Bloodline: Sovereign's Awakening - Chapter 39

Chapter 39: When Radiance Breads Ruin IV

The alleys whispered with dread. Hollow yet suffocating in their silence. Shadows clung to the walls like festering wounds, the brick slick with the creeping moisture of corruption.

Overhead, the sky had soured to a deep bruise, its once-pristine vastness choked by the roiling miasma bleeding from the ruined Tala residence.

The scent of decay curdled in the air—foul, acrid, and thick enough to taste. It coated the tongue like spoiled meat left to rot under a dying sun.

Thunder continued rumbling. A sound not born of the heavens, but something far worse, like ribs breaking under unseen weight and voices screaming through split flesh. It came in waves, rattling through the broken district, seeping into bone and marrow. The echoes stretched, distorted, and warped into something unnatural.

Virelio stood at the edge of the Gilded Star Castle. His chest rose and fell in measured breath, but fatigue gnawed at him like a dull, rusted blade. His hands, once steady as steel, quivered at the edges—not from fear, but from the strain of continuous use of power. He had done all he could. The central castle already housed those who needed saving.

The rest…

He did not look at them.

They corrupted.

Obscene, incomplete movements twisted their bodies, mocking what they once were. Their mouths had split into grotesque maws, lips torn away to reveal jagged fangs that jutted in every direction. Their hands had elongated, fingers tapering into curved talons, each quivering as though sensing unseen prey. And then there were the threads—writhing, worm-like filaments of decay, coiling around their limbs, burrowing into their flesh-like parasitic veins. Some twitched erratically. Others shuddered in place, their heads lolling to one side as if listening.

The answer came swiftly.

A sound both wet and gurgling, like something swallowing itself from within.

Virelio did not wait. His fingers moved, weaving through the air with effortless precision. His threads formed in the surrounding space, luminescent and whisper-thin, twining like celestial silk. A single breath, a single shift, and he would be gone—pulled from the stained ground, back to the Celestial Seal Castle.

But something was wrong.

The threads did not meet.

He felt them coil around him, light as air, but their ends unraveled before they could knit together. The strands frayed, twisting into nothingness, dissolving into the ether-like mist beneath the rising sun.

Virelio’s heart clenched.

Again.

He wove the pattern once more, tracing the sacred lattice of translocation, but the moment the threads reached completion, they broke. Not severed, but corrupted. They turned brittle, disintegrating as if devoured by an unseen force.

The malice in the air pulsed and grinned with a satisfied look.

He gritted his teeth, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The corruption was too thick, its presence clinging to him like a second skin, weighing him down, bleeding into the fabric of his power. The corrupted were changing and transforming into savage creatures. After dealing with and observing Virelio for a while, the Sovereign Wraith learned to counter his ability and prevent him from leaving by distorting the surrounding space widely.

Another sound.

This time, a crackling wail—a high-pitched, distorted thing that scraped against the air like a serrated edge. The corrupted figures twitched violently at the noise, their bodies jerking like puppets caught in tangled strings.

Then they moved.

The streets, once empty, came alive with skittering limbs and dragging flesh. The corrupted beings lunged, their movements erratic yet horrifyingly precise. Their mouths split wider, unhinging as they let out shrieks that rippled through the air, reverberating against the walls.

Virelio’s breath came sharply.

If he couldn’t leave, he had no choice but to carve his way out.

The Standby Weaver Guards had formed a blazing cordon around the Tala residence, their enchanted threads pulsing with elemental charge, coiling like storm-laced rivers in the air. Fire-imbued filaments crackled overhead, forming shimmering barriers interwoven with technological reinforcement as ethereal Wards activated and gleamed like mirrored obsidian, each layer pulsating with defensive algorithms and infused power.

From above the city’s council tower, General Eli watched with an unreadable expression, his cloak’s woven sigils responding to the rising malice. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the battle’s flow; the Sovereign Wraith’s corruption was intensifying and warping the very air with a malignant presence spreading slowly outside the Tala domain.

“This is not just residual malice,” he murmured into the weave-comm link, his voice transmitted across the guard’s network. “It’s reacting. If it adapts any further… we may not hold.”

Platoon Ten, stationed on the southern perimeter, braced as the next wave of corrupted emerged.

Spiral Adept Durias, his reinforced gauntlets humming with fiery glyphs, stood at the front. The twin sigil brands on his forearms pulsed. He was the anchor of his squad and his command’s absolute.

Release the first volley! Keep the elemental weave sustained! His troops immediately followed his command.

Warped Artisan Elhara, standing behind a reinforced barricade, lifted her hands, and then her thread conduits whirred to life. With a sharp motion, she wove a crimson net of volatile energy, a living mesh of searing embers reinforced with conductive resonance. The very air trembled as she cast it forward. A few meters from her right, Warped Artisan Riego, the fastest in the platoon, darted to the left, firing a barrage of ether-woven arrows, their flaming tips piercing through the mist, illuminating the field. Then Threadbinder Jeno, stationed near the second line, jumped and suspended in the air, floated and descended like weightless fabric, raised a volley cannon—a weapon fused with thread-channeling conduits—and unleashed a scatter burst of explosive projectiles, their runed surfaces detonating mid-air to incinerate anything in their wake.

From a distance, like a shadow darting from corner to corner, Threadbinder Corin, the squad’s forward scout, had activated his Phase Weave, darting through the shifting gaps in reality to relay enemy movements to the back line. And then it emerged.

A corrupted human, its flesh stitched and twisted, veins turned to writhing black filaments, its form hunched as if tangled in its own cursed body. The transformation had lengthened its jaw, splitting its mouth into a shattered, tooth-laden grin, while eel-like threads slithered across its face. Its eyes were nothing but empty, sinking voids, swallowing the firelight without reflection.

Behind it, the lesser monstrosities of skeletal abominations with sinewy limbs, limp torsos dragging entrail-thick threads, and disembodied arms writhing like pale centipedes surged forward, throwing themselves against the blazing barriers.

The ethereal barricades held for a moment.

Then, like diseased sinew resisting amputation, the corrupted filaments lashed at the shield, searing into it like an infestation burrowing into flesh. The barrier fractured, cracks spider webbing outward as it resisted the shock and then slowly regenerated. The technology-enhanced barrier automatically starts weaving itself together and pulsing with renewed integrity as backup formations kick in.

Yet some creatures still broke through.

“Reinforcements on the second perimeter, now!” Durias barked, shifting his stance.

Two corrupted humans had breached the line, and one was lunging straight at Elhara.

She didn’t flinch. With a flick of her wrist, the ember-thread net she had prepared constricted, its searing cords wrapping around the creature’s throat, burning deep into corrupted flesh. It thrashed, hissing, its own darkened tendrils trying to unravel the bindings, but it was already incinerating from the inside out.

Riego aimed at the second breach, a skittering, multi-limbed horror with threaded spines coiling like a centipede’s maw. His flame bolts struck true, piercing through its core, but it continued forward, shrieking as half of its form burned away.

“Jeno, finish it!” Durias commanded.

Jeno then fired his concussive round of thread-bound projectiles lined with compressed ether-blast sigils. It collided with the monster’s remaining body and detonated, sending charred limbs flying in all directions before it dissipated like mist.

The battle wasn’t slowing down.

From beyond the oozing fog, the Sovereign Wraith’s influence thickened, distorting the battlefield. The crimson-lit sky darkened further, and the ground trembled as its unseen will stretched further beyond the Tala domain.

Durias grimaced, his flaming threads coiling around his fists, preparing for the next onslaught.

“We hold this line,” he muttered, his threads blazing, “or we burn with it.”

A resounding boom split the air within the Tala Domain from the eastern corner.

Virelio wove himself into motion, his body dispersing like mist, reforming in bursts of ethereal flickers. His every movement was a dance of survival and a blur of weaving silver, each thread shifting to counter the storm of abyssal strikes lashing toward him.

The Sovereign Wraith descended upon him, an amorphous void bound together by writhing, fragmented limbs. Its existence was a broken hymn, seemingly an unfinished form that devoured space itself. Its attacks were more than striking, and they tore open reality, each movement leaving behind fractures of collapsing space, and shattered echoes of the world undone.

The sound of their battle was deafening as the constant reverberation of shrieking metal, warping air, and howling abyssal resonance echoed. Virelio could hear his threads strain, each unraveling filament screaming against the corrosive force of the Wraith’s presence.

He twisted mid-air, summoning his Diwa back into action.

The summoned dagger immediately shifted and formed his Kampilan.

It emerged in his grasp like a luminous blade, its length a spectral flare of woven ether. A raving, war-drunk force still strongly pulsed within it, a phantom presence mirroring his resolve. But even as he gripped it, he felt the blade strain like its essence flickering and its edge fraying against the sheer intensity of the battle.

Still, he fought back.

Threads of magic wove into existence around him as dozens of sigils, radiant geometric patterns spiraling mid-air. Each array ignited in bursts of woven fire and launched spears of ice toward the Wraith.

The monster’s existence seemed blurry and twisted—

Its form bent around the attacks, its body phasing into split-second distortions of space, its limbs stretching unnaturally before snapping back into place. Yet Virelio was already moving—his Kampilan carving through the void, colliding against the Wraith’s defenses in a series of explosive clashes.

CLANG! SHRRRK!

The wailing clash of steel against abyss sent tremors through the battlefield, each strike of his Diwa colliding with the Wraith’s tendrils. Sparks of the Virelio’s threads and the malicious void threads of the Wraith burst outward, scattering in chaotic arcs as they clashed.

The exchange streched into minutes that felt like hours, and the Sovereign Wraith was learning.

Virelio moved like the haze as his speed blurred him into streaks of luminous silver, each step reinforced by a burst of interwoven threads. But the Wraith kept pace.

It teleported swiftly as its major form snapped into existence wherever its disembodied limbs floated and scattered.

The battlefield became a labyrinth of severed abyssal parts of floating snake-like hands, shifting maw eyes, and twisting clawing tendrils—each piece an anchor that let the Wraith reposition without delay. Every time Virelio maneuvered away, the Wraith collapsed toward him, emerging from its scattered remains.

It was closing in.

Virelio barely deflected a descending void claw, the force splitting the ground beneath him. Another limb detached, spiraling into the air before vanishing, and only the Wraith’s full form lunged from that very spot, cutting off his retreat.

A trap—

He turned, but too late.

The Wraith’s strike landed on a direct impact on his ribs. The force detonated like a gravitational pulse, sending him hurtling across the battlefield. He spun midair, barely threading a weave of shock absorption before crashing into the ruined earth.

Dust and debris billowed, the sheer impact vibrating through his bones.

A fractured gasp escaped him—his Kampilan’s light wavering.

“Tch…” His grip tightened, forcing the weapon to stabilize.

The Sovereign Wraith did not stop.

Its abyssal tendrils split into dozens, each one accelerating toward him with the force of an executioner’s blade.

Virelio wove instantly.

A massive hexagonal barrier surged into existence, layer upon layer of luminous thread interlocking into a crystalline fortress.

CRACK—!

The first tendril shattered one layer.

CRACK!

The second.

The Wraith’s attack did not slow. Each strike sent fractures racing through the weave. The air screamed as the pressure built and the space itself began to distort, bend, and unravel. But Virelio wasn’t waiting for it to break.

He burst forward, his Kampilan igniting with explosive momentum, weaving through the gaps of broken space.

The Wraith lunged to meet him like a warping blur of abyssal mass.

They collided.

The battlefield erupted.

Blades of woven ether and abyssal void clashed in a relentless storm, each strike ringing out like war drums, each impact splitting the air with cataclysmic force.

Virelio’s Kampilan sang with every cut like a hunting raven, but the strain was showing.

The ethereal force within it was faltering, its raving spirit struggling to keep up with the sheer demand of the fight. Each clash weakened its form, and each desperate countermeasure pushed it closer to collapse.

Still, Virelio pushed forward.

Because he knew if he slowed for even a moment…

The Sovereign Wraith would consume him whole.

Inside the watchtower of the Celestial Seal Castle, the air was thick with tension.

The panoramic view of the battlefield stretched below them, the land fractured with streaks of abyssal corruption; the sky quivering from the sheer force of the ongoing clash. From this vantage point, the battle between Virelio and the Sovereign Wraith was nothing short of cataclysmic. Their strikes split the very air as their movements blurred into violent distortions of space and light.

Elder Saphira stood rigidly beside Grand Matriarch Iskayna, her violet eyes flickering with growing alarm. The Sovereign Wraith was pressing harder. Virelio was fast, resilient, and unrelenting, but the abyssal horror was adapting too quickly. Its fragmented limbs were sealing his every escape route, its void-rending claws forcing him further into a battlefield that had become a death trap.

Saphira’s fists clenched. She could not watch this any longer.

“Matriarch,” she began, her voice barely concealing the desperate plea beneath. “We must act. Virelio—he cannot hold on much longer!”

But Iskayna did not move.

The Grand Matriarch stood motionless, her long silver robes billowing gently against the cold air of the tower. Her gaze was unwavering, locked onto the battle below. Her expression was unreadable, yet there was no mistaking the weight of her silence.

Saphira knew what she was doing. Calculating. Waiting.

But for how long?

“Matriarch!” Saphira’s voice rose, her brows furrowing. “If he falls, the Wraith will turn to us next! He’s holding it back with everything he has, and we must intervene!”

Still no answer.

Saphira’s breathing turned shallow. The castle’s Kalasag barrier, still forming under Marcon’s power, flickered ominously and was yet to stabilize. If they drew the Wraith’s attention now, the stronghold’s ultimate defense would collapse before it was even complete. The balance of their survival rested on an agonizing thread.

She knew this. But that did not ease the storm inside her.

Then, finally, Iskayna exhaled.

“Calm yourself, Saphira.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of absolute authority. “Trust in Virelio. He may be a little weaker than he was, but he had better battle antics than any of us elders; he may even surpass my creativity with battling monsters.”

Saphira stiffened. “Matriarch, I—”

She stopped herself. Because she saw it, the distant and shadowed sorrow behind Iskayna’s steady gaze.

This was not indifference.

This was the resolve of a leader who carried the burden of sacrifice.

Saphira lowered her head, her lips pressing into a thin line as she understood what the matriarch was doing.

Without another word, she turned away from the watchtower.

If the matriarch would not act yet, then she would reinforce their last defense. Marcon needed help to stabilize the Kalasag barrier. If they held strong enough, perhaps… just perhaps, the Matriarch would step in before it was too late.

Her threads coalesced around her, weaving a luminous pattern at her feet. Before she vanished into the temple halls, she heard Iskayna whisper—

A quiet thank you.

By the time Saphira drifted from sight, the Grand Matriarch remained alone, her eyes never leaving the battle.

Grand Matriarch then allowed herself a single deep sigh, not of relief but of hopes and contemplation.

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Chapter 40: When Radiance Breeds Ruin V

虜
虜
老
擄
㭋䮣䍮
䑭䊚㲻㛽㘢
㸙䴳㵗䒧䀃

盧

露老露㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢’㸙 盧盧㩫䍮䮣㸙㹝 䍮䮣䑲䬔䮣㲻㯰 䍮䟑㸙 䀯㛽䮣䑲㹝䍮 㛽䑲䏏䏏䮣㲻㯰 㹝䍮㛽㘢䑲㹝 㛽䑲䊚 㒨㛽㘢㣚 㹝䍮䮣 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䑭䑲㸙㹝 㩫䑭䑲㸙䍮䀃

䂛䟑㸙 䀯㘢㲻䜫 䑲㩫䍮䮣㲻 䑲䴳㲻 㸙㩫㛽䮣䑲㣚䮣㲻 䑲㸙 䮣䑲㩫䍮 䊚㘢㵗䴳㲻 㒨䮣䑭㹝 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 䀯㵗㛽䴳䟑䴳䏏 䮣㣚䀯䮣㛽 㸙䮣䑲㛽䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䍮䟑㸙 䴳䮣㛽䬔䮣㸙䀃 䔬䑭㘢㘢㲻 㸙䮣䮣䒧䮣㲻 㒨㛽㘢㣚 䏏䑲㸙䍮䮣㸙 䑲䑭㘢䴳䏏 䍮䟑㸙 䑲㛽㣚㸙㯰 㸙㹝䑲䟑䴳䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㹝㘢㛽䴳 㛽䮣㣚䴳䑲䴳㹝㸙 㘢㒨 䍮䟑㸙 㹝㵗䴳䟑㩫䀃

㒨㘢
䴳䮣䬔㘢䊚

䟑䴳
䴳㣚㹝䴳䮣䴳䑲䍮㸙䮣㹝㩫

䑲㛽䀯㒨䟑㩫

䍮㲻䑲

䮣䍮㹝
䑭䊚䏏㘢

䟑㛽㘢䒧㹝䬔䮣㩫䮣㹝
䟑䴳㹝㘢

㘢䮣䍮䟑䮣䊚䑭䴳㣚䬔䏏㛽
㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽

㭋䍮䮣
䊚䑲㗾䮣

䟑䮣㲻㸙䟑㵗䡨䴳㹝䏏䮣䍮
㹝䍮䮣
㒨䀃㩫䮣㘢㛽
䮣㯰㲻䑲㒨㲻

䂛䮣 䑭䑲䜫 㸙䒧㛽䑲䊚䑭䮣㲻 㘢䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㩫㛽䑲㩫㗾䮣㲻 䮣䑲㛽㹝䍮㯰 䍮䟑㸙 㒨䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽㸙 㹝䊚䟑㹝㩫䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 㹝䍮䮣 㩫㘢䑭㲻㯰 㲻㵗㸙㹝㨄䑭䑲㲻䮣䴳 䏏㛽㘢㵗䴳㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㸙㩫䮣䴳㹝 㘢㒨 㸙㩫㘢㛽㩫䍮䮣㲻 㸙㹝㘢䴳䮣 䑲䴳㲻 䑲㩫㛽䟑㲻 䟑㛽㘢䴳 㒨䟑䑭䑭䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽㯰 㣚䟑䴳䏏䑭䟑䴳䏏 䊚䟑㹝䍮 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䟑㸙㹝䑲䴳㹝 䮣㩫䍮㘢䮣㸙 㘢㒨 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣 䀯䮣䜫㘢䴳㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䬔䮣䟑䑭 㘢㒨 䍮䟑㸙 䒧䑲䟑䴳䀃

䑆 䏏㵗㹝㹝㵗㛽䑲䑭 㸙㩫㛽䮣䮣㩫䍮 㸙䒧䑭䟑㹝 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䟑䑭䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃

㸙䟑䂛
䟑䬔䜫㹝䑲㩫
䑲
䴳䟑

䑲䟑㛾䊚
䟑㩫㛽㘢㹝䬔䜫

㹝䟑㸙
䴳㘢㛽㹝

䊚䑲㸙

䮣䟑㲻䍮

䟑㹝

㹝䟑㯰

㩫㩫㛽㗾㲻䑲䮣

䀯㵗㹝

䴳䟑㛽䬔䑭䮣䮣䏏䑲
㹝㘢

䴳㹝䜫㵗䑲㵗䴳㛽䑲䑭䑭
㸙㹝䣸
䒧䑲䑲㯰㹝㛽
䑲

㸙䬔䴳㘢䟑䟑
㹝㸙䮣䍮㩫
䟑䏏䮣㒨䀃䴳㹝䑭䮣

䴳䮣䬔䮣

㸙䑲

㣚㘢㸙䮣䴳㹝㛽

䍮䑲㲻
䍮䊚䮣䮣㛽
㹝䍮䑲㹝

㛽㹝㘢䍮㵗䍮䏏
䟑䴳䑲㹝䏏䮣䏏㸙䏏㛽

㹝䟑䟑䏏䊚㸙䴳㹝
䊚㘢㵗䴳㲻

䑭䊚㘢㘢䍮䑭

䑲㸙

䟑㫭䟑㛽㸙䮣’㘢䑭

䏏䏏䑲䒧䟑䴳

㵗㹝㩫䍮䟑䟑㸙㘢䴳
㒨㘢㛽㣚
㵗䒧䏏㯰㛽䟑䍮㹝
㸙㛽㘢㵗㹝䮣䮣㧵䏏

㸙㘢㛽㲻㵗㩫䮣䮣㒨
䟑䴳

㸙㹝䟑
䴫㵗㸙㹝

㹝䍮䮣
䑲䴳䮣䮣䮣䀃㲻䏏䮣㛽㛽㹝

䮣㹝䟑㣚

䮣䮣㸙

㭋䍮䮣 䬔㘢䟑㲻 䒧㵗䑭㸙䮣㲻㯰 㸙䟑䴳䮣䊚 㗾䴳䟑㹝㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝㘢䏏䮣㹝䍮䮣㛽㯰 㣚㵗㸙㩫䑭䮣㸙 㛽䮣䑲䑭䟑䏏䴳䟑䴳䏏 䑲㸙 䟑㒨 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䑲㣚䑲䏏䮣 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㣚㘢㛽䮣 㹝䍮䑲䴳 䑲䴳 䟑䴳㩫㘢䴳䬔䮣䴳䟑䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃

㭋䍮䮣䴳 䟑㹝 㸙䒧㘢㗾䮣䀃

㹝㘢䴳

䑲㵗䮣䑲䑭䏏䏏䴳

䑆
㣚䴳㹝䮣䑲

䑲㘢㹝㣚䑭㛽
㛽㒨㘢
㛽䑲䮣㸙䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㸙㘢㵗䴳㲻 㸙䑭䟑㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽㯰 䏏㵗㹝㹝㵗㛽䑲䑭 䜫䮣㹝 㛽䮣㸙㘢䴳䑲䴳㹝㯰 䑭䟑㗾䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䏏㛽䟑䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏 㘢㒨 䑲䴳㩫䟑䮣䴳㹝 㸙㹝㘢䴳䮣䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䊚㘢㛽㲻㸙 㩫䑭䑲䊚䮣㲻 䑲㹝 䍮䟑㸙 㣚䟑䴳㲻㯰 䟑䴳㩫㘢㣚䒧㛽䮣䍮䮣䴳㸙䟑䀯䑭䮣 䜫䮣㹝 䊚䮣䟑䏏䍮㹝䮣㲻 䊚䟑㹝䍮 㣚䑲䑭䮣䬔㘢䑭䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃 䑆 㹝㛽䮣㣚㘢㛽 䒧䑲㸙㸙䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝䍮䮣 䮣䑲㛽㹝䍮 䑲㸙 䟑㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䑭䑲䴳㲻 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨 㛽䮣㩫㘢䟑䑭䮣㲻 䑲㹝 䟑㹝㸙 㵗㹝㹝䮣㛽䑲䴳㩫䮣䀃

㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢 䏏㛽䟑㹝㹝䮣㲻 䍮䟑㸙 㹝䮣䮣㹝䍮㯰 䒧㵗㸙䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䴳㵗㣚䀯䴳䮣㸙㸙 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㹝䮣䴳䟑䴳䏏 㹝㘢 㘢䬔䮣㛽㹝䑲㗾䮣 䍮䟑㣚䀃 䟁㘢䬔䮣䀃 䂛䮣 䴳䮣䮣㲻䮣㲻 㹝㘢 㣚㘢䬔䮣䀃 䔬㵗㹝 䍮䟑㸙 䑭䟑㣚䀯㸙 㒨䮣䑭㹝 䍮䮣䑲䬔䜫㯰 䍮䟑㸙 䮣䴳䮣㛽䏏䜫 㸙䑲䒧䒧䮣㲻 䑲㒨㹝䮣㛽 㸙㵗㣚㣚㘢䴳䟑䴳䏏 䍮䟑㸙 㛾䟑䊚䑲䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䒧䍮䑲䴳㹝㘢㣚 㒨㘢㛽㣚 㘢㒨 䍮䟑㸙 㸙䒧䟑㛽䟑㹝 㩫㘢㣚䒧䑲䴳䟑㘢䴳 䍮䑲㲻 䑭㘢䴳䏏 㲻䟑㸙㸙䟑䒧䑲㹝䮣㲻㯰 㒨㘢㛽㩫䟑䀯䑭䜫 㛽䮣㹝㛽䑲㩫㹝䮣㲻 䑲㒨㹝䮣㛽 㸙㵗㸙㹝䑲䟑䴳䟑䴳䏏 㹝㘢㘢 㣚㵗㩫䍮 㲻䑲㣚䑲䏏䮣䀃

㛽䀃㩫䮣䮣㸙㩫䍮
䑲
䑲㹝䮣㸙䀯
㸙㹝䟑
䑲
㭋䍮䮣
䑭㲻㒨䡨䮣䮣
䍮㹝䮣
㸙䴳䮣䮣㛽
㯰䟑㣚䍮

䊚䟑㹝䍮

㹝䑲䏏䑲䴳䟑㸙
䑭㘢㲻䮣㩫㗾
䏏䴳㘢㒨㛽㣚䟑
㛽㹝䑲䮣䍮

䮣䜫䑲㩫䴳䑭㘢㨄䩽䑲㲻㛽䮣䒧

㵗㹝㸙㛽䮣䏏䮣㧵㘢

㘢䮣㣚㸙㛽’䴳㸙㹝

䀯㯰㣚㸙䟑䑭
㸙㵗䴳㗾䮣䴳
䀯㹝䮣䮣䑲䴳䍮
䏏㛽䑲㗾䟑䴳

㩫䑭䊚㸙䑲

㹝䮣㲻㹝䑲䮣㛽㹝

䟑䮣䴳㛽㲻㲻㵗䍮䏏㸙
㸙䮣䜫䮣
䀃䊚䑲㣚

䴳㹝㘢㘢
㸙㹝㹝䊚䮣㲻䟑

䍮㭋䮣
䟑㹝㸙

䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㹝㘢䜫䟑䴳䏏 䊚䟑㹝䍮 䍮䟑㣚䀃

㭋䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽 㹝䊚䟑㸙㹝䮣㲻 䊚䟑㹝䍮 㣚䑲䑭䟑㩫䮣䀃

䮣䬔䮣䴳
䟑㸙䍮

䍮䮣㲻䑭
㘢㒨
䑭䮣㛽䑲䀯䜫

䏏䮣㸙䍮㹝䀃㹝䴳㛽
㛽䮣䊚㘢䒧

㹝㘢䴳
䮣䍮㹝

䮣㛽䜫䮣䴳䏏
䑭䮣䑲䴳䬔䟑䏏
㸙䟑䴳㩫䮣

䒧㘢䊚䮣㛽

㲻䑲㒨㲻㯰䮣

㹝䴳䮣㒨䑲䟑㸙㹝
䍮䀃䑭䟑㸙䮣㒨㣚

㹝䮣㲻䑲䍮㛽
䮣㒨䴳㲻䮣㲻

㣚䟑䍮

㸙䑲㹝䑭
䮣䑭㹝㒨
䍮䮣㸙䊚䒧䟑㛽

䬔䑲䮣㯰䮣䊚

㹝䍮䊚䟑

䑲
㘢㒨
䮣䍮㭋
㹝㘢

䴳䏏䮣䟑㸙䑭
䑭䮣䏏㸙

㯰䒧㵗

㘢䀯䜫㲻
䑲
䑲䑭䑭
㣚䟑䍮
䍮㯰㹝䟑㘢䴳䴳䏏

㒨㘢

䑭㘢䍮㘢䑭䊚
㒨㘢

㗾㸙㵗䍮

㹝㘢䴳
㸙䏏㲻㛽䮣

䑭㘢䴳䏏

䑲䟑㲻䴳㛽㲻䮣
㘢㹝
䴳䬔䮣䮣
䍮䑲㲻

㫭䑭䮣㘢’㛽䟑䟑㸙

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽 㗾䴳䮣䊚 㘢㒨 䍮䟑㸙 䬔㵗䑭䴳䮣㛽䑲䀯䟑䑭䟑㹝䜫 䑲䴳㲻 䑭㘢㘢㣚䮣㲻 䀯䮣㒨㘢㛽䮣 䍮䟑㣚㯰 䟑㹝㸙 䏏㛽㘢㹝䮣㸙㧵㵗䮣 㒨㘢㛽㣚 㸙䍮䟑㒨㹝䟑䴳䏏 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䟑䴳㗾 㸙䒧䟑䑭䑭䮣㲻 㘢䬔䮣㛽 䊚䑲㹝䮣㛽䀃

㭋䍮䮣䴳㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㩫㘢㛽䴳䮣㛽㸙 㘢㒨 䟑㹝㸙 㒨㛽䑲㩫㹝㵗㛽䮣㲻 㣚㘢㵗㹝䍮 㩫㵗㛽䑭䮣㲻 㵗䒧䊚䑲㛽㲻㯰 㹝䊚䟑㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䴳䟑䏏䍮㹝㣚䑲㛽䟑㸙䍮䑭䜫 䍮㵗㣚䑲䴳—䑲䴳 䮣䑭䑲㹝䮣㲻 䏏㛽䟑䴳䀃 䣸㹝㸙 㸙㵗䴳㗾䮣䴳 䮣䜫䮣㸙 䏏䑭䮣䑲㣚䮣㲻㯰 㛽䮣䬔䮣䑭䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳 䍮䟑㸙 䍮䮣䑭䒧䑭䮣㸙㸙䴳䮣㸙㸙㯰 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㩫䮣㛽㹝䑲䟑䴳㹝䜫 㘢㒨 䟑㹝㸙 䟑㣚䒧䮣䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏 㒨䮣䑲㸙㹝䀃

䬔㲻䑲䀃䮣䴳䍮䟑㸙

㹝—䮣䴳䍮䟑㭋

㪯䟑㗾䮣 㣚䟑㸙㹝 㲻䟑㸙䒧䮣㛽㸙䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 䊚䟑䴳㲻䀃

㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢’㸙 䀯㛽䮣䑲㹝䍮 䍮䟑㹝㩫䍮䮣㲻䀃 䣸䴳㸙㹝䟑䴳㩫㹝 㸙㩫㛽䮣䑲㣚䮣㲻 䑲㹝 䍮䟑㣚 㹝㘢 㛽䮣䑲㩫㹝㯰 䀯㵗㹝 㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䍮䮣 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 㲻㘢 㹝㘢 㸙㹝㘢䒧 䟑㹝 䑲㸙 䟑㹝 㛽䮣䑲䒧䒧䮣䑲㛽䮣㲻 䍮䑲䑭㒨 䑲 㣚䮣㹝䮣㛽 䑲䊚䑲䜫䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㸙䍮䮣䮣㛽 㸙䒧䮣䮣㲻 㘢㒨 䟑㹝㸙 㣚㘢䬔䮣㣚䮣䴳㹝 㸙䮣䴳㹝 䑲 㸙䍮㵗㲻㲻䮣㛽 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽㯰 㲻䟑㸙䒧䑭䑲㩫䟑䴳䏏 㲻㵗㸙㹝 䑲䴳㲻 㲻䮣䀯㛽䟑㸙 䑲㸙 䟑㹝 㣚䑲㹝䮣㛽䟑䑲䑭䟑䩽䮣㲻 䴫㵗㸙㹝 䀯䮣㒨㘢㛽䮣 䍮䟑㣚㯰 䑲䴳㲻 䜫䮣㹝 䍮䮣 㲻䟑㲻䴳’㹝 䒧䑲䴳䟑㩫䀃

䑆

䑲䣸㯰㲻䮣㹝䴳㸙
䮣㗾䑭㩫䀃㵗䍮㩫

䮣䍮
㹝㛽䟑䮣㲻
䍮䀃㲻䮣䏏㵗䑲䑭
㛽㯰䜫㲻

“䣸 㲻䟑㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䮣㸙㹝 䣸 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻㯰” 䍮䮣 㣚㵗㹝㹝䮣㛽䮣㲻㯰 䍮䟑㸙 䬔㘢䟑㩫䮣 䍮㘢䑲㛽㸙䮣 䀯㵗㹝 㘢㲻㲻䑭䜫 㩫䑲䑭㣚䀃 “䣸 䏏㵗䮣㸙㸙 䮣䬔䮣㛽䜫㘢䴳䮣’㸙 䑲䑭㛽䮣䑲㲻䜫 㲻㘢䴳䮣 䊚䟑㹝䍮 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䒧㛽䮣䒧䑲㛽䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳㸙… 䬱㘢㹝㹝䑲 䏏䟑䬔䮣 䟑㹝 㹝㘢 㣚䜫 䑲䏏䮣㯰 㲻㵗䑭䑭䟑䴳䏏 㣚䮣 䑭䟑㗾䮣 㹝䍮䟑㸙䀃”

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽’㸙 䏏㛽䟑䴳 䊚䟑㲻䮣䴳䮣㲻㯰 㒨䑲䴳䏏㸙 䏏䑭䟑䴳㹝䟑䴳䏏 㵗䴳㲻䮣㛽 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䟑㣚 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝䀃

㗾㛽䑲㲻

㭋䮣㛽”䮣䍮
䴳㸙㹝䀃㣚䑲㵗䮣㣚䮣
䊚䟑䍮㹝

䟑㹝㸙
䟑㩫㘢䬔䮣

㘢㒨㛽
㹝䟑

㘢䴳

䒧䍮䮣㘢

䟑㸙

䮣䟑䑭㸙䍮䟑㹝㛽䏏䴳

㯰㵗㘢”䜫

㹝㲻䴳㘢䮣䟑㯰䴳

㭋䍮䮣䴳 䟑㹝 㸙䒧㘢㗾䮣 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳—䀯㵗㹝 䴳㘢㹝 䟑䴳 䑲䴳䜫 䑭䑲䴳䏏㵗䑲䏏䮣 㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢 㛽䮣㩫㘢䏏䴳䟑䩽䮣㲻䀃

㭋䍮䮣 䊚㘢㛽㲻㸙 㸙䍮䑲㹝㹝䮣㛽䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽䀃

㹝䍮㹝㲻䮣㘢㹝㸙㩫䮣㵗㛽

㹝㒨㸙䑭䟑䮣

䟑㹝㘢㸙㣚䏏䴳䍮䮣

䒧㸙䀃䑲䮣䍮
䏏䑲㲻㒤䮣䏏
㛽㒨㣚㘢
䀯㛽㸙䀯䮣䮣䮣䊚䒧㲻䟑㲻

㸙㵗䮣䟑㸙㸙㒨㛽

䀯䬔䑆䮣㘢
䑭㹝䮣㛽䟑䜫䑲

㯰㵗䊚㹝㘢䑲㛽㲻
䀯䮣’㸙䑲㸙㹝
㗾㘢㘢㹝
㹝䍮䮣

䮣㛽䑲㵗㛽㹝㩫㸙㒨㯰

䑲䴳㲻
䴳䑲㸙㲻㯰䍮

䴳䊚䍮䟑㹝䟑

㩫㛽䑲㩫䀃㗾䮣㲻

㵗䴳䑭䴳䑲㹝㵗㛽䑲
䍮䮣㸙㹝㘢

䟁䑲䊚㸙䀃

㛾㘢䩽䮣䴳㸙䀃 㭋䊚䟑㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏㯰 䊚㛽䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏㯰 䏏䴳䑲㸙䍮䟑䴳䏏䀃

䟑䑭䑲㒨㹝䀯䮣㹝䮣㲻䑭

㘢䟑㲻䏏㘢㛽䑭䴳

㭋䍮䜫䮣
䑲䟑㛽䀃

㘢䮣䴳
䮣䟑㹝䑲䑲㸙䑭䴳䟑䀯
䑲䴳
䑆

㛽㹝㵗䒧䟑㲻

䮣䡨䴳䮣㹝䟑㩫䮣㸙
䴳䟑㘢㹝
㵗㸙䮣㘢䮣㛽㧵䏏㹝

䑭䟑㘢䮣㩫㲻
㸙䮣䏏㵗㛽

䍮䮣㹝

㲻䑲䴳

㒨㘢

㵗㹝䍮䍮㛽䏏㘢
䀯䮣㛽㹝䑲䍮

㒨㘢
㹝䍮䮣
㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽
䑲㸙
㹝㲻㘢䊚㛽䑲
䬔䊚䮣㘢
䍮㩫䑲䮣
䟑㲻㘢䬔

䊚㹝䍮䟑
㣚㵗㛽㸙㘢㘢䴳㹝㸙
㹝㘢㣚䍮㵗㸙
䍮㵗䴳䏏䮣㛽㯰
䍮㹝䟑䊚
㣚㩫䮣㘢䴳㵗㸙

㹝䑲䟑䴳䴳䏏㹝䟑
䑭㘢䀃䍮䮣䊚

㒨䟑䟑㲻㹝䑭㯰䜫㵗

㘢㹝
㣚䟑䍮

㛽䮣䑲䜫㲻

䒧㵗㸙䮣䑭㲻
䮣㗾䑲㯰㸙㸙㛽㲻䴳

䍮䟑㣚㯰
䍮㹝䮣

㹝䮣䮣㹝䍮

䑲
䟑㩫㣚䑲䑭䮣

㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢 䮣䡨䍮䑲䑭䮣㲻㯰 䑭䮣㹝㹝䟑䴳䏏 䮣䡨䍮䑲㵗㸙㹝䟑㘢䴳 㸙䮣㹝㹝䑭䮣 㘢䬔䮣㛽 䍮䟑㣚 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 䍮䮣䑲䬔䜫 㸙䍮㛽㘢㵗㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣㛽䮣 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢 㛽䮣㸙䟑㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䟑㸙䀃 䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㘢䬔䮣㛽䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽 䑭㵗䴳䏏䮣㲻䀃

㒨㘢䮣䀃

㛽䀃㹝䒧㵗䟑䍮㣚
䑲

䴫䜫㘢㯰

䍮㛽㵗㸙

㒨㒨㘢

䮣䍮㹝

䊚䑲㸙
㸙䊚䑲㣚

㹝㲻㛽䮣㵗䴳䴳䟑㸙䑲㛽䮣

㒨㛽㣚㘢
䮣䍮㹝

䍮䮣㹝
㛽䴳㲻㵗㘢㯰䏏

䴳㘢䒧㵗

㸙㵗㛽䮣䏏
䑲
䑭—䑭䟑䟑㗾㹝
㹝䍮䮣

㯰䒧㘢䊚㛽䮣

㒨㘢䀯㲻㛽䑲䑭㣚䮣䟑
䮣㩫㯰䮣䴳㲻㲻䮣㲻㸙
䑆㸙

㘢㒨
㒨䮣㸙㹝䑲

䟑䴳䡨㹝㘢䴳㹝䏏㩫䑲䟑䟑

䒧䮣㛽䜫䀃

㘢䍮㲻㛽䮣䬔䮣

㘢䴳㲻䏏䟑㵗䮣䬔㛽

䜫㹝㛽䍮䊚㘢
䑆
䴳䑲㸙’䊚㹝
㒨㘢

䟑䓡䍮㹝
㛽䑲䏏㸙䬔㘢䴳䟑
㵗㹝䮣㛽㩫䮣䑲㛽
䟑㹝

㸙䍮䏏㹝㹝䮣㛽䴳

䑲

䟑䏏㹝䑭䍮㸙䑭䜫

㲻䍮䑲䊚㹝㩫䮣㯰

㩫䟑䟑㹝㹝䏏䴳䴳䒧䑲䑲䟑
㣚䀃㹝㣚䴳㘢䮣

䟑㸙䍮㭋
㹝䍮䮣
㹝㵗㸙䴫
㹝䍮䮣

㭋䍮䮣䴳—

䑆䏏㘢䴳䜫䀃

㛽㘢䮣㹝
䑆

㸙㹝䟑

㛽䍮䏏䍮㹝㵗㘢

䜫䀯䀃㘢㲻
㘢䍮㸙㩫㗾

㘢䑭㹝䮣䴳䟑䬔

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽’㸙 䮣䴳㹝䟑㛽䮣 㒨㘢㛽㣚 䴫䮣㛽㗾䮣㲻 㣚䟑㲻䑲䟑㛽㯰 䑭䟑㣚䀯㸙 㩫㘢䴳䬔㵗䑭㸙䟑䴳䏏 䑲㸙 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲䴳 䮣䑭䮣㩫㹝㛽䟑㩫 㩫㵗㛽㛽䮣䴳㹝 㸙㵗㛽䏏䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 䟑㹝㸙 䮣㸙㸙䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃 䑆 䏏㵗㹝㹝㵗㛽䑲䑭 㸙䴳䑲㛽䑭 䮣㛽㵗䒧㹝䮣㲻 㒨㛽㘢㣚 䟑㹝㸙 㹝䍮㛽㘢䑲㹝 䑲㸙 䑲 㸙䮣䑲㛽䟑䴳䏏 䒧䑲䟑䴳 䀯䑭㘢㸙㸙㘢㣚䮣㲻 䴳䮣䑲㛽 䟑㹝㸙 㸙䍮㘢㵗䑭㲻䮣㛽䀃

䬱㛽䮣䮣䴳䟑㸙䍮 䀯䑭㘢㘢㲻 㸙䒧䮣䊚䮣㲻 㒨㛽㘢㣚 㘢䴳䮣 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䏏䑲䒧䟑䴳䏏 㣚㘢㵗㹝䍮㸙䀃

䟑㹝䟑㹝䴳䊚㸙䏏
䍮䮣㭋

䟑㹝㸙
䍮㵗㹝㩫㘢

㲻䴳䑲䍮
㲻㛽䑲䟑䮣㸙

䟑䴳

䮣㘢䒧䴳
䑲䊚㸙㣚

㒨㘢
㘢㹝

䍮㲻䑲
䊚䍮䮣䮣㛽

㸙㹝䟑

㹝㘢䴳㛽
㹝䍮䮣

䏏䑲㸙䍮
䀯䮣䴳䮣

㩫䊚䑭㲻䮣䑲
䴳䑲㲻

䑲㹝䒧㛽䑲䀃

㹝䟑
䮣㘢㛽㩫㲻䑭䟑䮣㯰
㣚㛽㘢㹝㸙䴳䮣

㘢㘢㸙䴳䴳㯰㒨㩫㵗䟑

䊚䴳㘢㵗䴳㲻—䑲

㘢䮣䴳

䣸㹝㸙 䏏䑲䩽䮣 㸙䴳䑲䒧䒧䮣㲻 㹝㘢䊚䑲㛽㲻 㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢䀃

䂛䮣 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢 䑭㘢䴳䏏䮣㛽 㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣䀃

䴳䮣㣚䍮㹝㘢䏏䟑㸙
䣸㹝
䑲䍮㹝㹝

䏏䮣㘢䴳
䜫䮣㲻䑭䟑䟑㣚㣚䮣㹝䑲
䑭䟑㛽䮣㲻䑲䩽䮣
䍮䑲㲻

㘢㛽䊚䴳䏏䀃

䑆䑭䑭 㹝䍮䮣 㛽䑲䬔䮣䴳㘢㵗㸙 㣚㘢㵗㹝䍮㸙 䟑㹝 䍮䑲㲻 㸙㵗㣚㣚㘢䴳䮣㲻 䍮䑲㲻 㣚䮣㹝 䬔䟑㘢䑭䮣䴳㹝 㛽䮣㸙䟑㸙㹝䑲䴳㩫䮣䀃 㲲㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㣚㘢㛽䮣 㹝䍮䑲䴳 䴫㵗㸙㹝 㸙㹝㘢䒧䒧䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣㣚 䍮䑲㲻 㘢㩫㩫㵗㛽㛽䮣㲻䀃 㲲㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㘢䀯䑭䟑㹝䮣㛽䑲㹝䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣㣚䀃 㲲䍮㛽䮣㲻㲻䮣㲻䀃 㛾䟑㸙䒧䮣㛽㸙䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䑲 㣚䟑㸙㹝䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䒧䑲䟑䴳 䑭䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽䮣㲻 㘢䴳 䟑㹝㸙 䀯㘢㲻䜫 䑲䴳㲻 㲻䟑㲻䴳’㹝 㸙㹝㘢䒧 䮣䬔䮣䴳 䑲㸙 䟑㹝 㹝㛽䟑䮣㲻 㹝㘢 䍮䮣䑲䑭 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㲻䮣㸙㹝㛽㵗㩫㹝䟑㘢䴳 㘢㒨 㹝䍮㘢㸙䮣 㣚䑲䊚㸙 㛽䟑䒧䒧䑭䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 䟑㹝㸙 䮣䴳㹝䟑㛽䮣 䀯㘢㲻䜫㯰 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲䴳 㵗䴳㸙䮣䮣䴳 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 㸙䮣䬔䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳㹝㛽䟑䴳㸙䟑㩫 㹝㘢 䟑㹝㸙 䀯䮣䟑䴳䏏䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䊚㘢㵗䴳㲻 䊚㘢㵗䑭㲻䴳’㹝 䍮䮣䑲䑭 䟑䴳㸙㹝䑲䴳㹝䑭䜫䀃 㲲㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 䟑㹝 㸙㹝㛽㵗䏏䏏䑭䮣㲻 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 䑲 䑭䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏㯰 䟑䴳㸙䟑㲻䟑㘢㵗㸙 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 䍮䟑䴳㲻䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 䟑㹝㸙 㛽䮣䏏䮣䴳䮣㛽䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳䀃

䑲㯰䴳㵗㛽㘢㲻
䴳䑲䮣㵗䴳䍮㹝—㩫䏏䟑㸙䟑㛽䑭

㛽㲻䮣䑲㹝㲻
㲻䟑䑭䑲䮣䩽䮣㛽䀃
䑲䩽䮣䏏
䮣䍮㭋

䟑㹝

㣚㹝’䴳㸙㸙䮣㘢㛽

䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙䴳’㹝 㵗䴳㗾䴳㘢䊚䴳 㹝㘢 䮣䬔䮣㛽䜫㘢䴳䮣䀃

䃂㛽㘢㣚 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㹝㘢䊚䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 䉂䮣䑭䮣㸙㹝䟑䑲䑭 㲲䮣䑲䑭 䉂䑲㸙㹝䑭䮣㯰 䍮䟑㲻㲻䮣䴳 䀯䮣䍮䟑䴳㲻 䟑㹝㸙 㸙䑲㩫㛽䮣㲻 䊚䑲䑭䑭㸙㯰 㹝䍮䮣 䬱㛽䑲䴳㲻 䟁䑲㹝㛽䟑䑲㛽㩫䍮 䍮䑲㲻 䑲䑭㛽䮣䑲㲻䜫 䀯䮣䏏㵗䴳 㣚㘢䬔䟑䴳䏏䀃

䑭㘢㒨䴳㵗㲻㯰

䑲䴳㲻

䍮䑲㲻

䮣䮣㩫䴳䑭䟑㸙
䍮䮣㛽
䀯䴳䮣䮣

䏏䟑䊚㹝䑲䟑㯰䴳
䑭䮣䒧䑭㸙
䟑䴳

䑲㣚䴳㘢㲻䟑䀃
䊚㩫䍮䑲㹝䏏䟑䴳

㒨㘢
㹝䑲㹝䀯䮣䑭

䏏㛽䑲䴳㲻

䍮㹝䮣

䮣䍮㹝
䴳䏏䮣䊚䬔䑲䟑
䍮䮣㛽
䮣䍮㲲

䑆䴳㲻 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢㣚䮣䴳㹝 㸙䍮䮣 㸙䑲䊚 㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢 㩫㘢䑭䑭䑲䒧㸙䮣㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢㣚䮣䴳㹝 㸙䍮䮣 㗾䴳䮣䊚 䍮䮣 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 䴳㘢 䑭㘢䴳䏏䮣㛽 㛽䮣㸙䟑㸙㹝㯰 㸙䍮䮣 䑲㩫㹝䮣㲻䀃

䓡䟑㹝䍮 䑲 䑭䑲㸙㹝 㣚㘢㹝䟑㘢䴳㯰 㸙䍮䮣 䮣䴳㩫䑭㘢㸙䮣㲻 䍮䮣㛽 䟑䴳㹝㛽䟑㩫䑲㹝䮣 䊚䮣䑲䬔䮣 䊚䟑㹝䍮 㹝䍮䮣 䑭䑲㸙㹝 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻䀃

䍮䮣䑲䬔䮣䴳㸙
㭋䍮䮣

䮣㛽㘢㸙䴳䮣㲻㲻䒧䀃

㲲㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 㲻䟑䬔䟑䴳䮣 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 䒧㵗㛽䟑㒨䟑䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽 㘢䬔䮣㛽 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣㒨䟑䮣䑭㲻 䟑䴳㸙㹝䑲䴳㹝䑭䜫㯰 䑲㸙 㹝䍮㘢㵗䏏䍮 䟑㹝 䒧㛽䮣㸙㸙䮣㲻 㲻㘢䊚䴳 㘢䴳 㛽䮣䑲䑭䟑㹝䜫 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨䀃 䑆 㩫䮣䑭䮣㸙㹝䟑䑲䑭 䒧㵗䑭㸙䮣 㩫㘢䑲䑭䮣㸙㩫䮣㲻 䑲䀯㘢䬔䮣 㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢’㸙 㒨䑲䑭䑭䮣䴳 㒨㘢㛽㣚㯰 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䒧䑲㩫䮣 䍮䮣 㘢㩫㩫㵗䒧䟑䮣㲻䀃

㭋䍮䮣䴳—

㣚䮣䟑㭋

䀃㸙㲻䮣㹝㘢䒧䒧

䃂㘢㛽 䴫㵗㸙㹝 䑲 㒨㛽䑲㩫㹝䟑㘢䴳 㘢㒨 䑲 㸙䮣㩫㘢䴳㲻㯰 䑲䴳 䟑䴳㒨䟑䴳䟑㹝䮣㸙䟑㣚䑲䑭 㸙䑭䟑䬔䮣㛽 㘢㒨 䮣㹝䮣㛽䴳䟑㹝䜫㯰 䮣䬔䮣㛽䜫㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㸙㹝㘢㘢㲻 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭䀃

䑆䴳㲻 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䑲㹝 䀯㛽䮣䑲㹝䍮 㘢㒨 䍮䑲䑭㹝䮣㲻 㹝䟑㣚䮣㯰 㹝䍮䮣 䬱㛽䑲䴳㲻 䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣 㩫㘢㣚䒧䑭䮣㹝䮣㲻䀃 㫭䟑㛽䮣䑭䟑㘢’㸙 䀯㘢㲻䜫 䬔䑲䴳䟑㸙䍮䮣㲻䀃

㘢㒨

䍮䟑㸙
㸙䑲㛽䀃䮣䍮㹝㲻

䮣㛽㛽䴳㵗㩫㹝

䟑㹝

㘢䑭䊚㒨
䬔䏏䑲䴳䮣䊚䟑

㒨㛽㘢㣚
䮣䒧䮣㹝㹝㛽䬔䟑㘢㩫
㒨㘢㛽㣚
䴳䑆

䟑䴳㘢㹝

䟑㸙㛽䑭㹝䑲㹝
䀯䑲㹝㹝㲻䟑㯰䑭㒨䮣䮣䑭
䍮㹝䮣

䴳䴳䮣㵗䮣㸙

䒧㵗䑭䑭䮣㲻
䀯䑲㹝䮣㹝㲻䮣㛽
䑲
䜫䑲䊚䑲

䣸䴳 䍮䟑㸙 䒧䑭䑲㩫䮣㯰 䑲 䑭㵗㣚䟑䴳㘢㵗㸙 䀯䑲䑭䑭 㘢㒨 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝 㣚䑲㹝䮣㛽䟑䑲䑭䟑䩽䮣㲻䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽 䀯䑲㛽䮣䑭䜫 䍮䑲㲻 㹝䟑㣚䮣 㹝㘢 㛽䮣䑲㩫㹝 䀯䮣㒨㘢㛽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䒧䍮䮣㛽䮣 㘢㒨 㩫䮣䑭䮣㸙㹝䟑䑲䑭 䮣䴳䮣㛽䏏䜫 䀯㵗㛽㸙㹝䀃

㸙䒧䑲㩫䮣

䒧㵗㛽㯰䮣
㹝䑲䮣䴳㣚

㘢䮣㸙㘢䟑䴳䡨䒧䑭

㛽䑲㲻䟑䑲䴳㹝

㩫䴳䮣㘢
䍮䮣㹝
䮣㛽䑭䴳䮣䴳䴳䏏㹝䟑㵗

䮣䟑䟑䑭㘢㛽㫭
㹝㘢㛽䮣
䴳䑲
䮣䑲䊚䬔
䑲㹝䑭䮣䑭䍮

㒨㘢
㹝㘢䴳
䏏㹝㘢䍮䍮㵗㛽
㹝㸙㯰㲻㘢㘢

㹝䑭䟑䏏䍮
㛽㘢㒨

㹝䴳䮣㸙㛽㘢㸙㣚䀃
䑆

䀃㩫䮣㒨㘢㛽

䑆
䮣䟑䑭䏏㸙䍮䑲䴳䴳㵗

䍮䊚䮣㛽䮣

㭋䍮䮣 㩫㛽䮣䑲㹝㵗㛽䮣 㸙䍮㛽䟑䮣㗾䮣㲻 䑲㸙 㹝䍮䮣 䮣䴳䮣㛽䏏䜫 㛽䟑䒧䒧䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 䟑㹝㸙 㒨㘢㛽㣚㯰 㸙䮣䑲㛽䟑䴳䏏 䟑㹝㸙 㒨䑭䮣㸙䍮 䑲䴳㲻 䮣㣚䀯䮣㲻㲻䟑䴳䏏 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨 㲻䮣䮣䒧 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 䟑㹝㸙 㩫㘢㛽䮣䀃 㭋䍮䟑㸙 䊚䑲㸙䴳’㹝 䴫㵗㸙㹝 䑲 㸙䟑㣚䒧䑭䮣 㩫㘢㵗䴳㹝䮣㛽 䀯㵗㹝 䑲 䑭䮣㹝䍮䑲䑭 䑲㹝㹝䑲㩫㗾㯰 㣚䑲㛽㗾䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝㛽㘢㸙䟑㹝䜫 䊚䟑㹝䍮 䟑㹝㸙 䑭䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 䒧㵗㛽䟑㒨䜫䟑䴳䏏 㩫㵗㛽㸙䮣䀃 䑆 㲻䟑䬔䟑䴳䮣 䑲㒨㒨䑭䟑㩫㹝䟑㘢䴳 㹝䍮䑲㹝 䊚㘢㵗䑭㲻 㩫㘢䴳㹝䟑䴳㵗䮣 㹝㘢 㒨䮣㸙㹝䮣㛽㯰 䒧㛽䮣䬔䮣䴳㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 䊚㘢㵗䴳㲻㸙 㒨㛽㘢㣚 䍮䮣䑲䑭䟑䴳䏏㯰 䑲䴳㲻 㒨㘢㛽㩫䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽 㹝㘢 䮣䴳㲻㵗㛽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䒧䑲䟑䴳 㒨㘢㛽 㒨䑲㛽 䑭㘢䴳䏏䮣㛽 㹝䍮䑲䴳 䟑㹝 䮣䬔䮣㛽 䍮䑲㲻 㹝㘢䀃

䑆䴳㲻 䑲㸙 䟑㹝 㛽䮣䮣䑭䮣㲻 㒨㛽㘢㣚 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䮣䑲㛽䟑䴳䏏 䟑㣚䒧䑲㩫㹝㯰 䑲㸙 㹝䍮䮣 㛽䮣㣚䴳䑲䴳㹝㸙 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䑲㹝 㩫䮣䑭䮣㸙㹝䟑䑲䑭 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝 㒨䑭䟑㩫㗾䮣㛽䮣㲻 䑲㩫㛽㘢㸙㸙 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣㒨䟑䮣䑭㲻—

䟑䑭㛽㘢㫭䟑䮣

䊚䑲㸙

䏏㘢䮣䴳䀃

㲲䑲㒨䮣 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 䉂䮣䑭䮣㸙㹝䟑䑲䑭 㲲䮣䑲䑭 䉂䑲㸙㹝䑭䮣䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽’㸙 䏏㛽䟑䴳 䍮䑲㲻 䑭㘢䴳䏏 㸙䟑䴳㩫䮣 䬔䑲䴳䟑㸙䍮䮣㲻䀃

䑲㭋䑭䑲
䑲䊚㸙

㛾㘢㣚䑲䟑䴳
䮣䍮㭋

䟑䏏䀃㹝䟑䍮㸙䴳㒨

㭋䍮䮣 㸙㗾䟑䮣㸙㯰 䑲䑭㛽䮣䑲㲻䜫 㩫䍮㘢㗾䮣㲻 䟑䴳 㲻䑲㛽㗾䴳䮣㸙㸙㯰 㲻䮣䮣䒧䮣䴳䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䑲䴳 䑲䀯䜫㸙㸙䑲䑭 䬔㘢䟑㲻䀃 䓡䍮䑲㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㘢䴳㩫䮣 㣚䮣㛽䮣 㣚䟑䑲㸙㣚䑲 䍮䑲㲻 䴳㘢䊚 㹝䍮䟑㩫㗾䮣䴳䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㒨䑲㛽 䊚㘢㛽㸙䮣 䑲㸙 䑲 㸙㵗㒨㒨㘢㩫䑲㹝䟑䴳䏏 㣚䑲䑭䟑䏏䴳䑲䴳㩫䮣 㹝䍮䑲㹝 㲻䮣䬔㘢㵗㛽䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝 䑲䴳㲻 㸙䮣䮣䒧䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 䀯㘢䴳䮣㸙 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䬔䮣㛽䜫 䑭䑲䴳㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㩫㘢䴳㹝㛽䑲㸙㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㵗䴳䴳䮣㛽䬔䟑䴳䏏䀃 㤙㵗㹝㸙䟑㲻䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㲻㘢㣚䑲䟑䴳㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㗾䜫 㛽䮣㹝䑲䟑䴳䮣㲻 䟑㹝㸙 䴳䑲㹝㵗㛽䑲䑭 㲻䑲㛽㗾 䍮㵗䮣㸙㯰 䀯㵗㹝 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳㯰 㹝䍮䮣 䍮䮣䑲䬔䮣䴳㸙 㹝䍮䮣㣚㸙䮣䑭䬔䮣㸙 㸙䮣䮣㣚䮣㲻 㹝㘢 㒨㘢䑭㲻 䟑䴳䊚䑲㛽㲻㯰 䑲 㩫㘢㸙㣚䟑㩫 䊚㘢㵗䴳㲻 㣚䑲䴳䟑㒨䮣㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏 䑲䀯㘢䬔䮣䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㲲㘢䬔䮣㛽䮣䟑䏏䴳 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮 䍮䑲㲻 㩫䑭䑲䟑㣚䮣㲻 㹝䍮䟑㸙 㛽䮣䑲䑭㣚 䑲㸙 䟑㹝㸙 㘢䊚䴳䀃

㘢䑭䏏䴳䟑㗾㘢
䮣䍮㹝
䊚㘢䴳䬔䮣

㛽䴳䑲䟑䊚䴳㲻䮣䏏

䴳㘢䑭䮣䏏㛽
䣸㹝

㸙䍮㘢㯰䑲㸙㲻䊚

䟑㹝㸙

㣚䜫䑲䑭䮣䑭㸙䮣㸙㸙
㛽㘢䴳

䮣㣚㘢㩫䮣䀯
䟑䮣䏏䟑㗾䑭䴳㒨㩫㛽
㲻䑲䍮
䮣䀯㯰㹝䮣䊚䴳䮣
䮣䴳䟑䏏䍮㹝㣚䑲㯰㛽
㸙䟑䒧㛽䟑㹝
䑲
䑲䮣㹝䀯㸙
䑲㸙䊚
㛽㘢䴳

䮣㸙䑭㹝㒨䟑
㹝䟑
㘢㹝䟑䴳

㘢㒨

㛽㘢㛽㘢䍮㛽
㛽䮣䮣㣚䒧䑭䑲䮣䍮

䏏㣚䍮䴳㘢䮣㹝䟑㸙

㘢䍮䍮㵗䏏㹝

䴳㲻䟑䮣㒨䮣
䮣䍮㭋

㹝䍮䮣

䑲㩫䮣㯰㛽䒧䑭㸙㹝

㘢㒨
䮣㩫㘢㛽䒧䑲䑭㘢㛽

䴳䏏㵗㹝䟑㹝䴳㯰䮣䑭㸙
㲻䴳䑲

㸙㒨䍮䟑䏏䟑㹝䴳

䑭㸙䒧䟑䑭㲻䮣

䟑㹝㸙
䑲䟑䮣䑭䬔
䑲㸙

㩫䟑㛽㹝䴳㘢䴳䑲㩫㲻䟑㘢㹝

䒧䑲—䍮㸙䮣䑲

㒨䑭㵗䑭䜫

䟑䮣䍮䮣䴳㹝㛽

䴳䑲

㩫㸙㛽䒧䮣䴳䮣䮣
䜫䮣㹝
㹝䮣㛽䮣䍮

䑭䟑䮣㗾

䮣㛽䮣㯰䍮㹝

䴳㲻䟑㣚
㵗䏏㛽䑭㹝㸙䏏㲻䮣

䊚䮣䮣㹝䮣䴳䀯
㹝㘢
㒨䍮䑭㯰㸙䮣
㗾䟑䴳
䑲㩫㹝
䴳䟑
䴳㘢㹝
䣸㹝

䮣䟑䑭㗾
㹝㛽䜫䑭㵗

䑲㩫㛽㘢㸙㸙

䑲
䟑㹝㸙
㒨㘢㛽㣚
㣚䑲㩫䑭䮣䟑䀃
㘢䴳
㲻䑲䀃䮣㲻

䮣㗾䟑䑭
䑲㹝
㒨㘢
㩫䀃㸙䮣㹝䡨䮣䮣䟑䴳

䮣䮣㣚㛽

㣚㘢㲻䮣䬔

䑆䴳㲻 䟑㹝’㸙 㣚䑲䑭䟑㩫䮣䀃䀃䀃

䑆 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 㸙㘢 䏏㛽䮣䑲㹝 䟑㹝 䊚䑲㸙 䑲㸙 䟑㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨 㛽䮣㩫㘢䟑䑭䮣㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㸙㹝䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳䮣㲻 䮣䑭䟑㹝䮣 䊚䮣䑲䬔䮣㛽㸙 㘢㵗㹝㸙䟑㲻䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㭋䑲䑭䑲 䄼䮣㸙䟑㲻䮣䴳㩫䮣 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 㒨䮣䮣䑭 㹝䍮䮣 䏏㛽㘢㵗䴳㲻 㹝㛽䮣㣚䀯䑭䮣㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㹝㛽䮣㣚㘢㛽㸙 䒧㵗䑭㸙䟑䴳䏏 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 䍮䮣䑲㛽㹝 䀯䮣䑲㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝㘢㘢 㒨䑲㸙㹝㯰 㹝㘢㘢 䬔䟑㘢䑭䮣䴳㹝䑭䜫㯰 㹝㘢㘢 䊚㛽㘢䴳䏏䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䊚䟑䴳㲻 䍮䑲㲻 㹝㵗㛽䴳䮣㲻 㹝㛽䮣䑲㩫䍮䮣㛽㘢㵗㸙㯰 䴳㘢 䑭㘢䴳䏏䮣㛽 㣚䮣㛽䮣 䑲䟑㛽 䀯㵗㹝 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䀯䑭䑲㲻䮣㲻㯰 㸙䑭䟑㩫䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䒧䑲㩫䮣 䟑㹝 㹝㘢㵗㩫䍮䮣㲻䀃

㲻䓡䑲㸙㛽

䍮㹝㛽䫵䮣䑭䮣䑲
䣮䮣㹝

㹝䍮䮣

䍮䮣䑭㲻䀃

㭋䍮䮣䴳 㩫䑲㣚䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䍮䑲㛽㛽㘢䊚䟑䴳䏏 㛽䮣䑲䑭䟑䩽䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳 㹝䍮䑲㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䑭䮣㸙㸙䮣㛽 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽㸙 㹝䍮䑲㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䊚䮣䑲䬔䮣㛽 䏏㵗䑲㛽㲻㸙 䍮䑲㲻 㛽䮣㸙㹝㛽䑲䟑䴳䮣㲻 㸙㵗㲻㲻䮣䴳䑭䜫 㩫䮣䑲㸙䮣㲻 㹝㘢 䀯䮣䀃

䃂䑭䮣㲻 䴳㘢㹝䀃 㩅㘢㹝 㲻䟑㸙䒧䮣㛽㸙䮣㲻䀃 㩅㘢㹝 㸙䑭䑲䟑䴳䀃

㭋䍮䮣䜫

…㲻䒧䍮䴳䑭䜫䮣䀃䑲㸙䟑䬔㣚䟑㸙

㭋䍮䮣䟑㛽 㲻䟑㸙䮣㣚䀯㘢㲻䟑䮣㲻 㒨㘢㛽㣚㸙 㲻䟑㸙㸙䟑䒧䑲㹝䮣㲻 䟑䴳 䮣䮣㛽䟑䮣 㸙䟑䑭䮣䴳㩫䮣㯰 㲻䮣䬔㘢㵗㛽䮣㲻 䀯䜫 㹝䍮䮣 㵗䴳㸙䮣䮣䴳 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻㸙 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 㲲㘢䬔䮣㛽䮣䟑䏏䴳 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮’㸙 䮣㸙㸙䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃 䣸㹝 䍮䑲㲻 㒨䟑䴳䑲䑭䑭䜫 㛽䮣䑲㸙㸙䮣㣚䀯䑭䮣㲻 䟑㹝㸙䮣䑭㒨 㒨㵗䑭䑭䜫㯰 䑲䴳㲻 䮣䬔䮣㛽䜫 䑭䑲㸙㹝 䑭䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 㒨㛽䑲䏏㣚䮣䴳㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㲻㛽䑲䊚䴳 䀯䑲㩫㗾 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䟑㹝㸙 㩫㘢㛽䮣㯰 㛽䮣㒨㘢㛽䏏䟑䴳䏏 䟑㹝㸙 㩫㘢㣚䒧䑭䮣㹝䮣 䑲䴳㲻 㵗䴳㲻䟑䬔䟑㲻䮣㲻 䊚䟑䑭䑭䀃

㭋䍮䮣 䍮㘢㛽㛽㘢㛽 㘢㒨 䟑㹝 㸙䮣㹝㹝䑭䮣㲻 㵗䒧㘢䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㲻䮣㛽㸙 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 㸙䑭㘢䊚㯰 㩫㛽䮣䮣䒧䟑䴳䏏 䒧㘢䟑㸙㘢䴳䀃

䑲㛽䑲䑭㹝㘢䟑䴳
䀯㩫㩫㲻㵗䮣㵗㣚㸙

䮣㒨㩫䟑㲻䑲㒨䑭㹝㯰
䏏䀯䴳䮣䟑㸙
㘢䑭䊚㘢䍮䑭
䮣㸙㹝䮣䟑䴳㹝䴳

䊚㘢䑲㹝㛽㲻

䴳䮣㸙㲻䟑䟑

䮣䀯䑭䜫䑲㛽
䴳䀯㘢㲻䮣䜫

㹝䍮䮣㛽䟑

㹝䍮䮣

䀃䍮㘢䍮㹝㵗㹝䏏
㛽䴳㹝䮣㲻㵗

㸙㲻㯰㹝䮣䊚㹝䟑
䜫䀯
䑭䒧㲻䑭㣚䮣㘢㩫䮣
㲻䴳䑲
䑲㭋䑲䑭
䮣䍮㹝

䍮䑲㲻
㹝㘢
㹝䍮䟑䑲㸙㛽’䓡

㘢䍮䊚
䮣䟑䮣㛽䏏㲻䴳䑭

㸙䟑䮣㯰㩫䄼䴳䮣䮣㲻

䮣㭋䍮
䮣䴳㒨䟑㵗㩫䑭䮣䴳

㹝䍮䮣

䍮㘢㹝㸙䟑䴳㣚䮣䏏

㸙䮣䜫䮣
㹝䑭㸙䑭䟑
㯰㹝䟑䡨䮣

㭋䍮䮣䟑㛽 䍮䑲䴳㲻㸙 㸙㩫㛽䑲䒧䮣㲻 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䮣㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣䑲䑭 䊚䑲㛽㲻㸙㯰 㹝㛽䜫䟑䴳䏏 䑲䴳㲻 㲻䮣㸙䒧䮣㛽䑲㹝䮣 㹝㘢 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䊚䑲䜫 㘢㵗㹝䀃 䑆 㒨㛽䮣䴳䩽䟑䮣㲻 䴳䮣䮣㲻 㲻㛽㘢䬔䮣 㹝䍮䮣㣚㯰 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㣚㘢䬔䮣㣚䮣䴳㹝㸙 䮣㛽㛽䑲㹝䟑㩫㯰 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䊚䍮䟑㸙䒧䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏 䬔㘢䟑㩫䮣㸙 䴳㘢㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䀯㵗㹝 䍮㘢䑭䑭㘢䊚 㛽䮣㣚䴳䑲䴳㹝㸙 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㒨㘢㛽㣚䮣㛽 㸙䮣䑭䬔䮣㸙䀃

䣮䮣㹝 㹝䍮䮣䜫 㲻䟑㲻 䴳㘢㹝 㹝㵗㛽䴳 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮䀃

㸙㸙䮣䑭㛽䮣

䜫㭋䮣䍮

㘢㒨

䀃㸙䮣㛽㵗㹝䑲䮣㛽㩫
㹝㘢
䮣䍮㹝
㹝䑲㛽㩫䮣

䮣䍮㹝
㲻䟑㲻
䴳㘢㹝

䟑㒨䑲䴳㲻䏏

䃂㘢㛽 㹝䍮䮣㣚㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㲲㘢䬔䮣㛽䮣䟑䏏䴳 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢㹝 㹝䍮䮣 䮣䴳䮣㣚䜫䀃

䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䏏㘢㲻䀃

䊚㘢䬔䮣䴳
㩫䴳䮣䮣㲻䟑㸙䮣㛽
㘢㒨
㛽䬔䑲䮣䓡䮣
㸙䴳㘢㹝䮣㹝㲻䟑䑲

㛽䑲㲻㵗䬱㸙

㯰䀯䑲䜫

䟑㸙㲻㘢㵗㹝䮣

㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽

㸙䑲䜫㸙䮣㸙䑭䑭䮣㣚
㹝䴳䟑䑲䴳䑲䟑㣚
㯰㛽㩫䟑䮣㸙䒧䮣

䮣㲻㛽䍮䑲㹝
䮣㹝䍮

㣚㹝䮣䍮
㹝䍮䮣㛽䟑

䍮䮣䑲㩫
䴳㣚㸙㘢䬔䮣㣚㹝䮣
㩫㘢㘢䴳㛽䀃䑭㹝

䍮䮣䑭㲻

㭋䍮䮣
㹝㘢

䮣䮣䮣㒨㸙䴳㲻
㹝䑲

䑆䀯㘢䬔䮣 㹝䍮䮣㣚㯰 䂛䑲㛽㣚㘢䴳䟑㩫 䬱䮣䴳䮣㛽䑲䑭 䫵䑭䟑 㛽䑲䟑㸙䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䑭䑲㛽㣚䀃

“䑆䑭䑭 䒧䑭䑲㹝㘢㘢䴳㸙㼾 䟁䑲䟑䴳㹝䑲䟑䴳 䒧㘢㸙䟑㹝䟑㘢䴳㸙 䑲䴳㲻 䒧㛽䮣䒧䑲㛽䮣 㒨㘢㛽 䑲 㒨㵗䑭䑭㨄㸙㩫䑲䑭䮣 㣚䟑䴳㲻 䑲㹝㹝䑲㩫㗾䀃 㲲䒧䟑㛽䑲䑭 䑆㲻䮣䒧㹝 䉂䑲䒧㹝䑲䟑䴳㸙—䑲㩫㹝䟑䬔䑲㹝䮣 䜫㘢㵗㛽 㛾䟑䊚䑲 䟑㣚㣚䮣㲻䟑䑲㹝䮣䑭䜫䀃 䓡䮣 㣚㵗㸙㹝 㒨㘢㛽㹝䟑㒨䜫 㘢㵗㛽 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣㸙 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 䟑㹝㸙 䴳䮣䡨㹝 䑲㸙㸙䑲㵗䑭㹝㼾”

㹝㘢䮣䴳
䏏㛽䑲䴳
䴳䟑㣚㣚䑲㘢㩫䴳䏏㲻
㸙㹝䴫㵗

䜫㹝㛽㹝㵗䟑䑲㘢䍮
㸙䟑䂛
䮣㘢㩫䬔䟑

㘢䑲㸙㛽㩫㸙

㹝䮣䍮
㸙䟑䍮
䀯㲻䑲㹝䟑䑭䑭䮣㒨㯰䮣㹝

㹝䀯㵗
䑲䴳㲻

䍮㛽䒧䑲㸙

㘢䴳㹝
㵗䜫䏏䴳䮣䀃㩫㛽

䀯㹝䑲䑭䮣㘢㸙㵗

㭋䍮䮣㛽䮣 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢 㛽㘢㘢㣚 㒨㘢㛽 䍮䮣㸙䟑㹝䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳䀃

䃂䑲㛽㹝䍮䮣㛽 䑲䑭㘢䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㘢㵗㹝䍮䮣㛽䴳 䒧䮣㛽䟑㣚䮣㹝䮣㛽㯰 䉂䑲䒧㹝䑲䟑䴳 㛾㵗㛽䟑䑲㸙 㛽䮣㩫䮣䟑䬔䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 㣚䮣㸙㸙䑲䏏䮣䀃

䊚䮣䮣㛽

䮣㩫䑭䡨䒧䟑䟑㹝䀃

䟑䂛㸙
㘢㛽㸙㲻䮣㛽

“䫵䑭䍮䑲㛽䑲㯰 㒤䮣䴳㘢㯰 䄼䮣䟑䏏㘢㯰 䉂㘢㛽䟑䴳—䑲㸙㸙䮣㣚䀯䑭䮣 䑲㹝 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㹝㛽㘢䴳䏏䮣㸙㹝 䫵㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣䑲䑭 䓡䑲㛽㲻 䟑㣚㣚䮣㲻䟑䑲㹝䮣䑭䜫䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝䮣㛽 䍮䑲㸙 㛽䮣䑲㩫䍮䮣㲻 䟑㹝㸙 㒨㵗䑭䑭 㸙㹝㛽䮣䴳䏏㹝䍮䀃 䓡䮣 䍮㘢䑭㲻 㘢㵗㛽 䏏㛽㘢㵗䴳㲻䀃 䓡䮣 䊚䮣䑲䬔䮣䀃”

䂛䟑㸙 㹝㘢䴳䮣 䊚䑲㸙 㛽䮣㸙㘢䑭㵗㹝䮣㯰 䀯㵗㹝 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 䟑㹝 䊚䑲㸙 䑲 㛽䑲䩽㘢㛽㨄㹝䍮䟑䴳 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻 㘢㒨 㹝䮣䴳㸙䟑㘢䴳䀃

㛽䮣㸙㯰㸙㣚㘢㹝䴳

㭋䍮䮣
㲻㵗㲻䴳㸙䮣

䟑䴳

㒨㘢
䑭㛽䮣䮣㒨㲻㗾㩫䟑

㹝㹝䍮䑲
㸙䀯䮣㣚㛽㣚䮣
㭋䮣䴳㯰
㩫㸙䴳䀯䮣䮣䑲
‘㹝㸙䑲䴳䊚

䑭㵷䑲㘢㹝㘢䴳

㛽㘢㒨㵗
㣚㘢㛽㒨

䀃䏏䮣䑭䑲䴳㩫㸙
㩫䀃㘢㛽䴳㩫䴳䮣
䍮㛽䮣㹝䟑

㵗䴳㸙䜫䑲䮣
㒨䮣㛽䑲
䮣䍮㹝
㸙㛽䮣䮣䑭㸙
㵗䑲䮣㩫䑭䑭䑲㹝㲻㩫
䜫㲻䑲䮣㛽䑭䑲

㹝䮣䜫㵗䀯㸙䮣—

䍮㩫䏏䮣䑲䡨䮣㲻䴳
㘢㒨

㹝䣸
䮣㹝䍮

“䉂䑲䒧㹝䑲䟑䴳㯰” 䉂㘢㛽䟑䴳 㸙䒧㘢㗾䮣 㒨䟑㛽㸙㹝㯰 “䊚䮣 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭 䍮䑲䬔䮣 㲲䍮㛽㘢㵗㲻㒨䟑䮣䴳㲻㨄䑭䮣䬔䮣䑭 㩫㘢㛽㛽㵗䒧㹝䮣㲻 䑭㘢㘢㸙䮣 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㹝㘢䊚䴳䀃 䣸㒨 䊚䮣 㲻㘢䴳’㹝 䮣䑭䟑㣚䟑䴳䑲㹝䮣 㹝䍮䮣㣚 䴳㘢䊚㯰 㹝䍮䮣䜫 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 㲻䮣㸙㹝䑲䀯䟑䑭䟑䩽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣 㘢䴳㩫䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㣚䟑䴳㲻 䑲㹝㹝䑲㩫㗾 䀯䮣䏏䟑䴳㸙䀃”

㛾㵗㛽䟑䑲㸙 㲻䟑㲻䴳’㹝 䍮䮣㸙䟑㹝䑲㹝䮣䀃

䴳㒨”䀃䮣䮣㲻㲻

䮣䍮㭋
䮣㛽䑲
㯰䊚㘢䴳

㲻㛽䮣㘢㸙㛽

㘢㵗㛽

㹝䮣䍮
䑭䟑䑭䊚
䍮䟑㹝䄼䏏

‘㹝䴳㲻㘢
㛽㘢䀃䮣㲻㛽
㛽㵗㘢䜫
㹝㘢
㹝䴳㛽㸙㵗䮣㲻䴳䑲㲻

㒨㹝䀯䑭䮣䑭㲻䑲㹝䮣䟑

䮣䏏’㸙䑭䴳㛽䑲䮣

㛽㘢㯰䉂䟑䴳

䣸”

䟑䀃䟑㸙䮣㘢㹝㛽䒧㛽䟑
㣚㘢䬔䮣
㘢㵗㛽
䍮䊚㹝䟑㹝㵗㘢
䮣䊚
㯰䮣㘢㩫䴳㩫䴳㛽㸙

㲻䮣䟑䮣㩫㲻
䀯㵗㹝

䫵䑭䍮䑲㛽䑲 㩫䑭䟑㩫㗾䮣㲻 䍮䮣㛽 㹝㘢䴳䏏㵗䮣㯰 㛽㘢䑭䑭䟑䴳䏏 䍮䮣㛽 㸙䍮㘢㵗䑭㲻䮣㛽㸙䀃 “㭋㩫䍮䀃 䃂䟑䴳䮣䀃 䔬㵗㹝 䟑㒨 㹝䍮㘢㸙䮣 㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏㸙 㹝㛽䜫 㹝㘢 㒨䑭䑲䴳㗾 㵗㸙 㣚䟑㲻㨄㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣㯰 䣸’㣚 䴳㘢㹝 䊚䑲䟑㹝䟑䴳䏏 㒨㘢㛽 䒧䮣㛽㣚䟑㸙㸙䟑㘢䴳䀃”

㛾㵗㛽䟑䑲㸙 㸙㣚䟑㛽㗾䮣㲻䀃 “䬱㘢㘢㲻䀃 䣸 䮣䡨䒧䮣㩫㹝 䴳㘢㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑭䮣㸙㸙 㒨㛽㘢㣚 䜫㘢㵗䀃”

䑲䍮㯰㹝㹝

㭋䮣䴳
䓡䟑㹝䍮
㣚㘢䬔䮣㲻䀃
㘢㵷䑲䴳㹝㘢䑭

㭋䍮䮣䜫 㩫㘢䴳䬔䮣㛽䏏䮣㲻 㘢䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㹝㛽㘢䴳䏏䮣㸙㹝 䫵㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣䑲䑭 䓡䑲㛽㲻 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㘢㵗㹝䍮䮣㛽䴳 䒧䮣㛽䟑㣚䮣㹝䮣㛽㯰 䊚䍮䮣㛽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㛽㛽䟑䮣㛽 䏏䑭䮣䑲㣚䮣㲻 䀯㛽䟑䏏䍮㹝䮣㸙㹝㯰 䒧㵗䑭㸙䟑䴳䏏 䊚䟑㹝䍮 䑭䑲䜫䮣㛽䮣㲻 䒧㛽㘢㹝䮣㩫㹝䟑㘢䴳㸙 䊚㘢䬔䮣䴳 䀯䜫 㸙㘢㣚䮣 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 㸙㹝㛽㘢䴳䏏䮣㸙㹝 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䟑䬔䮣 䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣㛽㸙 䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㩫䟑㹝䜫䀃

㭋䍮䮣䟑㛽 㒨㘢㛽㣚䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳 䊚䑲㸙 㸙䮣䑲㣚䑭䮣㸙㸙䀃

㹝㘢

䑲㹝㩫㛽䮣䮣

㹝䍮䮣
䟑䑲㹝㹝䮣䑭㩫

䑆

㩫䑲㹝䒧㣚䟑
㘢䴳㒤䮣

㹝䴳㯰䑲䟑㲻䑲㛽
䑭䮣䜫㸙㛽䑲㯰

㒨䮣㘢㩫㛽

㹝䟑㘢㵷㛽䴳㘢㹝㩫䮣

㛽㣚䮣㯰䒧䟑㹝䮣㛽䮣

㛽㘢䴳䟑䉂
㒨㘢
䟑䴳

䟑䑲㹝䮣㣚㲻㣚䮣䜫䑭䟑
䑲
䑲䑭㛽䮣䴳㹝䴳䏏䟑䟑㩫

䮣㩫㹝䴳㘢䴳䟑㩫㩫㛽
㲻㲻䴳䟑䮣䮣㸙䏏

㸙䑲䀯㛽㘢䀯
䟑䏏䟑䟑䒧㲻㹝㸙䴳㸙䑲

䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣
㛽䮣㲻䟑䴳㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣
䍮㹝䏏㘢䍮㵗㛽
㲻䴳䑲
㸙㲻䑲㛽㹝䍮䮣

㘢㹝

㲻㣚䟑䮣䀯䴳㘢㩫
䟑䒧䑲䟑䏏㛽㸙䑭䴳

䍮䟑䮣㛽㹝
䮣䒧㵗䑭㸙䀃㸙

㲻䀃䮣䮣䴳䮣㸙㒨

䄼䮣䟑䏏㘢 䮣䡨㹝䮣䴳㲻䮣㲻 䍮䟑㸙 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻㸙 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 䏏㛽㘢㵗䴳㲻㯰 䑲䴳㩫䍮㘢㛽䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 䊚䮣䑲䬔䮣 㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣㒨䟑䮣䑭㲻’㸙 䬔䮣㛽䜫 㒨䑲䀯㛽䟑㩫㯰 㣚䑲㗾䟑䴳䏏 䟑㹝 䴳䮣䑲㛽䑭䜫 䟑㣚䒧㘢㸙㸙䟑䀯䑭䮣 㹝㘢 㵗䒧㛽㘢㘢㹝 㘢㛽 㸙䍮䑲㹝㹝䮣㛽 䟑䴳 㘢䴳䮣 㸙㹝㛽䟑㗾䮣䀃

䫵䑭䍮䑲㛽䑲 㹝䊚䟑㸙㹝䮣㲻 䍮䮣㛽 㹝䍮㛽䮣䑲㲻㸙 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䑲 㸙䮣䒧䑲㛽䑲㹝䮣 㒨㘢㛽㣚䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳—䑲 㸙䮣㩫㘢䴳㲻䑲㛽䜫 㸙䍮䟑䮣䑭㲻 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㒨䟑㛽㸙㹝㯰 䑲 㗾䟑䴳䮣㹝䟑㩫㨄㛽䮣㒨䑭䮣㩫㹝䟑䬔䮣 䑲䮣䏏䟑㸙䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䟑㣚䒧䑲㩫㹝 䊚㘢㵗䑭㲻 㛽䮣䀯㘢㵗䴳㲻 㘢䴳 㹝䍮䮣 䑲㸙㸙䑲䟑䑭䑲䴳㹝㯰 㲻䟑㸙㛽㵗䒧㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䑲㹝㹝䑲㩫㗾 䀯䮣㒨㘢㛽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䟑䴳䴳䮣㛽 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣㸙 䊚䮣㛽䮣 䀯㛽䮣䑲㩫䍮䮣㲻㯰 䟑㒨 㹝䍮䮣 㘢㵗㹝䮣㛽 䀯䑲㛽㛽䟑䮣㛽 㒨䮣䑭䑭䀃

䑲

䜫㹝䍮䮣
䑲䍮㲻

䴳䑭䮣䮣䑭㸙䀃䮣䑭䜫㹝㛽㸙

䣸㹝

㲻䟑㩫㹝䒧㛽䑲㩫䮣
䊚䑲㸙
㒨㹝䑲㘢㛽㘢䟑㣚䴳

䑆䴳㲻 䜫䮣㹝㯰 㲻䮣㸙䒧䟑㹝䮣 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䒧㛽䮣䒧䑲㛽䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳㯰 㲻䮣㸙䒧䟑㹝䮣 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䒧㛽䮣㩫䟑㸙䟑㘢䴳—㹝䍮䮣䜫 䑲䑭䑭 㒨䮣䑭㹝 䟑㹝䀃

㭋䍮䮣䴳 㹝䍮䮣 䊚㘢㛽䑭㲻 㹝㵗㛽䴳䮣㲻 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭䀃

㭋䍮䮣
㹝䀃㲻䑲䑭䮣䍮

䊚䴳㲻㸙䟑

㭋䍮䮣 㸙䍮䑲㗾䟑䴳䏏 䮣䑲㛽㹝䍮 㸙㹝㘢䒧䒧䮣㲻䀃

䫵䬔䮣䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䟑㸙㹝䑲䴳㹝 㸙㘢㵗䴳㲻㸙 㘢㒨 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣 㘢㵗㹝㸙䟑㲻䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㲻㘢㣚䑲䟑䴳 㒨䮣䑭䑭 䟑䴳㹝㘢 䑲䀯㸙㘢䑭㵗㹝䮣 㸙䟑䑭䮣䴳㩫䮣䀃

䟑㒨
䃂㘢㛽

䑲㸙

㧵䮣㹝㵗䟑䀃
䑲

㹝㸙㒨䟑䑭䮣

䴳䮣䮣䀯

㘢䮣䴳㣚㣚㯰㹝
䊚䑲㸙

㹝䮣䑲䟑䜫㛽䑭
䟑㹝
䍮䑲㲻

㵗䑲䴳㲻㹝㣚䮣—
㸙㵗䟑㒨㹝㘢㩫㒨䑲䏏䴳
䴳䑲㛽䑭㵗㵗㹝㯰䴳䑲

䑆䴳㲻 㹝䍮䮣䴳—

㭋䍮䮣 䓡䑲㛽㲻㸙 䫵䡨䒧䑭㘢㲻䮣㲻䀃

㹝䍮䮣
䑆
䮣䍮㛽䮣㹝䑲䑭䮣

㘢㹝䑭䮣㯰䟑䴳䬔䑭䜫

䊚䴳䏏㛽㘢䀃
㲻㸙㛽䑲䊚

㹝䍮䟑䮣㛽

㯰䑲䜫䏏㘢䴳

䮣䟑㣚㣚㘢䮣—㸙䟑㹝䴳䮣䍮䏏䴳㣚㸙

䟑䴳
㸙䑲
㗾䬔䊚㩫䑲㘢䮣䍮㸙

㛽㹝㘢䮣
㛽䟑䴳䮣㹝䏏㸙䟑㸙

㹝㵗䍮䏏㛽䍮㘢

䮣㹝䍮

䬔䑭㲻䮣㩫㘢㵗㸙䴳
㹝䮣䑭㒨䮣䟑㹝䑲㲻䀯䑭
䏏㹝䮣㘢㸙䟑㣚䴳䍮
㛽䊚䟑䑲䏏䒧䴳
㵗㸙㹝㛽㸙㵗䮣㹝㛽㩫

㭋䍮䮣䴳 㩫䑲㣚䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䍮㛽䟑䮣㗾䀃

䑆 㸙㘢㵗䴳㲻 䴳㘢㹝 㣚䮣䑲䴳㹝 㒨㘢㛽 㣚㘢㛽㹝䑲䑭 䮣䑲㛽㸙䀃

㩫䴳㛽㵗㒨䮣䮣㧵䜫

䴳㯰㲻䟑㸙䑲㲻㩫㘢㛽㹝
㒨䮣㹝䟑㸙䑭䀃
㯰䍮䍮䏏䟑

䮣䟑䑲䴳㯰䑭

㛽䮣䟑䑭䑲㹝䜫

㘢㸙
㹝䍮䑲㹝
㸙㘢

䟑䀯㘢㣚䑭䒧㸙㸙䟑䜫

㘢㸙
䒧䑲㛽䮣䑲䑭䜫䩽㲻

䟑㹝
䑭㵗䮣㹝㛽㹝䜫

䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙 䴳㘢㹝 䴫㵗㸙㹝 䑲 㸙㘢㵗䴳㲻

䣸㹝 䊚䑲㸙 䑲 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣䀃

㒨㘢

㹝㩫㸙䟑䴳䮣䮣䀃䡨䮣

㛽㛽㲻㘢㵗䮣䬔䮣
䑆

㭋䍮䮣 䒧㛽㘢㹝䮣㩫㹝䟑䬔䮣 䑭䑲䜫䮣㛽㸙 㘢㒨 㵷䑲䏏䑲㲻䟑䑲䴳䑲㛽䑲—㹝䍮䮣 㩫䟑㹝䜫㨄䊚䟑㲻䮣 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣—䮣㩫䍮㘢䮣㲻 䑲 㲻䮣㸙䒧䮣㛽䑲㹝䮣 㩫㘢㵗䴳㹝䮣㛽㨄㒨㛽䮣㧵㵗䮣䴳㩫䜫㯰 䊚䮣䑲䬔䟑䴳䏏 䑲 㛽䮣䬔䮣㛽䀯䮣㛽䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳 㹝㘢 㩫㘢䴳㹝䑲䟑䴳 㹝䍮䮣 㛽䮣㸙㘢䴳䑲䴳㩫䮣 䀯䮣㒨㘢㛽䮣 䟑㹝 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 㩫㘢䴳㸙㵗㣚䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㩫䟑㹝䜫 䊚䍮㘢䑭䮣䀃 䔬㵗㹝 䊚䟑㹝䍮䟑䴳 㭋䑲䑭䑲 㛾㘢㣚䑲䟑䴳㯰 㹝䍮䮣 㛽䮣㸙㘢䴳䑲䴳㩫䮣 㩫㘢㵗䑭㲻 䴳㘢㹝 䀯䮣 㒨㵗䑭䑭䜫 䀯䑭㘢㩫㗾䮣㲻䀃

䣸㹝 㹝㘢㛽䮣 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㛽㛽䟑䮣㛽㸙㯰 㹝䊚䟑㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㸙䮣㛽㛽䑲㹝䮣㲻 䀯䑭䑲㲻䮣㸙㯰 㸙䮣䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏 䟑䴳䬔䟑㸙䟑䀯䑭䮣 䑭䑲䴳㩫䮣㸙 㘢㒨 㒨㘢㛽㩫䮣 㩫㛽䑲㸙䍮䟑䴳䏏 䑲䏏䑲䟑䴳㸙㹝 㹝䍮䮣 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㲻䮣㛽㸙䀃

䮣䬔䴳䫵

䟑㹝䀃

㹝䮣䑲㣚

㘢䍮㛽䍮㹝㵗䏏

䟑㹝㘢䮣䴳㘢㩫㹝㛽䒧㯰

䑲䴳㲻
䟑㸙䍮

㘢㒨
㹝䍮㛽䟑䮣

䑲䟑㛾㵗㛽㸙
㹝䑭䮣㒨
䑭㸙䮣䑲㛽䜫

䑆 㣚䟑䴳㲻㨄䀯㛽䮣䑲㗾䟑䴳䏏 䊚䑲䟑䑭 㹝䍮䑲㹝 㩫㛽䑲䊚䑭䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䀯㘢䴳䮣㸙㯰 㵗䴳㛽䑲䬔䮣䑭䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㹝䍮㘢㵗䏏䍮㹝㸙 䑭䟑㗾䮣 㒨㛽䑲䜫䮣㲻 㸙䟑䑭㗾䀃 㭋䍮䮣䟑㛽 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣㸙 䍮䮣䑭㲻䀃

㭋䍮䮣 䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣 䑲䀯㸙㘢㛽䀯䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䊚㘢㛽㸙㹝 㘢㒨 䟑㹝㯰 㲻䑲㣚䒧䮣䴳䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䍮㛽䟑䮣㗾 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 䴫㵗㸙㹝 䀯䑲㛽䮣䑭䜫 䀯䮣䑲㛽䑲䀯䑭䮣 䑲䴳㲻 䮣䴳㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝㘢 㛽䮣㣚䑲䟑䴳 㸙㹝䑲䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏㯰 䮣䴳㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝㘢 㹝䍮䟑䴳㗾㯰 䮣䴳㘢㵗䏏䍮 㹝㘢 㛽䮣㸙䟑㸙㹝䀃

䮣䍮㹝

㹝㣚㸙䮣’䑲
㘢䑭㲻㩫㵗
㯰䑭䟑䑭㹝㲲

㛽㛾䟑㵗䑲㸙

䴳㘢
㸙䟑䴳㹝㛽䑲

䮣㒨㸙㩫䀃䑲
㸙䮣䮣

䍮䟑㸙

䂛䮣 䟑䴳䍮䑲䑭䮣㲻 㸙㹝䮣䑲㲻䟑䑭䜫䀃

䫵䡨䍮䑲䑭䮣㲻㯰 㒨䟑㛽㣚䀃

䮣㭋䴳䍮
㸙䟑䍮
䟑㩫䬔㘢䮣

䮣䍮

㹝䏏䴳㵗㩫䟑㹝

䍮㹝䮣
䏏䟑䍮䮣㹝䊚
㛽䮣㸙䒧㘢䒧㸙䮣䟑䬔
㘢㒨
㹝䏏㵗㘢䍮䍮㛽
䀃㛽䟑䑲
㗾㯰㘢䒧㸙䮣

䮣䍮㹝

“㛾㘢 䴳㘢㹝 㒨䑲䑭㹝䮣㛽䀃 䣸㒨 䊚䮣 㸙䍮㘢䊚 䮣䬔䮣䴳 䑲 㸙䟑䴳䏏䑭䮣 㩫㛽䑲㩫㗾 䟑䴳 㘢㵗㛽 㲻䮣㒨䮣䴳㸙䮣㯰 䟑㹝 䊚䟑䑭䑭 䀯㛽䮣䑲㗾 㵗㸙䀃 䂛㘢䑭㲻䀃”

䫵䑭䍮䑲㛽䑲 䑭䮣㹝 㘢㵗㹝 䑲 㸙䍮䑲㛽䒧 䀯㛽䮣䑲㹝䍮䀃 “㪯䟑㗾䮣 䍮䮣䑭䑭㯰 䣸’㣚 䀯㛽䮣䑲㗾䟑䴳䏏䀃”

䴳䟑䏏㣚䑲㗾
㲻䟑䮣㯰

㹝㲻㸙䴳䑲䮣䟑
䮣䀃䮣䍮㹝㹝

㒤䴳䮣㘢

㵗㘢䜫
䮣㣚

㛽㘢㒨
㹝䮣䀃㣚䍮”䏏㘢㸙䟑䴳

㘢㒨
㹝㲻䏏㹝㛽䮣䟑

㸙䴳㲻㹝䑲
㒨䣸”
䍮䟑㸙

䮣䍮䮣㛽
䮣䊚
䣸’㣚
䀯䑭䑲㸙㹝䟑䴳䏏

䑲䴳䏏䑭䀯䟑㣚

䄼䮣䟑䏏㘢 䑲䴳㲻 䉂㘢㛽䟑䴳 䮣䡨㩫䍮䑲䴳䏏䮣㲻 㸙䟑䑭䮣䴳㹝 䴳㘢㲻㸙㯰 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㒨㘢㩫㵗㸙 㵗䴳䊚䑲䬔䮣㛽䟑䴳䏏䀃

䑆䴳㲻 䀯䮣䜫㘢䴳㲻 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㛽㛽䟑䮣㛽㸙—

㸙㹝䟑

㣚䑭㘢䮣㘢㲻

㲲㛽㘢䬔䏏䮣䴳䮣䟑

䮣䍮㭋
䟑䍮㛽䑲䓡㹝
䴳䟑䮣䏏䮣䴳㵗
䑲㗾䀃㩫䑲㹝㹝
䴳㲻䑲
䮣㘢䊚䬔

䑆㸙 㹝䍮䮣 㲲㘢䬔䮣㛽䮣䟑䏏䴳 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮’㸙 㲻㛽䮣䑲㲻㒨㵗䑭 㸙䍮㛽䟑䮣㗾 㒨䑲㲻䮣㲻㯰 䑲䴳 䮣䮣㛽䟑䮣 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭䴳䮣㸙㸙 㸙䮣㹝㹝䑭䮣㲻 㘢䬔䮣㛽 㹝䍮䮣 䀯䑲㹝㹝䑭䮣㒨䟑䮣䑭㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䫵㣚䒧䜫㛽䮣䑲䴳 㲲䍮䟑䮣䑭㲻㯰 㹝䍮䮣 䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣㛽 㵷䟑䑭䑭䑲㛽㸙㯰 䑲䴳㲻 㹝䍮䮣 㩅䮣䏏䑲㹝䟑㘢䴳 㤙䀯䮣䑭䟑㸙㗾㸙—㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㛽䍮䜫㹝䍮㣚䟑㩫 䍮㵗㣚㸙 䍮䑲㲻 㩫䮣䑲㸙䮣㲻䀃 䑆 㲻㛽䮣䑲㲻㒨㵗䑭 㸙䟑䑭䮣䴳㩫䮣 㹝㘢㘢㗾 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䒧䑭䑲㩫䮣㯰 㵗䴳䴳䑲㹝㵗㛽䑲䑭 䑲䴳㲻 䍮䮣䑲䬔䜫㯰 䒧㛽䮣㸙㸙䟑䴳䏏 㵗䒧㘢䴳 㹝䍮䮣 䑲䟑㛽 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 㸙㹝㘢㛽㣚 䊚䑲䟑㹝䟑䴳䏏 㹝㘢 䀯㛽䮣䑲㗾䀃

㭋䍮䮣 㣚䟑䑲㸙㣚䑲㯰 䊚䍮䟑㩫䍮 䍮䑲㲻 㸙㣚㘢㹝䍮䮣㛽䮣㲻 㹝䍮䮣 㭋䑲䑭䑲 㭋䮣㛽㛽䟑㹝㘢㛽䜫 䑭䟑㗾䮣 䑲 㒨㵗䴳䮣㛽䑲䑭 㸙䍮㛽㘢㵗㲻㯰 䊚䑲㸙 䏏㘢䴳䮣䀃 䑆䑭㛽䮣䑲㲻䜫 䑲䀯㸙㘢㛽䀯䮣㲻 䮣䴳㹝䟑㛽䮣䑭䜫 䀯䜫 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝㛽㘢㸙䟑㹝䜫䀃 㭋䍮䮣 䑭䑲䴳㲻㯰 㹝䍮㘢㵗䏏䍮 㣚㘢㣚䮣䴳㹝䑲㛽䟑䑭䜫 㩫䑭䮣䑲㛽䮣㲻 㘢㒨 䟑㹝㸙 㩫䍮㘢㗾䟑䴳䏏 㒨㘢䏏㯰 㒨䮣䑭㹝 䴳㘢 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝䮣㛽䀃 䣸㒨 䑲䴳䜫㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏㯰 㹝䍮䮣 䬔䮣㛽䜫 䑲䀯㸙䮣䴳㩫䮣 㘢㒨 㹝䍮䮣 䍮䑲䩽䮣 㘢䴳䑭䜫 㣚䑲㲻䮣 㹝䍮䮣 㣚㘢䴳㸙㹝㛽㘢㵗㸙 䒧㛽䮣㸙䮣䴳㩫䮣 㣚㘢㛽䮣 㹝䑲䴳䏏䟑䀯䑭䮣䀃 䣸㹝㸙 㣚䑲䑭䟑㩫䮣 䍮䑲㲻 䴳㘢㹝 㲻䟑㣚䟑䴳䟑㸙䍮䮣㲻䀃 䣸㹝 䍮䑲㲻 㘢䴳䑭䜫 㩫㘢䴳㲻䮣䴳㸙䮣㲻 䑲䴳㲻 㒨㘢㩫㵗㸙䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㸙㘢㣚䮣㹝䍮䟑䴳䏏 㒨䑲㛽 㣚㘢㛽䮣 㹝䮣㛽㛽䟑䀯䑭䮣䀃

㸙䴳㗾䟑
䑲㛽㣚㘢㛽
䮣㹝䏏㲻䍮㛽䮣䑲

䑲㛽䍮㲻㛽䍮䮣㹝䮣䮣㹝䮣㲻㨄

䟑㹝䏏䑲㸙䑲䴳

㲻䍮㩫䴳䮣䮣䑭㩫

䍮䟑㸙

䍮㵗㣚㣚䏏䟑䴳

㯰㸙㹝㸙䟑㒨
䟑㸙䍮
㸙䟑䍮

䀃㸙䮣㹝䑭䟑㒨

㹝䑭㘢䴳䒧䑲㘢
㸙䟑䍮

䑲㸙

㛾䟑䑲㸙㵗㛽

㭋䍮䮣䜫 䍮䑲㲻 㸙㵗㛽䬔䟑䬔䮣㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣䟑㛽 䀯䑲㛽㛽䟑䮣㛽 䍮䑲㲻 䍮䮣䑭㲻㯰 㹝䍮㘢㵗䏏䍮 㩫㛽䑲㩫㗾㸙 䍮䑲㲻 䊚䮣䀯䀯䮣㲻 䑲䑭㘢䴳䏏 䟑㹝㸙 㸙㵗㛽㒨䑲㩫䮣䀃 㭋䍮䮣 㸙㩫䮣䴳㹝 㘢㒨 㸙䮣䑲㛽䮣㲻 䑲䟑㛽 䑲䴳㲻 㸙䍮䑲㹝㹝䮣㛽䮣㲻 㣚䑲䏏䟑㩫 䑭䟑䴳䏏䮣㛽䮣㲻䀃 㲲䊚䮣䑲㹝 㩫䑭㵗䴳䏏 㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 㒨㘢㛽䮣䍮䮣䑲㲻㸙㯰 䀯㵗㹝 㹝䍮䮣䜫 䊚䮣㛽䮣 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭 㸙㹝䑲䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏䀃

䑆 㒨䑭䟑㩫㗾䮣㛽 㘢㒨 䀯䑭㵗䮣 䑭䟑䏏䍮㹝 㹝㛽䑲㩫䮣㲻 㹝䍮㛽㘢㵗䏏䍮 䍮䟑㸙 䬔䟑㸙䟑㘢䴳—䬱䮣䴳䮣㛽䑲䑭 䫵䑭䟑’㸙 㹝㛽䑲䴳㸙㣚䟑㸙㸙䟑㘢䴳䀃

䴳䒧䑭㘢䑲㸙㹝㘢㯰

㸙㹝㵗㹝㸙䑲
䑭䑭䑆”
㛽㘢”䮣㼾䒧㛽㹝

㛾㵗㛽䟑䑲㸙 䮣䡨䍮䑲䑭䮣㲻 㸙䍮䑲㛽䒧䑭䜫 䑲䴳㲻 㹝䑲䒧䒧䮣㲻 䟑䴳㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 㲲䒧䟑㛽䑲䑭 䓡䮣䑲䬔䮣㯰 䑭䟑䴳㗾䟑䴳䏏 䍮䟑㸙 䬔㘢䟑㩫䮣 㹝㘢 㹝䍮䮣 㩫㘢㣚㣚䑲䴳㲻 䴳䮣㹝䊚㘢㛽㗾䀃

“㵷䑭䑲㹝㘢㘢䴳 㭋䮣䴳 䟑㸙 㸙㹝䟑䑭䑭 㸙㹝䑲䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏㯰 䬱䮣䴳䮣㛽䑲䑭䀃 㩅㘢 㩫䑲㸙㵗䑲䑭㹝䟑䮣㸙䀃”

䍮㭋䮣

䏏㲻䑲䮣㹝䑭䴳

䑭䀃㒨䴳䑲䏏䟑䑭
䮣䊚㸙䬔䑲䀃

䮣䍮㹝

䑲㣚㹝䟑䒧㩫
㯰㛽㵗㘢㒨
㯰㸙㹝㘢㘢㲻

䑭㹝䮣䟑䮣
䍮䮣㭋

䴳䜫䑭㘢
䑲䑭䬔䮣㯰䟑
䀯䮣䴳䮣
㹝䑭䑭㸙䟑
䊚䍮䮣㛽䮣

䟑䍮㹝䮣㛽
㘢䍮㵗䍮䏏㹝
䜫䑭䮣䑲㛽䩽䑲䒧㲻
㘢䮣䮣㸙㛽䒧䴳㸙

䮣䍮㹝
䜫䮣䍮㹝

㹝䍮䑲㲻㛽㸙䮣

䮣䴳㲻㵗㲻㛽䮣

䑲䍮㲻
䬔䑭䮣䮣䊚㹝
㘢㩫㸙䑲䴳䮣䮣䴳䀃㛽

䒧䑲㘢㯰䑭㘢䴳㸙㹝
䮣䑲㩫㣚

䴳䟑

㘢㹝䍮䮣㛽

䍮䑲㲻

䟑㹝䏏䍮䮣
㒨㘢
㒨㤙
䜫䀯
㹝䍮䮣

㵗䴳㘢㸙㸙㘢㹝㣚㛽

“㵷䑭䑲㹝㘢㘢䴳 㲲䮣䬔䮣䴳 䟑㸙 㲻㘢䊚䴳㯰 㸙㘢㵗㹝䍮䮣㛽䴳㣚㘢㸙㹝 䒧䮣㛽䟑㣚䮣㹝䮣㛽䀃”

㛾㵗㛽䟑䑲㸙’㸙 䍮䮣䑲㛽㹝 䒧㘢㵗䴳㲻䮣㲻䀃 㭋䍮䮣䜫 䊚䮣㛽䮣 㩫䑭㘢㸙䮣㸙㹝 㹝㘢 㹝䍮䑲㹝 䒧㘢䟑䴳㹝䀃

“䉂䑲䟑䑲㹝䴳䒧
䮣㗾䑲㹝

㹝䍮䮣

㘢䮣䬔䟁

㹝䮣䟑䴳䜫㹝䀃
䀃䊚㘢”䴳
䴳㘢㹝

䜫㛽㵗㘢

㹝㛽䴳㸙㩫䴳㘢㣚䮣䮣䄼䟑㒨䮣

㘢䀃䑭㘢䑭㒨䊚
䴳䏏䮣䏏䑲䮣
㹝㛽䡨䑲䮣㹝㩫
㹝䮣䑲㣚
䴳㲻䑲

䀃䮣㣚䍮㹝
䊚䟑䑭䑭
㘢㛾
㯰䟑㸙㛾䑲㵗㛽

“䎸䴳㲻䮣㛽㸙㹝㘢㘢㲻㯰 䬱䮣䴳䮣㛽䑲䑭䀃”

䂛䮣 㸙䒧㵗䴳㯰 䍮䟑㸙 㩫㘢㣚㣚䑲䴳㲻䟑䴳䏏 䒧㛽䮣㸙䮣䴳㩫䮣 䑲䴳㩫䍮㘢㛽䟑䴳䏏 㹝䍮䮣 㸙䍮䑲㗾䮣䴳 䊚䑲㛽㛽䟑㘢㛽㸙 㘢㒨 䍮䟑㸙 㹝䮣䑲㣚䀃

䴳㲻䑲
㘢㹝
䟑䏏㯰㘢䄼䮣
㣚㘢䏏䬔䟑䴳
㸙䟑

㛽䉂—䟑䴳㣚㒨㛽㘢㘢

㛽䏏䍮㹝䟑㘢㸙㹝㣚

㛽䑲䑲㯰䍮䑭䫵”
㹝䍮䮣
䊚㛽䮣䮣’
䓡㛽’䮣䮣
㲲䮣䬔䮣䴳

㵗䒧㼾

㹝䍮䮣㣚
㘢䑲㘢䴳䑭㹝㵷
㲻㘢䊚䴳㯰

㯰㒤䮣䴳㘢

䑭䑭䟑㵗䏏䴳䒧

㵗㹝䀃㘢”
㣚䮣㛽䒧㹝䮣䟑䮣䀃㛽

㭋䍮䮣 㒨㘢㵗㛽 䊚䑲㛽㛽䟑㘢㛽㸙 䏏䑲䬔䮣 㸙䍮䑲㛽䒧 䴳㘢㲻㸙㯰 㹝䍮䮣䟑㛽 䮣㹝䍮䮣㛽㨄䟑㣚䀯㵗䮣㲻 䊚䮣䑲䒧㘢䴳㸙 䒧㵗䑭㸙䟑䴳䏏 㒨䑲䟑䴳㹝䑭䜫 䟑䴳 㛽䮣㸙䒧㘢䴳㸙䮣䀃

䄼䮣䟑䏏㘢’㸙 䀯㛽㘢䊚 㒨㵗㛽㛽㘢䊚䮣㲻䀃 “䑆㛽䮣 䊚䮣 㸙㵗㛽䮣 㹝䍮䮣 䓡㛽䑲䟑㹝䍮 䊚㘢䴳’㹝 㸙㹝㛽䟑㗾䮣 䊚䍮䟑䑭䮣 䊚䮣’㛽䮣 䮣䡨䒧㘢㸙䮣㲻䊨”

㒨䍮㹝䟑䏏

㯰㸙䮣㘢㲻

䟑㹝
䮣䑭䑭’䊚

㛾㵗㸙䑲㸙䟑㛽’

䟑㹝

䬔㘢㩫䟑䮣
㩅㘢䊚

㹝㘢
䮣䮣䀃㹝㸙䑭

“䣸㒨
䊚䑲㸙
䴳䮣䍮㹝
䀃䮣䀃䑲㹝䍮㲻
㣚㘢”䬔㼾䮣

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Chapter 39: When Radiance Breads Ruin IV

The alleys whispered with dread. Hollow yet suffocating in their silence. Shadows clung to the walls like festering wounds, the brick slick with the creeping moisture of corruption.

Overhead, the sky had soured to a deep bruise, its once-pristine vastness choked by the roiling miasma bleeding from the ruined Tala residence.

The scent of decay curdled in the air—foul, acrid, and thick enough to taste. It coated the tongue like spoiled meat left to rot under a dying sun.

Thunder continued rumbling. A sound not born of the heavens, but something far worse, like ribs breaking under unseen weight and voices screaming through split flesh. It came in waves, rattling through the broken district, seeping into bone and marrow. The echoes stretched, distorted, and warped into something unnatural.

Virelio stood at the edge of the Gilded Star Castle. His chest rose and fell in measured breath, but fatigue gnawed at him like a dull, rusted blade. His hands, once steady as steel, quivered at the edges—not from fear, but from the strain of continuous use of power. He had done all he could. The central castle already housed those who needed saving.

The rest…

He did not look at them.

They corrupted.

Obscene, incomplete movements twisted their bodies, mocking what they once were. Their mouths had split into grotesque maws, lips torn away to reveal jagged fangs that jutted in every direction. Their hands had elongated, fingers tapering into curved talons, each quivering as though sensing unseen prey. And then there were the threads—writhing, worm-like filaments of decay, coiling around their limbs, burrowing into their flesh-like parasitic veins. Some twitched erratically. Others shuddered in place, their heads lolling to one side as if listening.

The answer came swiftly.

A sound both wet and gurgling, like something swallowing itself from within.

Virelio did not wait. His fingers moved, weaving through the air with effortless precision. His threads formed in the surrounding space, luminescent and whisper-thin, twining like celestial silk. A single breath, a single shift, and he would be gone—pulled from the stained ground, back to the Celestial Seal Castle.

But something was wrong.

The threads did not meet.

He felt them coil around him, light as air, but their ends unraveled before they could knit together. The strands frayed, twisting into nothingness, dissolving into the ether-like mist beneath the rising sun.

Virelio’s heart clenched.

Again.

He wove the pattern once more, tracing the sacred lattice of translocation, but the moment the threads reached completion, they broke. Not severed, but corrupted. They turned brittle, disintegrating as if devoured by an unseen force.

The malice in the air pulsed and grinned with a satisfied look.

He gritted his teeth, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The corruption was too thick, its presence clinging to him like a second skin, weighing him down, bleeding into the fabric of his power. The corrupted were changing and transforming into savage creatures. After dealing with and observing Virelio for a while, the Sovereign Wraith learned to counter his ability and prevent him from leaving by distorting the surrounding space widely.

Another sound.

This time, a crackling wail—a high-pitched, distorted thing that scraped against the air like a serrated edge. The corrupted figures twitched violently at the noise, their bodies jerking like puppets caught in tangled strings.

Then they moved.

The streets, once empty, came alive with skittering limbs and dragging flesh. The corrupted beings lunged, their movements erratic yet horrifyingly precise. Their mouths split wider, unhinging as they let out shrieks that rippled through the air, reverberating against the walls.

Virelio’s breath came sharply.

If he couldn’t leave, he had no choice but to carve his way out.

The Standby Weaver Guards had formed a blazing cordon around the Tala residence, their enchanted threads pulsing with elemental charge, coiling like storm-laced rivers in the air. Fire-imbued filaments crackled overhead, forming shimmering barriers interwoven with technological reinforcement as ethereal Wards activated and gleamed like mirrored obsidian, each layer pulsating with defensive algorithms and infused power.

From above the city’s council tower, General Eli watched with an unreadable expression, his cloak’s woven sigils responding to the rising malice. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the battle’s flow; the Sovereign Wraith’s corruption was intensifying and warping the very air with a malignant presence spreading slowly outside the Tala domain.

“This is not just residual malice,” he murmured into the weave-comm link, his voice transmitted across the guard’s network. “It’s reacting. If it adapts any further… we may not hold.”

Platoon Ten, stationed on the southern perimeter, braced as the next wave of corrupted emerged.

Spiral Adept Durias, his reinforced gauntlets humming with fiery glyphs, stood at the front. The twin sigil brands on his forearms pulsed. He was the anchor of his squad and his command’s absolute.

Release the first volley! Keep the elemental weave sustained! His troops immediately followed his command.

Warped Artisan Elhara, standing behind a reinforced barricade, lifted her hands, and then her thread conduits whirred to life. With a sharp motion, she wove a crimson net of volatile energy, a living mesh of searing embers reinforced with conductive resonance. The very air trembled as she cast it forward. A few meters from her right, Warped Artisan Riego, the fastest in the platoon, darted to the left, firing a barrage of ether-woven arrows, their flaming tips piercing through the mist, illuminating the field. Then Threadbinder Jeno, stationed near the second line, jumped and suspended in the air, floated and descended like weightless fabric, raised a volley cannon—a weapon fused with thread-channeling conduits—and unleashed a scatter burst of explosive projectiles, their runed surfaces detonating mid-air to incinerate anything in their wake.

From a distance, like a shadow darting from corner to corner, Threadbinder Corin, the squad’s forward scout, had activated his Phase Weave, darting through the shifting gaps in reality to relay enemy movements to the back line. And then it emerged.

A corrupted human, its flesh stitched and twisted, veins turned to writhing black filaments, its form hunched as if tangled in its own cursed body. The transformation had lengthened its jaw, splitting its mouth into a shattered, tooth-laden grin, while eel-like threads slithered across its face. Its eyes were nothing but empty, sinking voids, swallowing the firelight without reflection.

Behind it, the lesser monstrosities of skeletal abominations with sinewy limbs, limp torsos dragging entrail-thick threads, and disembodied arms writhing like pale centipedes surged forward, throwing themselves against the blazing barriers.

The ethereal barricades held for a moment.

Then, like diseased sinew resisting amputation, the corrupted filaments lashed at the shield, searing into it like an infestation burrowing into flesh. The barrier fractured, cracks spider webbing outward as it resisted the shock and then slowly regenerated. The technology-enhanced barrier automatically starts weaving itself together and pulsing with renewed integrity as backup formations kick in.

Yet some creatures still broke through.

“Reinforcements on the second perimeter, now!” Durias barked, shifting his stance.

Two corrupted humans had breached the line, and one was lunging straight at Elhara.

She didn’t flinch. With a flick of her wrist, the ember-thread net she had prepared constricted, its searing cords wrapping around the creature’s throat, burning deep into corrupted flesh. It thrashed, hissing, its own darkened tendrils trying to unravel the bindings, but it was already incinerating from the inside out.

Riego aimed at the second breach, a skittering, multi-limbed horror with threaded spines coiling like a centipede’s maw. His flame bolts struck true, piercing through its core, but it continued forward, shrieking as half of its form burned away.

“Jeno, finish it!” Durias commanded.

Jeno then fired his concussive round of thread-bound projectiles lined with compressed ether-blast sigils. It collided with the monster’s remaining body and detonated, sending charred limbs flying in all directions before it dissipated like mist.

The battle wasn’t slowing down.

From beyond the oozing fog, the Sovereign Wraith’s influence thickened, distorting the battlefield. The crimson-lit sky darkened further, and the ground trembled as its unseen will stretched further beyond the Tala domain.

Durias grimaced, his flaming threads coiling around his fists, preparing for the next onslaught.

“We hold this line,” he muttered, his threads blazing, “or we burn with it.”

A resounding boom split the air within the Tala Domain from the eastern corner.

Virelio wove himself into motion, his body dispersing like mist, reforming in bursts of ethereal flickers. His every movement was a dance of survival and a blur of weaving silver, each thread shifting to counter the storm of abyssal strikes lashing toward him.

The Sovereign Wraith descended upon him, an amorphous void bound together by writhing, fragmented limbs. Its existence was a broken hymn, seemingly an unfinished form that devoured space itself. Its attacks were more than striking, and they tore open reality, each movement leaving behind fractures of collapsing space, and shattered echoes of the world undone.

The sound of their battle was deafening as the constant reverberation of shrieking metal, warping air, and howling abyssal resonance echoed. Virelio could hear his threads strain, each unraveling filament screaming against the corrosive force of the Wraith’s presence.

He twisted mid-air, summoning his Diwa back into action.

The summoned dagger immediately shifted and formed his Kampilan.

It emerged in his grasp like a luminous blade, its length a spectral flare of woven ether. A raving, war-drunk force still strongly pulsed within it, a phantom presence mirroring his resolve. But even as he gripped it, he felt the blade strain like its essence flickering and its edge fraying against the sheer intensity of the battle.

Still, he fought back.

Threads of magic wove into existence around him as dozens of sigils, radiant geometric patterns spiraling mid-air. Each array ignited in bursts of woven fire and launched spears of ice toward the Wraith.

The monster’s existence seemed blurry and twisted—

Its form bent around the attacks, its body phasing into split-second distortions of space, its limbs stretching unnaturally before snapping back into place. Yet Virelio was already moving—his Kampilan carving through the void, colliding against the Wraith’s defenses in a series of explosive clashes.

CLANG! SHRRRK!

The wailing clash of steel against abyss sent tremors through the battlefield, each strike of his Diwa colliding with the Wraith’s tendrils. Sparks of the Virelio’s threads and the malicious void threads of the Wraith burst outward, scattering in chaotic arcs as they clashed.

The exchange streched into minutes that felt like hours, and the Sovereign Wraith was learning.

Virelio moved like the haze as his speed blurred him into streaks of luminous silver, each step reinforced by a burst of interwoven threads. But the Wraith kept pace.

It teleported swiftly as its major form snapped into existence wherever its disembodied limbs floated and scattered.

The battlefield became a labyrinth of severed abyssal parts of floating snake-like hands, shifting maw eyes, and twisting clawing tendrils—each piece an anchor that let the Wraith reposition without delay. Every time Virelio maneuvered away, the Wraith collapsed toward him, emerging from its scattered remains.

It was closing in.

Virelio barely deflected a descending void claw, the force splitting the ground beneath him. Another limb detached, spiraling into the air before vanishing, and only the Wraith’s full form lunged from that very spot, cutting off his retreat.

A trap—

He turned, but too late.

The Wraith’s strike landed on a direct impact on his ribs. The force detonated like a gravitational pulse, sending him hurtling across the battlefield. He spun midair, barely threading a weave of shock absorption before crashing into the ruined earth.

Dust and debris billowed, the sheer impact vibrating through his bones.

A fractured gasp escaped him—his Kampilan’s light wavering.

“Tch…” His grip tightened, forcing the weapon to stabilize.

The Sovereign Wraith did not stop.

Its abyssal tendrils split into dozens, each one accelerating toward him with the force of an executioner’s blade.

Virelio wove instantly.

A massive hexagonal barrier surged into existence, layer upon layer of luminous thread interlocking into a crystalline fortress.

CRACK—!

The first tendril shattered one layer.

CRACK!

The second.

The Wraith’s attack did not slow. Each strike sent fractures racing through the weave. The air screamed as the pressure built and the space itself began to distort, bend, and unravel. But Virelio wasn’t waiting for it to break.

He burst forward, his Kampilan igniting with explosive momentum, weaving through the gaps of broken space.

The Wraith lunged to meet him like a warping blur of abyssal mass.

They collided.

The battlefield erupted.

Blades of woven ether and abyssal void clashed in a relentless storm, each strike ringing out like war drums, each impact splitting the air with cataclysmic force.

Virelio’s Kampilan sang with every cut like a hunting raven, but the strain was showing.

The ethereal force within it was faltering, its raving spirit struggling to keep up with the sheer demand of the fight. Each clash weakened its form, and each desperate countermeasure pushed it closer to collapse.

Still, Virelio pushed forward.

Because he knew if he slowed for even a moment…

The Sovereign Wraith would consume him whole.

Inside the watchtower of the Celestial Seal Castle, the air was thick with tension.

The panoramic view of the battlefield stretched below them, the land fractured with streaks of abyssal corruption; the sky quivering from the sheer force of the ongoing clash. From this vantage point, the battle between Virelio and the Sovereign Wraith was nothing short of cataclysmic. Their strikes split the very air as their movements blurred into violent distortions of space and light.

Elder Saphira stood rigidly beside Grand Matriarch Iskayna, her violet eyes flickering with growing alarm. The Sovereign Wraith was pressing harder. Virelio was fast, resilient, and unrelenting, but the abyssal horror was adapting too quickly. Its fragmented limbs were sealing his every escape route, its void-rending claws forcing him further into a battlefield that had become a death trap.

Saphira’s fists clenched. She could not watch this any longer.

“Matriarch,” she began, her voice barely concealing the desperate plea beneath. “We must act. Virelio—he cannot hold on much longer!”

But Iskayna did not move.

The Grand Matriarch stood motionless, her long silver robes billowing gently against the cold air of the tower. Her gaze was unwavering, locked onto the battle below. Her expression was unreadable, yet there was no mistaking the weight of her silence.

Saphira knew what she was doing. Calculating. Waiting.

But for how long?

“Matriarch!” Saphira’s voice rose, her brows furrowing. “If he falls, the Wraith will turn to us next! He’s holding it back with everything he has, and we must intervene!”

Still no answer.

Saphira’s breathing turned shallow. The castle’s Kalasag barrier, still forming under Marcon’s power, flickered ominously and was yet to stabilize. If they drew the Wraith’s attention now, the stronghold’s ultimate defense would collapse before it was even complete. The balance of their survival rested on an agonizing thread.

She knew this. But that did not ease the storm inside her.

Then, finally, Iskayna exhaled.

“Calm yourself, Saphira.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of absolute authority. “Trust in Virelio. He may be a little weaker than he was, but he had better battle antics than any of us elders; he may even surpass my creativity with battling monsters.”

Saphira stiffened. “Matriarch, I—”

She stopped herself. Because she saw it, the distant and shadowed sorrow behind Iskayna’s steady gaze.

This was not indifference.

This was the resolve of a leader who carried the burden of sacrifice.

Saphira lowered her head, her lips pressing into a thin line as she understood what the matriarch was doing.

Without another word, she turned away from the watchtower.

If the matriarch would not act yet, then she would reinforce their last defense. Marcon needed help to stabilize the Kalasag barrier. If they held strong enough, perhaps… just perhaps, the Matriarch would step in before it was too late.

Her threads coalesced around her, weaving a luminous pattern at her feet. Before she vanished into the temple halls, she heard Iskayna whisper—

A quiet thank you.

By the time Saphira drifted from sight, the Grand Matriarch remained alone, her eyes never leaving the battle.

Grand Matriarch then allowed herself a single deep sigh, not of relief but of hopes and contemplation.