NOVPUB
Chapter 262: Bishop Vale (1)
The power gap between me and the Bishop wasn't just vast—it was insurmountable. Despite the injuries Carrie inflicted upon him, the massive gap stil existed.
And I knew that.
But knowing didn't change anything. The cold reality settled in my stomach like lead, yet my grip on my sword remained steady, unwavering despite the tremors threatening to overtake my limbs.
I just had to hold on.
Because that was all it took to make the impossible possible. One moment. One chance. That's all I needed.
The air around us twisted, reality bending under the weight of something far greater than just mana. Colors inverted, then dulled to monochrome before bleeding back into existence, distorted and wrong. The very fabric of space seemed to fold in on itself, creating pockets of nothingness that swallowed sound.
Bishop Vale's eyes gleamed with curiosity, a predatory light dancing in their depths. "Is this... a Domain?" His voice carried no fear, only intrigue, like a scientist observing an unexpected phenomenon beneath his microscope. Something to be studied, dissected, understood. He exhaled slowly, his grip on his staff loosening ever so slightly, the ornate wood gleaming with a sickly crimson light that pulsed in time with an unseen heartbeat. "A supernatural Domain... how interesting."
His gaze flickered to my side, where the translucent form of the Lich hovered, skeletal fingers weaving complex patterns through the air, its hollow eye sockets burning with ethereal fire.
"Ah. I assume this is the Gift of your Lich?" He smiled, but it wasn't pleasant—all teeth and no warmth, like a wound carved into flesh. "Incredible. Truly."
He looked back at me, the amusement in his expression curdling into something sharper, more dangerous. "You are a terrifying talent, Arthur Nightingale. Given time, you could become a threat. A real one."
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. "Unfortunately, you are far from my level."
He raised his staff, the wood creaking as if alive, hungry, and the air grew thick with the scent of copper and decay.
I moved.
My muscles bunched, propelling me forward with every ounce of speed I could muster, Purelight blazing along my blade as I prepared to strike—
Too late.
A tide of blood-forged mana erupted from his fingertips, twisting and surging toward me in an unrelenting wave. It wasn't just raw power—it was intelligent, alive in a way magic shouldn't be, tendrils of crimson energy seeking me out like predators scenting prey.
I barely had time to react, to shift my stance.
I raised my sword, Purelight blazing along its edge as I swung down, cutting a diagonal arc through the air, the blade leaving trails of white fire in its wake—
Impact.
The sheer force rattled through my arms, my bones screaming in protest as the shock traveled up from my hands to my shoulders, then down my spine. I gritted my teeth, barely holding my ground as the wave of magic crashed against me, pushing me back, forcing my feet to slide against the warped ground of the Domain. My heels dug furrows into the floor, the pressure building with each passing second.
The only reason I wasn't already dead was the armor that clung to me like a second skin—Erebus's Bone Armor. The midnight-black plates absorbed some of the impact, glowing with a dull purple light as they consumed the energy directed at me. Even so, the pressure was unbearable, like being caught in the path of an avalanche, the weight threatening to crush me completely.
The Bishop wasn't even trying. His expression remained relaxed, almost bored, as he directed the tide of blood magic with casual flicks of his fingers, as if conducting an orchestra rather than attempting to obliterate a human being.
I shifted my stance, digging deeper, summoning more of my own mana to reinforce the blade. The Purelight responded, burning brighter, pushing back against the tide—but it wasn't enough. For every inch I gained, the Bishop's power surged again, forcing me back two more.
"Enough of this farce," he sighed, his voice tinged with irritation, like he was putting down a particularly annoying pet. His mana shifted, condensing—
Astral energy.
Raw. Overwhelming. A tsunami compared to the mere wave he'd sent before.
And then he attacked the Domain itself.
The space around us shuddered, cracks forming at the very edges of my perception, spreading like spiderwebs across the fabric of reality. Light spilled through these fractures—normal light from the world outside, piercing the veil of the Domain. The Lich hissed, a sound like dry leaves scraping across stone, its skeletal fingers twitching as it strained to hold the Domain together, to maintain the pocket of altered reality it had created.
I watched the cracks spread further, my time running out as the Domain began to collapse.
Now or never.
I lunged forward, pushing off the ground with such force that the floor beneath me cratered, sending chunks of debris flying.
Desperation. A last-ditch effort.
My sword struck out, a flash of Purelight arcing through the air as I aimed for the junction where his neck met his shoulder—a killing blow if it landed.
Blocked.
A single flick of his staff deflected my strike, the wood meeting metal with a sound like thunder. The impact sent a shockwave through my arms, my wrist nearly snapping under the sheer weight of it. The force of the collision created a blast of air that rippled outward, disturbing the dust that had settled on the floor.
I twisted in mid-air, using the momentum from the deflection to spin, attempting to bring my blade around in a horizontal slash at his midsection, my body contorting in ways that shouldn't have been possible for a normal human.
The Bishop moved with impossible grace, stepping back just enough that my blade missed by millimeters, close enough that it severed a loose thread from his robes.
"Predictable," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the chaos of battle.
I landed, my boots skidding across the floor, and immediately launched into another attack—a feint high, then dropping low to sweep at his legs. The Bishop didn't even bother to dodge the feint, seeing through it instantly, and simply raised his foot as my blade swept beneath, like a dancer performing a well-rehearsed routine.
In the split second of vulnerability as my blade passed harmlessly beneath him, he struck.
His staff blurred, the wood elongating, shifting, becoming something more sinister. I brought my sword up to parry, but the staff changed direction mid-strike, curving around my defenses like a living thing.
I barely managed to land on my feet, but the moment I regained balance—
He was already there.
One moment, he stood three paces away. The next, he materialized before me, the air distorting around his form as if reality itself bent to accommodate his presence.
His hand shot forward. A blur of motion. A precise strike.
I dodged—or I thought I did, throwing myself to the side, my reflexes pushed to their absolute limit.
Pain exploded in my ribs.
A glancing blow—and still, it felt like being hit by a wrecking ball. Something cracked beneath my armor, a sharp, sickening sound that resonated through my chest. The force sent me flying, tumbling across the floor like a discarded doll.
I hit the ground, hard, my breath ripped from my lungs in a violent exhale. Stars exploded behind my eyes, reality fragmenting into pieces that refused to come back together.
Dark spots swam in my vision. My fingers twitched around my sword, my mind struggling to catch up, to process what had happened. How had he moved so fast? How had he predicted exactly where I would dodge?
I couldn't keep up.
This was what it meant to fight someone above you. Not a battle. Not a struggle. A lesson in inevitability. Like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands, like trying to outrun an avalanche.
I tried to rise, pushing myself up on trembling arms. Blood dripped from my lips, spattering on the floor beneath me, each drop a testament to the gap between us. My armor had cracked in places, hairline fractures running through the once-immaculate surface, Deepdark leaking from the gaps like smoke.
"Pathetic," the Bishop muttered, twirling his staff with casual grace, his robes swirling around him in defiance of gravity itself. "You've impressed me, Arthur Nightingale. But tricks only get you so far."
He advanced slowly, deliberately, each step resonating with purpose. I could feel his mana building again, gathering like storm clouds on the horizon, promising devastation.
I gasped for breath, pushing myself up, my entire body screaming in protest. My left arm hung at an odd angle, likely dislocated from the impact. I rolled my shoulder back, forcing the joint into place with a sickening pop that sent fresh waves of agony cascading through me.
I needed something.
Something more.
Something else.
The Domain was failing, the walls between realities thinning with each passing second. The Lich's power was fading, its form becoming more transparent, more ethereal. Soon, it would collapse entirely, and with it, any advantage it had given me.
My gaze darted toward her.
Reika stood at the edge of the fading Domain, her eyes wide with horror, her body trembling as she watched the one-sided battle unfold. Even from here, I could see the faint outline of symbols pulsing beneath her skin, a power waiting to be unleashed.
"Reika!" I called, my voice hoarse, broken, yet somehow carrying across the distance between us.
She froze, like a deer caught in headlights, her breath visibly hitching in her chest.
The Bishop's attention flicked toward her as well, his eyes narrowing as he assessed this new factor in the equation. His lips curled in a smirk, as if he'd discovered the punchline to a joke only he understood.
Her fists clenched, her body trembling as black inked letters shimmered into existence on her skin, pulsing, waiting. They crawled up her arms like living things, forming patterns that hurt to look at directly, symbols from a language never meant for human tongues.
I met her eyes across the battlefield, holding her gaze with an intensity that transcended the chaos around us.
"Use it on me."
"㯵㖻䌫㑁" 䖣 䧎㖻㾌䧎㖀㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䧺㖻䟈䟈㾌䉡㰽 䄶㖀㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䟈䌾 䄶䝚䧎㖻㾌䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䟈㾌䒾㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㒙㖀䧎䌾 㾌㖐䧎 㒙㖐㯨䧎㾌䄶㖀㾀
㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䄶㝺䧎䉡㖀㰽 㯨㾌䧺䒾 䄶㖻 䟈㖀䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㖀䌾㖀㳗 䒑䑊㖐䉡䄶㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䉡㖀䌫㥰㖻㝺䉡㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 䧺㖻䑊䑊㖀䧺䄶㖻䧎 䌫䝚㖻 䝚㾌㰽 䕄㝺㳗䄶 㳗䝮㖻䄶䄶㖀㰽 㾌 䧎㾌䧎㖀 㳗䝮㖀䧺㖐䟈㖀䉡㾀 㽄㖀 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖀㰽 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖻㖻㰽 䝚㝺䟈䟈㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮䧎㖻䟈㖐㳗㖀㾀
㰴㖐㥰䄶㳗 䌫㖀䧎㖀䉡'䄶 䟈㖀㾌䉡䄶 䄶㖻 㯨㖀 㳗䝚㾌䧎㖀㰽㾀
㒩䝚㾌䄶 䌫㾌㳗 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㝺䑊㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㥰㝺䉡㰽㾌䟈㖀䉡䄶㾌䑊 䑊㾌䌫㾀 㯵㖻 㖻䉡㖀 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗㥰㖀䧎 䄶䝚㖀 䧺㖻䧎㖀 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀㖐䧎 㰴㖐㥰䄶 䄶㖻 㾌䉡㖻䄶䝚㖀䧎—㖐䄶 䌫㾌㳗 䝮㾌䧎䄶 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀䟈䅼 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽 䄶㖻 䄶䝚㖀㖐䧎 㒙㖀䧎䌾 㖀㤐㖐㳗䄶㖀䉡䧺㖀㾀 䦊㖐䒾㖀 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䒑㖐㒙㖀 㾌䌫㾌䌾 䌾㖻㝺䧎 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㯨㖀㾌䄶䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䑊㖀䉡㰽 㳗㖻䟈㖀㖻䉡㖀 䌾㖻㝺䧎 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚㾀 䖣䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀㾀 㶾䉡䄶䝚㖐䉡䒾㾌㯨䑊㖀㾀
䯛㖐䉡㖀䅼 䦊㝺䧺㖀䉡䄶 㽄㾌䧎䟈㖻䉡䌾䅼 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽 㰽㖻 㖐䄶 䄶㖻㖻㾀 㒩㖀䧺䝚䉡㖐䧺㾌䑊䑊䌾㾀
䖣䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㖐䉡㖀㥰㥰㖐䧺㖐㖀䉡䄶㾀 䣋㾌㳗䄶㖀㥰㝺䑊㾀 䀯 䒑䑊㖻䧎㖐㥰㖐㖀㰽 䄶䧎㖐䧺䒾㾀 䯛㖻㳗䄶 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀 䄶㖐䟈㖀䅼 㖐䄶 䌫㾌㳗䉡'䄶 䌫㖻䧎䄶䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㖀㥰㥰㖻䧎䄶䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 䑊㖻㳗䄶 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗㥰㖀䧎 䧎㖀㰽㝺䧺㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶 䄶㖻 㾌 䝮㾌䑊㖀 㳗䝚㾌㰽㖻䌫 㖻㥰 㖐䄶㳗 䄶䧎㝺㖀 䝮㖻䄶㖀䉡䄶㖐㾌䑊㾀
㽄㖀䧎 㰴㖐㥰䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㰽㖐㥰㥰㖀䧎㖀䉡䄶㾀
䛨㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䧎㾌䌫㾀 䛨㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㯨㖀䉡䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㝺䑊㖀㳗 㖐䉡 㾌 䌫㾌䌾 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㖀䑊㳗㖀 㰽㖐㰽㾀 䀯 䧺㖻䉡䄶䧎㾌㰽㖐䧺䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 㾌䉡 㖐䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨㖐䑊㖐䄶䌾䅼 㾌 䒑䑊㖐䄶䧺䝚 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㥰㾌㯨䧎㖐䧺 㖻㥰 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐䄶䌾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀
㽄㖀䧎 䟈㾌䉡㾌 䧎㾌䉡䒾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀
㩔㖐䒑䝚䄶 䉡㖻䌫䅼 㳗䝚㖀 䝚㾌㰽 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀㰽 䝚㖀䧎㳗㖀䑊㥰 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䦊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㮌㖀䑊䑊㖻䌫㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾 䄶㖻 䣋䝚㖐䄶㖀㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀 䀯 䄶㖀䟈䝮㖻䧎㾌䧎䌾 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀䅼 㾌䉡 㝺䉡䉡㾌䄶㝺䧎㾌䑊 䑊㖀㾌䝮 㥰㖻䧎䌫㾌䧎㰽㾀 䀯䉡 㖐䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀 㖐䉡䧺䧎㖀㾌㳗㖀䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㳗䒾㖐䝮䝮㖐䉡䒑 㥰㖐㒙㖀 䧎㝺䉡䒑㳗 㖻䉡 㾌 䑊㾌㰽㰽㖀䧎 㖐䉡 㾌 㳗㖐䉡䒑䑊㖀 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽㾀
㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䑊㾌㝺䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽 㾌䉡㖻䄶䝚㖀䧎 㾌䄶䄶㾌䧺䒾䅼 䄶䝚㖐㳗 㖻䉡㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㥰㖻䧺㝺㳗㖀㰽䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䝮䧎㖀䧺㖐㳗㖀—㾌 㳗䝮㖀㾌䧎 㖻㥰 䧺㖻䉡㰽㖀䉡㳗㖀㰽 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 䟈㾌䒑㖐䧺 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 㳗㖻㝺䉡㰽 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 㯨㾌䉡㳗䝚㖀㖀'㳗 䌫㾌㖐䑊䅼 㾌㖐䟈㖀㰽 㰽㖐䧎㖀䧺䄶䑊䌾 㾌䄶 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㾀
䖣 䄶䌫㖐㳗䄶㖀㰽䅼 㯨㾌䧎㖀䑊䌾 㾌㒙㖻㖐㰽㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㳗䝮㖀㾌䧎 䒑䧎㾌㡑㖐䉡䒑 䟈䌾 㳗䝚㖻㝺䑊㰽㖀䧎 㾌䉡㰽 䑊㖀㾌㒙㖐䉡䒑 㾌 䄶䧎㾌㖐䑊 㖻㥰 㳗㖀㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 䝮㾌㖐䉡 㖐䉡 㖐䄶㳗 䌫㾌䒾㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽 䝚㖐㳗㳗㖀㰽 㾌䉡㰽 㯨㝺㯨㯨䑊㖀㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 䟈㾌䒑㖐䧺 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 㯨㝺䧎䧎㖻䌫 㰽㖀㖀䝮㖀䧎䅼 䄶㖻 䧺㖻䉡㳗㝺䟈㖀 䟈㖀 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖐䉡㾀
㒩䝚㖀 㯨䑊㾌䧺䒾 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㖻䉡 䝚㖀䧎 㳗䒾㖐䉡 䌫䧎㖐䄶䝚㖀㰽 㥰㾌㳗䄶㖀䧎䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㾌䒑㖐䄶㾌䄶㖀㰽䅼 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䝚㖀䧎 㖀䟈㖻䄶㖐㖻䉡㾌䑊 㳗䄶㾌䄶㖀㾀 㒩㖀䉡㰽䧎㖐䑊㳗 㖻㥰 㰽㾌䧎䒾䉡㖀㳗㳗 䧺㝺䧎䑊㖀㰽 㾌䧎㖻㝺䉡㰽 䝚㖀䧎 䑊㖐䟈㯨㳗䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䧺䝚㾌㖐䉡㳗䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㳗䝚㾌䧺䒾䑊㖀㳗㾀
"䖣 䟈㝺㳗䄶䅼" 䖣 㳗㾌㖐㰽㾀 䯛䌾 㒙㖻㖐䧺㖀 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 䌫㾌㒙㖀䧎䅼 㰽㖀㳗䝮㖐䄶㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 㯨㝺㯨㯨䑊㖐䉡䒑 㝺䝮 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 䄶䝚䧎㖻㾌䄶䅼 㰽㖀㳗䝮㖐䄶㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㖀㰽䒑㖀㳗 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 㒙㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䒑䧎㖻䌫㖐䉡䒑 㰽㾌䧎䒾㖀䧎 㯨䌾 䄶䝚㖀 㳗㖀䧺㖻䉡㰽㾀 "䓳䑊㖀㾌㳗㖀㾀"
䖣 㳗䄶㾌䒑䒑㖀䧎㖀㰽 㯨㾌䧺䒾䅼 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖐䉡䒑 䟈䌾 㳗䌫㖻䧎㰽 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡䅼 㯨㝺䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䟈㖻䄶㖐㖻䉡 䑊㾌䧺䒾㖀㰽 䧺㖻䉡㒙㖐䧺䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 䑊㾌䧺䒾㖀㰽 㳗䄶䧎㖀䉡䒑䄶䝚㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䓳㝺䧎㖀䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㰽㖐䟈䟈㖐䉡䒑䅼 㥰䑊㖐䧺䒾㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 䧺㾌䉡㰽䑊㖀 㖐䉡 㾌 㳗䄶㖻䧎䟈䅼 䟈㖻䟈㖀䉡䄶㳗 㥰䧎㖻䟈 㯨㖀㖐䉡䒑 㖀㤐䄶㖐䉡䒑㝺㖐㳗䝚㖀㰽 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀䄶㖀䑊䌾㾀
㩔㖀㖐䒾㾌 䑊㖻㖻䒾㖀㰽 㾌䄶 䟈㖀䅼 㖀䌾㖀㳗 䌫㖐䑊㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㰽㖐㳗㯨㖀䑊㖐㖀㥰䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㖐䒑䝚䄶 䝚㾌㒙㖀 㯨㖀㖀䉡 㯨㖀䄶䧎㾌䌾㾌䑊㾀 "䀯䧎㖀 䌾㖻㝺 㰽㖻㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㖐㳗 䕄㝺㳗䄶 䄶㖻 㳗㾌㒙㖀 䟈㖀䤇"
"㯵㖻䅼" 䖣 㳗䝚㖻㖻䒾 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㾌䉡㳗䌫㖀䧎 㳗䑊㖐䝮䝮㖐䉡䒑 㖻㝺䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖻㝺䄶 䝚㖀㳗㖐䄶㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖻㝺䄶 㾌䧎䄶㖐㥰㖐䧺㖀㾀 "䖣'䟈 㰽㖻㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㖐㳗 㥰㖻䧎 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀"
㽄㖀䧎 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚 䝚㖐䄶䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㾌 㳗䟈㾌䑊䑊䅼 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽㖀㰽 㳗㖻㝺䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖻䟈㖀䝚㖻䌫 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 䉡㖻㖐㳗㖀 㖻㥰 㯨㾌䄶䄶䑊㖀䅼 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㖻㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 㖀㾌䧎㳗㾀
䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㾌䑊䌫㾌䌾㳗 㯨㖀㖀䉡 㳗㖀䑊㥰㖐㳗䝚䅼 䄶㾌䒾㖐䉡䒑 䌫䝚㾌䄶 䖣 䉡㖀㖀㰽㖀㰽䅼 㝺㳗㖐䉡䒑 䌫䝚㾌䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㖻㥰㥰㖀䧎㖀㰽䅼 㾌䑊䑊 㖐䉡 㳗㖀䧎㒙㖐䧺㖀 䄶㖻 㾌 䒑㖻㾌䑊 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶㖐䟈㖀㳗 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌䉡 㖻㯨㳗㖀㳗㳗㖐㖻䉡 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㾌 䝮㝺䧎䝮㖻㳗㖀㾀
䖣 䌫㾌䉡䄶㖀㰽 䑊㖻㒙㖀 䌫䝚㖀䉡 䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 㰽㖀㳗㖀䧎㒙㖀 㖐䄶㾀
䀯䉡㰽 䖣 䌫㾌䉡䄶㖀㰽 䄶㖻 㯨㝺䧎䉡 㰽㖻䌫䉡 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖻䧎䑊㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㰽㾌䧎㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䝚㾌䧎䟈 䄶䝚㖀 䄶㖐䉡䌾䅼 㥰䧎㾌䒑㖐䑊㖀 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㾌㰽㖀 䑊㖐㥰㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㳗㝺䧎㒙㖐㒙㾌䑊㾀
㒩䝚㖐㳗 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䧺㾌䑊䑊㖀㰽 䝚㾌䝮䝮㖐䉡㖀㳗㳗㾀
㒩䝚㖐㳗 䌫㾌㳗 䝮㾌䌾㯨㾌䧺䒾㾀
䀯䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 㾌 䌫㖻䧎䑊㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㾌䌫 䧺䝚㖐䑊㰽䧎㖀䉡 㾌㳗 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 䄶㖻㖻䑊㳗 䄶㖻 㯨䧎㖀㾌䒾 㾌䉡㰽 䧎㖀㳗䝚㾌䝮㖀㾀
䋢㖀䧺㾌㝺㳗㖀 䌫䝚㖀䉡 䖣 䑊㖻㖻䒾㖀㰽 㾌䄶 䝚㖀䧎䅼 䖣 㳗㾌䌫 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀
㒩䝚㖀 䧺䝚㖐䑊㰽 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㯨㖀㖀䉡㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㯨䧎㖻䒾㖀䉡 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䟈㖻䉡㳗䄶㖀䧎 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 䟈㾌㰽㖀 㖻㥰 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰 䄶㖻 㳗㝺䧎㒙㖐㒙㖀㾀
"㰴㖐㒙㖀 㖐䄶 䄶㖻 䟈㖀㾀"
㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䑊㝺䉡䒑㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 䝮㾌䄶㖐㖀䉡䧺㖀 㥰㖐䉡㾌䑊䑊䌾 㖀㤐䝚㾌㝺㳗䄶㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 㳗䝮㖐䉡䉡㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀㤐 䝮㾌䄶䄶㖀䧎䉡㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䑊㖀㥰䄶 䄶䧎㾌㖐䑊㳗 㖻㥰 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽㷍䧎㖀㰽 䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎䅼 㥰㖻䧎䟈㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖐䒑㖐䑊㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㯨㝺䧎䉡㖀㰽 䄶䝚㖀䟈㳗㖀䑊㒙㖀㳗 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐䄶䌾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀
䖣 䌫㾌㳗䉡'䄶 㾌 䝚㖀䧎㖻㾀
䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 㰽㖀㳗㖀䧎㒙㖀 䄶㖻 㯨㖀 㾌 䝚㖀䧎㖻㾀
㩔㖀㖐䒾㾌 䧺䑊㖀䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽 䝚㖀䧎 㥰㖐㳗䄶㳗䅼 䝚㖀䧎 䒾䉡㝺䧺䒾䑊㖀㳗 䌫䝚㖐䄶㖀 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㳗䄶䧎㾌㖐䉡䅼 㖐䉡㰽㖀䧺㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䌫㾌䧎䧎㖐䉡䒑 㾌䧺䧎㖻㳗㳗 䝚㖀䧎 㥰㖀㾌䄶㝺䧎㖀㳗㾀 㒩䝚㖀䉡䅼 㳗䑊㖻䌫䑊䌾䅼 䝚㖀䧎 䝚㾌䉡㰽㳗 㝺䉡䧺䑊㖀䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㥰㖐䉡䒑㖀䧎㳗 㳗䝮䑊㾌䌾㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐㰽㖀 㾌㳗 㖐㥰 䧎㖀䑊㖀㾌㳗㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡㒙㖐㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀㾀
䛨䝚㖀 㖀㤐䝚㾌䑊㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䑊㖻䉡䒑䅼 㳗䝚㝺㰽㰽㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䧺㾌䧎䧎䌾 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖀㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖻㥰 㾌 㰽㖀䧺㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 㝺䉡䟈㾌㰽㖀㾀 㽄㖀䧎 㖀䌾㖀㳗 㳗䝚㝺䄶䅼 䑊㾌㳗䝚㖀㳗 㥰䑊㝺䄶䄶㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 䝮㾌䑊㖀 䧺䝚㖀㖀䒾㳗䅼 㾌䉡㰽 䖣 㥰㖀䑊䄶 㖐䄶㾀
䀯䉡㰽 䄶䝚㖀䉡—
㒩䝚㖀䌾 㳗䝚㖻䄶 䄶㖻䌫㾌䧎㰽 䟈㖀䅼 㾌 㳗䌫㾌䧎䟈 㖻㥰 㰽㾌䧎䒾䉡㖀㳗㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㥰㾌㰽㖐䉡䒑 䈶㖻䟈㾌㖐䉡 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌䧎䧎㖻䌫㳗 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䟈㖐㳗䄶㾀
㯵㖻䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㾌㰽㖀 䌾㖻㝺 䌫㖐䉡䧺㖀㾀 㯵㖻䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䑊㖀㥰䄶 㯨䧎㝺㖐㳗㖀㳗 㖻䧎 㥰䧎㾌䧺䄶㝺䧎㖀㳗 㖻䧎 㯨䑊㖀㖀㰽㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽㳗㾀
㒩䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㝺䉡䟈㾌㰽㖀 䌾㖻㝺㾀
㒩䝚㖀 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㯨㝺䧎䧎㖻䌫㖀㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䟈䌾 㳗䒾㖐䉡䅼 䟈㖀䧎䒑㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䟈䌾 㥰䑊㖀㳗䝚䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䝮㾌䧎䄶 㖻㥰 䟈㖀 㖐䉡 㾌 䌫㾌䌾 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㰽㖀㥰㖐㖀㰽 㰽㖀㳗䧺䧎㖐䝮䄶㖐㖻䉡㾀 䩀㾌䧺䝚 㖻䉡㖀 㯨䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㖐䄶 㾌 䉡㖀䌫 㰽㖐䟈㖀䉡㳗㖐㖻䉡 㖻㥰 㳗㝺㥰㥰㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑䅼 㾌 䉡㖀䌫 䑊㾌䌾㖀䧎 㖻㥰 㾌䒑㖻䉡䌾 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗䧺㖀䉡㰽㖀㰽 䝮䝚䌾㳗㖐䧺㾌䑊 㳗㖀䉡㳗㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㾀
䩀㒙㖀䧎䌾 䧺㖀䑊䑊 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 㯨㖻㰽䌾 㳗䧺䧎㖀㾌䟈㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䧺䝚㖻䧎㝺㳗 㖻㥰 䄶㖻䧎䟈㖀䉡䄶 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖀㾌䄶㖀䉡㖀㰽 䄶㖻 㳗䝚㾌䄶䄶㖀䧎 䟈䌾 䟈㖐䉡㰽䅼 䄶㖻 䧎㖀㰽㝺䧺㖀 䟈㖀 䄶㖻 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㾌 㒙㖀㳗㳗㖀䑊 㥰㖻䧎 䝮㾌㖐䉡 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀
䋢㖀䧺㾌㝺㳗㖀 㖐䉡 㖀㤐䧺䝚㾌䉡䒑㖀䅼 䖣 䄶㖻㖻䒾 䝚㖀䧎 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎㾀
㒩䝚㖀 㯨䑊㾌䧺䒾 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㳗㖀䄶䄶䑊㖀㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䟈䌾 㥰䑊㖀㳗䝚䅼 䝮㝺䑊㳗㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 䧎䝚䌾䄶䝚䟈 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䒑䧎㾌㰽㝺㾌䑊䑊䌾 㳗䌾䉡䧺䝚䧎㖻䉡㖐㡑㖀㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㯨㖀㾌䄶䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 㖀㤐䄶㖀䉡㳗㖐㖻䉡㳗 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 䌫㖐䑊䑊䅼 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 㯨㖀㖐䉡䒑㾀
䦊㖻䌫 䖣䉡䄶㖀䒑䧎㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀
㒩䝚㖀 㥰㖐䧎㳗䄶 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀 䌫㾌㳗 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 㰽㾌䟈 㯨䧎㖀㾌䒾㖐䉡䒑䅼 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 㥰䑊㖻㖻㰽㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䧺䝚㾌䉡䉡㖀䑊㳗 䉡㖀㒙㖀䧎 䟈㖀㾌䉡䄶 䄶㖻 䧺㖻䉡䄶㾌㖐䉡 㳗㝺䧺䝚 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀㳗㾀 䯛䌾 㒙㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 㯨䑊㝺䧎䧎㖀㰽䅼 䧺㖻䑊㖻䧎㳗 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㒙㖐㒙㖐㰽䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㖐䉡䄶㖀䉡㳗㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎 㾌䧎㖻㝺䉡㰽 䟈㖀 䧺䧎㾌䧺䒾䑊㖀㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㖀䉡㖀䧎䒑䌾䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮㖻䄶㖀䉡䄶㖐㾌䑊㾀
䯛㖐㰽 䖣䉡䄶㖀䒑䧎㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀
㒩䝚㖀 㳗㖀䧺㖻䉡㰽 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀 䌫㾌㳗 㳗䄶䧎㖻䉡䒑㖀䧎䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㒙㖐㖻䑊㖀䉡䄶㾀 䯛䌾 䟈㝺㳗䧺䑊㖀㳗 㯨㝺䑊䒑㖀㰽䅼 㒙㖀㖐䉡㳗 㳗䄶㾌䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑 㖻㝺䄶 㖐䉡 㳗䄶㾌䧎䒾 䧎㖀䑊㖐㖀㥰 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 䟈䌾 㳗䒾㖐䉡 㾌㳗 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 䧺㖻㝺䧎㳗㖀㰽 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䟈㖀 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䑊㖐㠍㝺㖐㰽 㥰㖐䧎㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䩀䧎㖀㯨㝺㳗 䋢㖻䉡㖀 䀯䧎䟈㖻䧎 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㖀㰽䅼 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼 㖀㤐䝮㾌䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㖀䑊㾌㯨㖻䧎㾌䄶㖀䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀䄶㖀䅼 㾌㳗 㖐㥰 㾌䌫㾌䒾㖀䉡㖐䉡䒑 㥰䧎㖻䟈 㾌 㳗䑊㝺䟈㯨㖀䧎㾀
㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 㥰㾌䑊䄶㖀䧎㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㾌䄶䄶㾌䧺䒾 䝚㖀㳗㖐䄶㾌䄶㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖐㰽㷍㥰㖻䧎䟈㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡 㾌㳗 䝚㖀 㳗㖀䉡㳗㖀㰽 䄶䝚㖀 䧺䝚㾌䉡䒑㖀䅼 㾌㳗 䝚㖀 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐㡑㖀㰽 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䝚㾌㰽 㥰㝺䉡㰽㾌䟈㖀䉡䄶㾌䑊䑊䌾 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖀㰽 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㰽䌾䉡㾌䟈㖐䧺 㯨㖀䄶䌫㖀㖀䉡 㝺㳗㾀
'㒩䝚㖐㳗 㖐㳗 䄶䝚㖀 䑊㖐䟈㖐䄶䅼' 䦊㝺䉡㾌'㳗 㒙㖻㖐䧺㖀 㖀䧺䝚㖻㖀㰽 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 䟈㖐䉡㰽䅼 䧺㖻㖻䑊 㾌䉡㰽 㰽㖀䄶㾌䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䧎㖀䟈㖐䉡㰽㖀䧎 㖻㥰 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽㾌䧎㖐㖀㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 䧺䧎㖻㳗㳗㖀㰽䅼 㖻㥰 䑊㖐䉡㖀㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗䝚㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 㯨䑊㝺䧎䧎㖀㰽㾀
'䖣 䒾䉡㖻䌫㾀'
䀯䉡㰽 䖣 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖀㰽 䟈䌾 㳗䌫㖻䧎㰽 㖻䉡䧺㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀䅼 䓳㝺䧎㖀䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㯨䑊㾌㡑㖐䉡䒑 㾌䑊㖻䉡䒑 㖐䄶㳗 䑊㖀䉡䒑䄶䝚 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䧎㖀䉡㖀䌫㖀㰽 㒙㖐䒑㖻䧎䅼 㯨㝺䧎䉡㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖻 㯨䧎㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖐䄶 䧺㾌㳗䄶 䉡㖻 㳗䝚㾌㰽㖻䌫㳗䅼 㖻䉡䑊䌾 䝮㝺䧎㖀䅼 㝺䉡㥰㖐䑊䄶㖀䧎㖀㰽 䧎㾌㰽㖐㾌䉡䧺㖀㾀
"䖣䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼" 䝚㖀 䟈㝺䧎䟈㝺䧎㖀㰽䅼 㾌㰽䕄㝺㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌䉡䧺㖀䅼 䝚㖐㳗 䒑䧎㖐䝮 㖻䉡 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 䄶㖐䒑䝚䄶㖀䉡㖐䉡䒑㾀 "㰦㖀䧎䌾 㖐䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡㰽㖀㖀㰽㾀"
䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㾀
