A beam of fire-hued light is rising from outside the window. The radiance flows through the window, washing over the coarse parchment, the red glow reflected in the pages upon rows of winding characters, those dark and profound words seem to belong to a language from the depths of the abyss.
Moments later, a rumble is heard from afar, shaking the adobe house tremblingly. Pepino wobbly rises from the chair, using his body to shield his manuscripts from falling dust and sand lest they seep into the book's crevices.
He raises his head, the golden-red radiance reflected deep in his pupils, the scene as if an apocalypse is approaching.
Under the firelight, laborers in the excavation site outside are scattering in escape, but no one cares about them since the sky pirates are equally preoccupied.
Nor does anyone remember such an inconspicuous person as him.
