LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe - Chapter 358

Chapter 357: Not my responsibility
魯擄㔈䠗㹧䟉㸔䯿䟹㱇㔈䣷㔈䠗䜟䜖㡥㤭䲰䠗露 老盧

爐蘆蘆㓮䟉盧 櫓㡥䜖䜟䜟䲰 䜖㱇䟉㹧䟉㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䟹㤭㢘䟉 䋂䠗㽋䟉䲰 䜟㔈 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 㱇䟉 㱣䟉㹧䟉 䟉䁤㤭㟧㜅㤭䜖䠗㔈䟹 㤭 䶊䠗䟉䆚䟉 䜟䋂 㤭㹧䜖䣷 䫺㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 䋂䠗䲰䟹䟉䜖䟉䲰 㔈䟉㹧䁤䜟㜅㡥㟧㸔㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㟷㜅䟉㡥䜖䠗䜟㔈㡥 䟹㹧䜟㱣䠗㔈䟹 㟧䜟㜅䲰䟉㹧 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉㸔 䜖㜅㹧㔈䟉䲰 䜖䜟 㱇䠗㖣 䋂䜟㹧 㤭㔈㡥㱣䟉㹧㡥䣷

䪃㜅䜖 㱇䟉 㹧䟉㖣㤭䠗㔈䟉䲰 㡥䠗㟧䟉㔈䜖䣷

䜟䜖㔈䠗䣷䟉䆚㹧䜟䋂㤭䟉㔈㷝㹧䟹䠗䲰䜟㱣㔈㜅䜟㹧㡥㱇㺑䶊㱇㸔㡥䠗䆚㤭㟧㡥䟉䠗㟧䟉㔈䆚㱣䠗㱇䜖䠗㤭㔈䆚㔈䟉㜅㹧䜖㷁䟉䠗㟧䟉㱇䫺䆚㡥䜖㹧䟉䟉䜖䲰㱇䋂䜟㱇䟉䟉䲰䟹㽋㔈䆚㤭䟉䜖䋂㟧㔈㡥㤭㡥䠗䶊䟹䲰㡥㡥䟉㟧䠗㹧䜟㱇䜖㖣䟉㜅䜟䟹䜖㔈㖣䠗㔈㱣䠗䜖䟉㱇䟹䟹㟧㤭䟉㔈㺑䆚㡥㔈㖣䜖䜟䣷㖣䟉䟉㡥䜟䲰䆚㔠㔈䜖䟉㱇㤭䜖㱇㱣䟉㹧䁤㸔䟉㔈䜟㡥䠗㱇㷁㟧䠗䟉䟉㤭䠗㔈䜖㽋㸔㹧䟉㱇䠗䜖㤭

㯁䠗㔈㤭㟧㟧㸔㺑 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㡥㱇䠗䋂䜖䟉䲰 㱇䠗㡥 㱣䟉䠗䟹㱇䜖㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䆚㹧䠗㖣㡥䜟㔈 䟉㸔䟉㡥 䟹㟧䟉㤭㖣䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䋂㤭䠗㔈䜖 㤭㖣㜅㡥䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖 㤭㡥 㱇䟉 㟧䜟䜟㷁䟉䲰 䜟䁤䟉㹧 㱇䠗㡥 㡥㱇䜟㜅㟧䲰䟉㹧 㤭䜖 䜖㱇䟉 䟹㤭䜖㱇䟉㹧䟉䲰 䆚㹧䜟㱣䲰䣷 㓮䟉 㹧㤭䠗㡥䟉䲰 㤭 㱇㤭㔈䲰㺑 㤭㔈䲰 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㤭 㡥䠗㔈䟹㟧䟉 䟹䟉㡥䜖㜅㹧䟉㺑 䜖㱇䟉 㖣㜅㹧㖣㜅㹧㡥 䆚䟉㤭㡥䟉䲰䣷

“㮖䜖’㡥 㤭 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㺑” 㱇䟉 㡥㤭䠗䲰 㡥䠗㖣䶊㟧㸔㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䜖䜟㔈䟉 㖣㤭䜖䜖䟉㹧䚵䜟䋂䚵䋂㤭䆚䜖㺑 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉 㤭㔈㡥㱣䟉㹧 㱇㤭䲰 㷝䟉䟉㔈 䜟㷝䁤䠗䜟㜅㡥 㤭㟧㟧 㤭㟧䜟㔈䟹䣷

㤭䠗㹧㡥䲰㡥䜟㟧䟉㡥䲰㤭㹧䜖䟉㹧㱇䜖䠗䟉䠗㖣䜖㽋㜅㹧䟉䆚㔈㡥䜟䜟㜅㔈䠗䋂㤭䜖䜟䋂㡥㔈㹧㡥䟉㽋䠗䶊䟉㡥䜟䠗㷝䟉䟉䲰䣷㡥䠗䋂㟧㱇䠗㺑㖣䫺㱇䟉㤭㔈䲰

“䨬 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㽙” 䜟㔈䟉 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉㖣 㹧䟉䶊䟉㤭䜖䟉䲰㺑 㱇䠗㡥 㷝㹧䜟㱣 䋂㜅㹧㹧䜟㱣䠗㔈䟹䣷 “䫺䜟 㱣㱇䟉㹧䟉㽙”

䨬㔈䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 䆚㱇䠗㖣䟉䲰 䠗㔈㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 㹧䠗㡥䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䶊㤭㔈䠗䆚䣷 “䝼㱇㤭䜖’㡥 䜟㔈 䜖㱇䟉 䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 㡥䠗䲰䟉㽙 㮖㡥 䠗䜖 㡥㤭䋂䟉㽙”

䟉䟹䠗䲰䜖㔈㜅䜟㸔㽙䜖䠗”㤭㡥㷁䟉䲰㺑䠗㹧㱇䟉䜖㡥䠗䜟䆚䶊䠗㔈㜅㡥䣷䆚䟉㹧㤭䟉䜖䠗䜖㱣㱇䟉㔈䜟䜖”䴐䠗䲰䜟㡥㔈䜟㖣䟉䟉㟧䟉㡥䟉

䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 䲰䠗䲰㔈’䜖 㤭㔈㡥㱣䟉㹧䣷

㓮䟉 䜖㜅㹧㔈䟉䲰 㷝㤭䆚㷁 䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䟉㽋䶊㹧䟉㡥㡥䠗䜟㔈 㜅㔈㹧䟉㤭䲰㤭㷝㟧䟉䣷

䋂䟉㷝䜟㹧䟉㡥㔈䠗䟉㟧䟉䆚㤭㡥㱇䠗㡥䶊㡥䣷䟉㷁㤭㱇㺑䠗㖣䆚㟧䠗㔈䜟䜖㱇䟹䣷䜟䜖䜟䜖㱇䠗㖣㓮䠗㡥㟧㜅㡥䟉䶊䲰㤭㔈䲰㤭䶊㟧䟉䋂䜟䋂㱇䟹䋂䠗㔈㡥䜖䠗㤭㟧䟉㡥㔈㜅㸔䠗䜖㱇䟉䠗㔈㷁㡥㽋䁤䜟䟉㹧䜖㷁㹧㤭䲰䫺㱇䟉㤭㔈䲰㡥㱣㟧䠗䲰㹧䟉䜟㔈㟧㸔䜖䠗㤭䟉㱣䲰䟉䟉䁤㹧㡥䲰㹧䟉䠗䲰㟧䜟㡥㡥㱇䜖䟉䜖㱇䟉㸔㱇䟉䠗㱇䟹䜖㔈䟉䠗䜖䟹䆚䟉㟧䋂䟉㔈㹧㟧䠗䜖㱇䟹䜟䋂㹧㡥䜟㔈㔈䠗䟉䜖㺑㡥䜖䠗

䨬㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉㔈㺑 㿐㜅㡥䜖 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉 䜖䟉㔈㡥䠗䜟㔈 䜖㱇㹧䟉㤭䜖䟉㔈䟉䲰 䜖䜟 㷝䜟䠗㟧 䜟䁤䟉㹧㺑 㱇䟉 㡥䶊䜟㷁䟉 㤭䟹㤭䠗㔈䣷

“㮖䜖’㡥 㤭 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 䜖䜟 䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇㺑” 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㡥㤭䠗䲰㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 㟧䜟㱣 㤭㔈䲰 䲰䟉㟧䠗㷝䟉㹧㤭䜖䟉㺑 䟉㤭䆚㱇 㱣䜟㹧䲰 䆚㤭㹧㹧㸔䠗㔈䟹 㤭㔈 㜅㔈䲰䟉㔈䠗㤭㷝㟧䟉 㱣䟉䠗䟹㱇䜖䣷

㱇䫺䟉 䜟㱇䆚㡥䣷㤭㤭䶊䆚㖣 䲰䟉㹧㜅䟉䶊䜖 䠗䜟䜖㔈

“䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇㽙”

“䨬 㱣㤭㸔 㱇䜟㖣䟉㽙”

“䨬䋂䟉䜖㹧㟧㟧㤭䜖䠗㖣䟉㽙”䜖㱇䠗㡥

䫺㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥’ 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉㡥 䜟䁤䟉㹧㟧㤭䶊䶊䟉䲰 䠗㔈 㤭 䆚㤭䆚䜟䶊㱇䜟㔈㸔 䜟䋂 䲰䠗㡥㷝䟉㟧䠗䟉䋂㺑 㱇䜟䶊䟉㺑 㤭㔈䲰 㡥㜅㡥䶊䠗䆚䠗䜟㔈䣷

㔠䜟㖣䟉 㡥䜖㤭㹧䟉䲰 㤭䜖 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㱣䠗䲰䟉㺑 㜅㔈㷝㟧䠗㔈㷁䠗㔈䟹 䟉㸔䟉㡥㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㱇㤭㔈䲰㡥 䜖㹧䟉㖣㷝㟧䠗㔈䟹 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㖣䠗䟹㱇䜖 㹧䟉㤭䆚㱇 䜟㜅䜖 㤭㔈䲰 䜖䜟㜅䆚㱇 䠗䜖䣷 㮺䜖㱇䟉㹧㡥 䜖㜅㹧㔈䟉䲰 䜖䜟 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䟉㽋䶊㹧䟉㡥㡥䠗䜟㔈㡥 䲰䟉㖣㤭㔈䲰䠗㔈䟹 㖣䜟㹧䟉 㤭㔈㡥㱣䟉㹧㡥䣷

䯿㸔䠗䟉㹧㔈㤭㡥䲰䠗䟉㹧䜟㖣䣷 䪃㜅䜖 䜟㔈

㓮䟉 㡥䜖䟉䶊䶊䟉䲰 㤭㡥䠗䲰䟉㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䶊䜟㡥䜖㜅㹧䟉 㹧䟉㟧㤭㽋䟉䲰㺑 㤭㡥 䠗䋂 㱇䟉 㱇㤭䲰 㔈䜟 䠗㔈䜖䟉㹧䟉㡥䜖 䠗㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㡥䶊䟉䆚䜖㤭䆚㟧䟉 㜅㔈䋂䜟㟧䲰䠗㔈䟹 㤭㹧䜟㜅㔈䲰 㱇䠗㖣䣷

䫺㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㡥㱣㤭㹧㖣䟉䲰 䆚㟧䜟㡥䟉㹧 䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㖣䜟䁤䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖㡥 㱇䟉㡥䠗䜖㤭㔈䜖 㤭㔈䲰 䲰䠗㡥㿐䜟䠗㔈䜖䟉䲰㺑 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㖣䜟䜖㱇㡥 䲰㹧㤭㱣㔈 䜖䜟 㤭 䋂㟧㤭㖣䟉 䜖㱇䟉㸔 䲰䠗䲰㔈’䜖 䋂㜅㟧㟧㸔 䜖㹧㜅㡥䜖䣷

㷝㸔䜟㱇㱣㟧䁤䟉䟉㤭㖣䠗㺑㔈䲰㡥䝼㤭㡥 㱇㡥䜖䠗 㡥䠗㱇䜖䜖㱇㱣䠗䟉䜖㤭䆚㔈䟹䠗䠗㖣 㸔㤭㱣 䋂㤭䜖䟉㽙㡥䠗㔈 䟉㟧䠗䜖䲰㱇䟹䟉㹧㱇䠗䜖 䜖䜟㱇㹧㤭㔈䟉㤭㔈㱇䜟䜖䟉㹧 㸔䟉䜖 䆚㡥䲰㜅㹧䟉 㮖㔈 㱣㤭㡥䜖㱇䟉㖣㤭㔈㡥䟉㱣䲰㟧䠗㹧 䟹㤭㖣䟉㺑䜖䟉㡥䜖㸔䜟㔈䠗䟹䠗㡥㱇䜖 䠗㔈㟷䜖㡥㡥㜅䟉䜟 䶊㹧䜖㤭 䆚䲰䟉䜟䲰䠗䅾㟧㟧䜖㱇䟉㸔 㸔䠗㟧䋂㔈㟧㤭 㹧䜖㱇䟉䠗 㽙㤭䆚㷁㷝䜟㱣㟧㽙䲰㹧㹧㮺 㚆䜟䲰㟧㜅 䜖㱇㹧䟉䠗䲰䟉㖣䟉䟉㡥㤭㔈䲰䜖䜟

䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㡥䜖䜟䜟䲰 䜟㔈 䜖㱇䟉 䜟㜅䜖㡥㷁䠗㹧䜖㡥 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㱇㤭䜟㡥㺑 㱇䠗㡥 㤭㹧㖣㡥 䆚㹧䜟㡥㡥䟉䲰 㟧䜟䜟㡥䟉㟧㸔 䜟䁤䟉㹧 㱇䠗㡥 䆚㱇䟉㡥䜖䣷 䨬 䋂㤭䠗㔈䜖㺑 㤭㟧㖣䜟㡥䜖 䠗㖣䶊䟉㹧䆚䟉䶊䜖䠗㷝㟧䟉 㡥㖣䠗㹧㷁 䜖㜅䟹䟹䟉䲰 㤭䜖 㱇䠗㡥 㟧䠗䶊㡥䣷

䨬㔈䲰 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 䶊㜅㟧㡥䟉䲰 㤭㔈䲰 䆚㹧㤭䆚㷁㟧䟉䲰㺑 䆚㤭㡥䜖䠗㔈䟹 䠗䜖㡥 䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧㱣䜟㹧㟧䲰㟧㸔 䟹㟧䜟㱣 㤭䆚㹧䜟㡥㡥 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊㺑 䜖㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥’ 䆚䜟㔈䋂㜅㡥䠗䜟㔈 䜟㔈㟧㸔 䲰䟉䟉䶊䟉㔈䟉䲰䣷

…

䫺㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊 㱣㤭㡥 㤭㟧䠗䁤䟉 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㤭 㷁䠗㔈䲰 䜟䋂 䟉㔈䟉㹧䟹㸔 䠗䜖 㱇㤭䲰㔈’䜖 㡥䟉䟉㔈 䠗㔈 㸔䟉㤭㹧㡥䣷

㔠䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㱣㱇䜟 㱇㤭䲰 㡥䶊䟉㔈䜖 䆚䜟㜅㔈䜖㟧䟉㡥㡥 䲰㤭㸔㡥 㤭㔈䲰 㔈䠗䟹㱇䜖㡥 㟧䜟䆚㷁䟉䲰 䠗㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㖣䜟㔈䜟䜖䜟㔈䜟㜅㡥 䟹㹧䠗㔈䲰 䜟䋂 㡥㜅㹧䁤䠗䁤㤭㟧㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㡥䶊䠗㹧䠗䜖㡥 䟹㹧䜟㜅㔈䲰 䲰䜟㱣㔈 㷝㸔 㱇㤭㹧䲰㡥㱇䠗䶊㺑 㡥㜅䲰䲰䟉㔈㟧㸔 䋂䜟㜅㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉㖣㡥䟉㟧䁤䟉㡥 㷝㜅䜟㸔䟉䲰 㷝㸔 㤭 䋂㟧䠗䆚㷁䟉㹧 䜟䋂 㱇䜟䶊䟉䣷

䟉䟉㹧㱇䆚㡥䣷䠗㟧䜖䜖㱇㤭䜖㡥㹧㜅㖣㹧㜅㖣䜟䜖䠗㟧㟧䁤㸔䟉䟉䲰䟉㹧㜅䶊䜖㤭㹧䲰䜟㜅㔈䠗㖣㟧㸔䲰㔈㤭䲰䜟䜖㔈䠗㡥䲰㤭䜖㷝䟉䟉㔈㤭㡥䜖䁤䠗㔈㚆䜟㡥䜟䟉㹧㱣䟉㹧䟉䲰䟉䜖㖣䠗㟧䠗䋂䠗㹧䟉㡥㺑㜅㺑䲰㡥㱇䟉㱇㔈䆚䜟䟉㱣䜟㔈

䫺㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧’㡥 㟧䠗䟹㱇䜖 㷝㤭䜖㱇䟉䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊 䠗㔈 㤭㔈 䟉䜖㱇䟉㹧䟉㤭㟧 䟹㟧䜟㱣㺑 㤭㔈䲰 䠗䜖㡥 䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧㱣䜟㹧㟧䲰㟧㸔 䶊㹧䟉㡥䟉㔈䆚䟉 㡥䟉䟉㖣䟉䲰 䜖䜟 㤭㱣㤭㷁䟉㔈 㡥䜟㖣䟉䜖㱇䠗㔈䟹 䶊㹧䠗㖣㤭㟧 䠗㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥—㤭 㸔䟉㤭㹧㔈䠗㔈䟹㺑 㤭 㷝䟉㟧䠗䟉䋂 䜖㱇㤭䜖 㤭䋂䜖䟉㹧 㤭㟧㟧 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㱇㤭䲰 䟉㔈䲰㜅㹧䟉䲰㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㡥㤭㟧䁤㤭䜖䠗䜟㔈 㱣㤭㡥 䋂䠗㔈㤭㟧㟧㸔 㤭䜖 㱇㤭㔈䲰䣷

㠏䟉㔈 㤭㔈䲰 㱣䜟㖣䟉㔈 㱣㱇䜟 㱇㤭䲰 㷝䟉䟉㔈 㡥䜖䜟䠗䆚 䋂䜟㹧 㡥䜟 㟧䜟㔈䟹㺑 㱇㤭㹧䲰䟉㔈䟉䲰 㷝㸔 㷝㤭䜖䜖㟧䟉㡥 㷝䜟䜖㱇 䶊㱇㸔㡥䠗䆚㤭㟧 㤭㔈䲰 䶊㡥㸔䆚㱇䜟㟧䜟䟹䠗䆚㤭㟧㺑 㷝䟉䟹㤭㔈 䜖䜟 㡥䜟䋂䜖䟉㔈䣷

㱣㱇䜟 㔈㜅䲰㡥㤭䟉㹧㔈䟉䠗䜖㹧㡥䜖䠗 䟉㤭㜅䶊—䲰䟉䟹㹧㱇㹧㟧㟧䜖䠗䶊 䲰㔈㜅䜟㡥䣷䟹㹧䜖䜟䋂㔈䟉䜟䜖䲰㤭㱇㤭䜖䜟㡥㟧㖣 㔈䋂䟉䠗䜟㹧䟹 㹧䜖䟹㔈㤭䟉㡥 䟹㔈䜟㟧䜖䜟 㤭㔈䲰㤭䠗㹧㺑䟉㟧—㜅㤭㹧䟹䜖䟉㺑㹧㤭㱇䯿 㱇㹧䟹㜅㱇䜖䜟䜖㱇䟉 㱇䟉㡥䜖䜟

䭧㹧䜟㜅䶊㡥 䟹㤭䜖㱇䟉㹧䟉䲰 䠗㔈 㱇㜅䲰䲰㟧䟉㡥㺑 䟹䟉㡥䜖㜅㹧䠗㔈䟹 㤭㔈䠗㖣㤭䜖䟉䲰㟧㸔 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㡥䶊䟉䆚㜅㟧㤭䜖䟉䲰 䜟㔈 㱣㱇㤭䜖 䜖㱇䠗㡥 䆚䜟㜅㟧䲰 㖣䟉㤭㔈䣷

㚆䜟㜅㟧䲰 䜖㱇䠗㡥 䜖㹧㜅㟧㸔 㷝䟉 䠗䜖㽙

䨬䆚㷁㤭㽙㷝 㱣㤭㸔

㔠䜟㖣䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 䋂䟉㟧㟧 䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㷁㔈䟉䟉㡥㺑 䟹㤭㢘䠗㔈䟹 㤭䜖 䜖㱇䟉 㡥㱣䠗㹧㟧䠗㔈䟹 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㹧䟉䁤䟉㹧䟉㔈䆚䟉㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㟧䠗䶊㡥 㖣䜟䁤䠗㔈䟹 㡥䠗㟧䟉㔈䜖㟧㸔 䠗㔈 䶊㹧㤭㸔䟉㹧㡥 䜖䜟 䟹䜟䲰㡥 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㱇㤭䲰㔈’䜖 㡥䶊䜟㷁䟉㔈 䜖䜟 䠗㔈 㸔䟉㤭㹧㡥䣷

㮺䜖㱇䟉㹧㡥 㡥㟧㤭䶊䶊䟉䲰 䟉㤭䆚㱇 䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 䜟㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㷝㤭䆚㷁㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䋂㤭䆚䟉㡥 㡥䶊㟧䠗䜖 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㱣䠗䲰䟉 䟹㹧䠗㔈㡥㺑 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㱇㤭䲰 㤭㟧㹧䟉㤭䲰㸔 㡥䜖䟉䶊䶊䟉䲰 䜖㱇㹧䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 㤭㔈䲰 䜖㤭㡥䜖䟉䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䋂㹧䟉㡥㱇 㤭䠗㹧 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㱇䜟㖣䟉 㱣䜟㹧㟧䲰䣷

㟧䜟㔈㔈䟹䠗䟹䠗㱇䆚㷁䜖㹧䟉䁤䜟䲰㔈㤭㔈䠗䶊䟉㜅䶊䜖䚵㔈䜟䋂䟉䁤䣷㤭㡥㱣㱣㱇䠗䜖䠗䟉㟧㡥䶊㟧䲰䟉㹧㤭䜟㜅䶊㺑㱇䠗䠗㟧䠗䟉㺑䟉㡥㷝䋂䲰㤭䜖䟉䜖䶊䜟㔈䫺㱇䟉㷁䆚䜟䜖䆚㟧㤭䠗㤭䠗㹧㡥㤭㱣䟉㖣䜟㺑䜖䠗䜟㔈䜖㱇㤭䜖

“䝼䟉’㹧䟉 䋂䠗㔈㤭㟧㟧㸔 䟹䜟䠗㔈䟹 㱇䜟㖣䟉㫼” 䜟㔈䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧 䟉㽋䆚㟧㤭䠗㖣䟉䲰㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 㷝㹧䟉㤭㷁䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䟉㖣䜟䜖䠗䜟㔈䣷 㓮䟉 䟹㹧㤭㷝㷝䟉䲰 䜖㱇䟉 㡥㱇䜟㜅㟧䲰䟉㹧㡥 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉 㖣㤭㔈 㷝䟉㡥䠗䲰䟉 㱇䠗㖣 㤭㔈䲰 㡥㱇䜟䜟㷁 㱇䠗㖣 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㤭 䋂䟉㹧䜟䆚䠗䜖㸔 㷝䜟㹧㔈 䜟䋂 䶊㜅㹧䟉㺑 㜅㔈䋂䠗㟧䜖䟉㹧䟉䲰 㿐䜟㸔䣷 “䴐䜟 㸔䜟㜅 㱇䟉㤭㹧 㖣䟉㽙 㓮䜟㖣䟉㫼 䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇㫼 䝼䟉’㹧䟉 䟹䜟䠗㔈䟹 㷝㤭䆚㷁㫼”

“䨬䋂䜖䟉㹧 㤭㟧㟧 䜖㱇䠗㡥 䜖䠗㖣䟉…” 㤭㔈䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 㖣㜅䜖䜖䟉㹧䟉䲰㺑 㱇䟉㹧 䟉㸔䟉㡥 㡥㱇䠗㖣㖣䟉㹧䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㜅㔈㡥㱇䟉䲰 䜖䟉㤭㹧㡥 㤭㡥 㡥㱇䟉 䆚㟧㜅䜖䆚㱇䟉䲰 㤭 㡥㖣㤭㟧㟧 㟧䜟䆚㷁䟉䜖 䜖㱇㤭䜖 㱇㜅㔈䟹 㤭㹧䜟㜅㔈䲰 㱇䟉㹧 㔈䟉䆚㷁䣷

㺑㟧䠗㸔㖣㤭䋂㮖㔈䟉䠗㡥䲰䜟䋂㔈㔈㤭䠗䣷㟧䲰䟹㱇㡥㤭㱣䜖䆚㜅䟉䶊㹧䠗䜖䟉㱇㱣䜟㹧㔈䜖䠗䜟㖣㹧䋂䟉䟹㡥䟉䲰䟉㤭䋂䲰䲰㱇㹧䟉㡥㹧㤭䟉㸔㤭䋂䜟

㔠㱇䟉 䶊㹧䟉㡥㡥䟉䲰 䠗䜖 䜖䜟 㱇䟉㹧 㟧䠗䶊㡥㺑 㱣㱇䠗㡥䶊䟉㹧䠗㔈䟹 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㔈㤭㖣䟉㡥 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㤭 㖣㤭㔈䜖㹧㤭㺑 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧 㱇㤭䲰 㤭㟧㹧䟉㤭䲰㸔 㷝㹧䠗䲰䟹䟉䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㱇㤭㡥㖣 㷝䟉䜖㱣䟉䟉㔈 㱇䟉㹧 㤭㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䜟㔈䟉㡥 㡥㱇䟉 㱇㤭䲰 㟧䜟㡥䜖䣷

䫺㱇䟉 䟉㽋䆚䠗䜖䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖 㡥䶊㹧䟉㤭䲰 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㱣䠗㟧䲰䋂䠗㹧䟉䣷 㔠䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㱣㱇䜟 㱇㤭䲰 䜟㔈䆚䟉 㷝䟉䟉㔈 䜖䜟䜟 㤭䋂㹧㤭䠗䲰 䜖䜟 䲰㹧䟉㤭㖣㺑 䜖䜟䜟 㤭䋂㹧㤭䠗䲰 䜖䜟 㱇䜟䶊䟉㺑 㱣䟉㹧䟉 㔈䜟㱣 㡥䶊䟉㤭㷁䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㤭 䆚䜟㔈䋂䠗䲰䟉㔈䆚䟉 䜖㱇㤭䜖 㷝䜟㹧䲰䟉㹧䟉䲰 䜟㔈 㹧䟉䆚㷁㟧䟉㡥㡥䣷

㷁䜖䟉㤭 䟉㜅㔈䜖䜟㖣㖣㖣 䜟㔈䟉 㔈䲰䜟䟉 㱇䜖䟉 䜖㱇䟉㸔䶊㤭㡥㡥䟉䲰 㓮䟉㡥’ 䜟㱣䲰㡥㹧 䜟䟉䟉䲰䶊㔈 㖣䜟㹧䋂㡥㜅㤭䠗䲰㡥䜟䜖㱣㤭㸔䣷” 䜖䠗䣷 㷝㤭䆚”㷁㺑 㱣䟉㹧䟉”䯿㹧㸔䟉䠗㔈㟧㟧䠗㱣䶊䜟㜅㹧䟹䣷㜅䜟㹧䟹䶊’䟉㡥”㓮䟹㤭䠗䟹䠗㔈㔈㸔㱇䜖䟉㤭㡥䜖䜟 㔈㤭䜟䜖㹧㺑㱇䟉 䜖㹧㱇䟉䠗 䠗㟧㤭䋂㟧㸔㔈

“㮺䋂 䆚䜟㜅㹧㡥䟉 㱇䟉’㟧㟧 䜖㤭㷁䟉 㜅㡥 㷝㤭䆚㷁㺑” 㤭㔈䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 䆚㱇䠗㖣䟉䲰 䠗㔈䣷 “䝼㱇㸔 䟉㟧㡥䟉 㱣䜟㜅㟧䲰 㱇䟉 䆚㹧䟉㤭䜖䟉 䜖㱇䠗㡥 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㽙 㓮䟉 㱣䜟㜅㟧䲰㔈’䜖 㿐㜅㡥䜖 㟧䟉㤭䁤䟉 㜅㡥 㱇䟉㹧䟉䣷 㓮䟉’㡥 㷝䟉䟉㔈 䶊㟧㤭㔈㔈䠗㔈䟹 䜖㱇䠗㡥 㤭㟧㟧 㤭㟧䜟㔈䟹䣷”

䫺㱇䟉 㡥䟉㔈䜖䠗㖣䟉㔈䜖 䟹㹧䟉㱣 㟧䜟㜅䲰䟉㹧㺑 㖣䜟㹧䟉 䶊䟉㹧䁤㤭㡥䠗䁤䟉㺑 㜅㔈䜖䠗㟧 䠗䜖 㱣㤭㡥 㔈䜟 㟧䜟㔈䟹䟉㹧 㤭 㟷㜅䟉㡥䜖䠗䜟㔈 㷝㜅䜖 㤭 㡥䜖㤭䜖䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖 䜟䋂 䋂㤭䆚䜖䣷 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㱣㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㡥㤭䁤䠗䜟㹧㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䟹㜅䠗䲰䟉 㷝㤭䆚㷁 䜖䜟 䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇䣷 䫺㱇䟉㸔 㷝䟉䟹㤭㔈 䜖䜟 䆚㱇䟉䟉㹧 㱇䠗㡥 㔈㤭㖣䟉㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉㡥 㹧䠗㡥䠗㔈䟹 䠗㔈 㜅㔈䠗㡥䜟㔈 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㤭 㷝㤭䜖䜖㟧䟉 䆚㹧㸔䣷

㫼䟉㔈䯿䠗”㹧㸔 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈㫼 䯿䠗㫼㔈㸔䟉㹧”

㮖㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㖣䠗䲰㡥䜖 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉 䆚䟉㟧䟉㷝㹧㤭䜖䠗䜟㔈㺑 㤭 㡥㖣㤭㟧㟧 䟹㹧䜟㜅䶊 䜟䋂 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㷝㹧䜟㷁䟉 䠗㔈䜖䜟 㡥䜟㔈䟹䣷

㮖䜖 㱣㤭㡥 㤭㔈 䜟㟧䲰 䜖㜅㔈䟉㺑 䜟㔈䟉 䜖㱇㤭䜖 㱇㤭䲰 㷝䟉䟉㔈 䶊㤭㡥㡥䟉䲰 䲰䜟㱣㔈 䜖㱇㹧䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㹧㤭㔈㷁㡥㺑 䠗䜖㡥 㟧㸔㹧䠗䆚㡥 䋂䠗㟧㟧䟉䲰 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䜖㤭㟧䟉㡥 䜟䋂 㱇䜟㖣䟉 㤭㔈䲰 㱇䟉㤭㹧䜖㱇㺑 䜟䋂 䟹㹧䟉䟉㔈 䋂䠗䟉㟧䲰㡥 㤭㔈䲰 㷝㟧㜅䟉 㡥㷁䠗䟉㡥䣷

㮺㡥䜖㱇䟉㹧㹧㤭㱣㖣㤭㺑䶊䆚㱣䠗䜖㱇䜟䜖㱇㹧㜅䟹㱇䟹㔈䜟㡥䟉㜅㟧䜖㱇䟹㤭㹧䶊㟧㤭䜖㹧䜟䆚䋂㖣䟉䟉㹧䠗䜖䶊㔈㔈㖣䟹䠗㟧䠗䟹䜖䟉㱇䟉䟉㡥䣷㱇㹧䆚䜟䋂䟉㱇䜖㷝㜅䜖䟉㱇䫺㜅䜟䲰㡥㔈㿐㔈䜟䲰䟉䠗䁤䆚䜟㡥䟉䠗㔈㤭䲰䜖䠗㱇㱣䲰㔈㤭㷝㹧䠗䠗㖣㖣䟹㔈㷁䆚㤭㟧㹧䆚䟉㔈䠗㺑䜖㱇䟉䋂䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧㱇䜖䟉䠗䟉䟉䆚䲰䜟㱇㔈䲰㤭䠗䜟㖣䣷䜟䜖䟉㔈

䪃㜅䜖 㔈䜟䜖 䟉䁤䟉㹧㸔䜟㔈䟉 㿐䜟䠗㔈䟉䲰 䠗㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㿐㜅㷝䠗㟧㤭䜖䠗䜟㔈䣷

䨬 䋂䟉㱣 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㱇㜅㔈䟹 㷝㤭䆚㷁㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䋂㤭䆚䟉㡥 㖣㤭㹧㷁䟉䲰 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䆚㤭㜅䜖䠗䜟㔈 㤭㔈䲰 䲰䜟㜅㷝䜖䣷

㸔䫺㱇䟉䟹䟉㤭䆚㔈㺑㡥㟧㤭㡥㹧㖣㜅㡥㔈䟉㸔㤭䜟㔈㜅䋂㟧䣷䲰䋂䟉㡥䜖䟉䠗䁤㡥䠗䜖䠗䜖㱇䟉䟹䆚㽋㔈㱇㤭䲰䟉䟉䟉䜖㸔㱇㱣䆚㤭㱇䜖䲰䟉䆚㹧䜟㡥㡥䟉䲰㤭㡥䟉㱇䠗䜖㹧

“䫺㱇䠗㡥 䠗㡥 䜖䜟䜟 䆚䜟㔈䁤䟉㔈䠗䟉㔈䜖㺑” 䜟㔈䟉 㖣㜅䜖䜖䟉㹧䟉䲰 㜅㔈䲰䟉㹧 㱇䠗㡥 㷝㹧䟉㤭䜖㱇䣷 “䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 䲰䜟䟉㡥㔈’䜖 䲰䜟 㤭㔈㸔䜖㱇䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇䜟㜅䜖 㤭 㹧䟉㤭㡥䜟㔈䣷 䝼㱇㤭䜖’㡥 㱇䠗㡥 㤭㔈䟹㟧䟉㽙”

“㓛䟉㤭㱇㺑” 㤭㔈䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 㤭䟹㹧䟉䟉䲰䣷 “㓮䟉’㡥 㷝䟉䟉㔈 䜖䜟㸔䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㜅㡥 䋂䜟㹧 㸔䟉㤭㹧㡥䣷 䝼㱇㸔 㱣䜟㜅㟧䲰 㱇䟉 㿐㜅㡥䜖… 㟧䟉䜖 㜅㡥 䟹䜟 㔈䜟㱣㽙 䝼㱇㤭䜖’㡥 䠗㔈 䠗䜖 䋂䜟㹧 㱇䠗㖣㽙”

㔈䜟㹧㱣䟉䲰䲰䫺㱇䠗㹧䟉䠗䜟䜖䶊䠗㖣㖣㡥㸔㷝㱇䜟䟹䁤㱣㔈䟉䟉㟧䠗㹧㖣㷝䲰䜖䜟㺑㜅㡥䲰䟹䶊䟉䠗䶊㹧䜖㱇䟉䋂䜟㤭䜖䜖㱇㖣䶊㤭䣷䆚㜅䜟䜖䜖㖣㹧㸔㤭䜟䠗㿐䟉㱇䜖䟉䟉㱣㹧㱇㤭䲰䜟䟉䁤㹧㺑䟉㱇㱣㱣㤭䁤䟉䟉㱇䜖䋂䜟

䫺㱇䟉 䆚䟉㟧䟉㷝㹧㤭䜖䠗䜟㔈㡥 䟹㹧䟉㱣 㱣䠗㟧䲰䟉㹧㺑 㖣䜟㹧䟉 㜅㔈䠗㔈㱇䠗㷝䠗䜖䟉䲰䣷 㔠䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 䶊㤭㡥㡥䟉䲰 㤭㹧䜟㜅㔈䲰 䋂㟧㤭㡥㷁㡥 䜟䋂 㖣䜟䜟㔈㡥㱇䠗㔈䟉㺑 䜖䜟㤭㡥䜖䠗㔈䟹 䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䠗㖣䶊䟉㔈䲰䠗㔈䟹 㹧䟉䜖㜅㹧㔈䣷 䫺㱇䟉㸔 䲰㤭㔈䆚䟉䲰 㤭㹧䜟㜅㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䶊䜟㹧䜖㤭㟧㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㖣䜟䁤䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖㡥 㜅㔈䆚䜟䜟㹧䲰䠗㔈㤭䜖䟉䲰 㷝㜅䜖 㿐䜟㸔䋂㜅㟧㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㟧㤭㜅䟹㱇䜖䟉㹧 㹧䠗㔈䟹䠗㔈䟹 䜟㜅䜖 䠗㔈䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉 㔈䠗䟹㱇䜖䣷

㮖㔈 䜖㱇䟉 㖣䠗䲰㡥䜖 䜟䋂 䠗䜖 㤭㟧㟧㺑 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㤭䶊䶊䟉㤭㹧䟉䲰㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䶊㹧䟉㡥䟉㔈䆚䟉 䆚䜟㖣㖣㤭㔈䲰䠗㔈䟹 㤭㡥 㱇䟉 㡥䜖㹧䜟䲰䟉 䠗㔈䜖䜟 䜖㱇䟉 䆚䟉㔈䜖䟉㹧 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊䣷 䫺㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 㟷㜅䠗䟉䜖䟉䲰 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䟉㸔 㔈䜟䜖䠗䆚䟉䲰 㱇䠗㖣㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䆚㱇䟉䟉㹧㡥 䲰㸔䠗㔈䟹 䲰䜟㱣㔈 䠗㔈䜖䜟 㖣㜅㹧㖣㜅㹧㡥 䜟䋂 䟉㽋䆚䠗䜖䟉㖣䟉㔈䜖 㤭㔈䲰 㤭㔈䜖䠗䆚䠗䶊㤭䜖䠗䜟㔈䣷

㡥㜅㸔䟉㹧㔈䁤䠗䟹㔈䆚㹧䠗㡥䜟㖣 䠗㱇㱣䜖 㱇㡥䠗 䜖㷁㱇䆚䠗䟉㷁㟧䠗㱇䟉 㺑㹧䟉㱇䜖䟉䜖㱇䟉 䟉䜖㱇 䠗䟉䟹㱣䜖㱇䠗㱇㟧㤭䜖䟹 䠗㱇㖣䜟㔈䠗㔈㺑㱇䟹䜖 䁤㹧䜟䟉 㱇䜖䠗㱣㤭 㜅㡥䜖㟧㔈䠗㷝䟉㤭㹧䆚䜟䋂 㱇䣷䜟䟉䶊䟉㟧䜖䜖䟉㡥 㡥䲰䜖䜟䜟 㺑䜟䟉䜖㖣㖣㔈 㤭㡥䟉䆚㤭䋂㱇䟉䫺 䆚㱣㹧䜟䲰㱇㱣䟉㤭䲰䜖䆚 㡥㡥䲰䜟䠗䟉㟧㹧 䟉㽋䜖㸔䜖㤭㺑䆚䟉㟧㔈䶊 㤭㔈㓮䟉䟹䣷䋂䜟 䠗䜖㱇㹧䟉 㡥䠗䟉䆚䟉㔈㟧䟉㱇䜖㖣㱇㡥䠗 㟧䠗㔈䜖䟹䜖䟉䜟㹧㔈㡥㽋䟉㡥䠗䟉䣷䶊䟉㸔䟉㡥 㯁䜟㹧㡥䲰㤭䠗

㯁䠗㔈㤭㟧㟧㸔㺑 䜟㔈䟉 䜟䋂 䜖㱇䟉㖣 㡥䶊䜟㷁䟉 㜅䶊㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 䜖㹧䟉㖣㷝㟧䠗㔈䟹 㱣䠗䜖㱇 䟉㖣䜟䜖䠗䜟㔈䣷 “㚆㱇䠗䟉䋂… 㱣䟉’㹧䟉 㹧䟉㤭䲰㸔䣷 䝼䟉’㹧䟉 㹧䟉㤭䲰㸔 䜖䜟 䟹䜟 㷝㤭䆚㷁 䜖䜟 䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇䣷”

䨬㔈䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧 㡥䜖䟉䶊䶊䟉䲰 䋂䜟㹧㱣㤭㹧䲰㺑 㱇䟉㹧 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 㡥䜖䟉㤭䲰㸔 㤭㔈䲰 䆚䜟㔈䋂䠗䲰䟉㔈䜖䣷 “䫺㱇㤭㔈㷁 㸔䜟㜅㺑 㚆㱇䠗䟉䋂䣷 䫺㱇㤭㔈㷁 㸔䜟㜅 䋂䜟㹧 䟹䠗䁤䠗㔈䟹 㜅㡥 䜖㱇䠗㡥 䆚㱇㤭㔈䆚䟉䣷 䝼䟉’㟧㟧 㔈䟉䁤䟉㹧 䋂䜟㹧䟹䟉䜖 㱣㱇㤭䜖 㸔䜟㜅’䁤䟉 䲰䜟㔈䟉 䋂䜟㹧 㜅㡥䣷”

䟉䜖䟉㽋䟉䆚䠗㖣㔈䜖䣷㡥㱇䜖䟉㹧㮺 㸔㱇䟉䜖䜟㱣䟉”㤭㽙㟧䁤䟉䟉 “㓛䁤䜟䟉㜅’䜟䲰䲰䟉㤭㡥䁤䟉㱇䠗㹧䜖㱣䟉 “䟉䝼 “㡥㜅䣷㺑㔈䠗㹧䟉䜖㸔䟹䣷䁤䟉㱇䠗”㔈 䟉䶊䲰䜟㜅㹧 㡥㤭 䜟㜅䜖 㔈䲰㤭䜟㸔㜅 䟉㱇䠗䜖㹧 䜟䆚䠗䟉㡥䁤䁤㤭䠗㟧㹧䶊㔈䶊䜟䟹䟉 “䝼㱇䟉㔈䠗䜟㿐㔈䲰䟉䟹䜖䲰䠗㹧㤭䜖㜅䟉

䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㹧㤭䠗㡥䟉䲰 㤭 㱇㤭㔈䲰㺑 㤭㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊 䋂䟉㟧㟧 㡥䠗㟧䟉㔈䜖 䜟㔈䆚䟉 㖣䜟㹧䟉䣷

㓮䟉 㟧䜟䜟㷁䟉䲰 㤭䜖 䜖㱇䟉㖣㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䟹㤭㢘䟉 㡥㱇㤭㹧䶊 㤭㔈䲰 䶊䠗䟉㹧䆚䠗㔈䟹㺑 䆚㜅䜖䜖䠗㔈䟹 䜖㱇㹧䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉 䆚㹧䜟㱣䲰 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㤭 㷝㟧㤭䲰䟉䣷 䨬㔈䲰 䜖㱇䟉㔈㺑 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㤭 䁤䜟䠗䆚䟉 㤭㡥 㡥㖣䜟䜟䜖㱇 㤭㔈䲰 䆚䜟㟧䲰 㤭㡥 㡥䜖䟉䟉㟧㺑 㱇䟉 㤭㡥㷁䟉䲰㺑 “䝼㱇䜟 㡥㤭㸔㡥 㮖’㖣 䜖㤭㷁䠗㔈䟹 㸔䜟㜅 㷝㤭䆚㷁 䜖䜟 䟓㤭㹧䜖㱇㽙”

䜖㱇䟉㔈䟉㟷䜟㡥䠗䜖㜅㱇䜖䟉㤭㔈䠗䜖䜟䠗㤭㹧㺑㔈䠗㱇㜅㔈䟹䋂䜟䜖㱇䟉㹧䠗䟉䫺㱇䶊㟧䟉㔈䟹㜅䲰䟉㹧㱇䜖㤭䆚㤭㔈䠗䟉䜟㟧㹧䜖䟉㷝䣷䟉㹧䟹䟹㤭䲰

䫺㱇䟉 㡥䜟㟧䲰䠗䟉㹧㡥 䋂㹧䜟㢘䟉㺑 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㡥㖣䠗㟧䟉㡥 䋂㤭㟧䜖䟉㹧䠗㔈䟹 㤭㡥 䆚䜟㔈䋂㜅㡥䠗䜟㔈 㤭㔈䲰 䲰䠗㡥㷝䟉㟧䠗䟉䋂 㹧䠗䶊䶊㟧䟉䲰 䜖㱇㹧䜟㜅䟹㱇 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 㹧㤭㔈㷁㡥䣷 䫺㱇䟉 䆚㤭㖣䶊㺑 㱣㱇䠗䆚㱇 㱇㤭䲰 㷝䟉䟉㔈 㡥䜟 㤭㟧䠗䁤䟉 㱣䠗䜖㱇 㿐䜟㸔 㤭㔈䲰 㱇䜟䶊䟉 㿐㜅㡥䜖 㖣䜟㖣䟉㔈䜖㡥 㷝䟉䋂䜟㹧䟉㺑 㱣㤭㡥 㔈䜟㱣 䟉䟉㹧䠗㟧㸔 㡥䠗㟧䟉㔈䜖䣷

䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈’㡥 㟧䠗䶊㡥 䆚㜅㹧㟧䟉䲰 䠗㔈䜖䜟 㤭 䋂㤭䠗㔈䜖㺑 䟉㔈䠗䟹㖣㤭䜖䠗䆚 㡥㖣䠗㟧䟉㺑 㷝㜅䜖 㱇䠗㡥 䟉㸔䟉㡥 㱇䟉㟧䲰 㔈䜟 㱣㤭㹧㖣䜖㱇䣷 “䝼䟉㟧㟧㽙” 㱇䟉 䶊㹧䜟㖣䶊䜖䟉䲰㺑 㱇䠗㡥 䜖䜟㔈䟉 㤭㟧㖣䜟㡥䜖 㖣䜟䆚㷁䠗㔈䟹䣷 “䝼㱇䜟 䜖䜟㟧䲰 㸔䜟㜅 㮖 㱣䜟㜅㟧䲰 䲰䜟 㡥㜅䆚㱇 㤭 䜖㱇䠗㔈䟹㽙”

㱇䫺䟉㱇䜖䠗䟉㹧䲰㔈㤭䁤䟉㱇㤭㸔䜖㤭䟉䶊䜟㱇㹧䜖㡥䟉㤭䲰䜟㜅䲰㺑㹧㱇㡥䟉䠗䟹䋂㹧㤭㟧㺑䠗㱇㖣㱇䫺䟉㹧䟉䁤䜟䆚㤭䟉㡥䋂㡥㷁㱇䜟䣷䆚䋂䜟䲰㡥䜟㹧䠗㟧䟉㡥㱇䜖䜖㤭㱣䟉䠗䲰䠗䟹䜖㱇㱣䟉㷝㱇㸔䣷㟧䟹㹧䠗䜖㔈䆚䋂䠗䜖䋂㜅㤭䟹䜟㡥㱇䜖䠗㱣䜟㡥䲰㱣䜟㹧㡥㡥䜖䜖䟉㟧䟉䲰䶊㤭㟧䟉䜖䠗㱇䟉㹧䜖㱇䟉㖣䠗㱇㡥㡥䟉㸔䟉䟉㷁䠗㟧㤭㱇㤭䲰䜖㱇䟉㹧㜅㔈䟉㷝䲰

䨬㔈䲰 䯿㸔䟉㹧䠗㔈 㿐㜅㡥䜖 㡥䜖䜟䜟䲰 䜖㱇䟉㹧䟉㺑 㱇䠗㡥 㡥㖣䠗㟧䟉 㔈䟉䁤䟉㹧 䋂㤭㟧䜖䟉㹧䠗㔈䟹㺑 㤭㡥 䜖㱇䜟㜅䟹㱇 㱇䟉 㱣䟉㹧䟉 㡥㤭䁤䜟㹧䠗㔈䟹 䜖㱇䟉䠗㹧 䲰䟉㡥䶊㤭䠗㹧 㟧䠗㷁䟉 㤭 䋂䠗㔈䟉 㱣䠗㔈䟉䣷䣷

comment0 comment

Chapter 358: Go on
The silence that followed Lyerin’s words was deafening.

It was as though the entire camp had been plunged into an abyss, where sound and time ceased to exist.

For a moment, no one dared to move.

The soldiers stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of confusion, disbelief, and a rising sense of dread.

The festive energy that had saturated the air mere moments ago now evaporated like mist under the midday sun, leaving behind a hollow, suffocating void.

The wind carried the faint crackle of the portal’s energy through the camp, its unnatural hum the only sound that dared to intrude upon the stillness.

Soldiers who had been laughing and singing now exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale and their hands trembling as they gripped the hilts of their weapons or clutched at the hems of their cloaks.

Their eyes darted from Lyerin to the portal and back again, as though searching for an answer—some reassurance that this was all a joke, a misunderstanding.

But there was no humor in Lyerin’s face, no flicker of mercy or mischief. Only that infuriating smile, cold and enigmatic, lingering on his lips.

Finally, one of the soldiers—a grizzled man with streaks of gray in his hair and the hardened posture of someone who had survived countless battles—found his voice.

It was hoarse and trembling, a shadow of the man’s usual commanding tone.

“What… what do you mean, Chief?” he stammered, his eyes narrowing as though trying to decode Lyerin’s inscrutable words. “You opened the portal. You made this. We’re… we’re going home, aren’t we?”

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd, low and anxious. Others began speaking, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of desperation and confusion.

“Yeah, that’s right! Why else would you open a portal like this?”

“You said it yourself—it leads to Earth!”

“We’ve been waiting for this, Chief. We’ve trusted you!”

“Are you saying… you’re not taking us back?”

A younger soldier, barely out of his teens, stepped forward, his face flushed and his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“You’re messing with us again, aren’t you?” His voice cracked, wavering between defiance and fear. “You’ve always been like this, playing your games. But this is different. This… this is our chance to go home! You can’t take that away from us!”

More voices rose now, louder and more frantic.

Soldiers who had, just moments ago, wept with joy and embraced their comrades now spoke with panic sharp in their tones.

Their words tumbled over one another in a flood, crashing like waves against the unyielding rock that was Lyerin’s silent, smiling presence.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Are you saying this isn’t for us?”

“What’s the point of opening a portal if not to send us back?”

“You can’t leave us here, Lyerin! We can’t stay in this cursed place!”

Their desperation spilled out of them, raw and unfiltered. Some soldiers took a step back, as though the very air around Lyerin had become dangerous to breathe.

Others pressed forward, their hands shaking, their eyes wide with desperation as they searched his face for answers he seemed unwilling to give.

It was as if their entire world—a world they had been rebuilding out of scraps of hope and determination—was crumbling right before their eyes.

Another voice rose, this one full of bitterness. “Is this another one of your sick games, Lyerin?”

The speaker, a burly woman with a scar cutting across her cheek, glared at him with a mixture of rage and fear.

“We’re not your toys! We’ve done everything you’ve asked of us. We’ve bled for this tribe. We’ve fought. We’ve survived! You owe us this!”

More voices joined hers, louder and angrier now, building like the rumble of a storm on the horizon.

“You can’t keep us here forever!”

“We’ve earned our way out!”

“Take us back! You owe us that much!”

“What are you playing at, Lyerin?!”

The crowd grew restless. Feet shifted uneasily on the dirt-packed ground.

Hands hovered near weapons, though no one was foolish enough to draw.

There was an undercurrent of something dangerous now, something volatile that threatened to boil over.

For all their fear of him—and it was a deep, visceral fear—they were men and women at the edge of their endurance, clutching desperately at the first glimmer of salvation they had seen in years. And that salvation, it seemed, was being torn away from them.

Lyerin, for his part, remained still and composed, his head tilted ever so slightly as he regarded the soldiers before him.

If the rising tension unsettled him, he gave no sign.

His crimson eyes seemed to pierce through their frantic questions, as though he could see past their words and into the hearts that beat wildly within their chests.

The weight of his silence was unbearable, like the shadow of a blade hanging overhead.

Finally, another soldier—a middle-aged man with a deep, ragged voice—stepped forward, his face a mask of barely controlled desperation.

“Please,” he said, his voice cracking on the word. “Please, Chief. We’ve followed you. We’ve trusted you. Don’t do this to us.”

He sank to his knees, his hands clutched together as though in prayer. “I have a family waiting for me. A wife. Children. I haven’t seen them in years. Don’t let us die here. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

The sight of the man kneeling broke something in the crowd. Others began to plead as well, their voices quivering with desperation. Soldiers who had once been hardened warriors now looked like lost, frightened children, their hopes slipping through their fingers like sand.

“I have a daughter back home. She doesn’t even remember my face…”

“I promised my brother I’d come back. I promised him!”

“Take us back, Chief. I’m begging you.”

“Please… don’t leave us here.”

The pleas grew louder, more frantic. The crowd was a cacophony of anguish, the collective sound of men and women teetering on the edge of despair.

The portal crackled and hummed behind Lyerin, its light spilling across the ground like a taunt, a cruel promise just out of reach. And still, Lyerin said nothing.

Finally, when the noise seemed ready to collapse under its own weight, Lyerin raised a single hand.

The camp fell silent instantly, as though he had snuffed out their voices with a flick of his wrist.

His expression had not changed, but there was something new in his gaze now—something colder, sharper, like a blade drawn in the dark.

He let the silence stretch again, drawing out their agony as though savoring the moment.

Then, in a voice that was low and steady, yet cut through the air like a whip, he said, “I do not recall ever promising to take you back to Earth.”

The words hit the soldiers like a physical blow.

Some staggered back, their faces pale and stricken.

Others simply stared at him, their mouths agape, as though their minds could not comprehend what he had just said.

“What…” someone whispered, their voice barely audible. “What are you saying…?”

Lyerin’s smile widened ever so slightly, but his eyes remained hard and unyielding. “I opened the portal, yes,” he said, his tone calm and deliberate, as though speaking to children. “But what makes you think it was for you?”

The soldiers were silent now, too stunned to speak, too afraid to move.

Their gazes darted back and forth between the portal and the man who stood before them, his presence like a dark shadow cast over their hopes.

And then, as though to twist the knife deeper, Lyerin added softly, “Whoever said I would take you back?”

The silence that followed was the heaviest it had ever been.