The blazing sun hung high, its light striking the skin like some kind of poison. The heat was a slow torment—in a sense, a form of torture. And the farmers had no choice but to endure it.
Perturabo set down the hoe in his hand. By now, he could already do this work with great proficiency.
In fact, he even faintly felt that swinging a hoe was far more comfortable than swinging a weapon. At the same time, he could not help feeling certain things toward mortals that even he himself was unwilling to voice.
He did not know how they managed it.
With the former, he knew he was creating. But the latter was not the same. Swinging a weapon could only ever bring destruction and slaughter. He might have been well versed in that path, but that absolutely did not mean he liked it. Yet to him, this was creation. But for the farmers?
This was only one turn in millions upon millions of painful cycles.
The Lord of Iron raised his head and glanced at the ever more intense sunlight, setting his thoughts aside. At the same time, he could not help feeling puzzled. It was not noon yet. By all rights, the sunlight should not have been this scorching.
He turned his head and, after weighing it for a moment, still walked up onto the ridge between the fields and called out to a man who was transplanting rice seedlings. "What's going on?"
Without raising his head, his father asked back, "What?"
"I said, what's going on?!"
Perturabo had no choice but to raise his voice. He narrowed his eyes and wiped his forehead at the same time. The changes in his constitution made him sweat every day, and he was extremely fond of this authentic