a radius of about 1.7 kilometers—a perfect circle. The resolution was so high as to exceed the limits of any earthly recording equipment, and the projection could, in ways entirely incomprehensible, pierce through rooftops, trees, water—any non-living obstruction that might block the image of Wu Qingchen or other medieval figures.

Yet, for all its marvels, the celestial event’s projection was merely an image, unable to transmit sound.

The dialogue now heard throughout the Strategy Room had been reconstructed by the French Celestial Event Temporary Response Office’s analysis team. First, special forces lip-reading experts identified the movements of Wu Qingchen’s and Playa’s lips and throats, supplementing them with behavioral scientists’ interpretations. Linguists translated the meaning into French, after which dozens of professional voice actors from major French film studios were enlisted to record the dialogue. Finally, technical staff divided the work among several dozen teams, merged the audio, unified tone and speed, and produced the final version.

In two minutes, they completed fifteen minutes of post-production—a dream efficiency for any director. Yet the military experts in the Strategy Room did not marvel, for this was not their first time hearing dialogue from the medieval world; all prior conversations involving Wu Qingchen had been presented in the same manner.

In fact, only half a minute into Wu Qingchen and Playa’s conversation, the grey-haired Major General scowled in frustration. “Blank again? No angle? Useless, useless! The idiots at the Foreign Ministry ought to be jailed! How many times has this happened? Were all the Foreign Ministry fools blown up at the venue, or did their emergency diplomatic jet crash? Even if training is impossible, is it really so hard just to stress the importance of content?”

As the Major General raged, the rest of the Strategy Room shared his anxious expression. On the screens, Wu Qingchen and Playa had been conversing for about half a minute.

After the two exchanged greetings, Playa commented on the weather, asked about Little Ross’s age and family, and then—

And then… nothing.

The projections showed Playa and Wu Qingchen standing half a meter apart, face to face, clearly engaged in conversation, but the speakers were silent.

This was not the first time such a situation had occurred.

Earth’s only means of observing the celestial event was the projection, which hung perpetually above, visible from mountains, plains, oceans, and skies—anyone need only look up to see the medieval world, even astronauts aboard the International Space Station. This scene, so universally accessible, seemed only three hundred and fifty-five meters away from each observer. Yet, in nearly sixty hours, countries had deployed helicopters, balloons, submarines, parachutes, cranes, elevators—none could alter the distance by even a micron.

For Earth, that three hundred and fifty-five meters was an unbridgeable chasm. The celestial event’s projection was genuinely visible yet untouchable; aside from Wu Qingchen, no nation, organization, or individual could affect it in the slightest.

Thus, when Wu Qingchen once again neglected details, stood at the wrong spot, faced the wrong angle, and prevented experts from seeing both parties’ lips and throats, the entire world was forced to watch a silent film.

In that moment, countless staff, analysts, and strategists from around the globe erupted in curses. Some, like the Major General in the French Saint-Cyr Strategy Room, directed their ire at the Foreign Ministry, trainers, linguists, positioning coaches, God, fate—most, however, reserved their choicest curses for the “stupid, idiotic, brainless, deaf, retarded…” and so on—towards the hapless…

Wu Qingchen.

Chapter Twenty-One: Conversation and Greeting (Part Two)

Fortunately, the silence lasted only about a minute. On the projection screens, Little Ross—Wu Qingchen—subtly lifted his head, glanced at the chapel’s ceiling, then shifted his posture slightly.

These movements were Wu Qingchen adjusting his angle according to training methods, and the Strategy Room staff understood immediately; a collective sigh of relief swept through the room.

Almost simultaneously, the speakers began transmitting dialogue once more.

“…Little Ross, a few days ago I passed by the wooden bridge west of the village and saw it seemed repaired. Avilia said she saw you carrying many stones. Did you fix the bridge?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh!” “Aha!” Low cheers broke out in the Strategy Room—the adjustment was perfectly timed, just ahead of crucial information.

Hearing Little Ross’s answer, Father Playa stroked his chin and murmured, then continued, “Wolf told me yesterday you finally got rid of some troublesome thorns in the fields west of the village. Was it your idea to burn them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Playa again stroked his chin. “And last night when I was out walking, I saw old Holt and Richard repairing the road. Were you helping as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

Throughout these questions, Little Ross—Wu Qingchen—kept his eyes modestly on his toes, replying simply and directly, with no unnecessary words. This was not his usual manner in the medieval world; rather, the experts had analyzed Playa extensively to devise responses most likely to win his favor.

“Well done.” These efforts quickly bore fruit. Hearing Wu Qingchen’s answers and seeing his demeanor, Playa suddenly smiled. “Little Ross, hearing these things, I know you are a diligent and clever child. Now I see you are also polite.”

“Excellent!” “Effective! Effective!” “Wonderful!”

The cheers in the Strategy Room grew louder.

Through negotiation, Wu Qingchen’s actions and plans in the medieval world were not devised solely by country Z, but also with input from major powers worldwide, and promptly reported to each.

Thus, everyone in the Strategy Room knew that Little Ross—Wu Qingchen—had been working extra hard these days, squeezing time to resolve five troubles in Eckley village, all with the unified goal of attracting Father Playa’s attention.

Now, before the most difficult proposed actions had even been carried out, Father Playa had already noticed three good deeds on his own. Nearly every strategist around the globe could not help but cheer.

Yet, the celebration was brief; everyone soon held their breath, and the room became even quieter than before.

The reaction after catching attention was the most critical part.

Indeed, after a short pause, Father Playa spoke again. “Little Ross, may I ask why you did these things?”

“Uh…” Wu Qingchen lifted his head slightly, showing a hint of doubt. “You mean…?”

A slight lift, a slight doubt, and elongating the medieval world’s formal “you”—damn! At least a hundred thousand people cursed; this idiot had forgotten his lines again!

These three “slights” were all carefully crafted by thousands on Earth, specifically for interacting with Father Playa—a standard method for buying time after forgetting words.

Fortunately, perhaps hearing the long-missed honorific “you,” Father Playa showed no displeasure. “Let’s start with why you repaired the road.”

“Father, that was your teaching. Idleness is a sin to be avoided; it makes one ugly and never beautiful again…”

Idleness makes one ugly and never beautiful again.

Indeed, it was Little Ross’s teaching.

Father Playa clenched his fist, and his tone softened as he asked his second question, eyes finally moving from the chapel’s ceiling to Little Ross. “And why did you repair the bridge?”

“Sir, that too was your teaching. When the road narrows, more fall; until the road is made smooth again.”

“Oh!”

Father Playa’s voice betrayed his surprise. From his observations these past days, the priest knew Little Ross had memorized many sacred words, but when he heard Little Ross recite them, he was still taken aback. Little Ross spoke with solemn focus and a steady, low tone—the most standard, or rather, the most devout manner.

No wonder he recited so fluently.

A smile appeared on Father Playa’s face—this was the sacred word, the true teaching. The same phrase, when recited yesterday by Freeman, that country bumpkin, was stumbling and broken—truly unbearable; if not for the fact that peasants were always like this, it would have been blasphemy!

Unconsciously, Father Playa closed his feet together, clasped his hands, and focused before asking again, “There’s been so much farm work these days; why did you help Wolf clear the thorns from the fields?”

“Love your brother. Love your neighbor. They will love you too.”

“Good… well done… well done…” Clenching his hands, Father Playa paced a few steps before turning to ask his final question, “But, Little Ross, those troublesome thorns could not be dug or pulled up. How did you know fire could burn them?”

“Uh… uh…” Wu Qingchen lifted his head slightly.

Is it a secret? Playa wondered.

Damn it! Such an important phrase, and he’s forgotten it again! Countless strategists gritted their teeth.

“The path the saint walks is covered in thorns; flames grow everywhere.”

“Haha!” Father Playa laughed aloud. “You’re wrong, Little Ross. It should be—the path the saint walks is covered in thorns; flames burn everywhere.”

“I… uh…” Wu Qingchen suddenly looked up, mouth agape, hesitating for a long moment before cautiously replying, “So it’s not ‘flames grow everywhere’?”

“Of course not—how could it be ‘flames grow everywhere’? Little Ross, you mustn’t misremember the sacred word.” Father Playa shook his head gently, his expression serious but his tone quite mild.

“Yes, Father, please forgive me.”

Hearing Playa’s gentle tone and seeing the priest’s earnest expression, Wu Qingchen bowed his head in shame, thinking to himself:

Damn it!

At the same time:

Damn it!

SONOFBITCH!

ESPECEDEMALBAISEE!

CRISTOPDIO!

Idiot!

…

Including Wu Qingchen himself, curses in hundreds of languages and millions of voices instantly focused on Father Playa and his ancestors going back a hundred and eighty generations.

He brought it on himself—“flames grow everywhere,” that sacred phrase, was exactly what Father Playa had solemnly recited in his last sermon.

At the time, the pronunciation was so complex that strategists, linguists, behavioral scientists, cryptographers all racked their brains, cross-referenced context, everyday speech, and the sermon’s scenes, finally settling on “flames grow everywhere” as the closest translation.

In the last training session, when Wu Qingchen was preparing lines for his five good deeds, the other four were easy to memorize; only this one took far more time, and his tongue suffered in the process.

And the ultimate result of all this effort—the root of all this trouble—was merely that this damned priest had mispronounced the phrase in his sermon.