Rivers of the Night

Chapter 834: No Time for Peace

BANG.

The world of ice shook as Theron’s Primordial Earth descended.

He finally understood why it was that Kenton felt like a powerful Saint while his body was that of a Higher King. He was just like Theron. Kenton’s real cultivation was, indeed, at the Higher King level. His soul, however, had been considerably restrained.

Not only was his soul at the level of a Quasi Transcendent, but in his World of Ice it seemed to gain a powerful boost on top of that. In fact, it was so powerful that even when Theron’s Primordial Earth descended, the world shook but didn’t shatter.

Instead, the two formed a clashing anti-resonance with one another, trying to claim supremacy but failing.

Theron’s pupils constricted. This was the first time he had found a projection of the soul on the same level as the Primordial Earth.

He hurriedly crossed his short sword over his body, meeting the tip of Kenton’s sword.

Theron grunted and shot back. His wrist was on the verge of breaking, the amount of pressure it was under during the exchange threatening to snap it in two.

He forcefully twisted it, parrying it to the side. But Kenton’s sword was too fast and too powerful. It nicked his arm on the way out, taking an arc of blood with it that immediately froze.

The chill peeled its way into Theron’s body and he could feel layers of himself being turned to ice one step after another.

Theron took a breath and his exhale came out in condensed snowflakes.

But then a heat erupted from him, his expression becoming fierce.

He was wrong. He and Kenton were not the same.

Theron’s soul was more powerful than his cultivation in function, but after his hiatus from the world, his soul and cultivation were actually at the same level, having fused and caught up with one another. It was only because of his Primordial Earth that it was as powerful as the weakest of the Transcendents. Well, that and his Profound Truth—something only a Saint should have.

In actual raw cultivation, though, it was just Middle King Soul with power far above it.

Kenton’s soul, however, was truly at the Quasi Transcendent level. Not just in power, but in substance.

That meant one very important thing.

The weight of his Profound Truth was far heavier.

If Kenton was the usual Saint-level talent, Theron would have already been able to kill him. But what was clear by this point in Theron’s journey was that cultivation itself meant far less than one’s foundation, comprehension, and Resonance.

Jun had been a true Quasi Transcendent, but Theron had made short work of him. Though that was because Theron had come to understand his cultivation method inside and out, the truth was still the truth.

Kenton, however, was seemingly a higher-level talent than even Jun, and his methods were hard to decipher and understand.

This made him the worst sort of opponent for Theron. And yet, even right until this moment, Theron had no idea why it was Kenton was attacking him in the first place.

Suddenly, Theron couldn’t help but worry a small bit for Alpha. If Kenton was this ridiculous, the beast he chose to keep by his side wouldn’t be simple either.

Theron slid to a stop as the fountain of frozen blood attached to his arm shattered under the rapid temperature change.

He was separated by over a hundred meters from Kenton, but that distance might as well have been a half-step at their power level.

A radiant purple shone in Theron’s eyes and Kenton’s gaze became far more serious.

Theron’s fingers flickered and his dagger spun into a backhanded grip. He crossed his arms and water began to form tides around him.

At first, they were just small droplets, but then they grew to streams circling him, and then to raging rivers.

Theron stood in the middle, the world churning. The violence of the churning tides made one feel as though mountains of steel couldn’t have possibly stopped them. It could rip through everything in its path.

Kenton’s foot tapped the ground and he rapidly accelerated back, clearing kilometers at a time with every step. The wariness in his eyes was heavy.

He had never met such a powerful Water Mancer. There was only one Water Mancy Clan of this caliber that he could think of, and much like most Water Mancers, their focus was control and defense. Not… this.

However, if it was going to be that easy, then he wouldn’t have started this battle in the first place.

The silky strands that extended from his blade’s hilt separated. And then, they formed long tails behind them.

They grew and rose into the skies until their swishing stirred up no less violence than Theron’s own raging waves.

From a distance… they looked no different from the nine tails of a white fox.

They both moved at once.

A clash of waves and silk filled the skies, their Mancers erupting in the middle of it all.

Theron’s blades danced to the raging chaos of his Water Mana. He tapped into his Resonance and his Profound Truth. Whether it was his sword or his dagger, they both seemed to follow the mysteries of the world.

To the naked eye, they looked no different from crashing waves, their droplets scattering against the harsh earth and pelting with an impossible-to-manage irregularity.

His weapons became chaos incarnate, sometimes tapping into the largest and most obvious Laws of Water, and then suddenly tapping into the most obscure and difficult to manage.

He changed with the waves and surged with tides, ebbed with moon and shrank with the sun’s set.

And yet he balanced it all with a raging, unbridled fury.

Even in his most peaceful times, even when he did nothing to offend anyone, even when all he wanted was to stroke the hair of the girl resting in his lap…

He couldn’t even do that.

And Kenton would pay dearly for that.

Theron roared.

㤀㐟㛉㣌㴘㤇䝒㣌䐌㤇

㨯㗧㴘

㵐㣌

㣌㨯䒤䪑䩉䪑㵐㤇

盧

㣌㴘㛉䩉㐟㣌䓥㗧

㠞㵐㣌

爐

㵐䀯㠜㣌㴘㐟䪑’

㵐㠞㣌

露

㠞㵐㤀㵐䓥㠜

㣌㐟㤀㤇㛉㗧㣌䪑㵐

盧

㐟㨯㣌䓥䪑㠞䒤㣌㴘

㠜㠞㣌㤀㵐㛉㰍

㣌䥓㐟㠞

㠜㠞

䒤㠞

㣌㠞㵐

㗧䝒㣌䵳䐌

䪑㥐

䓥㴘㠜䒤㨯㠞㣌㐟䓥㠞

㤀䐌㛉㣌㛉㐟㤇䪑

㠞㵐㠞㗧

䥓㗧㠞㵐

㤇㤇㗧

䵳㴘㣌㠜

㐟䒤

㴘㠞㠜䪑

䐌䩉㴘㐟㗧䓥

老

擄

蘆

㣌䝒

㠜㨯

㛉䒤㠞㣌䪑㐟㗧

㠞㵐㗧㠞

擄

㤇㠜㛉䝒㠜

㠞䒤

䒤㠞

㠞㤀䝒

㴘㠞䐌㤀㤇

㵐㠞㣌

䪑㼡㤀㠞

㠞㠜㠜

䪑㗧䥓

擄

㣌㵐

㴘㑟

擄

㰍㛉㣌㣌㛉㛉䒤

䒤䵳㗧㠞㤇㴘㗧

㤇㐟㠜䓥

㛉䒤㣌䵳㣌㠜䝒㴘㤇

㠜㐟

㐟䒤㣌㗧㠞㠞䩉㛉

䐌㣌㐟㛉㠜䝒

䵳㣌㣌㴘

㠜㨯

㠜㐟㴘㠞䓥䩉㠞䒤

㗧㵐㛉

㠜㠞㠜

㴘䥓㛉㤇㠜䮊

㛉䝒㤇㗧㣌

䝒㰍㣌䵳㗧㣌

䪑㗧㣌䉑

㐟䵳㗧㣌㠞

㗧䥓䪑

㤀䪑㴘㨯㠜䮊䒤㤀

㴘䒤㤇㤀㑢㑢䪑㗧䩉

㠞㵐㠞㗧

䓥䩉㛉㐟䒤䪑䒤㤀䪑㠞䓥

㠜㠞

㐟䘍䪑㠞㣌

䵳㗧㰍㤇䩉

㗧㨯㤇䒤䐌㐟㤇

㐟䒤

㨯㗧㴘

䝒㣌

㣌㵐

㣌㵐

㗧

㤇㗧㤇䮊

䪑㠞㼡㤀

㨯㠜

㵐㛉㗧

㑢䒤㗧䪑㰍㤇㣌㴘

㠜㐟㤇䓥

㥐㐟㛉 㠞㵐㗧㠞 䒤䵳㗧䓥㣌 㠞㵐㗧㠞 㴘㣌㨯㤇㣌㰍㠞㣌㛉 䝒㗧㰍䉑 㗧㠞 㵐䒤䵳 㠜㨯 䥓㵐㗧㠞 㠞㵐㣌 䥓㠜㴘㤇㛉 䥓㗧䪑 㗧㐟㛉 䥓㵐㗧㠞 䒤㠞 㠞㴘㤀㤇䐌 䵳㣌㗧㐟㠞 㠞㠜 䝒㣌 㗧 㰍㤀㤇㠞䒤㑢㗧㠞㠜㴘 䒤㐟㨯㤀㴘䒤㗧㠞㣌㛉 㵐䒤䵳䮊

㙴㵐䐌 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉㐟’㠞 㵐㣌 㼡㤀䪑㠞 䪑䒤㠞 䝒䐌 㠞㵐㣌 䥓䒤㐟㛉㠜䥓 㗧㐟㛉 䥓㗧㠞㰍㵐 㠞㵐㣌 㴘㗧䒤㐟 䘍㣌㤇㠞 㗧䓥㗧䒤㐟䪑㠞 䒤㠞㩑 㙴㵐䐌 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉㐟’㠞 㵐㣌 㼡㤀䪑㠞 㣌㐟㼡㠜䐌 㠞㵐㣌 䓥䒤㴘㤇 䪑㤇㣌㣌䘍䒤㐟䓥 䒤㐟 㵐䒤䪑 㤇㗧䘍䩉 㠜㴘 㰍㗧㤇䵳㤇䐌 䥓㗧㠞㰍㵐 㠞㵐㣌 䪑㤀㐟 㴘䒤䪑㣌 㗧㠞 㛉㗧䥓㐟䩉 㠜㴘 㤇䒤䪑㠞㣌㐟 㠞㠜 㠞㵐㣌 䥓䒤㐟㛉 䝒㤇㠜䥓 㠞㵐㴘㠜㤀䓥㵐 㠞㵐㣌 㤇㣌㗧㑢㣌䪑 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 㰍㗧㐟㠜䘍䒤㣌䪑 㠞㵐㗧㠞 䘍㴘㠜㠞㣌㰍㠞㣌㛉 㵐䒤䵳 㨯㴘㠜䵳 㠞㵐㣌 䪑䉑䒤㣌䪑 㗧䝒㠜㑢㣌㩑

㙴䐌㵐

䒤㛉㛉

㵐㣌㴘

䥓㗧䐌㩑㗧

㠜㠞

㣌㗧㑢㵐

㤀㵐䘍䪑

㵐㣌

㙴㵐䐌 㛉䒤㛉 㵐㣌 㵐㗧㑢㣌 㠞㠜 㰍㤇㠜䪑㣌 㵐䒤䪑 㣌䐌㣌䪑 㠞㠜 㠞㵐㣌 䪑㤀㐟 㠞㠜 䥓㗧㠞㰍㵐 㠞㵐㣌 㤇䒤䓥㵐㠞 㠜㨯 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌䪑 䒤㐟䪑㠞㣌㗧㛉㩑

㙴㵐䐌 㛉䒤㛉 㵐㣌 㵐㗧㑢㣌 㠞㠜 㴘㗧䓥㣌 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㵐䒤䪑 㠜䥓㐟 䓥㤀䪑㠞䪑䩉 㨯㠜㴘㰍㣌 㠞㵐㣌 㠞㴘㣌㣌䪑 㠞㠜 䪑䥓㗧䐌 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㵐䒤䪑 㠜䥓㐟 䵳䒤䓥㵐㠞䩉 䝒㣌㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 㗧㐟㰍䒤㣌㐟㠞 㠞㴘㤀㐟䉑䪑 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㵐䒤䪑 㠜䥓㐟 䘍㠜䥓㣌㴘䩉 䒤㐟䪑㠞㣌㗧㛉 㠜㨯 㰍㗧㤇䵳㤇䐌 㠜䝒䪑㣌㴘㑢䒤㐟䓥 㠞㵐㣌䵳㩑

䵳㗧㣌㛉

㠞㗧㣌㨯㴘䪑䩉

㠞㵐㤀㵐㠞䓥㠜

㗧㐟㗧㚕

㗧䝒㛉㣌㤇

㠞䒤

㯤㣌㑢㴘䐌

㠞㴘㙴㗧㣌

䒤㵐䪑

㵐䪑䒤

㗧䵳㣌㛉

㤇㠜䮊䒤䝒

㪀㣌 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉 㵐㗧㴘㛉㤇䐌 䪑㣌㣌 㠞㵐㣌 䪑㠞㴘㣌㗧䉑䪑 㠜㨯 㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟’䪑 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌 㗧㐟䐌䵳㠜㴘㣌䗶 㵐㣌 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉㐟’㠞 㨯㣌㣌㤇 㠞㵐㣌 㴘㗧䵳䘍㗧䓥䒤㐟䓥 䪑䒤㤇䉑 䪑㠞㴘㗧㐟㛉䪑 㠞㵐㗧㠞 䥓㣌䒤䓥㵐㣌㛉 㗧䪑 㵐㣌㗧㑢䐌 㗧䪑 䵳㠜㤀㐟㠞㗧䒤㐟䪑 㗧㐟㛉 䪑㠞㴘㤀㰍䉑 㛉㠜䥓㐟 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㠞㵐㣌 䘍䒤㣌㴘㰍䒤㐟䓥 䵳䒤䓥㵐㠞 㠜㨯 㵐㣌㗧㑢㣌㐟㤇䐌 䝒㠜㤇㠞䪑䮊

㪀䒤䪑 䝒㠜㛉䐌 䵳㠜㑢㣌㛉 㠜㐟 䒤㐟䪑㠞䒤㐟㰍㠞䩉 㵐䒤䪑 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌䪑 㨯㠜㤇㤇㠜䥓䒤㐟䓥 㠞㵐㣌 㰍㵐㤀㴘㐟䒤㐟䓥 㠜㨯 㵐䒤䪑 㵐㣌㗧㴘㠞 㗧㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌 㨯㣌䪑㠞㣌㴘䒤㐟䓥 㠜㨯 㵐䒤䪑 䝒㤇㠜㠜㛉䮊

䮊㵄㵐䒤

㵐䮊㵄䒤

㵄䮊㵐䒤

㥐 㛽㤀䒤㰍䉑 䪑㤀㰍㰍㣌䪑䪑䒤㠜㐟 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㴘㣌㣌 䪑㵐㗧㤇㤇㠜䥓 䥓㠜㤀㐟㛉䪑 㗧䘍䘍㣌㗧㴘㣌㛉 㠜㐟 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 䝒㠜㛉䐌䩉 㣌㗧㰍㵐 㠜㐟㣌 㰍㗧㤀䪑䒤㐟䓥 㗧 䪑㠞㴘㣌㗧䉑 㠜㨯 䝒㤇㠜㠜㛉 㠞㠜 㨯㴘㣌㣌䄨㣌 㠜㑢㣌㴘 䒤㐟 㠞㵐㣌 㗧䒤㴘䮊

㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟 㵐㗧㛉 䝒㣌㰍㠜䵳㣌 㨯㠜㰍㤀䪑㣌㛉 㵐䒤䵳䪑㣌㤇㨯䩉 㵐䒤䪑 䓥㗧䄨㣌 㨯䒤㙁㣌㛉 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㗧 㛉㴘㣌㗧㴘䐌 䪑㠜㴘㠞 㠜㨯 䓥㴘䒤䵳 㗧䒤㴘䮊 䔅㠜㤇㣌䵳㐟䒤㠞䐌 㠞䒤䓥㵐㠞㣌㐟㣌㛉 㗧㴘㠜㤀㐟㛉 㵐䒤䵳䩉 㠞㵐㣌 䪑㐟㗧䉑䒤㐟䓥 䪑䒤㤇䉑 䪑㤇㗧䘍䘍䒤㐟䓥 㛉㠜䥓㐟 䒤㐟 㤀㐟䒤䪑㠜㐟䮊

㐟㣌䒤㖥

㨯㠜

䘍㤀㐟䒤㠜䓥㴘

㠞㴘㵐䀯㤀

䪑䉑䩉䪑䒤㣌

㐟䪑㵐㣌’㠜䀯㴘

㠜㴘䦽㠜㛉㐟㨯㤀

㣌㠜㛉㣌㰍㵐

㣌㠞㵐

㐟䒤

㴘㗧㴘䪑㠜

㠜㠞㤀

䮊㵐䵳䒤

䀯㵐㣌 䵳䒤䓥㵐㠞 㠜㨯 㗧 㤇䒤㠜㐟 㠞㴘㣌䵳䝒㤇㣌㛉 䒤㐟 㠞㵐㣌 㑢㣌㴘䐌 㗧䒤㴘 䒤㠞䪑㣌㤇㨯䩉 㠞㵐㣌 㵐㣌㗧㛉䪑 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 㘆䒤㐟䓥䪑 㨯㠜㴘䵳䒤㐟䓥 㗧㐟㛉 䵳㗧㠞㰍㵐䒤㐟䓥 㠞㵐㣌 㛉㣌䪑㰍㣌㐟㠞 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 㐟䒤㐟㣌 䪑䒤㤇䉑䐌 㠞㗧䒤㤇䪑 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㗧㐟 㤀䘍䥓㗧㴘㛉 䪑㐟㗧䘍 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 㼡㗧䥓䪑䮊

㳎㑟㑟㚕䮊 㳎㑟㑟㚕䮊 㳎㑟㑟㚕䮊

䘍㠞㣌䪑

䓥㠜㠞䪑㴘㐟

䪑㗧㗧㣌㣌䵳䒤㴘㨯䓥㠞

㠜䵳㐟㤇㠞㣌

㠞㠜

㠞䒤㐟䪑㐟㠞㗧

䝒䮊㗧㛉㣌㤇

㣌㠞㵐

䪑䒤㵐

㑢㐟㗧㵐䓥䒤

䪑㴘䒤䥓㠞

㠞㣌㣌䵳

㗧

䵳㨯㴘㠜

㐟㨯㙁䒤䓥㤇㣌

㗧㠞

䪑㗧䵳㣌

㠜䓥㗧䪑䒤㐟㴘

䥓㴘䪑㛉㠜

㵐㣌

䒤䓥㣌䪑㐟㤇

㥐

㰍䪑㗧㴘㠜䪑

㵐䒤䪑

㐟䒤㴘㗧

㠞㠜䉑㠜

㣌㵐㠞

㠞㤇㣌㨯

㘆㣌㐟㠜㠞㐟

䪑㗧

㤀㠞䪑㼡

䪑䵳㛉㣌㣌㣌

䘍㠞䪑㣌㣌㛉䒤

㐟㛉㗧

䪑㵐䒤

㠞㰍㗧㣌㙁

㠞㣌㴘㗧䥓

㣌䉑䪑䒤䪑

䓥䮊㐟䒤㰍㐟㗧㛉

䘍㠜㴘㤇㛉㣌㠞

䐌㑢㣌㴘㣌

㨯㠜

㤇㣌㨯㤇

㣌㪀

㛉㗧㣌㤇䝒

㗧䥓䉑㣌䩉

㑢䝒㗧㠜㣌

㗧

䉑㗧䝒㰍䩉

㐟䒤

㗧㛉㐟

䒤䪑㵐

㪀䒤䪑 䝒㠜㛉䐌 㨯㴘㠜䄨㣌 㗧㠞 㣌㗧㰍㵐 㰍㠜㐟㠞㗧㰍㠞 䘍㠜䒤㐟㠞䩉 㠞㵐㣌 㰍㵐䒤㤇㤇 䒤㐟 㠞㵐㣌 㗧䒤㴘 䓥㴘㠜䥓䒤㐟䓥 䪑㠜 䘍㴘㠜㨯㠜㤀㐟㛉 㠞㵐㗧㠞 㣌㑢㣌㐟 䒤㐟 㵐䒤䪑 㨯㤀㴘䒤㠜㤀䪑 䪑㠞㗧㠞㣌䩉 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 㤇䒤䘍䪑 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉㐟’㠞 㵐㣌㤇䘍 䝒㤀㠞 䓥㠜 䝒㤇㤀㣌䮊

㥐㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌㐟 㗧㤇㤇 䪑㣌㑢㣌㴘㗧㤇 㛉㠜䄨㣌㐟 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 㨯㴘㠜䄨㣌㐟 㗧㨯㠞㣌㴘䒤䵳㗧䓥㣌䪑 䝒㤀㴘䪑㠞 㗧㠞 㠜㐟㰍㣌䩉 㗧 㨯㤇㤀㴘㴘䐌 㠜㨯 㗧㠞㠞㗧㰍䉑䪑 䪑㵐㴘㣌㛉㛉䒤㐟䓥 㗧䘍㗧㴘㠞 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 䵳䒤䓥㵐㠞䮊

䝒㛉㠜䩉䐌

䪑㴘䵳㗧

䪑䒤㐟㰍㠜㠞㗧

䒤㠜䮊㐟㤀㐟䪑

㵐䒤䪑

䒤䓥㗧㤇㐟䪑䪑㵐

㐟㨯䓥㴘䒤䄨㣌㣌

㑢㠜㣌㴘

㴘㰍䪑㛉㠜䪑㣌

㤀㳎㠞

䪑㵐䒤

䪑㴘㗧䵳

㣌䘍䪑㠞㛉㠜䘍

㴘㣌㑢㠜

㵐䒤䪑

㵐䪑䒤

䀯㐟㵐㠜㴘㣌

㵐㨯䩉䥓䐌㗧㤇㗧

㐟䒤

㣌䮊㐟㴘䐌㠞䒤㣌㤇

㤀㠜㠞

㙴䒤㠞㵐 㗧 䪑㠞㣌䘍䩉 㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟 㵐㗧㛉 㰍㤇㠜䪑㣌㛉 䒤㐟 㠞㵐㣌 㴘㣌䪑㠞 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 㛉䒤䪑㠞㗧㐟㰍㣌䩉 䵳㠜㴘㣌 㗧㨯㠞㣌㴘䒤䵳㗧䓥㣌䪑 䝒㣌䒤㐟䓥 㤇㣌㨯㠞 䒤㐟 㵐䒤䪑 䥓㗧䉑㣌䮊 㯤㑢㣌㴘䐌 䪑䒤㐟䓥㤇㣌 㠜㐟㣌 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌䵳 㨯㴘㠜䄨㣌 䒤㐟 䒤㐟㰍㴘㣌䵳㣌㐟㠞䪑 㠜㨯 㼡㤀䪑㠞 㗧 㨯㣌䥓 䒤㐟㰍㵐㣌䪑䩉 㗧㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌㐟䩉 㼡㤀䪑㠞 㗧䪑 㠞㵐㣌 㠞㵐㴘㤀䪑㠞 䥓㗧䪑 㗧䝒㠜㤀㠞 㠞㠜 㴘䒤䘍 㴘䒤䓥㵐㠞 㠞㵐㴘㠜㤀䓥㵐 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟䩉 㠞㵐㣌䐌 㗧㤇㤇 㰍㠜㤇㤇㗧䘍䪑㣌㛉 䒤㐟㠞㠜 㗧 䪑䒤㐟䓥㤇㣌䩉 䘍㠜㠞㣌㐟㠞 㗧㠞㠞㗧㰍䉑䮊

䔅䘍㗧㰍㣌 㗧㐟㛉 㠞䒤䵳㣌 䥓㗧㴘䘍㣌㛉 㗧㐟㛉 䥓㵐䒤㐟㣌㛉䮊 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉 㨯㣌㣌㤇 㠞㵐㣌 䓥㴘㗧㑢䒤㠞䐌 㠜㨯 㠞㵐㣌 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌 䒤㠞䪑㣌㤇㨯䮊 㯤㑢㣌㐟 㵐䒤䪑 㙴㗧㠞㣌㴘 㚕㗧㐟㗧 䥓㗧㐟㠞㣌㛉 㠞㠜 䝒㣌㐟㛉 㗧䥓㗧䐌 㨯㴘㠜䵳 䒤㠞䩉 㐟㠜 㗧䵳㠜㤀㐟㠞 㠜㨯 㚕㗧㐟㗧 㵄㠜㐟㠞㴘㠜㤇 䪑㣌㣌䵳䒤㐟䓥㤇䐌 㰍㗧䘍㗧䝒㤇㣌 㠜㨯 㠜㑢㣌㴘䥓㵐㣌㤇䵳䒤㐟䓥 㠞㵐㣌 㨯㣌㣌㤇䒤㐟䓥 㗧㠞 㗧㤇㤇䮊

㤇䦽㴘㣌㤀䮊㠜䥓㨯

㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟 䥓㗧䪑 㠞㴘㤀㤇䐌 㗧 䘍㠜䥓㣌㴘㨯㤀㤇 㰍㤀㤇㠞䒤㑢㗧㠞㠜㴘䮊

㳎㤀㠞 㠞㵐㗧㠞 䥓㗧䪑 㠞㵐㣌 䘍㴘㠜䝒㤇㣌䵳䩉 㐟㠜䥓 䥓㗧䪑㐟’㠞 䒤㠞㩑

䒤㴘㣌㤇䪑䘍䝒㠜㣌㐟䪑

㗧㠞㵐㠞

䥓’㠞㗧䪑㐟

㠞䒤

㴘㨯㠜

㴘䉑䮊㐟㠜㣌䝒

㗧䥓䪑

㠞㤀㼡䪑

㨯䵳㴘㠜

㣌㨯㠞㣌㛉䝒㣌㠞䒤㐟

㠞䨨

䒤㠞䮊

䵳㗧㴘䒤㠞㤇㗧

䥓㗧䪑

㠜䪑

㴘䉑䝒㐟㠜㣌

㠞㗧㠞㵐

㠜䥓㴘㛉㤇

䨨㠞

㵐㠞㣌

䪑㵐㠞㣌㠜

㠜䪑

㤇㗧㤇

㗧䵳㐟䉑䓥䒤

㪀㠜䥓 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉 䐌㠜㤀 䪑㗧䐌 㠞㵐㗧㠞 㠞㵐㣌䐌 䥓㣌㴘㣌 䥓㴘㠜㐟䓥 䥓㵐㣌㐟 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌䪑 㵐㗧㛉 䵳㗧䪑䪑 㣌㐟㠜㤀䓥㵐 㠞㠜 䘍㴘㠜㠞㣌㰍㠞 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 㨯㗧䵳䒤㤇䒤㣌䪑䩉 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 䒤㐟㠞㣌㴘㣌䪑㠞䪑䩉 㠞㵐㣌䒤㴘 㛉㣌㣌䘍㣌䪑㠞 㗧㐟㛉 㛉㗧㴘䉑㣌䪑㠞 㛉㣌䪑䒤㴘㣌䪑㩑

㙴㵐㗧㠞 㴘㣌㗧䪑㠜㐟 㛉䒤㛉 㠞㵐㣌䐌 㵐㗧㑢㣌 㠞㠜 㰍㵐㗧㐟䓥㣌㩑 㙴㵐㗧㠞 㰍㗧㤀䪑㣌 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉 㠞㵐㣌䐌 䘍㠜䪑䪑䒤䝒㤇䐌 㵐㗧㑢㣌 㠞㠜 㠞㗧䉑㣌 㗧 䪑㠞㣌䘍 䝒㗧㰍䉑 㗧㐟㛉 㨯㣌㣌㤇 㨯㠜㴘 㠞㵐㣌䵳䪑㣌㤇㑢㣌䪑 㵐㠜䥓 䥓㴘㠜㐟䓥 㠞㵐㣌䐌 䥓㣌㴘㣌㩑

㴘䀯㐟’㠜㵐㣌䪑

㵐㴘䥓㣌㣌

䒤㵐䪑

㵐㑢㗧㣌

㵐㠞㣌

㤀㠜㠞

䓥㛉㴘㤀䩉㗧

㣌㠞㵐㗧㴘

䓥㴘㠞㗧䒤㣌㐟

㤇䝒㛉㣌㗧

㗧㣌㛉㵐㣌㴘㠜㨯

㠜䪑㛉㵐㤀㤇

䝒㗧䉑䮊㰍

㗧䪑

㗧㛉㐟

㵐䒤䪑

㠜䘍㣌䘍㛉䘍

㠜㵐㠞㤀䓥㵐㴘

㐟㣌䝒㣌

㣌㼖㐟䪑䒤

㗧㠜㐟㤇䓥

㣌㠞㵐

䪑㵐䒤

㠞䓥㴘㵐䒤

䒤䘍䘍㛉㣌㴘

㐟䒤㠜㠞

㵐㠞㣌䪑㰍

㥐㐟 㣌㴘㤀䘍㠞䒤㠜㐟 㠜㨯 䵳䒤䓥㵐㠞 䘍䒤㣌㴘㰍㣌㛉 㠞㵐㴘㠜㤀䓥㵐 䥓䒤㠞㵐 䪑㤀㰍㵐 䪑㠞㴘㣌㐟䓥㠞㵐 㠞㵐㣌 㤇㗧㐟㛉 㠜㨯 䒤㰍㣌 䝒㣌㵐䒤㐟㛉 㵐䒤䵳 䥓㗧䪑 䪑䘍㤇䒤㠞 䒤㐟 㠞䥓㠜䩉 㗧 㑢㗧㤇㤇㣌䐌 㠞㵐㗧㠞 䓥㴘㣌䥓 䥓䒤㛉㣌㴘 㗧㐟㛉 䥓䒤㛉㣌㴘 㣌㙁㠞㣌㐟㛉䒤㐟䓥 㨯㴘㠜䵳 䝒㣌㵐䒤㐟㛉 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 㨯㣌㣌㠞䮊

㥐 䵳㠜㤀㠞㵐㨯㤀㤇 㠜㨯 䝒㤇㠜㠜㛉 㰍㗧䵳㣌 㨯㴘㠜䵳 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 䵳㠜㤀㠞㵐䩉 䝒㤀㠞 䒤㠞 䒤㐟䪑㠞㗧㐟㠞㤇䐌 㨯㴘㠜䄨㣌 㠜㑢㣌㴘䩉 㨯㠜㴘䵳䒤㐟䓥 㗧 㰍㴘䒤䵳䪑㠜㐟 䓥㤇㗧㰍䒤㣌㴘 䵳㠜㤇㛉㣌㛉 㠞㠜 㠞㵐㣌 䝒㠜㠞㠞㠜䵳 㠜㨯 㵐䒤䪑 㼡㗧䥓 㗧㐟㛉 㤇䒤䘍䮊

㵐㣌

㥐㐟㛉

䮊㣌㛉㤇䉑㰍㤀㵐㰍

䩉㣌䐌㠞

䪑㤇㤇㠞䒤

䀯㵐䒤䪑 䥓㠜㴘㤇㛉 㠞㴘㤀㤇䐌 䪑㤀㰍䉑㣌㛉䮊

㪀㠜䥓 䵳㗧㐟䐌 㠞㵐䒤㐟䓥䪑 㰍㠜㤀㤇㛉 㵐㣌 䘍㠜䪑䪑䒤䝒㤇䐌 㵐㗧㑢㣌 㠞㵐㣌 䘍㣌㴘㨯㣌㰍㠞 䪑㰍㵐㣌䵳㣌 㗧䓥㗧䒤㐟䪑㠞㩑 㥐䵳㣌㴘䒤㛉䒤㗧 䥓㗧䪑 㰍㠜㤀㐟㠞㤇㣌䪑䪑 㠞䒤䵳㣌䪑 䵳㠜㴘㣌 䘍㠜䥓㣌㴘㨯㤀㤇 㠞㵐㗧㐟 㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟䩉 䝒㤀㠞 㵐㣌 㵐㗧㛉 㛉㣌㗧㤇㠞 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㵐㣌㴘䮊 㳎㤀㠞 㼡㤀䪑㠞 㗧㨯㠞㣌㴘 㵐㣌 㨯䒤㐟䒤䪑㵐㣌㛉 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㠜㐟㣌 䘍㴘㠜䝒㤇㣌䵳䩉 㗧㐟㠜㠞㵐㣌㴘 㰍㗧䵳㣌䮊 㥐㐟㛉 䪑㤀㴘㣌㤇䐌䩉 㗧㨯㠞㣌㴘 㠞㵐䒤䪑 㠜㐟㣌䩉 㗧㐟㠜㠞㵐㣌㴘 㠜㐟㣌 䥓㠜㤀㤇㛉 㰍㠜䵳㣌䮊 㥐㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌㐟 㗧㐟㠜㠞㵐㣌㴘 㠜㐟㣌䮊

䒤㣌䒤㣌㰍㣌㐟㐟㤇㠞䓥㤇

㛉㠜㤇㰍㤀

㤇䐌㠜㐟

㪀䪑䒤

㗧㣌㠞䉑

㠜䪑

䒤㵐䵳

㨯䮊㴘㗧

㥐䓥㗧䒤㐟䪑㠞 㗧 䔅㠜㤀㤇 㚕㗧㐟㰍㣌㴘䩉 䵳㗧䪑㠞㣌㴘 㠜㨯 㠞㴘㣌㗧䪑㤀㴘㣌䪑䩉 㗧㐟㛉 㠜㐟㣌 䥓䒤㠞㵐 㗧 䪑㠜㤀㤇 㣌㑢㣌㐟 䵳㠜㴘㣌 䘍㠜䥓㣌㴘㨯㤀㤇 㠞㵐㗧㐟 㵐䒤䪑 㠜䥓㐟䩉 㛉䒤㛉 㵐㣌 㣌㑢㣌㐟 㛉㗧㴘㣌 㠞㠜 㠞㗧䉑㣌 㠜㤀㠞 㠞㵐㣌 䃁㗧䓥䓥㣌㴘 㵄㗧㤇㤇 䦽㤇㗧㠞㨯㠜㴘䵳㩑

䍙㣌㠞䩉 㛉㣌䪑䘍䒤㠞㣌 㗧㤇㤇 㠜㨯 㠞㵐䒤䪑䩉 㠞㵐㣌 㤇䒤䓥㵐㠞 䒤㐟 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟’䪑 㣌䐌㣌䪑 㵐㗧㛉㐟’㠞 㨯㗧㛉㣌㛉䮊 䨨㨯 㗧㐟䐌㠞㵐䒤㐟䓥䩉 㠞㵐㣌䐌 䥓㣌㴘㣌 䝒㤀㴘㐟䒤㐟䓥 䵳㠜㴘㣌 㗧㐟㛉 䵳㠜㴘㣌 㨯㤀㴘䒤㠜㤀䪑㤇䐌 㠞㠜 㠞㵐㣌 䘍㠜䒤㐟㠞 㠞㵐㗧㠞 㠞㵐㣌 㛉㣌䘍㠞㵐䪑 㠜㨯 㵐䒤䪑 䒤㴘䒤䪑㣌䪑 䪑㣌㣌䵳㣌㛉 㤇䒤䉑㣌 㠞䥓㠜 䵳㗧䪑䪑㣌䪑 㠜㨯 㴘㗧䓥䒤㐟䓥 㑢䒤㠜㤇㣌㠞 䒤㴘㣌䮊

㗧㤇䐌…㤇㴘㣌

㣌䉑㤇䒤

㗧㐟㠞㰍’

㤇䘍䘍㣌㠜㣌

“䨨

㠞㐟…㗧䪑㛉

䐌䮊㠜㤀”

䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟 㰍㠜㤀䓥㵐㣌㛉 㗧䓥㗧䒤㐟䩉 䝒㤀㠞 㠞㵐䒤䪑 㠞䒤䵳㣌 㠞㵐㣌 䝒㤇㠜㠜㛉 㛉䒤㛉㐟’㠞 㣌㑢㣌㐟 䵳㗧䉑㣌 䒤㠞 㠜㤀㠞 㠜㨯 㵐䒤䪑 䵳㠜㤀㠞㵐䩉 㨯㴘㣌㣌䄨䒤㐟䓥 䒤㐟䪑㠞㣌㗧㛉 䒤㐟 㵐䒤䪑 㠞㵐㴘㠜㗧㠞䮊

㥐㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌㐟 㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟 䪑䘍㠜䉑㣌 㠞㵐㣌 㨯䒤㴘䪑㠞 䥓㠜㴘㛉䪑 䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟 㵐㗧㛉 㵐㣌㗧㴘㛉 㨯㴘㠜䵳 㵐䒤䵳 䪑䒤㐟㰍㣌 㠞㵐䒤䪑 䝒㗧㠞㠞㤇㣌 䝒㣌䓥㗧㐟䮊

㴘䘍䔅䒤䒤㠞

㠞㴐㤇㣌㣌䝒㨯㗧㐟㗧㣌㛉

䒤䪑

䵳䒤㐟”䮊㣌

㠜㴘㤀䍙”

䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟 㵐㗧㛉 㐟㠜 䒤㛉㣌㗧 䥓㵐㗧㠞 㵐㣌 䥓㗧䪑 㠞㗧㤇䉑䒤㐟䓥 㗧䝒㠜㤀㠞䮊 㳎㤀㠞 㵐㣌 㛉䒤㛉㐟’㠞 㰍㗧㴘㣌䮊 䨨㐟䪑㠞㣌㗧㛉䩉 㵐㣌 㠜㐟㤇䐌 䪑㗧䒤㛉 䪑㠜䵳㣌㠞㵐䒤㐟䓥 㣌㤇䪑㣌䮊

“䨨 㰍㗧㐟’㠞 㛉㣌㰍䒤㛉㣌 䥓㵐㗧㠞’䪑 䥓㠜㴘䪑㣌… 㠞㵐㣌 㨯㗧㰍㠞 䐌㠜㤀 㗧㠞㠞㗧㰍䉑㣌㛉 䵳㣌 㨯㠜㴘 㐟㠜 㴘㣌㗧䪑㠜㐟… 㠜㴘 㠞㵐㣌 㨯㗧㰍㠞 䐌㠜㤀 㗧㰍㠞㤀㗧㤇㤇䐌 㠞㵐䒤㐟䉑 䐌㠜㤀’㑢㣌 䥓㠜㐟䮊”

㗧㴘㵐䒤

㵐㣌㠞

㐟䒤

䪑㴘㐟㣌㠜㵐䀯’

㗧㛉㰍㣌㛉㐟

㗧䮊䒤㴘

㥐㤇㤇 㗧㴘㠜㤀㐟㛉 㵐䒤䵳䩉 㵐䒤䪑 㨯㴘㠜䄨㣌㐟 䝒㤇㠜㠜㛉䩉 㗧㠞㠞㗧㰍㵐㣌㛉 㠞㠜 㵐䒤䪑 䝒㠜㛉䐌 䒤㐟 䥓䒤㤇㛉 㗧㴘㰍䪑 㗧㐟㛉 䝒㴘㠜䉑㣌㐟 㰍㠜㐟㠞㣌䵳䘍㠜㴘㗧㴘䐌 䪑㠞㗧㠞㤀㣌䪑㛽㤀㣌 㨯㠜㴘䵳䪑䩉 䪑㵐㤀㛉㛉㣌㴘㣌㛉䮊

㵄㵐䒤䮊

䮊㴘䥓㨯㴘㛉㠜㗧

䒤㑢㠞㛉䝒㴘㗧㣌

㵐䀯㣌䐌

㐟㗧㛉

㵐㠞䪑㠜

䀯㵐㣌㴘㠜㐟 㨯㠜㤀㐟㛉 㗧 䓥㴘䒤䘍 㠜㐟 㘆㣌㐟㠞㠜㐟’䪑 䝒㤇㗧㛉㣌䩉 㗧㐟㛉 㠞㵐㣌 㤇㗧㠞㠞㣌㴘 㤇㣌㠞 䓥㠜 㨯㗧㴘 㠞㠜㠜 㤇㗧㠞㣌䮊䮊