NOVPUBThe chilly sunlight fell on Lake Patzcuaro, reflecting the shallow surface of the lake during the dry season and the reflections of the reeds in the water. Along the lake’s shores, the Tarasco villages lay desolate and forlorn, the fields overgrown with weeds. Even though the new year had just begun, there were no celebrating crowds to be seen, nor the scent of incense in prayers. Only at dawn and dusk did faint wisps of cooking smoke rise, accompanied occasionally by the bark of a dog, revealing a rare hint of life.
The old Militia member, Chiwaco, stood stiffly in front of a mud-brick hut, motionless, his eyes hollow and without light.
Since he had been drafted and left his warm home, half a year had passed. During this time, he had fought in watery battles where flames blazed and survived city sieges amidst showers of arrows. He had seen many Nobility snap like cornstalks, thousands of Samurai stomped into the mud like leaves, and countless commoners, like weeds in a slash-and-burn, turned to ash by war’s fire and scattered into oblivion without a trace.
Having escaped from the battlefield’s deadly grip, accustomed to the tears and blood of humanity, and weathered the hardships of life and death, he finally returned to his village. However, he never expected, nor wished to imagine, that in this cold, small home, only the simple mud hut remained.
The mud hut, which he had built brick by brick from mud, had taken years to gather the materials and a year to construct, was considered respectable in the village. These baked mud bricks were the product of labor during the agricultural off-season, crafted night and day with his wife. This hut had once been filled with his wife’s bustling activity, his son’s noise, his daughter’s laughter, and everything he cherished.
At this moment, in front of the mud hut, the wooden door stood wide open, as if welcoming the long-absent homeowner. Outside the dwelling, the penned fire turkeys, the hairless domestic dogs in front of the house, and even the chili peppers hanging beneath the eaves were all gone. Inside, the few possessions were scattered about, seemingly narrating past events. The cooking pot was shattered on the ground, the water jar completely overturned. The painstakingly built straw bed was reduced to scattered straw; the corner where grain was stored was now utterly empty.
The old Militia’s mind was equally blank. He trembled as he looked at everything before him. The familiar, the anticipated, the loved ones he cherished, all remained only in his memory, as if they had taken his soul and left behind a solitary shell.
Not far behind the old Militia, Weizti looked at the empty hut, his face a mask of confusion and helplessness. A group of seven Militia burst into this desolate and ruined village, and the home they remembered suddenly shattered. In this familiar yet strange place, they seemed to be the only signs of life.
The young Militia, Ayuli, glanced at the trembling figures, scratched his head, and then stooped down to dig earnestly in the soil. After returning to the village, he had merely glanced at the empty hut before busying himself without concern.
Ayuli was the youngest among them, just come of age. Although he usually engaged in chatter about women and children like the others, he was in fact a bachelor. His parents had died early, he was unmarried, and he was the only one left in his impoverished family, possessing not even a dagger. He felt little about death and separation. This time, when he left to serve in the army, he managed to get a long spear, snatch some clothes, and even grabbed a dagger, returning fully clad.
After a while, Ayuli finally tossed a worn-out sack from the ground, filled with completely dried old corn. He grinned, grabbed a clay pot from another deserted house, and scooped up a jar of water from the nearby lake. While scooping, Ayuli glanced at the lake, where he could vaguely see some small boats with the gleam of Copper Spears shining in the distance.
Ayuli paid no mind. He gathered a pile of straw from the rundown houses, then started a bonfire in the cold village center. He used his companions’ Copper Spears to set up the clay pot over the fire, cooking the old corn, continuing to search the other houses for anything usable.
Wisps of cooking smoke rose, and the aroma of corn began to drift through the village. Ayuli found a bag of coarse salt, tasting its salty taste tinged with bitterness, unsure of what was mixed within, or perhaps that was just the natural taste of salt. Then, he walked over to the pot, poked the corn with his dagger, and nodded in satisfaction.
"Uncle, you blockhead, come and eat the corn!"
Ayuli shouted joyfully at the other Militia members, but no one paid him any attention. He scratched his head again, then grabbed an ear of corn himself, disregarding its heat and struggling to chew. Indeed, old corn was hard to chew. Occasionally, he would lick the salt grains in his palm, which was the most economical way to eat. During his half-year campaign, he had seen the Samurai masters eat soft corn cakes and smoked meats, and the Nobility had pure yellow honey and dark cocoa. He genuinely envied them but could hardly imagine what they tasted like.
The scent of food wafted far, and suddenly there was some movement in the village. An old man peeked out from a dilapidated house, carefully sized up the Copper Spears supporting the clay pot, then the man eating corn, and suddenly he relaxed. The old man quietly emerged, looked around at the other dazed people, and without caring about the hot water, abruptly reached into the pot for the corn.
Hearing the noise, Ayuli abruptly stopped. He turned his head and saw the old man stealing corn, recognized him after a moment, and became furious.
