Extreme Cold Era: Shelter Don't Keep Waste-Chapter 880 - 109: The Fall of the Jewel of the Old Continent

The capital of France, once the brightest jewel of the old continent, is the eternal pride in the hearts of the French people.

It is not only the heart of France but also the soul of the old world—marble sculptures from the Renaissance once adorned every square, Gothic spires pierced the clouds, their silhouettes reflected in the winding Seine River, and the dome of the opera house echoed the debates of poets and philosophers.

Before the Victor Empire rose to global dominance riding the benefits of the first industrial revolution, the capital of France was the center of the world, one might even say the symbol of the entire old continent.

Whether in art, culture, or economy, this city once led global trends and became a sacred place aspired by countless people: the scent of star maps wafted out from the Alchemist's laboratory, silk and lace from the fashion workshops were packed into gilded carriages and sent to the courts of various countries.

During its peak, even the king of Victory had to order the most fashionable attire from the capital of France—those pearl-embroidered cuffs and embroidered capes were sarcastically called "the last semblance of refinement wrapped in coal ash by barbarians."

Every inch of this land exudes elegance and luxury, as if the brilliance of the entire world converged here: In the cafes on the left bank of the Seine, painters stirred absinthe with silver spoons, debating how to capture the texture of moonlight with oil paints; while in the salons on the right bank, scientists sketched improvements to steam engines on parchment, unknowingly designing their own burial shovels.

However, the relationship between France and Victory was never consistent.

The history of the two countries is filled with entangled grievances and complexities, enough to write ten hefty tomes—three of which record the diamond exchange of wedding rings at union celebrations, four depict the bloody iris flags during the hundred-year war, and the remaining three are etched with the repeatedly torn terms of the "Channel Treaty."

There was a time when the two countries were closely interwoven, even the royal families shared blood ties: in the dowry of the Queen of Victory, there was a sword forged by French artisans, with roses and thorns entwined on its scabbard, still displayed in the Langton Museum.

But in the blink of an eye, the two countries became enemies, with war raging incessantly for over a hundred years, hatred swinging like a pendulum endlessly between the two lands.

Even after Victory rose to global dominance, France never bowed or admitted defeat.

The capital of France was always renowned worldwide for its romance and art, something the French proudly jeered at while dismissing Langton as merely a city shrouded in coal dust and steam, lacking any artistic and cultural foundation.

From a certain perspective, this evaluation wasn't entirely unfounded: when the workers of Langton cowered in factories with gears roaring and gnawed on black bread, French poets were savoring foie gras drizzled with truffle sauce using silver cutlery, writing fourteen lines of sonnets mocking the neighboring country on napkins.

Compared to France's capital, Langton indeed appeared rugged and devoid of a refined cultural atmosphere—its streets were filled with the pungent smell of sulfur, while even the sewers here floated perfume concocted from vetiver and iris flowers.

However, all the conflicts and grandeur came to an abrupt end with the catastrophe known as the "Seventeen-Day War."

The capital of France, the former city of art and culture, was reduced to ashes in this war.

Perfikot's Floating City hovered like a grim reaper in the sky; its thermobaric bomb shockwave sent the domes of the Louvre Palace soaring into the clouds, and the rose windows of Notre-Dame melted into a puddle of filthy glass slag in the heat.

Those intellectuals, scientists, and artists once the pride of France, were turned to dust in the great fire, with even their names failing to be preserved in history.

Manuscripts filled with differential equations and unfinished symphony scores curled into charred remains in the heat wave, and the last batch of elderly scholars defending the library turned into indistinguishable carbonized figures on marble steps.

Not only the city was destroyed, but the entirety of France was completely defeated by Victory within two years after the war, losing all dignity and wealth.

The backbone of France was thoroughly broken, its former splendor and glory ruthlessly drained, leaving only an endless expanse of ruins and sorrow.

The capital of France, once the pearl of the old continent, now remains only as remnants and ruins, silently narrating the intertwined history of brilliance and destruction.

And yet, Langton didn't fare much better; it too was extracted by Perfikot for the Northern Territory, though it was relatively intact:.

Despite subsequent rounds of tsunamis, typhoons, and blizzards, two divine wars erupted—the first ripping the Thames River embankment, the second causing St. Paul's Cathedral's cross to plunge into Parliament Square—but overall, it was still better than the present capital of France.

But in the advent of the apocalyptic winter, Langton was targeted by various Evil God sects, just like the former capital of France: black-robed priests walked on the frozen Seine River surface, their ringing bells resonating with the wailing of grievances in the wind.

Particularly during the two years of Victory's oppression, the resentment and hatred of the French reached their pinnacle, becoming resources for the Evil God sects.

Mothers strung frozen infants' eyeballs into rosaries, poets carved curses with rib bones, and mathematicians even deduced a "hate entropy increase formula," proving that revenge against Victory was the inevitable outcome of the universe's second law of thermodynamics.

Even a few years ago when the apocalyptic winter descended and Victory's forces withdrew, the Evil God sect swiftly took control of all France, converting masses of people into their believers, willing to sacrifice everything to avenge Victory.

They ground stained church glass into hallucinogens, cooked church literature into ink, and tattooed reverse iris patterns on every inch of exposed skin—since orthodox motifs died along with the old dynasty.

The gods did give them chances, and they did attempt revenge against Perfikot.

Unfortunately, the capital, military, and navy of the entire country were seized, ruthlessly extracted for two years until France was ultimately depleted, unable to produce anything notable.

Whether it be talents or skilled hands, they became exceedingly scarce.

The final engineers dismantled abandoned machines on the ice plains, while surviving Alchemists could only concoct failed potions that caused mushrooms to sprout all over one's body.

The only commendable aspect left were the people harboring a death wish and thirst for revenge.

These gaunt men and women clenched rusty table knives, repeatedly polished ancestral flintlock guns inside ice houses, despite the barrels cracking from the cold wave.

Thus, when the Floating City arrived above the former capital city of France, those determined French people launched a grand-scale sacrifice.