Then, a few more hands joined in, gently pulling him up and carefully carrying him to a place where the rain didn't reach. He thought he heard voices speaking in the process, but he no longer had the energy to distinguish them, and his eyelids felt particularly heavy, making it impossible for him to lift them.

In the darkness, he didn't know how much time had passed, but there seemed to be a warm sensation enveloping his body, lulling him into a deep sleep. When he regained consciousness, he felt a bit warm and could hear a soft murmur of prayers.

"May the winds from all directions provide protection, and may the girl holding sage erase the pain and guide the lost with a single lantern..." This kind of prayer was the first time he had heard it, but some of the keywords within were familiar.

He moved his parched throat and tried to sit up slowly. Such actions naturally drew the attention of those around him, and soon someone helped him up and prepared a cup of warm water with added sugar for him.

The cheap pure water mixed with newly added sugar granules had a sweetness that hadn't completely dissolved. It wasn't as delicious as a mature industrial beverage, but it still made him crave it. After drinking one cup, he drank another before slowly putting down the cup.

At this moment, he realized he was likely in a dilapidated warehouse, without even electricity, and the walls were covered with gray-black mold spots. However, the place was warm, with someone having blocked the drafty windows, and there was a group of people dressed in black robes around him, including both men and women, probably around twenty in total.

"You all?" He wanted to ask who they were, but it felt somewhat impolite to do so.

"Thank you." He sincerely expressed his gratitude.

"It's nothing." An old man with a beard helped him cover himself with a blanket and then stepped aside, letting a younger woman come to his side.

The woman looked about 20 years old, with an ordinary appearance, not particularly pretty, but her black pupils gleamed with spirit in the orange light.

Seeing him awake, the woman held his hand, channeling a warm magic power to heal his injuries.

"Feeling better now?" He felt the sincere kindness from the woman in front of him, which made him feel like he was staring directly at the sun, not daring to raise his head.

"I'm much better." He took a deep, slightly trembling breath, feeling indeed a lot better physically.

Afterwards, the woman and the people around explained the events to him. It turned out they were performing a prayer ritual by the roadside when they encountered him fainted in the rain, and they had brought him here, changed his wet clothes, covered him with a blanket, and carried out simple treatment.

"A prayer ritual..." He couldn't recall what festival it was today.

"Yes, we pray for those who are poor and struggling." When he heard this, he saw a rare devotion in the woman's eyes, an expression that felt both unfamiliar and fresh to him.

In today's era, true believers are scarce because everyone knows there isn't an all-knowing, all-powerful God in this world. If it's about being powerful, then perhaps the 'Golden Flame Flower' Isenisha is the most renowned deity.

"The 'Golden Flame Flower' Isenisha is indeed great, but her attention mostly lingers on the radiant and not on us, the humble dust of the world," a man spoke.

"So, what do you believe in?" He suddenly became curious, recalling the few verses of prayer he heard earlier.

"We believe in the eternal Cradle's Wings, Her Highness Loranshir. She is the protector of all the poor, the merciful who never abandons or despises us, and she alone will never forget us and always reserves a resting place for us."

When her name was mentioned, he saw in the eyes of those present a dazzling hope, a resilience and belief in life, a fiery and searing conviction.

Why do they believe in someone who left this world thousands of years ago, a name long dimmed in the sands of time?

He didn't understand, only feeling a twinge of sourness in his nose.

This must be a cult, surely. That highness had long ceased to respond to people's prayers, forever slumbering in the Aijieka Sea, never to awaken.

"I..." He wanted to say something, but in the end, uttered nothing.

"It's alright, rest a bit more, we will help you return home later."

"I have no money." If it was this cult trying to swindle money from him, then forget it. He wasn't some young man fresh out of society, unaware of the deceitfulness of people's hearts.

The other person shook their head, took his hand, and spoke those sincere words again.

"We will help you, even without repayment. Perhaps it sounds strange, but I think if it were Her Highness, she wouldn't abandon any of us either."

"An individual is solitary and weak, but if they unite, trust, and warm one another, they'll gain tremendous courage."

Is that the case? Such words have appeared countless times in literature and films, but only today did they truly pierce his defenses.

"Do you all really believe?" He seemed to ask them, yet it was as if he was asking himself—are you still willing to believe in that once-vanished figure, that long-broken dream?

.

.

.

"I believe."

"Even if everyone has abandoned their former ideals, it still illuminates the entire era, a warm belief for countless people."

"The gift of the Songstress is bestowed upon a few, but in the end, we can only rely on our own hands and companions."

The cold rain continued to fall on the city, slipping through the gaps between tall buildings, hitting the black earth, while the streets lay solitary and desolate in the chilling wind.

A small flame flickered slightly in the shabby house, warming a heart full of scars and solitude.