He kicked the already blackened stump with the tip of his boot: "This wood won’t rot even if it’s thrown back into the swamp to soak for a hundred years."

Thorne watched as the burnt stumps were carried away, only to be hammered deep into the mud by others with heavy hammers.

The part of the stumps protruding above the ground was connected by beams, elevating the floor half a meter.

The walls were made of carbonized wood panels, and the gaps were filled with clay mixed with dry grass, tightly packed so the wind couldn’t penetrate.

Thorne stood in place, watching rows of black house frames rise from the swamp, his throat moved.

He was about to look away when he saw Pete’s shoulder was rubbed raw from the logs.

Blood mixed with sweat seeped out, but he seemed oblivious and kept directing people to adjust the position of the stumps.

Thorne frowned, he took off his robe, casually tossed it aside, revealing the shirt underneath, and walked over to seize the log from Pete’s shoulder.

"Move aside." His tone was blunt, "You don’t have the strength for this. Leave this work to the Knight."

Pete was stunned for a moment, then smiled, released the log, and handed over a jug of water.

The two exchanged a look without saying anything, class distinctions at this moment were drowned out by sweat.

......

As the sky darkened, Little Mud was led into the new house.

This was one of the first houses built in Swamp Town, following Red Tide’s rules, prioritizing use by the elderly, sick, and children who had no one to care for them, while the able-bodied adults were behind in line.

She hesitated at the doorway before cautiously crawling inside.

The floor was dry wooden planks, her feet didn’t sink into it, nor did water seep through.

The house was elevated above the swamp, leaving some distance from the ground.

The walls were black, rough to the touch, yet warm.

The smell of scorched wood reminded her of last night’s distant fire, strangely calming her heart.

The wind blew through the swamp.

In the past, such a night wind would cut through burlap sacks like knives, scraping the bones until they ached.

But tonight, the clay mixed with dry grass sealed all the gaps.

In the corner, there was a small tin stove, crudely made, with marks from hammering on its edges.

When coal was lit, heat slowly spread.

Little Mud huddled inside the house, clutching her knees, and for the first time did not shiver from the cold and damp at night.

The house was suspended above the swamp, like a clumsy yet stable ark.

When she lay down, her eyes were open, reluctant to close for a long time, afraid it was all a long dream.

At this time, the door was gently pushed open.

Little Mud instinctively tensed up, but didn’t smell the familiar stench of rot and alcohol.

Pete stooped in, still in his uniform jacket, cuffs stained with mud.

He held several roasted, cracked hot potatoes, steaming.

"How come you’re not sleeping?" Pete took a few steps closer, handed over a potato, then paused, "Still hungry?"

Little Mud blinked, instinctively extended her hand, then quickly withdrew it.

Pete didn’t retract his hand, instead, he grabbed her wrist, turning her hand over, examining it closely in the glow of the stove fire, the fingernails were clean.

"Nicely washed, it passes." Only then did Pete place the potato into her hand.

The warmth spread up through her palm, Little Mud swallowed, lowered her head, and softly asked: "Why... are you good to me?"

Pete thought for a moment and said: "Because in Red Tide, children are seeds of the future. If a seed doesn’t sprout, it’s not its fault, but the fault of the person responsible for planting."

He stood up, brushed off the ash on his hands: "Tomorrow night there’s class. Literacy, arithmetic, and how to exchange work points for goods. Make sure you come and see."

The door closed again, Little Mud cradled the hot potato, lowered her head, and took a bite.

It was scorching, but she didn’t let go.

......

The next evening, candles were lit in the central square.

The wind was weaker than during the day, but the flames were still unsteady, gently flickering inside the lamp covers.

Pete stood at the wooden platform, hung a rough wooden board, then smeared it with charcoal, leaving marks of varying depth.

People slowly gathered around, including children and adults.

Thorne also stood on the fringe, having worked all day, his shoulders were still aching, yet he stayed.

Pete picked up the charcoal, looked at the orphan he had met last night: "What’s your name?"

Little Mud hesitated, instinctively lowered her head.

"No name." She whispered, "Everyone calls me Little Mud."

Pete shook his head: "Mud is on the ground." He said, "You are a person who stands."

The charcoal made a sound as it moved across the board.

"This reads Lily." Pete pointed to the two symbols, "In the Northern Territory, it’s a type of flower. Even in Permafrost, it can bloom."

He turned around, looked at her.

"From today, that’s your name."

Lily, she stared at the board, the name that belonged to her.

Pete didn’t linger for long.

He drew a few simple lines below the board, then wrote a few numbers.

"Learning to read, learning arithmetic, is not for now." He said, "It’s for the future."

"The future when you’re standing in workshops, at accounting desks, on bridges and dams, you won’t have to bow your head and ask others, ’Is this mine? Should I take it?’"

He drew a square box on the board with the charcoal.

"Those who can do arithmetic, can keep accounts, manage people, those who can read, can read plans, be a foreman, wear uniforms, don’t have to labor all their lives."

Pete looked up, at the faces slowly coming into focus.

"Now you are illiterate, but in the future the roads to be built, the cities to be founded, the factories to be managed around here, will all need literate people.