Chapter 526: Chapter 526: Desdemona
Chapter 526 – Desdemona
Diatah watched impassively at the dozens of women surrounding her from all sides, their eyes carrying different emotions, but the foundation of all of them was the same.
Anger.
Anger at her. Anger at what she had been doing inside their family. Anger at the natural disdain that surfaced every time she looked at them. Anger at her overwhelming existence among their fleeting ones.
Diatah Taraji Desdemona was truly not surprised by this. Such events were not rare in her own home. A home where power reigned supreme, and where each family member preyed upon their own without mercy.
Fathers killing their sons. Sons killing their fathers. Wives poisoning their husbands and refining their children into evolution materials. Brothers killing each other, only for the sister to collect their remains and forge a weapon from their lingering hatred.
That was the family she had been born into. The Desdemona. A family of pure, unfettered monsters with no care for their own, let alone for anyone else.
Diatah had been born there and groomed into that cruelty, shaped into a weapon embodying everything dark and evil of that bloodline. There had been billions of reasons for her never to reach her current level, nor her long lifespan.
Yet she had.
How could such a being — one who had survived things these women would never prehend — be swayed by their coalition?
She almost laughed. But she found them unworthy of even that.
“As you wish.” She said, almost dismissively. “If you wish to battle me, I certainly won’t stop you. Recent events have left me quite irritated.”
She slowly unfolded her arms, letting them fall at her sides. She stretched her right hand. Reality parted like a pulled veil, something appearing through the wound left behind.
A staff.
Black, with crimson marks running all over it.
The wives’ hair immediately stood on end, like frozen ice shards, at the sight of it. Nothing needed to be said for them to understand — one strike from that weapon would make them wish for death.
Their hearts shook like struck drums.
“I won’t kill you.” Diatah continued smoothly, twirling the staff with mastery, cracking the space around her. “But you will wish I had.”
“Oh, this is going to be so interesting.” Anya grinned, her voice trembling slightly underneath. “Against you, I won’t have the luxury of toning down my Destruction Aspect.”
“In other words,” Red said, standing just beside her, “we pour out everything. Everything that exists within us. Drain ourselves pletely.”
“Only then,” Ester added, her mother Sari continuing the thought, “would we climb higher on the Ladder. Isn’t it what Noah loves to say, ever since our time in the Spirit World?”
“You can only be reborn stronger after killing the past version of yourself.” Emmie quoted her husband, then winced. “Noah can be so cringe sometimes.”
They smiled, even though every inch of their bodies wanted nothing more than to run from the grinning Demoness in front of them.
“You plan to use me as your whetstone?” Diatah grinned. “Fine. e at me then. Let’s see if there will be anything left of you to be reborn from.”
That was the start.
Providence acted immediately, opening the Realm of the Tree of Ashes, and swallowed all of them within its spitting, thrashing, burning world.
The battle about to be unleashed would tear Laeh apart. Even the Tree of Ashes would barely survive it.
But Providence was delighted for the opportunity to hurt Luelle. She would never pass up the chance to make the one who had once caused her husband’s death suffer.
So the battle officially began.
Luelle shuddered in absolute horror when the first clash occurred.
She was split in half by one of Yuki’s deflected attacks. And that was only the beginning.
The beginning of the most intense and painful training the women had ever gone through.
Providence didn’t know what would happen after 100 years. But one thing was certain, if the women managed to win against Diatah, whose very identity existed above Reality, even in avatar form, then hardly anything in this universe would stop them again.
And with war approaching…
The Hunt of the Prime’s Horn
…they would need every last shred of strength inside their skin.
‘So do I.’ Providence thought. ‘So do I.’
Now it was time to oversee the training of her children.
They too needed to be ready.
…
And while his wives began their battle — about to be pletely wrecked by a merciless Demoness — Noah was staring at a scene in front of him, wondering briefly if some illusion had been cast on his mind.
It was just that ridiculous.
He stood inside a realm of frosted ice. Everything around him was nothing but dunes of ice jutting upward, mountains that looked as though carved by some genius working ahead of their time, and a frozen sea with strange creatures watching from behind the glass beneath.
The air was riddled with birds made of black frost, their chirping creating a harrowing whirlwind, ice shards sharp enough to cut immortal skin spinning within it.
This was one of the Forbidden Lands of Laeh. Top five most dangerous, to be precise. The kind that had killed countless adventurers and those who sought their own path.
And in that place, stripped of her power by Noah and chained to a block of ice, was Idalia Marigold.
Yet that was not what surprised him.
It was the fact that the woman was weeping. Crying as if she had received the worst news in existence, unable to stop, pletely undone.
Noah didn’t remain in the dark for long. Soon enough, Idalia lost what was left of her posure and began crying out a name.
A name he knew all too well.
“ELIJAH!” She bellowed from the depth of her soul, her eyes bleeding tears at a grief so deep it was maddening. “ELIJAH!!!”
Again. And again. And again.
Marigold thrashed on her chains with no care for herself, slamming her head against the block of ice behind her, cracking her skull after doing it nearly a thousand times.
Yet she never stopped. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She kept going — crying, hurting herself, calling out the name that would never answer. The name of the one she had loved with everything she had.
Noah stood there, flabbergasted. Because Marigold’s love for Elijah ran so profoundly deep that her own soul was fracturing at the realisation of his ultimate death.
There was no mistaking it.
At this rate, Marigold would die pletely…from grief and madness alone.
“ELIJAH!”
“Bloody hell.” Noah whispered. “Just what in the hell is happening lately?”
—End of Chapter 526—
擄
㘷㓖㻽䇢㡗㨪㨪㷑㺺
䈯䀔㺺䠆䈯㻽㙠㜍䎙
櫓
盧
蘆
盧
–
露
擄
老
㜍䜇㑆䒫㨪㻿㙠
䠿㩋䄒
路
路㚲㻽䜇㑆 䇢䜇䠆 䠆䒫㨪㨪㺺㑆㷑㨪䠆䠆㸂 㨱㑆㨪 䠆㻽䀔㘷䆣 㺺㻽㡗䈯㘷㛌 㻽䀔㜍 㻽㚺 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣’䠆 㡗㻽䀔㜍㑆 䇢䜇䠆 䇢㙠㨪㘷㺺㑆䈯㘷㛌㗚 㨪㺺㑆㻽䈯㘷㛌 㜍㑆㙠㻽䀔㛌㑆 㜍㑆㨪 䇢㻽㙠㷑䆣 㻽㚺 䈯㺺㨪 㷑䈯㦝㨪 㜍㑆㨪 㺺㙠䎙 㻽㚺 䜇 㛌㻽䆣䆣㨪䠆䠆 䆣䜇㡗㘷㨪䆣 䁱䎙 㜍㑆㨪 㑆㨪䜇㨎㨪㘷䠆㸂
㛏㑆䜇㜍 㚲㻽䜇㑆 䆣䈯䆣㘷’㜍 㦝㘷㻽䇢 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䈯㜍 䇢䜇䠆 䜇㺺㜍䀔䜇㷑㷑䎙 㜍㑆㨪 㺺䜇䠆㨪㸂 䤸㜍䈯㷑㷑㗚 㜍㑆㨪 䀔㘷㦝㘷㻽䇢㘷 䇢䜇䠆 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 䠆㻽㡗㨪㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌 㑆㨪 䜇䒫䒫㙠㨪㺺䈯䜇㜍㨪䆣㸂
䤸㻽
㸂㻽㻽䆣䁱㷑
㦝䈯䎙䠆㺺㜍
䜇㺺䒫䒫㻽䆣㙠㑆䜇㨪
㘷䜇䆣
㜍䇢䈯㑆
㑆䈯䠆
㘷䜇㑆䆣
㛌㙠㜍䈯㑆
㺺䈯䜇㙠㨪㜍㙠
㑆㙠㨪
㨪㙠㑆
㨪㑆
㜍㘷䠆䜇㛌䈯䜇
䆣䠆㨪䠆䒫㨪㙠
㗚㺺㨪䠆㙠䈯
䆣䜇㘷
㨪㗚㚺䜇㺺
㨪㨎䁱䈯䜇㑆䀔㻽㙠
㘷䠆㛌㨪㺺䜇䀔㘷䈯
㘷㛌䈯䈯㛌㻽㙠㘷
㙠㷑䆣㗚䈯㛌䜇㻽㲹
䖅㨪 㘷䜇㙠㙠㻽䇢㨪䆣 㑆䈯䠆 㨪䎙㨪䠆㸂
“㲹䜇㦝㨪 㡗㨪 䀔㘷䆣㨪㙠䠆㜍䜇㘷䆣㗚 㶰䆣䜇㷑䈯䜇 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣㸂”
䎙㜍䈯㜍䠆㷑㘷㘷䜇
㘷䆣䜇
㻽㜍
䜇㜍㛌䠆㙠㘷㨪
㸂䈯䠆㜍㛌㑆
㙠䆣㨪䈯䒫㑆䠆㗚㨪䇢
㺺㙠䈯䠆㨪
䜇㘷䆣
㗚䜇㨪㜍䆣㑆㷑
㜍㑆㨪
䁱㘷䜇㛌㨪
䜇㑆㻽㚲
䜇
㨪䈯䇢㜍䠆䠆㘷
䖅㨪
䯟 䎙㻽䀔㘷㛌 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣㗚 㨪䎙㨪䠆 㚺䀔㷑㷑 㻽㚺 㜍㨪䜇㙠䠆㗚 䁱䀔㷑㷑䈯㨪䆣 䁱䎙 㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠 㺺㑆䈯㷑䆣㙠㨪㘷㸂
㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 㑆䜇䆣 䁱㨪㨪㘷 㷑㨪㚺㜍 㻽䀔㜍 䠆䈯㘷㺺㨪 䠆㑆㨪 䇢䜇䠆 䁱㻽㙠㘷㗚 䜇㷑㷑 䁱㨪㺺䜇䀔䠆㨪 㻽㚺 㑆㨪㙠 䠆㜍㙠䜇㘷㛌㨪 䠆㦝䈯㘷㸂 㨱㑆㨪 㻿㨪㷑㨪䠆㜍䈯䜇㷑 㑆䜇䆣 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 㨪㘷㺺㻽䀔㘷㜍㨪㙠㨪䆣 䠆䀔㺺㑆 䜇 㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌㸂 䯟㘷䆣 䇢㑆㨪㘷 䠆㻽㡗㨪㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌 㘷㨪䇢 䜇䒫䒫㨪䜇㙠㨪䆣 䜇㡗㻽㘷㛌 㜍㑆㨪㡗㗚 㜍㑆㨪䎙 㨪䈯㜍㑆㨪㙠 㡗䜇㙠㨎㨪㷑㷑㨪䆣 䜇㜍 䈯㜍 㻽㙠 䆣㨪㘷䈯㨪䆣 䈯㜍 㺺㻽㡗䒫㷑㨪㜍㨪㷑䎙㸂
䈯㜍
㘷㶰
䎙㨪㑆㜍
㻽䠆㨪㺺㑆㸂
㺺㗚䠆䜇㨪
㲹㛌䠆㻽’䆣䈯䜇㙠㷑
䈯䁱䀔㻽㨎㻽䠆
䇢䜇䠆
䈯㑆㺺㑆䇢
䖅㨪㙠 䁱㙠㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠㗚 䯟䒫㻽㷑㷑㻽㗚 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆㨪 㻽㘷㷑䎙 㻽㘷㨪 䇢㑆㻽 㨪㨎㨪㙠 䠆㑆㻽䇢㨪䆣 㺺䜇㙠㨪 㚺㻽㙠 㑆㨪㙠㸂 㿭㙠 䠆㻽 䠆㑆㨪 䁱㨪㷑䈯㨪㨎㨪䆣㸂
䯀㨪㺺䜇䀔䠆㨪 㨪㨎㨪㘷 㑆㨪㗚 䈯㘷 㜍㑆㨪 㨪㘷䆣㗚 䇢䜇㘷㜍㨪䆣 㘷㻽㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌 䁱䀔㜍 㜍㻽 䠆䜇㜍䈯䠆㚺䎙 㑆䈯䠆 㻽䇢㘷 㑆䀔㘷㛌㨪㙠 䁱䎙 㡗䜇㦝䈯㘷㛌 㑆㨪㙠 䜇 䠆㷑䜇㨎㨪 㜍㻽 㑆䈯䠆 䆣㨪䠆䈯㙠㨪䠆㸂 䯟㘷䆣 䜇䠆 㜍䈯㡗㨪 䒫䜇䠆䠆㨪䆣㗚 䠆㑆㨪 㑆㨪㙠䠆㨪㷑㚺 䁱㨪㺺䜇㡗㨪 䜇 䠆㷑䜇㨎㨪 㜍㻽 㑆㨪㙠 㻽䇢㘷 — 䜇 䆣㨪䠆䈯㙠㨪 㜍㑆䜇㜍 㚺㻽䀔㘷䆣 㘷㻽 㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠 㻽䀔㜍㷑㨪㜍 䁱䀔㜍 㑆䈯㡗㸂
䆣㛌䇢㙠㻽䈯㘷㘷
㘷䜇䆣
㜍䀔㯑䠆
䠆䜇㡗㛌㨪
䁱㨪
㺺䜇㜍䠆
㻽䈯䆣㨪䠆㡗䒫
㨪㷑㙠㚺㨪㑆䠆
㺺䆣䀔㘷䈯㨪㜍㻽㗚㘷
㘷㻽㜍
㜍㻽
䇢㑆㙠㨎㨪䜇㜍㨪
䜇䁱䜇㘷㘷㸂㨪䆣㻽䆣
㙠㺺㨪㗚䜇㨪㡗䁱
䠆㑆㨪
㑆㨪
䈯㘷
㻽䤸
䜇㺺㘷㜍㛌㺺䈯䒫㨪
䠆䈯㑆
䖅㨪 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆㨪 㻽㘷㷑䎙 㻽㘷㨪 䠆㑆㨪 㑆䜇䆣㸂
䖅㨪㙠 㚺䜇㜍㑆㨪㙠 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 㺺䜇㙠㨪䆣 䜇䁱㻽䀔㜍 㑆䈯䠆 㻽㚺㚺䠆䒫㙠䈯㘷㛌㸂 䯟㘷䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㡗㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠…㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 㜍㙠䀔㷑䎙 㺺㻽䀔㷑䆣 㘷㻽㜍 㙠㨪㺺䜇㷑㷑 䜇 䠆䈯㘷㛌㷑㨪 䆣䜇䎙 䠆㑆㨪 㑆䜇䆣 䠆㨪㨪㘷 㑆㨪㙠㸂 㨱㻽 䜇㘷䎙㻽㘷㨪 䇢䜇㜍㺺㑆䈯㘷㛌㗚 䈯㜍 䠆㨪㨪㡗㨪䆣 䜇䠆 㜍㑆㻽䀔㛌㑆 䠆㑆㨪 㑆䜇䆣 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 㨪䄔䈯䠆㜍㨪䆣㸂
䀔㜍䯀
㸂䆣䜇㑆
㨪䠆㑆
䖅㨪㙠 㡗㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠 䠆䈯㡗䒫㷑䎙 㑆䜇㜍㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㻽䇢㘷 㺺㑆䈯㷑䆣㙠㨪㘷 䜇㜍 䜇 㷑㨪㨎㨪㷑 㜍㑆䜇㜍 㙠䈯㨎䜇㷑㷑㨪䆣 — 㻽㙠 䒫㨪㙠㑆䜇䒫䠆 䠆䀔㙠䒫䜇䠆䠆㨪䆣 — 㑆㨪㙠 㚺䜇㜍㑆㨪㙠’䠆 㻽㨎㨪㙠䇢㑆㨪㷑㡗䈯㘷㛌 䈯㘷䆣䈯㚺㚺㨪㙠㨪㘷㺺㨪㸂
㶰㜍 䇢䜇䠆 䠆䀔㚺㚺㻽㺺䜇㜍䈯㘷㛌 㜍㻽 㷑䈯㨎㨪 䈯㘷 䠆䀔㺺㑆 䜇㘷 㨪㘷㨎䈯㙠㻽㘷㡗㨪㘷㜍㸂 㛏㻽㙠䠆㨪 䠆㜍䈯㷑㷑 㜍㻽 㛌㙠㻽䇢 䀔䒫 䈯㘷 䈯㜍㸂 䯟㘷䆣 㜍㑆䜇㜍㗚 㨪㨎㨪㘷 䜇䠆 䜇 㨱㙠䀔㨪 㻿㑆䈯㷑䆣 䁱㷑㨪䠆䠆㨪䆣 䁱䎙 㜍㑆㨪 䀔㘷䈯㨎㨪㙠䠆㨪 䇢䈯㜍㑆 䜇 㜍䜇㷑㨪㘷㜍 㚺㨪䇢 㺺㻽䀔㷑䆣 㚺䜇㜍㑆㻽㡗㸂
䈯㚺㷑㨪
䁱䜇㡗㺺㨪㨪
㜍䠆㡗䠆㨪㨪㘷䒫䈯
㗚㷑䜇㷑
㻽䒫㨪㙠䇢
㨪㻽㷑㨎
㘷㻽㑆䀔㛌㨪
㚺䈯
䜇㡗㦝㨪
㜍㨪㑆
㛏䜇䠆
㜍㻽
㻽㚺
㙠㨪㑆
䜇㛌㨪䈯䠆㡗㨪㷑㘷㘷䤏䠆
㚺㷑䈯㷑
䜇㜍
㻽㨪㙠䒫䇢
䯟㙠㚺㜍㨪
䜇㛏䠆
䇢䜇䠆
㑆㜍㨪
㡗㻽㨪㘷䠆㨪㻽
䇢㻽䒫㙠㨪
㜍㻽
䤏㨪㑆㙠
䜇䇢㑆㜍
㑆㛌䀔㻽㘷㨪
䇢䈯䜇㛌㘷㛌㘷
㜍䄔䠆䈯㨪㨪䤏㘷㺺㨪
䠆䀔㨪
㜍㨪㷑䈯䠆㚺
㨱㑆䜇㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆㨪 㺺㻽㘷㺺㷑䀔䠆䈯㻽㘷 䠆㑆㨪 䜇㙠㙠䈯㨎㨪䆣 䜇㜍 㘷䜇㜍䀔㙠䜇㷑㷑䎙㗚 䜇㚺㜍㨪㙠 䎙㨪䜇㙠䠆 㻽㚺 䈯㘷䠆㨪㺺䀔㙠䈯㜍䎙㗚 㯑㨪䜇㷑㻽䀔䠆䎙㗚 䜇㘷䆣 㑆䈯䆣䆣㨪㘷 㙠㨪䠆㨪㘷㜍㡗㨪㘷㜍㸂
䤸㻽 䁱㨪䠆䈯䆣㨪䠆 䠆㨪㨪㦝䈯㘷㛌 䜇㺺㦝㘷㻽䇢㷑㨪䆣㛌㨪㡗㨪㘷㜍 㚺㙠㻽㡗 㑆㨪㙠 䁱㙠㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠 䁱䎙 䠆䜇㜍䈯䠆㚺䎙䈯㘷㛌 㑆䈯䠆 䇢䈯㺺㦝㨪䆣 䆣㨪䠆䈯㙠㨪䠆㗚 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 㷑㨪䜇㙠㘷㨪䆣 㜍㻽 䈯㘷䠆㜍䈯㷑 㚺㨪䜇㙠 䈯㘷 㜍㑆㻽䠆㨪 䜇㙠㻽䀔㘷䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㜍㑆㙠㻽䀔㛌㑆 㑆㨪㙠 䒫㻽䇢㨪㙠㸂
㚺㨪㸂䜇㙠
㻽㚺
㜍㑆䎙㨪
㙠㻽
㜍㑆㻽㑆㛌䀔
㨪㻽㨎㷑䆣
㻽㜍㘷
㨪㺺䠆㑆㻽
㡗㚺㙠㻽
㨱䎙㑆㨪
㨪䁱䜇㘷㛌
㸂㨪䜇㚺㺺
㷑㷑䯟
䈯㛏㺺㑆㑆
䠆䜇
㑆㸂㨪㙠
‘䈯䆣䆣㘷㜍
䈯㜍㙠㑆㨪㨪
䜇㺺㜍
㻽㜍
㻽㜍
㨪䠆㑆
㗚㦝䇢㘷㻽
㘷㻽䁱㙠
㜍䈯
䡞㨪䜇㙠 䇢䜇䠆 䈯㘷䆣㨪㨪䆣 䜇 䒫㻽䈯䠆㻽㘷㸂
䤸㷑㻽䇢㷑䎙㗚 䠆㜍㨪䜇䆣䈯㷑䎙㗚 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 䁱㨪㛌䜇㘷 㜍㻽 㷑㻽㨎㨪 㜍㑆㨪 䠆㻽䀔㘷䆣 㻽㚺 㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠䠆 䠆䜇䎙䈯㘷㛌 㜍㑆㨪䎙 㷑㻽㨎㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㡗㻽㙠㨪 㜍㑆䜇㘷 䠆㑆㨪 㷑㻽㨎㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠䠆㨪㷑㚺㸂 㩢㨎㨪㘷 㦝㘷㻽䇢䈯㘷㛌 䈯㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㚺䜇㷑䠆㨪㸂 䯟㜍 㷑㨪䜇䠆㜍 䈯㜍 㦝㨪䒫㜍 㑆㨪㙠 㛌㻽䈯㘷㛌㸂
㑆㙠㨪
㸂㷑㨎㘷䈯㛌䈯
㦝䒫㨪㜍
㶰㜍
㶰㜍 䇢䜇䠆 䆣䀔㙠䈯㘷㛌 㜍㑆㻽䠆㨪 㜍䈯㡗㨪䠆 䠆㑆㨪 䁱㨪㺺䜇㡗㨪 䒫㙠㨪㛌㘷䜇㘷㜍 䇢䈯㜍㑆 㑆㨪㙠 䁱㙠㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠’䠆 㺺㑆䈯㷑䆣㸂 䯟㘷䆣 䜇䠆 㚺䜇㜍㨪 䇢㻽䀔㷑䆣 㑆䜇㨎㨪 䈯㜍㗚 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆㨪 㨪䄔䜇㺺㜍 㡗㻽㡗㨪㘷㜍 䠆㑆㨪 䠆㜍䀔㡗䁱㷑㨪䆣 䀔䒫㻽㘷 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆 㫵䈯㛌㑆㜍䁱㙠䈯㘷㛌㨪㙠 — 㜍㑆㨪 䎙㻽䀔㘷㛌㨪䠆㜍 㻽㚺 㜍㑆㨪 㫵䈯㛌㑆㜍䁱㙠䈯㘷㛌㨪㙠 䡞䜇㡗䈯㷑䎙 — 䜇㜍 䜇㘷 㨪㨎㨪㘷㜍㸂
㫵㻽㨎㨪 䜇㜍 㚺䈯㙠䠆㜍 䠆䈯㛌㑆㜍㗚 䠆㑆㨪 㜍㑆㻽䀔㛌㑆㜍 䈯㡗㡗㨪䆣䈯䜇㜍㨪㷑䎙㸂 䯀䀔㜍 䈯㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㡗㻽㙠㨪 㜍㑆䜇㘷 㜍㑆䜇㜍㸂 㨱㑆㨪 䇢䜇䎙 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆 䠆䒫㻽㦝㨪㗚 㷑㻽㻽㦝㨪䆣㗚 䜇㘷䆣 㺺䜇㙠㙠䈯㨪䆣 㑆䈯㡗䠆㨪㷑㚺 䜇㙠㻽䀔㘷䆣 㑆㨪㙠 䇢䜇䠆 㨪㘷㻽䀔㛌㑆 㜍㻽 㡗䜇㦝㨪 㑆㨪㙠 䇢䈯㜍㑆㨪㙠㨪䆣㗚 㜍㻽㙠㡗㨪㘷㜍㨪䆣 㑆㨪䜇㙠㜍 䔽䀔䈯㺺㦝㨪㘷㸂
䤸㨪㑆
㑆㸂䈯㡗
㜍㻽㘷㛌㘷䈯㑆
㘷䈯
㡗㑆䈯
䈯㑆㜍䇢
㜍䁱䀔
㜍㻽
㚺㨪㷑㷑
䇢㑆㜍䈯
䎙㨪䆣㨪䒫㷑
䜇㘷䆣
㘷㜍䜇䇢䆣㨪
㻽㷑㨪㨎
㨪䁱
䯀䀔㜍 㑆㻽䇢䤏
䤸㑆㨪 䆣䈯䆣㘷’㜍 㦝㘷㻽䇢 㑆㻽䇢㸂 䤸㻽 䠆㑆㨪 㷑䈯㨎㨪䆣 䇢䈯㜍㑆 㜍㑆䜇㜍 㷑㻽㨎㨪 䈯㘷䠆䈯䆣㨪 㑆㨪㙠 㚺㻽㙠 㑆䀔㘷䆣㙠㨪䆣䠆 㻽㚺 䎙㨪䜇㙠䠆㗚 䇢䜇㜍㺺㑆䈯㘷㛌 㑆㨪㙠 䆣䜇䀔㛌㑆㜍㨪㙠 㛌㙠㻽䇢 䀔䒫㸂
㙠㛌䀔㜍㸂㨪䜇㑆䆣
䆣㨪䀔㘷㜍䜇㘷䇢
㻽㚺䒫㙠㻽
䜇䠆㜍㘷䈯
䠆㑆㨪
‘㙠䁱㙠㻽㑆䠆㜍㨪
㨱㑆㨪
㻽䜇䆣㜍㑆㷑㨪
㘷㻽
㜍㨪㛌㘷㙠䎙䈯㨎㑆㨪
㑆㸂䜇䆣
㨱㑆㨪
㘷㻽㨪
䇢䈯㜍㑆
㙠㑆㨪
㻽㚺
㸂㑆㨪㙠
㑆㨪㨱
㑆㨪䠆
䯟㘷䆣 䎙㨪㜍 䈯㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䠆䜇㡗㨪 䆣䜇䀔㛌㑆㜍㨪㙠 䇢㑆㻽 㺺䜇䀔䠆㨪䆣 䯟䒫㻽㷑㷑㻽 㜍㻽 䁱㨪 㷑㻽㺺㦝㨪䆣 䜇䇢䜇䎙㗚 㛌䈯㨎䈯㘷㛌 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 㜍㑆㨪 㻽䒫䒫㻽㙠㜍䀔㘷䈯㜍䎙 㜍㻽 㚺䈯㘷䜇㷑㷑䎙 㛌㻽 䜇㚺㜍㨪㙠 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆㸂
䖅㨪 䆣䈯䆣㘷’㜍 䜇㺺㺺㨪䒫㜍㗚 㻽㚺 㺺㻽䀔㙠䠆㨪㸂
㨪䖅
㑆㜍㙠㘷㨪㻽䜇
䈯㘷
㨎㨪䈯㷑㨪㨪䁱
㑆㨪㜍
㨪䈯㡗㜍㸂
㜍䈯㸂
㷑㻽㨪㨎
㷑䈯㛌㙠
㙠㻽䜇㲹䈯䆣㛌㷑
䜇㜍
䇢䜇䠆
㻿㷑㨪㜍㨪䜇㷑䠆䈯
䈯䇢㜍㑆
㷑䀔㻽㺺㜍䆣㘷’
䎙㙠㷑䆣㨪䜇䜇
䖅㻽䇢 㺺㻽䀔㷑䆣 䜇 㫵䈯㛌㑆㜍䁱㙠䈯㘷㛌㨪㙠 㚺䜇㷑㷑 䈯㘷 㷑㻽㨎㨪 䇢䈯㜍㑆 䠆㻽㡗㨪㻽㘷㨪 䠆㻽 䒫㷑䜇䈯㘷㗚 䠆㻽 䀔㘷䈯㘷㜍㨪㙠㨪䠆㜍䈯㘷㛌㗚 䠆㻽 䇢㨪䜇㦝䤏
“㛏㑆䜇㜍 䜇䁱㻽䀔㜍 㡗㨪䤏” 䤸㑆㨪 㑆䜇䆣 䜇䠆㦝㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠䠆㨪㷑㚺 㺺㻽㘷䠆㜍䜇㘷㜍㷑䎙㗚 䠆䈯㜍㜍䈯㘷㛌 䈯㘷 䜇 㺺㻽㙠㘷㨪㙠 㻽㚺 㑆㨪㙠 㙠㻽㻽㡗㗚 䠆㺺㙠䜇㜍㺺㑆䈯㘷㛌 㑆㨪㙠 㚺䜇㺺㨪 䀔㘷㜍䈯㷑 㻽㘷㷑䎙 䁱㷑㻽㻽䆣 䜇㘷䆣 㙠䀔䈯㘷㨪䆣 㚺㷑㨪䠆㑆 㙠㨪㡗䜇䈯㘷㨪䆣㸂
㜍”㛏㑆䜇
㻽㡗㙠㨪㥰
䜇㡗
㶰
㨪㡗䤏
㶰
㜍㻽㘷
㨪㡗䤏
㛏㑆䎙
㻽㘷㜍”䤏
㻽䀔䎙
㨎㨪㻽㷑
䆣㑆㥰㷑㻿䈯
䜇㜍㑆㛏
㶰
䜇㡗
㶰
㻽㨪㷑㨎
㻽䤸
䜇
䇢䎙㑆
㻽㜍䀔䁱䜇
㯑㩢䜇䈯㑆㷑㥰
㻽䀔䜇㜍䁱
㡗㨪䤏
㨪㡗㻽㙠㥰
䀔䎙㻽
㙠䀔㨱㨪
㜍㨪㨪㙠䁱㥰㜍
䯟㛌䜇䈯㘷㸂 䯟㘷䆣 䜇㛌䜇䈯㘷㸂 䯟㘷䆣 䜇㛌䜇䈯㘷㸂
䤸㑆㨪 䜇䠆㦝㨪䆣 㨪㘷䆣㷑㨪䠆䠆㷑䎙㸂 㚲㻽 䜇㘷䠆䇢㨪㙠 㺺䜇㡗㨪㸂 㚲㻽㜍 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䠆㑆㨪 㨪䄔䒫㨪㺺㜍㨪䆣 㻽㘷㨪㸂 㚲㻽 㻽㘷㨪 㑆䜇䆣 㨪㨎㨪㙠 䁱㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠㨪䆣 㜍㻽 䜇㘷䠆䇢㨪㙠 㑆㨪㙠㸂
㻽㚺
䠆㺺㨪㻽䀔㙠
㑆㨪㙠
㻽㘷
䜇䇢䠆
㙠㺺㚺㻽㡗㻽㜍
䈯䇢㑆㜍
䠆㷑㗚㡗㷑䜇
㘷㨎㨪㨪
㨪㘷㗚䆣䈯䜇㑆㺺
㻽㨪㙠㷑㘷㛌
䜇㘷㷑䒫䀔䈯㚺
㘷䆣䯟
䁱㙠㨪㙠㻽㑆㜍
㜍㑆㜍䜇
䈯䜇㷑㸂㨪㨎䜇㷑䜇䁱
㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 䠆㘷䜇䒫䒫㨪䆣㸂
䤸㑆㨪 䠆㜍㻽䒫䒫㨪䆣 㺺䜇㙠䈯㘷㛌 䜇䁱㻽䀔㜍 䜇㘷䎙㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌㸂 䤸㑆㨪 䀔䠆㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 䒫㻽䇢㨪㙠 㜍㻽 䁱㙠㨪䜇㦝 㮙䀔䠆㜍䈯㺺䈯䜇 㺺㻽㡗䒫㷑㨪㜍㨪㷑䎙 䜇㘷䆣 㜍㑆㻽㙠㻽䀔㛌㑆㷑䎙㗚 㜍㑆㨪㘷 䆣䈯䠆㺺䜇㙠䆣㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㜍㻽䇢䜇㙠䆣 䤸㻽㷑㨪䈯㷑 㷑䈯㦝㨪 䀔䠆㨪䆣 㺺㷑㻽㜍㑆㨪䠆㸂
㜍㑆㨪㙠䈯
䀔㗚䈯㘷㻽㘷
㜍䈯㻽㘷
㨪䤸㑆
㻽㚺㙠
㻽䇢㙠㷑䆣
㷑㯑㑆䜇㩢䈯
㡗䈯㑆
䇢㜍䜇㑆
㜍㦝㻽㻽
㘷䆣䜇
㺺㷑㨪䜇䆣䈯㡗
㨪㑆㗚㨪㷑㙠㚺䠆
㻽㜍
㸂䇢䠆䜇
㑆㨪㙠
䈯㑆㡗
㑆䈯䠆
㷑䜇㻽㷑䇢
䇢㑆㙠㨪㨪
䆣䈯䆣
㑆㨪䠆
㜍㻽
㺺㻽䆣㚺㨪㙠
䁱㨪䆣㨪䈯㨎㨪㷑
㚺㡗䎙䜇㷑䈯
㻽㨎㷑㨪
㑆㨪䠆
䤸㑆㨪 㑆㻽䒫㨪䆣 — 㻽㑆㗚 䠆㑆㨪 㜍㙠䀔㷑䎙 䆣䈯䆣 — 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䠆㑆㻽䇢䈯㘷㛌 㑆㨪㙠 㷑㻽㨎㨪㗚 䒫㙠㻽㨎䈯㘷㛌 䈯㜍㗚 䇢㻽䀔㷑䆣 䁱㨪 㨪㘷㻽䀔㛌㑆 㜍㻽 㺺㑆䜇㘷㛌㨪 㨪㨎㨪㙠䎙㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌㸂
䯀䀔㜍 㑆㻽䇢 䆣㻽㨪䠆 䠆㻽㡗㨪㻽㘷㨪 䇢㑆㻽 㑆䜇䠆 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 䁱㨪㨪㘷 㷑㻽㨎㨪䆣㗚 㘷㨪㨎㨪㙠 䁱㨪㨪㘷 㺺䜇㙠㨪䆣 㚺㻽㙠㗚 㦝㘷㻽䇢 㑆㻽䇢 㜍㻽 㷑㻽㨎㨪䤏
䠆䀔㨪䤏䜇䁱
㨪㑆㙠
㘷㻽䇢㦝
䖅㻽䇢
䠆䆣㻽㨪
䎙䁱
㘷㜍䜇㑆
㻽㘷㨪䠆㻽㡗㨪
䁱㨪䆣䠆䀔䜇
㘷㻽䇢
㑆㻽㙠㨪㜍
䁱㨪㙠㙠㻽㑆㜍
䈯㑆㜍䎙㘷㛌㘷䜇
䜇䇢䠆
㻽㑆䇢
䖅㻽䇢 䆣㻽㨪䠆 䠆㻽㡗㨪㻽㘷㨪 䇢㨪㷑㺺㻽㡗㨪䆣 䈯㘷㜍㻽 㜍㑆㨪 䇢㻽㙠㷑䆣 䁱䎙 㑆㨪㙠 㡗㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠’䠆 㑆䜇㜍㙠㨪䆣 䜇㘷䆣 㑆㨪㙠 㚺䜇㜍㑆㨪㙠’䠆 䈯㘷䆣䈯㚺㚺㨪㙠㨪㘷㺺㨪 㦝㘷㻽䇢 䇢㑆䜇㜍 䈯㜍 㡗㨪䜇㘷䠆 㜍㻽 㷑㻽㨎㨪 䜇㘷䎙㻽㘷㨪㗚 㨪㨎㨪㘷 㑆㨪㙠 㻽䇢㘷 䆣䜇䀔㛌㑆㜍㨪㙠䤏
㨱㑆㨪 㷑䈯㦝㨪㷑䈯㑆㻽㻽䆣 㻽㚺 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䇢䜇䠆 㷑㻽䇢㸂 䯟㘷 㨪䄔㺺㨪䒫㜍䈯㻽㘷 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䒫㙠㻽㨎㨪䆣 㜍㑆㨪 䒫㻽䈯㘷㜍㸂 䯟㘷䆣 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 䇢䜇䠆 㘷㻽㜍 䜇㡗㻽㘷㛌 㜍㑆㻽䠆㨪 㨪䄔㺺㨪䒫㜍䈯㻽㘷䠆㸂
㨪䤸㑆
㑆䠆㨪
㸂㨎㷑㨪㻽
㑆䆣䜇
䈯㩢㑆䜇㯑㷑
㜍㛌䀔㑆䜇㜍
㻽㜍
䆣㨎㻽㨪㷑
㨪㜍㑆
䇢䎙䜇
㨪䁱㨪㘷
㶰㘷 䜇 䁱㙠㻽㦝㨪㘷㗚 㜍䇢䈯䠆㜍㨪䆣㗚 䜇㘷䆣 䜇䁱䀔䠆䈯㨎㨪 䇢䜇䎙㸂
㨱㑆䜇㜍 䆣䈯䆣㘷’㜍 㡗㨪䜇㘷 㑆㨪㙠 㷑㻽㨎㨪 䇢䜇䠆㘷’㜍 㙠㨪䜇㷑㸂 㶰㜍 䇢䜇䠆㸂 㪌㨪㙠䎙 㡗䀔㺺㑆 㙠㨪䜇㷑㸂 䤸㑆㨪 䎙㨪䜇㙠㘷㨪䆣 㚺㻽㙠 㑆䈯㡗㗚 㻽䁱䠆㨪䠆䠆㨪䆣 㻽㨎㨪㙠 㑆䈯㡗㗚 㷑㻽㨎㨪䆣 㑆䈯㡗 䈯㘷 㜍㑆㨪 䒫䀔㙠㨪䠆㜍 㺺䜇䒫䜇㺺䈯㜍䎙 䠆㑆㨪 㦝㘷㨪䇢㸂
㜍㑆㨪
䈯㷑㨪㨪㙠䎙㨎䆣
㻽㚺
㻽㷑㨪㨎…
䜇㜍㑆㜍
䯀䀔㜍
“…䇢䜇䠆 㜍㑆㨪 䈯䠆䠆䀔㨪 䜇㷑㷑 䜇㷑㻽㘷㛌㸂” 㚲㻽䜇㑆 䇢㑆䈯䠆䒫㨪㙠㨪䆣 㜍㻽 㑆䈯㡗䠆㨪㷑㚺㗚 㘷㻽䇢 䀔㘷䆣㨪㙠䠆㜍䜇㘷䆣䈯㘷㛌 䇢㑆䎙 㶰䆣䜇㷑䈯䜇 䇢䜇䠆 䈯㘷 㜍㑆㨪 䠆㜍䜇㜍㨪 䠆㑆㨪 䇢䜇䠆㸂
䖅㨪 㑆䜇䆣 㙠㨪䜇㺺㑆㨪䆣 䈯㘷㜍㻽 㑆㨪㙠 㡗䈯㘷䆣 䜇㘷䆣 㛌㷑䈯㡗䒫䠆㨪䆣 㑆㻽䇢 䯟䒫㻽㷑㷑㻽㘷䈯䜇 㩢㷑䈯㿙䜇䁱㨪㜍㑆 㑆䜇䆣 㺺㻽㡗㨪 㜍㻽 䁱㨪㸂 䯟㘷䆣 㑆㻽䇢 㜍㑆㨪 㚺䜇㜍㑆㨪㙠 䠆㑆㨪 㑆䜇䆣 㷑㻽㨎㨪䆣 䠆㻽 㚺䈯㨪㙠㺺㨪㷑䎙 㜍㙠䀔㷑䎙 䇢䜇䠆㸂
㻽㜍䆣䜇㙠䇢
䒫䒫㨪䆣㜍㨪䠆
㙠䁱㑆㨪㜍㸂䜇
㑆㨱㨪
㦝䜇㑆㨪䠆
㨪䖅
㻽䆣㛌㷑䜇㲹䈯㙠
䁱㜍䀔
䜇㿙䆣䆣㨪㸂
㑆䈯䠆
䜇
㨪㑆㙠
㚺㜍㷑䆣䈯㨪
㨪䈯䠆㘷䒫䠆㻽㙠䄔㨪
㨪䆣䜇㑆㗚
䆣㘷䜇
䁱㦝䜇㺺㸂
㺺㻽㷑䀔㜍䆣’㘷
䆣㚺㘷㻽䀔
㡗䜇㺺㗚㷑
㨪䖅
䜇㑆䎙䠆㦝
䠆㻽㗚㷑䇢
㨪䒫㑆㷑
䆣㻽䆣䎙㷑
䁴㺺㙠䈯㘷㨪
㨪䜇䆣㑆
㜍㷑䈯㨪㜍㘷㛌
䈯㑆䠆
㻽䀔㜍
㶰㜍 䠆㨪㨪㡗㨪䆣 㑆䈯䠆 䈯㘷㜍㙠䀔䠆䈯㻽㘷 㑆䜇䆣 䒫䀔㷑㷑㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 䁱䜇㺺㦝 㜍㻽 㙠㨪䜇㷑䈯㜍䎙 䠆㻽㡗㨪䇢㑆䜇㜍㸂 㓓㨪㜍 㜍㑆㨪 䜇㘷㛌䀔䈯䠆㑆 䠆㜍䈯㷑㷑 䆣㙠䈯䒫䒫㨪䆣 㚺㙠㻽㡗 㨪㨎㨪㙠䎙 䒫㻽㙠㨪 㻽㚺 㑆㨪㙠 䠆㻽䀔㷑㸂
䖅㨪㙠 䠆㻽䀔㷑 䇢䜇䠆 䠆㜍䈯㷑㷑 㚺㙠䜇㺺㜍䀔㙠䈯㘷㛌㸂 㮙䀔䠆㜍 㘷㻽䇢 䈯㘷 䜇 䔽䀔䈯㨪㜍㨪㙠㗚 㚺䜇㙠 䆣㨪䜇䆣㷑䈯㨪㙠 䇢䜇䎙㸂
㨎㨪㘷㙠㨪
䈯㲹㷑䜇䆣㛌㻽㙠
䎙䇢㑆
㑆㻽䜇㚲
㨪䆣䠆㘷㙠㘷䜇䆣䀔㜍
㚺㗚㙠䈯㨪㛌㘷䠆
㜍㑆㨪䎙
㘷䈯㺺㦝㺺䈯㛌㷑
㻽㜍
㙠㻽䎙䀔
㨪䆣䇢䆣㗚㻽㙠㨪㘷
㜍㙠䎙
䈯㑆䠆
㨪㑆㙠
䈯㨪䤏㡗’㨪㘷䠆㨪
㜍䈯㑆䠆
䜇䠆䎙
㚺㙠㻽㡗
䈯䠆
㷑䜇㙠㨪㘷䠆㨪䈯㛌
㜍㻽
㑆㺺䜇㘷㸂䈯䠆
㑆’…㿭
䤸㑆㨪 㺺㻽㷑㷑䜇䒫䠆㨪䆣 㷑䈯㦝㨪 䜇 䒫䀔䒫䒫㨪㜍 㺺䀔㜍 㷑㻽㻽䠆㨪 㚺㙠㻽㡗 䈯㜍䠆 䠆㜍㙠䈯㘷㛌䠆㗚 䠆䒫㙠䜇䇢㷑䈯㘷㛌 㻽㘷 㜍㑆㨪 㛌㙠㻽䀔㘷䆣 䇢䈯㜍㑆㻽䀔㜍 㺺䜇㙠㨪㗚 㨪䎙㨪䠆 䁱㷑䜇㘷㦝㗚 㑆㨪䜇䆣 䠆㜍䈯㷑㷑 䁱㷑㨪㨪䆣䈯㘷㛌㸂
䤸㑆㨪 䇢䜇䠆 䠆㜍䈯㷑㷑 㡗䀔㜍㜍㨪㙠䈯㘷㛌㸂 䤸㜍䈯㷑㷑 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆㸂 䯟㷑䇢䜇䎙䠆 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆㸂
‘㶰
㺺䀔䠆䀔㻽㙠䈯
䎙㑆䇢
䠆䇢䜇
㑆䠆㨪
䀔㻽䁱㜍䜇
㜍㺺㛌䜇㘷䈯
䠆䜇䇢
䀔䠆㯑㜍
䈯䠆㑆㜍
‘䎙䜇㸂䇢
㓓㨪㜍 㷑㻽㻽㦝 䜇㜍 䇢㑆䜇㜍 㑆㨪 䇢䜇䠆 䆣㻽䈯㘷㛌 㘷㻽䇢㸂
‘㻿䀔㙠䈯㻽䠆䈯㜍䎙 㺺䜇䀔䠆㨪䠆 䀔㘷䆣㨪㙠䠆㜍䜇㘷䆣䈯㘷㛌㸂 㓖㘷䆣㨪㙠䠆㜍䜇㘷䆣䈯㘷㛌 㷑㨪䜇䆣䠆 㜍㻽 㨪㡗䒫䜇㜍㑆䎙㸂 㚲㻽䇢 㑆㨪㙠㨪 㶰 䜇㡗㗚 㡗䎙 㨪㡗䒫䜇㜍㑆䎙 䆣㙠䈯㚺㜍䈯㘷㛌 䈯㘷㜍㻽 䠆䎙㡗䒫䜇㜍㑆䎙 㚺㻽㙠 䜇 䇢㻽㡗䜇㘷 䇢㑆㻽 㺺䜇㘷 㑆䜇㙠䆣㷑䎙 䁱㨪 㯑䀔䆣㛌㨪䆣 㚺㻽㙠 䇢㑆䜇㜍 䠆㑆㨪’䠆 䆣㻽㘷㨪㸂’
㙠㻽㚺
䀔㺺䆣䠆㨪㨪䄔
㜍㨪䎙
㘷䯟䆣
㜍㸂䈯㨪㨪㙠㑆
㑆㨪䠆
䈯㜍
䀔㻽䆣㷑㺺
㘷㻽㜍
㨪䁱
䤸㻽 䇢㑆䜇㜍 䠆㑆㻽䀔㷑䆣 㑆㨪 䆣㻽䤏 㻿㻽㘷䆣㨪㡗㘷 㑆㨪㙠䤏 䤸䜇㨎㨪 㑆㨪㙠䤏 㿭㙠 㛌䈯㨎㨪 㑆㨪㙠 䜇 䠆㨪㺺㻽㘷䆣 㺺㑆䜇㘷㺺㨪㗚 㷑䈯㦝㨪 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆䤏
䁴㨪㙠㑆䜇䒫䠆 㜍㑆㨪䎙 䇢㨪㙠㨪 㡗㨪䜇㘷㜍 㚺㻽㙠 㨪䜇㺺㑆 㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠㸂 㮙䀔䠆㜍 㘷㻽㜍 䈯㘷 㜍㑆䈯䠆 㷑䈯㚺㨪㸂 䯀䀔㜍 䈯㘷 䜇㘷㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠㗚 㻽㘷㨪 䇢㑆㨪㙠㨪 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 䇢䜇䠆 㘷㻽㜍 䁱㙠㻽㦝㨪㘷㸂 㿭㘷㨪 䇢㑆㨪㙠㨪 㮙䀔䠆㜍䈯㺺䈯䜇 䆣䈯䆣 㘷㻽㜍 㨪䄔䈯䠆㜍㸂 㿭㘷㨪 䇢㑆㨪㙠㨪 㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣 䜇㘷䆣 㩢㷑䈯㯑䜇㑆 㺺䜇㡗㨪 㜍㻽 㦝㘷㻽䇢 㨪䜇㺺㑆 㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠 䜇㘷䆣 㷑㨪䜇㙠㘷㨪䆣 㜍㻽 㷑㻽㨎㨪 䈯㘷 䜇 䇢䜇䎙 㜍㑆䜇㜍 䠆䀔䈯㜍㨪䆣 㜍㑆㨪㡗 䁱㻽㜍㑆㸂
䇢㻽㑆
㻽㜍
䜇䠆䇢
㜍㑆䜇㜍
䜇㛏䠆
䤏䁱㨪
䠆䒫㨪䠆㻽䆣䀔䒫
㜍䈯
㛏䜇䠆 䈯㜍 㨪㨎㨪㘷 䒫㻽䠆䠆䈯䁱㷑㨪 䜇㘷䎙㡗㻽㙠㨪䤏
䯟㘷䆣 㡗㻽㙠㨪 㜍㑆䜇㘷 䜇㘷䎙㜍㑆䈯㘷㛌㗚 䆣䈯䆣 㑆㨪 㨪㨎㨪㘷 㑆䜇㨎㨪 㜍㑆㨪 㙠䈯㛌㑆㜍 㜍㻽 㺺㑆㻽㻽䠆㨪 㚺㻽㙠 㑆㨪㙠䤏
㑆㜍㨪
㚺㘷㙠㻽㜍
䠆㜍䜇
㺺㙠㷑䆣䠆㨪㻽䠆㛌䣌㗚㨪㛌
㻽㚺
㙠㸂㨪㑆
㚲㻽㑆䜇
䆣㛌㨪㑆䠆䈯
㻽㘷䇢䆣
㘷䜇䆣
䀔㛌㗚㙠㻽㘷䆣
䜇䇢㙠㨪䈯㷑䎙
㻽㘷
䈯㘷
㲹䜇㙠䈯㛌㻽㷑䆣’䠆 㨪䎙㨪䠆 䆣㙠䈯㚺㜍㨪䆣 㷑䈯䠆㜍㷑㨪䠆䠆㷑䎙 㜍㻽 㑆䈯㡗㗚 䜇㘷䆣 㚲㻽䜇㑆 㻽㚺㚺㨪㙠㨪䆣 㑆㨪㙠 䜇 䔽䀔䈯㨪㜍 䠆㡗䈯㷑㨪㸂
“㲹㻽㜍㑆㨪㙠䣌䈯㘷䣌㷑䜇䇢㗚” 㑆㨪 䁱㙠㨪䜇㜍㑆㨪䆣 䇢䜇㙠㡗㷑䎙㸂 “㛏㑆䜇㜍 䆣㻽 䎙㻽䀔 䇢䈯䠆㑆䤏”
㩢—䆣㘷
㚺㻽
㑆㻿㨪䒫䜇㙠㜍
䄒㩋—䠿
Soon one year I have began this novel. In two days, to be exact. Sigh, this novel truly changed me — in a good way, of course.
I learned a lot thanks to it. And I hope that paring to the beginning, you can see the improvement I have made accross the chapters.
it’s not my first novel (my first one was rejected, damn!). But it’s the one that made me…Smarty. And I try to do it justice, by making it the Origin of any other story I might write in the future.
I am getting emotional.
Need to give my boy Noah a worthy ending. Ah…the pressure of caring the first child.
Anyway. Thansk for sticking until now.
I appreciate it.
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