The moss-covered tree trunk lay prostrate on the ground, deep clefts from swords and blades carved into it.
Horn bent down and picked up a broken arrowhead from the plush grassy ground, its faint rust color carried a subtle scent of blood.
Raising his head, a dozen rolling hills appeared before him, and between two lush green hills, the surface of a broken bridge dangled beside a cliff, swaying in the breeze.
Warm and scorching light shone on his straw hat as he walked, the grass blades brushing against his ankles with an itch that made Horn suddenly feel like he was once again that farmer in the field.
Yet upon looking up, he was surrounded by a circle of armored Close Guard Cultivators, and cuirassier cavalry galloped back and forth on the main road.
This small area was alive with birdsong and fragrant flowers, butterflies fluttering—the scene of decay from the autumn and winter prior completely concealed.
