The ancient village leaned against the mountain, its pavilions overlooking a broad plaza.
Countless mountain folk had gathered in the square around the sacrificial platform before the pavilion. There was no clamor, not a single word. Men and women, young and old, silently watched the fallen ones on the platform deliver their absurd speeches, watched them make their final struggle.
The fallen ones, whose skin was no longer rough and whose bellies had grown plump, wore magnificent clothes. Gold necklaces and gold rings displayed their status and rank.
The experts of the ancient village no longer wished to approach the fallen ones. They lowered their heads in silence, as if too ashamed to face their clansmen, guilty over having succumbed to temptation. No matter how pleasingly those few spoke, they refused to join the same filthy stream again. The traitors had been isolated.
The first order the fallen ones gave after seizing control of the ancient village was to grant themselves noble titles, enjoying the support of ordinary villagers, becoming nobles like those from the Black Tribe and exploiting slaves.
The fallen ones were still struggling and making excuses, their laughable words echoing through the silent mountain village.
The worst thing was for people like this to hold power. They could accomplish neither good deeds nor bad ones, and when calamity loomed over their heads, they still refused to abandon their former status and flee, instead hoping to argue their way back into their old lives. They knew perfectly well that once they left Cloud Remote Ancient Village, they would have nowhere to belong and no status whatsoever. Even the Black Tribe would not take in useless people like them—unless they brought the entire village over to join the Black Tribe, which was even more impossible.
The clouds and mist