Harrison Clark's voice was soft, not loud, and his tone was flat, but there was a strange echo in the square, as if the entire plaza's architecture resonated with his voice, so that everyone could hear it clearly.
People still held their heads high, staring at the stage, waiting for his next words.
Harrison Clark indeed had a thousand words to say, but at the edge of his words, he felt that more words were useless.
He reluctantly considered himself good at provoking speeches, having practiced them after all.
But today, without his help, others had already fought against enormous pressure for a hundred years.
He felt he was essential to the people of this era, but not so essential after all.
So, even if others' worship became more fanatical, he himself felt too embarrassed to accept the world's passionate admiration.
Harrison Clark cared for his face, after all, he had been hiding for a whole hundred years before coming out.
