Qishan Pingyue

Drohobych, the Jasiński Family estate.

Thick clouds cloaked the sky, with only a faint light struggling to pierce through. Gloom shrouded the land, stirring an inexplicable sense of desolation.

Wichli Jasiński was wrapping his injured left hand himself. He had never imagined that a slave his family had kept for decades would turn on him.

Wichli Jasiński was forty-six. He didn't know the name of the serf who slaughtered livestock in the back kitchen, but the man had always been there.

"Ungrateful wretch! You can't raise a wolf that won't turn on you!"

Wichli Jasiński spat in disgust. Fortunately, the man was old and frail; the boning knife had only pierced his palm.

"Damn Hamites! Even letting them live on the estate can't change their despicable blood!"

Just then, a young man dressed smartly and wearing gold-rimmed glasses walked in.

"Sir, everyone has been gathered. There are one hundred and twenty Hamites left on the estate. They weren't directly involved in the rebellion, but..."

Wichli Jasiński said expressionlessly, "Bury them all."

"Yes. I'll see to it."

The young man's voice held not a hint of emotion, as if he were discussing something trivial—or as if he had known the answer all along.

Before long, cries of terror rose from the back courtyard: an old man's pleas, children's wails, women's screams, and men's curses all mingled together.

These simple, honest serfs didn't know why the noble lord was treating them this way. They hadn't done anything. They had been so obedient. They had only wanted to live.

Then came a burst of gunfire, startling the crows nearby and cutting off the people's thoughts.

Kurba collapsed to the ground. The sky was still so blue. He remembered when he was little and the lord had called him to the riverbank. Beneath a