Steampunk Era: Mad Abield

When Spencer’s kid left, Malin stood up, shook hands with each officer, and eventually made his way to the old soldier, helping him to his feet.

"Sir, that is an excellent child. I see the sparkle of youth in him," said the increasingly aged man with a smile.

Malin thought so too, because Tuojin indeed possessed the qualities a political commissar should have: loyalty, bravery, and besides leading by example, that damned American-funded film that depicted the actions of World War I French marshals on political commissars as its own narrative was nothing but a smear of this great title.

The reason why Malin told the commissars to cherish their lives was ultimately for his own sake—the commissars at the front meant they had nearly the same casualty rate as the infantry. Talented young men like them shouldn’t die cheaply at the front line. After all, Malin needed at least 300 class hours to train a class of commissars, yet these madmen could get themselves killed on the front line within an hour once they went berserk.

"You’re old, old soldier," Malin said with a sigh, looking at the man before him with a hint of wistfulness.

Back when he was a child, Malin had met this man in the chaotic streets, and at that time, the old man didn’t look so aged. Although he was older, his tactical movements were still unaltered, unlike now, when his back was slightly hunched.

Time is as a knife, with every slice urging one to age.

Malin had bid farewell to many, and looking at the old man, thinking of the coming Tide of the Dead, he knew he would have to say goodbye to many more.

He still remembered his old dean saying that everyone born into this world has a mission. Malin knew hers was probably to educate those years and years of abandoned babies, the sick, and orphans.