The February wind came from the plateau, carrying a faint chill and a dry edge. It was the dry season now, yet the camp's newly built white walls were damp, as if rain had just fallen.
At that moment, a young artisan in his twenties, his skin darkened by the sun, stood beside the white stone wall, studying it carefully. He pressed his large, callused hand to the surface of the white wall, feeling its hardness and moisture for a while. Then he dragged his fingernail across the wall, leaving a shallow mark.
Looking closely, there was already a row of scratches of varying depth along the long white wall. Those marks seemed to express some natural mystery, and also resembled mysterious divine patterns, difficult to grasp.
"How strange. It's changing every day!"
The young artisan frowned, staring at the scratches on the wall as if he meant to make flowers bloom from them. Beside him sat a huge pottery vat, filled with river water fetched nearby, with a wooden ladle floating on the surface. The young artisan thought for a while, then scooped up some more water and poured it over one side of the stone wall. His hand was steady, and he tried to pour evenly, so he poured very slowly.
In that brief moment, Coskachi had already come striding over with a copper club at his waist, moving with a tigerish wind. He arrived before the white wall and studied it for a moment, looking thoughtful. Then he drew out the club, took a deep breath, and suddenly swung.
Bang!
The copper club smashed hard into the white wall, actually knocking out a small pit. Only now, by carefully peering at the sunken surface of the pit, could one discover that this neat white wall was not