231: Chapter 231 The Chen family holds a victory celebration banquet, and Chen Wuwang raises his glass to look forward.

The night wind swept over the high eaves of the Main Hall plaza, curling up a few tattered remnants of paper lanterns.

Torches crackled between the stone pillars, their oily light reflecting off the blue-brick ground like a layer of flowing copper.

Chen Wuwang walked out of the control room; he had not yet removed the armor from his shoulders, but his steps were slow.

He carried an unopened jar of spirit wine in his hand, the jar still damp from the cellar.

The plaza had already become lively.

Tables were set out along the central axis, extending all the way to the mountain gate.

The clansmen sat in groups of three or five; a technician was playing a finger-guessing game with an old garden keeper while holding a wine bowl, and a mech pilot had taken off their outer armor, revealing scars across their back, while being surrounded by a group of children asking questions.

The old woman from the Medicinal Field walked back and forth carrying steamed cakes, muttering, "Eat some, everyone eat some. After fighting for so long, you need to nourish your bodies."

A six-year-old child squatted in the shadows of the lanterns, staring blankly at their own shadow on the ground.

He clutched half an amulet in his hand, a commemorative charm token distributed during yesterday's drills.

Chen Wuwang walked over, crouched down, and gently placed the wine jar by the child's feet.

"Are you afraid of the dark?"

The child shook his head, then nodded.

"My mother said… once we win, we won't have to hide in the tunnels anymore."

Chen Wuwang smiled, twisted open the jar lid, poured a small cup, and handed it over: "Then this cup is to toast your mother, and to toast yourself—you are now someone who can sit outside and drink."

The child took it, his hand trembling slightly, and the wine spilled onto his shoes.

He hurriedly tried to wipe it off, but Chen Wuwang raised a hand and pressed down on his shoulder: "Leave it. If anyone asks tomorrow, tell them this was the first cup of victory wine that you and your Family Head drank together."

Several adults nearby heard this and burst into laughter.

"Did you hear that? The kid will be able to brag about this for the rest of his life when he grows up!"

Chen Wuwang stood up and walked toward the nearest table with his empty cup.

It was three young women on logistical rotation, who were busy gnawing on meat; seeing him approach, they almost knocked over their soup bowls.

"Don't stop," he said. "Keep eating. You delivered supplies to the outposts last night without missing a single trip; you were even more punctual than me, the Family Head."

He poured himself half a bowl of cloudy wine and raised it: "A toast to the three of you, for holding up the rear."

The three were stunned, then blushed and raised their bowls together to clink with his.

This scene spread quickly.

In less than a quarter of an hour, Chen Wuwang had traveled between all the tables.

He did not choose to sit only with Elders or those with military merit; instead, he spent the longest time among the herbalists, laborers, and apprentices.

If someone put food in his bowl, he ate it; if someone toasted him, he downed it.

His Mechanical Prosthetic Eye on the left side glowed with a faint blue light under the lamplight, scanning every face, remembering who laughed heartily and who kept their head down in silence.

He stopped in front of a low table in the corner.

An old garden keeper sat alone, rubbing a withered branch in his hands.

That was the first spiritual plant he had planted thirty years ago; it had been burned by the Zerg two years ago, leaving only this charred piece of wood.

Chen Wuwang pulled out a chair, sat down, poured wine, and pushed it in front of the old man.

"The 'Green-Spine Vines' you planted—seventeen of them have come back to life on the north slope this year."

The old man looked up, his cloudy eyes trembling.

"I know. My little grandson drew them for me to see; they were so green they were practically glistening."

"There will be more next year," Chen Wuwang said. "Once the defense system is fully operational, I want to turn the entire East Ridge into a Medicinal Field. You will be the manager, teaching the young people how to distinguish soil, examine roots, and listen to the flow of Spiritual Qi in the wind and rain."

The old man suddenly choked, a mouthful of wine stuck in his throat.

"I… I'm already over eighty…"

"That is why you must live to see it," Chen Wuwang interrupted him. "It is not something given by charity, but peaceful days we have fought for together. You have guarded this land for decades; no one can erase that merit."

He raised his cup, his voice not loud, yet it gradually made the surroundings quiet down.

"Today's meal is for nothing else. It is for those things we never dared to imagine before, but now we can sit here, drinking and talking—that we can still keep moving forward."

The crowd went quiet for a few breaths.

Then, someone unknown responded: "Right! We can still keep moving!"

The drum music struck up right at that moment.

Great drums thundered from the pavilions on three sides, gongs shook the heavens, and the sound of flutes pierced the clouds.

A dozen youths leaped into the central clearing, dancing the newly composed "Song of Breaking the Formation"; their movements were rough but powerful, kicking legs and stomping the ground, their roars like thunder.

Chen Wuwang did not speak again, only tapping the table gently to the rhythm, his knuckles rapping against the wood, one beat, then another.

When the music paused slightly, he stood up and walked toward the high platform.

The firelight illuminated his silver hair and the claw marks on his right cheek. He stood at the edge, overlooking the entire plaza, and raised his wine cup.

Below, it gradually grew quiet.

"I know some people feel that since they didn't go to the battlefield, they aren't qualified to drink this cup," he began, his voice steady. "But I want to ask one thing—last night, during the Level 3 alert and the three shifts of patrols, was anyone missing from their post?"

"No!" the crowd below roared in unison.

"Mech maintenance team, did you miss inspecting a single mech?"

"No!"

"Irrigation of the Medicinal Field, power supply for the Formation, communication dispatch—has any link ever broken?"

"No!!"

Chen Wuwang nodded: "That is enough. Those who hold their posts are even more worthy of a toast than those who charge. Because charging is a fleeting moment, while holding firm is day after day, night after night."

He raised his wine cup high above his head.

"This cup is to toast all the nameless heroes."

The entire plaza fell into a deathly silence for an instant.

Then, everyone stood up.

Technicians put down their tools, warriors released their sword hilts, the old man stood up with his cane, and even that six-year-old child stood on tiptoe, raising his half-cup of wine, half of which had already been spilled.

"A toast to the nameless heroes!"

The wine was poured onto the ground, turning into a rising mist.

Chen Wuwang stood on the high platform, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare smile.

He did not finish the cup in his hand, but instead poured it out slowly, the wine flowing down the stone steps and seeping into the earth.

The drums started again, even more intensely than before.

Someone started singing, the tune off-key and discordant, yet it was the Chen family's ancestral "Song of Breaking New Ground."

Children ran around the bonfire, trampling the lantern shadows scattered across the ground.

A young man and woman secretly held hands, then quickly let go, their faces burning.

Chen Wuwang remained standing on the high platform, surrounded by the cheering crowd.

He looked at the seething plaza below, the firelight reflected on his face, flickering bright and dim.

The empty cup in his hand had not been put down.