A Zheba remembered the first mounted archery contest he had ever taken part in.
He had been only thirteen then, while his opponents were all adults from various tribes. He focused on shooting, ignoring the doubts and jeers around him, and unexpectedly won the contest. His father and tribesmen came running over in excitement, lifting him up amid a flurry of hands and showing him off everywhere.
The memory had left a deep impression on A Zheba, because it was the first time he had felt that strange sense of opposition toward a crowd. Before that, he had always been part of the crowd, but the bow and arrows had set him utterly apart from it. Looking down and looking up—two simple actions had drawn a clear, unmistakable boundary.
The scene before him was so similar to that of years ago. The only difference was that there was no pride from family or cheering from strangers. On every different face was the same indifference.
A Zheba tried hard to hold his head high and puff out his chest, putting on the same indifferent expression as the crowd. Yet one thought kept haunting him: Why hadn't I died on the battlefield? That had been the prophecy and hope of many people, including his father.
To drive the weakness from his heart, he searched through the crowd, only to be even more disappointed. The soldiers who had once worshiped him, the officers who had been as close as brothers, and the generals who had stood on equal footing with him were all there. Only she was missing.
At least she wasn't beside the Dragon King.
As usual, the Dragon King wore an expressionless face. Standing among a group of tall, sturdy Northerners, he looked almost as frail and sickly as Shulitu beside