NOVPUB
Chapter 613: Necromancy’s Hidden Thread (2)
"And yet you suspect that Lisanor's eyes might pierce the shadows eventually."
His amusement faded. "She has always had a knack for unraveling mysteries she shouldn't. She's tireless in her research and more ruthless than anyone gives her credit for. Ironically, it's that same ruthlessness that's helped her hide how powerful she's become. She doesn't show off. She doesn't flaunt her strength. She simply acquires it, piece by piece, until one day it's too late to stop her."
That steady, methodical climb to power echoed in my mind, resonating uncomfortably with my own approach. We were not so different, Lisanor and I, though our goals were fundamentally opposed. Where she sought to twist necromancy to serve her ambitions of domination, I needed to leverage the knowledge of this world to ensure my own survival, perhaps even shape the future into something less bleak.
"Then let's list out her assets," I said, crossing my arms. It was a calculated gesture—authoritative, but not overtly hostile. "She's had ample time to spread her influence across the Council. She must have a network of mages who either directly support her or unknowingly enable her schemes."
Kyrion nodded, eyes darkening a fraction. "That's part of what made me move when I did. I've seen how she's turned the Council's complacency against them. A well-placed suggestion here, a generous discovery there, and suddenly she has a circle of people who see her as the next shining star of magical advancement."
"A Council Mage specializing in Divination," I murmured, letting my mind race. "They could be feeding her warnings, predictions, glimpses of possible threats."
"There's also an Enchanter—high-ranking, with free rein to restricted archives," Kyrion added. "He's the type who values academic breakthroughs above all else. In the right context, he might have willingly shared knowledge without realizing its full implications."
I allowed a soft scoff to escape. "Ignorance can be as dangerous as malice."
"And then there's a security chief within Aetherion," Kyrion went on, his lips pressing into a tight line. "He's had a habit of making certain 'sensitive' documents disappear before they reach the Council's attention. Anyone investigating Lisanor's true activities runs into dead ends, all thanks to that man's convenient misplacements."
The scope of her reach was impressive, though not unexpected given my own recollection of the original scenario. Still, I felt a flicker of grudging admiration for the intricacy of her work. She'd laid a foundation so quietly that no one truly noticed how powerful she had become.
"If she succeeds," Kyrion said, voice growing hushed, "she will command necromancy in its purest form. Her supposed 'breakthrough' in necromantic stabilization is nothing more than a stepping stone toward true resurrection."
A flicker of discomfort stirred in my chest. True resurrection. Not the reanimation of soulless husks or skeletons, but the actual return of life to the deceased. The lines between living and dead would be erased for those she favored—or those she wished to exploit.
I recalled old rumors of her thirst for knowledge, how she'd scoured forbidden texts in search of the final key that might unlock that boundary between death and life. A step beyond conventional healing magic, beyond even the darkest arts known to the Council. I schooled my features, not wanting to show a reaction, yet the gravity of it weighed on me.
In that moment, memories of the so-called "original scenario" resonated with startling clarity. A war within the Council, factions tearing at each other's throats, culminating in an apocalyptic conflict that nearly consumed the continent. A necromancer's unchecked power, unstoppable once it reached its apex. And at the edges of that memory, a nameless Necromancer Sage who had offered guidance—or perhaps, in the original narrative, arrived too late to prevent tragedy.
Had that Sage been Kyrion all along? Had the original timeline required him to remain hidden until the final moment? If so, then my interference, my knowledge, had thrown a stone into still waters, creating ripples I could no longer predict. 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒑𝒖𝒃.𝙘𝒐𝒎
The uncertainty gnawed at me. My foreknowledge had always been my trump card, allowing me to shift events to my advantage. Now, with Kyrion's reintroduction, the future was in flux. For the first time in a while, I felt the distinct chill of unpredictability creeping over me.
I exhaled, steadying myself. "Then we proceed with caution," I said. My voice sounded calm, cold even, but it concealed a thousand branching pathways I was already mapping in my mind.
Kyrion's gaze never left me, his intense stare probing, assessing my reaction. "And what does caution entail for you?"
I allowed a thin smile, though it contained little warmth. "Three steps. Subterfuge—erode the Council's confidence in her without direct confrontation. Sabotage—disrupt her experiments before she refines her process. And, if we fail to contain her power in time… elimination. A last resort, but a necessary one."
He inclined his head in agreement, a hint of dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "Efficient as ever, Draven."
"There's an upcoming Symposium," I continued. "If she's on the verge of unveiling this so-called necromantic stabilization, that would be the ideal setting to expose her. Public humiliation, academic condemnation… if she's careless enough to place her findings on display, we might twist that very stage against her."
Kyrion's expression tensed. "She's not arrogant. She won't stand in the light and proclaim her mastery without ensuring she has the Council's backing first. And I suspect she has an unknown benefactor—someone with resources to spare and a vested interest in her success."
That unknown was problematic. Anyone with enough influence to sponsor Lisanor from behind the scenes had to be formidable. A hidden mage, perhaps, or an entire faction that saw advantage in necromancy's darkest secrets. Either way, it further underscored the risk we were about to take.
Then a faint, almost imperceptible vibration rippled through the leyline-bound crystal, causing its swirling energies to spike momentarily. I cast the subtlest glance in its direction, noting the abrupt shift in its glow. A sign that something had just tested the wards—some presence from the outside, perhaps searching for a signature or a hint of necromantic activity.
Kyrion watched the crystal as well. His lips pressed tight, but he said nothing. The air felt heavier, as though we both realized how quickly events might spiral from here. The tension in the chamber redoubled, fraying at the edges of my composure.
If Lisanor suspected Kyrion was alive, she might already be making moves to corner him, flush him out, or turn the Council's entire might against him. I wouldn't escape unscathed either. My involvement with a presumed-dead necromancer would place me firmly in her crosshairs.
I set my jaw, forcing my voice to remain calm. "We'll have to start moving pieces immediately. Every second we wait is a second closer to exposure."
Kyrion paused, then nodded. "That's why I chose to bring you here. I wanted you to see with your own eyes what I have at my disposal. And now that we've come to an understanding, I trust you'll waste no time in planning our next steps."
I gave him a direct look. "Don't expect loyalty beyond what our arrangement requires. If I sense any sign of betrayal—"
"—I know," he interrupted, a thin smile crossing his lips. "You'll kill me. I'd do the same if our positions were reversed."
Those words, delivered with such casual acceptance, lingered between us. It was as though the threat of mutual destruction brought a strange clarity to our alliance. We each knew how far the other would go, and we each understood that crossing the line meant a swift end. In some twisted way, it offered the closest thing to security either of us could hope for.
The crystal pulsed once again, its radiance temporarily sputtering, and then stabilizing. I did not let it distract me. My mind was already planning, testing angles of approach, forging contingency plans if Lisanor or her unknown ally caught wind of our maneuvers too soon.
Kyrion turned his attention back to me, his gaze fixed yet again on my face, as though trying to read the next hundred moves in the lines of my expression. If he saw anything there, he gave no indication beyond a quiet hum of acknowledgment.
In a single breath, I summarized our dire situation in my mind: An alliance built on suspicion. A ruthless opponent gathering strength in the shadows. A future that no longer adhered to the script I had once memorized. Yet I had no choice but to press forward. Hesitation had never served me before, and it would certainly not serve me now.
I took one final glance at the swirling darkness inside the crystal, then returned my focus to Kyrion. We were in this together, at least for the moment—brought here by separate paths, bound by the shared necessity of stopping Lisanor before she upended the balance of power in the entire Council.
"Then we need to dissect her position—who she controls, what resources she has access to," I repeated, reinforcing the starting point of our plan, my voice echoing quietly in the dark.
Kyrion smiled slightly, as if pleased by my immediate pivot to strategy. "She's been subtle, careful. But even caution leaves traces."
㗓 㙚㵢㭀䲋䢑 䰹䈏 䢑㐎㳙㱸㐃㑻 䰹㳙㵢䲋䰹䕅㳡 㐎 䒟㑻㳙㵢䨆㐎䲋䕅䰧㳙 㙚㵢㳙䉞䰹䲋䉞 㐎㐃㐃䰹㐎䲋䕅䰧㯕 䰹䲋 㯕䰧䕅㳙䰧䈏䵗 㱽䰧㳙 䰧㶏䰧㳙㑻 䨆㵢㶏䰧 䕅㐃㵢㐎㱸䰧䢑 䰹䲋 㯕㭀㚠䈏㐃䰧 䨆㐎䲋䰹䒟㭀㐃㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋㯕 㐎䲋䢑 䉞䰧䲋䈏㐃䰧 䒟䰧㳙㯕㭀㐎㯕䰹㵢䲋䝯 㱻䰧䈏䵗 㝎㱽䰧䲋 㑻㵢㭀 䈏㱽㵢㭀䉞㱽䈏 㐎㚠㵢㭀䈏 䈏㱽䰧 䲋㐎䈏㭀㳙䰧 㵢㙚 㙚䰹㳙䰧䵗 䰹䈏 䨆㐎䢑䰧 㯕䰧䲋㯕䰧䝯 㬱䰹㳙䰧 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㚠䰧 㯕㭀䢑䢑䰧䲋䵗 䰧㪉䒟㐃㵢㯕䰹㶏䰧䵗 㐎䲋䢑 䰹䨆䒟㵢㯕㯕䰹㚠㐃䰧 䈏㵢 䕅㵢䲋䈏㐎䰹䲋 㵢䲋䕅䰧 䰹䈏 㝎㐎㯕 㐃䰧䈏 㐃㵢㵢㯕䰧—㚠㭀䈏 䰹䈏 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㐎㐃㯕㵢 㯕䨆㵢㐃䢑䰧㳙 㭀䲋䢑䰧䈏䰧䕅䈏䰧䢑 㙚㵢㳙 㐎 䈏䰹䨆䰧䵗 䢑䰧㶏㵢㭀㳙䰹䲋䉞 㙚㵢㭀䲋䢑㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋㯕 㚠䰧㙚㵢㳙䰧 㐎䲋㑻㵢䲋䰧 㳙䰧㐎㐃䰹㩇䰧䢑 䈏㱽䰧 䢑㐎䲋䉞䰧㳙䝯 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙 䰧䨆㚠㵢䢑䰹䰧䢑 㚠㵢䈏㱽 䰧㪉䈏㳙䰧䨆䰧㯕䵗 㱽㐎㳙䲋䰧㯕㯕䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽䰧 㐎㐃㐃㭀㳙䰧 㵢㙚 㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䰧 㐃䰹㱸䰧 㐎 㱽䰹䢑䢑䰧䲋 㯕䒟㐎㳙㱸䵗 㳙䰧㐎䢑㑻 䈏㵢 㚠㭀㳙㯕䈏 䰹䲋䈏㵢 㐎䲋 䰹䲋㙚䰧㳙䲋㵢 㝎㱽䰧䲋 䈏㱽䰧 䈏䰹䨆䰧 㝎㐎㯕 㳙䰹䉞㱽䈏䝯
㐝䈏㐎䲋䢑䰹䲋䉞 䲋䰧㪉䈏 䈏㵢 䋄㑻㳙䰹㵢䲋 䰹䲋 䈏㱽㐎䈏 䕅㐃㐎㭀㯕䈏㳙㵢䒟㱽㵢㚠䰹䕅䵗 䨆㐎䲋㐎㠟㯕㐎䈏㭀㳙㐎䈏䰧䢑 䕅㱽㐎䨆㚠䰧㳙䵗 㗓 㙚䰧㐃䈏 㐎䲋 㭀䲋䰧㪉䒟䰧䕅䈏䰧䢑 䒟㐎䲋䉞 㵢㙚 㭀䲋䢑䰧㳙㯕䈏㐎䲋䢑䰹䲋䉞 㙚㵢㳙 㱽㵢㝎 㯕㱽䰧 䨆䰹䉞㱽䈏 㱽㐎㶏䰧 㐎䨆㐎㯕㯕䰧䢑 㯕㭀䕅㱽 䰹䲋㙚㐃㭀䰧䲋䕅䰧䝯 㗓䲋㙚㵢㳙䨆㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋 㝎㐎㯕 㐎 䒟㳙䰹䕅䰧㐃䰧㯕㯕 䕅㵢䨆䨆㵢䢑䰹䈏㑻䝯 㗓䲋 㐎 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 㙚䰹㐃㐃䰧䢑 㝎䰹䈏㱽 㐎䨆㚠䰹䈏䰹㵢㭀㯕 䨆㐎䉞䰧㯕 㐎䲋䢑 䕅㭀䈏䈏㱽㳙㵢㐎䈏 䒟㵢㐃䰹䈏䰹䕅䰹㐎䲋㯕䵗 㯕䰹䨆䒟㐃㑻 㵢㙚㙚䰧㳙䰹䲋䉞 䉞㐃䰹䨆䒟㯕䰧㯕 㵢㙚 "㯕䰧䕅㳙䰧䈏 㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䰧" 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㚠䰹䲋䢑 䰧㶏䰧䲋 䈏㱽䰧 䨆㵢㯕䈏 㯕㭀㯕䒟䰹䕅䰹㵢㭀㯕 䨆䰹䲋䢑 䈏㵢 㱽䰧㳙 䕅㐎㭀㯕䰧䝯 䩑㵢䈏 㐎㐃㐃䵗 㵢㙚 䕅㵢㭀㳙㯕䰧䵗 㚠㭀䈏 䰧䲋㵢㭀䉞㱽 䈏㵢 㯕㱽䰹㙚䈏 䈏㱽䰧 㚠㐎㐃㐎䲋䕅䰧 䰹䲋 㱽䰧㳙 㙚㐎㶏㵢㳙䝯
䋄㑻㳙䰹㵢䲋 䰹䲋䕅㐃䰹䲋䰧䢑 㱽䰹㯕 㱽䰧㐎䢑䵗 㐎 䉞䰧㯕䈏㭀㳙䰧 㵢㙚 㐎䕅㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䨆䰧䲋䈏䝯 "䢕㳙䰧䕅䰹㯕䰧㐃㑻䝯 㐝㱽䰧 䲋䰧㶏䰧㳙 㵢㶏䰧㳙䒟㐃㐎㑻㯕 㱽䰧㳙 㱽㐎䲋䢑䝯 㣅 㯕䰹䲋䉞㐃䰧䵗 㝎䰧㐃㐃㠟䈏䰹䨆䰧䢑 䉞䰹㙚䈏䝯 㣅 䒟㳙㵢䨆䰹㯕䰧 㵢㙚 㙚㭀䈏㭀㳙䰧 䕅㵢㵢䒟䰧㳙㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋䝯 㬱㵢㳙 䈏㱽㵢㯕䰧 㝎㱽㵢 㳙䰧㯕䰹㯕䈏 㱽䰧㳙 㵢㶏䰧㳙䈏㭀㳙䰧㯕䵗 㯕㱽䰧 㯕㵢㝎㯕 䔱㭀䰹䰧䈏 䢑㵢㭀㚠䈏 䰹䲋 䈏㱽䰧䰹㳙 㳙䰧䒟㭀䈏㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋㯕 㵢㳙 㯕䈏㵢㱸䰧㯕 䰹䲋䈏䰧㳙䲋㐎㐃 䕅㵢䲋㙚㐃䰹䕅䈏㯕䝯 㗓䲋 㐎 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 㯕㵢 㐃㐎㳙䉞䰧 㐎䲋䢑 㯕㵢 㭀㯕䰧䢑 䈏㵢 㚠㭀㳙䰧㐎㭀䕅㳙㐎䕅㑻䵗 䰹䈏'㯕 䢑䰹㯕䈏㭀㳙㚠䰹䲋䉞㐃㑻 䰧㐎㯕㑻 䈏㵢 㯕㐃䰹䒟 䰹䲋 㭀䲋䲋㵢䈏䰹䕅䰧䢑䝯"
㣅 㯕䨆㐎㐃㐃 㙚㳙㵢㝎䲋 䈏㭀䉞䉞䰧䢑 㐎䈏 䨆㑻 㐃䰹䒟㯕 㐎㯕 㗓 㳙䰧䕅㐎㐃㐃䰧䢑 䈏㱽䰧 㳙㵢㯕䈏䰧㳙㯕 㵢㙚 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 䨆䰧䨆㚠䰧㳙㯕 㗓'䢑 䰧䲋䕅㵢㭀䲋䈏䰧㳙䰧䢑 㯕䰹䲋䕅䰧 䨆㑻 㐎㳙㳙䰹㶏㐎㐃 䰹䲋 䈏㱽䰹㯕 䈏䰹䨆䰧㐃䰹䲋䰧䝯 㑍㐎䲋㑻 㙚㐎䕅䰧㯕 㙚㐃䰹䈏䈏䰧䢑 䈏㱽㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽 䨆㑻 䈏㱽㵢㭀䉞㱽䈏㯕—㯕㵢䨆䰧 㱽㐎䢑 㯕䰧䰧䨆䰧䢑 㱽㵢䲋䰧㯕䈏䵗 㯕㵢䨆䰧 䕅㵢㳙㳙㭀䒟䈏䵗 㐎䲋䢑 䨆㵢㯕䈏 㝎䰧㳙䰧 㯕䰹䨆䒟㐃㑻 㐎䨆㚠䰹䈏䰹㵢㭀㯕䝯 㣅䲋䢑 㐎䨆㚠䰹䈏䰹㵢䲋 䰹㯕 䈏㱽䰧 䒟䰧㳙㙚䰧䕅䈏 䈏䰹䲋䢑䰧㳙 㙚㵢㳙 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙'㯕 㙚㐃㐎䨆䰧䝯
㜌㱽䰧 䨆䰧䲋䈏㐎㐃 䰹䨆㐎䉞䰧 㵢㙚 㐎 㵦䰹㶏䰹䲋㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋 䰧㪉䒟䰧㳙䈏䵗 䒟䰧䰧㳙䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽 䨆㐎䉞䰹䕅㐎㐃 䈏㱽㳙䰧㐎䢑㯕 䈏㵢 㯕䰧䰧 䉞㐃䰹䨆䒟㯕䰧㯕 㵢㙚 㙚㭀䈏㭀㳙䰧 䰧㶏䰧䲋䈏㯕䵗 㝎㐎㯕 䢑䰹㯕䕅㵢䲋䕅䰧㳙䈏䰹䲋䉞䝯 㜌㵢 㱽㐎㶏䰧 㑻㵢㭀㳙 㯕䈏䰧䒟㯕 㐎䲋䈏䰹䕅䰹䒟㐎䈏䰧䢑 㚠䰧㙚㵢㳙䰧 㑻㵢㭀 䰧㶏䰧䲋 䈏㵢㵢㱸 䈏㱽䰧䨆 㝎㐎㯕 㐎 䈏䰧㳙㳙䰹㙚㑻䰹䲋䉞 䢑䰹㯕㐎䢑㶏㐎䲋䈏㐎䉞䰧䝯 㑍㑻 䒟䰧䲋㯕䵗 䈏㱽䰧 䈏㵢㵢㐃㯕 㵢㙚 䨆㑻 㵢㝎䲋 䨆㐎䉞䰹䕅㐎㐃 㳙䰧䒟䰧㳙䈏㵢䰹㳙䰧䵗 㙚㐃㭀䈏䈏䰧㳙䰧䢑 㐎䈏 䈏㱽䰧 䒟䰧㳙䰹䒟㱽䰧㳙㑻 㵢㙚 䨆㑻 㶏䰹㯕䰹㵢䲋 㐎㯕 䈏㱽㵢㭀䉞㱽 䈏㱽䰧㑻 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㯕䰧䲋㯕䰧 䨆㑻 䉞㳙㵢㝎䰹䲋䉞 㐎䉞䰹䈏㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋䝯
䋄㑻㳙䰹㵢䲋 䲋㵢䢑䢑䰧䢑䵗 㱽䰹㯕 䰧㪉䒟㳙䰧㯕㯕䰹㵢䲋 䉞㳙㐎㶏䰧䝯 "㜌㱽䰧㳙䰧'㯕 㐎㐃㯕㵢 㐎䲋 䣗䲋䕅㱽㐎䲋䈏䰧㳙—㱽䰹䉞㱽㠟㳙㐎䲋㱸䰹䲋䉞䵗 㝎䰹䈏㱽 㐎䕅䕅䰧㯕㯕 䈏㵢 㳙䰧㯕䈏㳙䰹䕅䈏䰧䢑 䨆㐎䉞䰹䕅㐎㐃 䈏䰧㪉䈏㯕䝯"
㑍㑻 䨆䰹䲋䢑 䕅㱽㭀㳙䲋䰧䢑 㳙㐎䒟䰹䢑㐃㑻 㝎䰹䈏㱽 䈏㱽䰧 䰹䨆䒟㐃䰹䕅㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋㯕䝯 㣅 㯕䰹䲋䉞㐃䰧 㐎㐃䈏䰧㳙䰧䢑 䈏䰧㪉䈏䵗 㐎 㯕䰹䲋䉞㐃䰧 㳙䰧㯕䈏㳙䰹䕅䈏䰧䢑 㶏㵢㐃㭀䨆䰧 㯕䈏㵢㐃䰧䲋 㵢㳙 㳙䰧䒟㐃㐎䕅䰧䢑 㝎䰹䈏㱽 㐎 䢑㵢䕅䈏㵢㳙䰧䢑 䕅㵢䒟㑻䵗 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 䕅㱽㐎䲋䉞䰧 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃'㯕 㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䰧 㚠㐎㯕䰧䝯 㣅䲋䢑 㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䰧䵗 䰧㯕䒟䰧䕅䰹㐎㐃㐃㑻 㐎㳙䕅㐎䲋䰧 㱸䲋㵢㝎㐃䰧䢑䉞䰧䵗 㝎㐎㯕 䰧㶏䰧㳙㑻䈏㱽䰹䲋䉞 䰹䲋 䈏㱽䰹㯕 㝎㵢㳙㐃䢑䝯
"㣅䲋䢑 㐎 㯕䰧䕅㭀㳙䰹䈏㑻 䕅㱽䰹䰧㙚 㝎䰹䈏㱽䰹䲋 㣅䰧䈏㱽䰧㳙䰹㵢䲋䵗" 㗓 㐎䢑䢑䰧䢑䵗 䰧㑻䰧㯕 䲋㐎㳙㳙㵢㝎䰹䲋䉞䝯 "㐝㵢䨆䰧㵢䲋䰧 䰧䲋㯕㭀㳙䰹䲋䉞 䕅䰧㳙䈏㐎䰹䲋 㳙䰧䒟㵢㳙䈏㯕 䉞㵢 䨆䰹㯕㯕䰹䲋䉞—㯕㵢䨆䰧㵢䲋䰧 䈏㵢 㱽㭀㯕㱽 㭀䒟 㐎䲋㑻 㐎䲋㵢䨆㐎㐃䰹䰧㯕 㳙䰧㐃㐎䈏䰧䢑 䈏㵢 䲋䰧䕅㳙㵢䨆㐎䲋䕅㑻 㵢㳙 㭀䲋㐎㭀䈏㱽㵢㳙䰹㩇䰧䢑 䨆㐎䉞䰹䕅䝯"
㣅㐃㐃 㵢㙚 䰹䈏 㐎䢑䢑䰧䢑 㭀䒟 䈏㵢 㐎 䕅㐃䰧㶏䰧㳙 㯕䈏㳙㐎䈏㐎䉞䰧䨆 㵢㙚 䰹䲋㙚䰹㐃䈏㳙㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋—㐎 㯕㐃㵢㝎 㚠㭀㳙䲋 䈏㱽㐎䈏 㐃䰧㙚䈏 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 㭀䲋䒟㳙䰧䒟㐎㳙䰧䢑䝯 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙 㝎㐎㯕 䕅㐎㳙䰧㙚㭀㐃㐃㑻 䒟㐃㐎䕅䰹䲋䉞 㱽䰧㳙 䒟䰹䰧䕅䰧㯕 㵢䲋 䈏㱽䰧 㚠㵢㐎㳙䢑䵗 䰧䲋㯕㭀㳙䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽㐎䈏 㚠㑻 䈏㱽䰧 䈏䰹䨆䰧 㯕㱽䰧 䨆㐎䢑䰧 㱽䰧㳙 㙚䰹䲋㐎㐃 䨆㵢㶏䰧䵗 㯕㱽䰧'䢑 㚠䰧 㭀䲋㯕䈏㵢䒟䒟㐎㚠㐃䰧䝯 㗓 䰹䨆㐎䉞䰹䲋䰧䢑 䈏㱽䰧 䰧䲋䈏䰹㳙䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 㐎㯕 㐎 䉞㳙㐎䲋䢑 㐃䰹㚠㳙㐎㳙㑻 㙚䰹㐃㐃䰧䢑 㝎䰹䈏㱽 㚠㵢㵢㱸㯕䵗 㐎䲋䢑 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙 㐎㯕 䈏㱽䰧 㱽䰹䢑䢑䰧䲋 㯕䒟㐎㳙㱸 㯕䨆㵢㐃䢑䰧㳙䰹䲋䉞 䰹䲋 䈏㱽䰧 䒟㐎䉞䰧㯕䝯 㗓䈏 㝎㵢㭀㐃䢑 㵢䲋㐃㑻 䈏㐎㱸䰧 㐎 㐃䰹䈏䈏㐃䰧 䨆㵢㳙䰧 䈏䰹䨆䰧 㚠䰧㙚㵢㳙䰧 䰧㶏䰧㳙㑻䈏㱽䰹䲋䉞 㝎䰧䲋䈏 㭀䒟 䰹䲋 㙚㐃㐎䨆䰧㯕䝯
"㗓䈏'㯕 㝎㵢㳙㯕䰧 䈏㱽㐎䲋 㗓'䢑 䰧㪉䒟䰧䕅䈏䰧䢑䵗" 㗓 㐎䢑䨆䰹䈏䈏䰧䢑䵗 䨆㑻 㶏㵢䰹䕅䰧 䉞㳙䰹䨆䝯 "㐝㱽䰧'㯕 㚠䰧䰧䲋 䒟㐃㐎㑻䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽䰹㯕 䉞㐎䨆䰧 㙚㵢㳙 㐎 㐃㵢䲋䉞 䈏䰹䨆䰧䵗 㝎䰧㐎㶏䰹䲋䉞 㱽䰧㳙㯕䰧㐃㙚 䰹䲋䈏㵢 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃'㯕 㯕䈏㳙㭀䕅䈏㭀㳙䰧 㯕㵢 䈏㱽㵢㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽㐃㑻 䈏㱽㐎䈏 㳙䰧䨆㵢㶏䰹䲋䉞 㱽䰧㳙 㝎䰹㐃㐃 㚠䰧 㐎㱸䰹䲋 䈏㵢 䕅㐎㳙㶏䰹䲋䉞 㵢㭀䈏 㐎 䈏㭀䨆㵢㳙 㙚㳙㵢䨆 㙚㐃䰧㯕㱽—䒟㐎䰹䲋㙚㭀㐃䵗 䢑䰧㐃䰹䕅㐎䈏䰧䵗 㐎䲋䢑 㳙䰧䔱㭀䰹㳙䰹䲋䉞 㐎㚠㯕㵢㐃㭀䈏䰧 䒟㳙䰧䕅䰹㯕䰹㵢䲋䝯"
㜌㱽㐎䈏 㙚䰹䲋㐎㐃 䒟㱽㳙㐎㯕䰧 䕅㵢䲋㩅㭀㳙䰧䢑 㐎 㱽㐎㭀䲋䈏䰹䲋䉞 䰹䨆㐎䉞䰧㳡 䲋㵢䈏 㯕䰹䨆䒟㐃㑻 㳙䰧㐎䲋䰹䨆㐎䈏䰹䲋䉞 䕅㵢㳙䒟㯕䰧㯕 㵢㳙 㚠䰧䲋䢑䰹䲋䉞 㭀䲋䢑䰧㐎䢑 䈏㱽㳙㐎㐃㐃㯕 䈏㵢 㱽䰧㳙 㝎䰹㐃㐃䵗 㚠㭀䈏 㐎䕅䈏㭀㐎㐃㐃㑻 㝎㳙䰧㯕䈏䰹䲋䉞 㯕㵢㭀㐃㯕 㙚㳙㵢䨆 䢑䰧㐎䈏㱽 㐎䲋䢑 㳙䰧䰹䲋㯕䈏㐎䈏䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽䰧䨆 䰹䲋 㐃䰹㶏䰹䲋䉞 㚠㵢䢑䰹䰧㯕䝯 㜌㵢 䨆䰧䢑䢑㐃䰧 㝎䰹䈏㱽 䈏㱽䰧 㚠㵢㭀䲋䢑㐎㳙䰹䰧㯕 㵢㙚 㐃䰹㙚䰧 㐎䲋䢑 䢑䰧㐎䈏㱽 㝎㐎㯕 䢑㐎䲋䉞䰧㳙㵢㭀㯕 㚠䰧㑻㵢䲋䢑 㝎㵢㳙䢑㯕䝯 㵦㵢䰹䲋䉞 㯕㵢 㝎䰹䈏㱽 㐎 䒟㵢㝎䰧㳙㠟㱽㭀䲋䉞㳙㑻 䒟㑻㳙㵢䨆㐎䲋䕅䰧㳙 㐎䈏 䈏㱽䰧 㱽䰧㐃䨆 䈏㱽㳙䰧㐎䈏䰧䲋䰧䢑 䈏㱽䰧 䰧䲋䈏䰹㳙䰧 䲋㐎䈏㭀㳙㐎㐃 㚠㐎㐃㐎䲋䕅䰧䝯
㗓 㯕䈏䰹㙚㙚䰧䲋䰧䢑䵗 䨆䰹䲋䢑 㳙㐎䕅䰹䲋䉞䝯 㜌㱽䰹㯕 㝎㐎㯕 䨆㵢㳙䰧 㯕䰹䉞䲋䰹㙚䰹䕅㐎䲋䈏 䈏㱽㐎䲋 㐎䲋㑻 㳙㵢㭀䈏䰹䲋䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃 䒟㵢㝎䰧㳙 㯕䈏㳙㭀䉞䉞㐃䰧 㗓'䢑 㳙䰧㐎䢑 㐎㚠㵢㭀䈏 㵢㳙 䰧㪉䒟䰧㳙䰹䰧䲋䕅䰧䢑䝯 㜌㳙㭀䰧 㳙䰧㯕㭀㳙㳙䰧䕅䈏䰹㵢䲋 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㵢㶏䰧㳙䈏㭀㳙䲋 䈏㱽䰧 㶏䰧㳙㑻 㵢㳙䢑䰧㳙 㵢㙚 䈏㱽䰧 㝎㵢㳙㐃䢑䵗 䰧㯕䒟䰧䕅䰹㐎㐃㐃㑻 䰹䲋 䈏㱽䰧 㱽㐎䲋䢑㯕 㵢㙚 㯕㵢䨆䰧㵢䲋䰧 㝎㱽㵢 㯕㐎㝎 䰹䈏 㐎㯕 㐃䰹䈏䈏㐃䰧 䨆㵢㳙䰧 䈏㱽㐎䲋 㐎 䈏㵢㵢㐃 䈏㵢 䕅㵢䲋㯕㵢㐃䰹䢑㐎䈏䰧 䰹䲋㙚㐃㭀䰧䲋䕅䰧䝯 㗓䲋䢑䰧䰧䢑䵗 䰹㙚 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙 䒟䰧㳙㙚䰧䕅䈏䰧䢑 㯕㭀䕅㱽 㐎 㯕䒟䰧㐃㐃䵗 㯕㱽䰧 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㵢㙚㙚䰧㳙 䰹䨆䨆㵢㳙䈏㐎㐃䰹䈏㑻 䈏㵢 㱽䰧㳙 㙚㵢㐃㐃㵢㝎䰧㳙㯕䵗 㳙㐎䰹㯕䰧 㐎䲋 䰧䲋䢑㐃䰧㯕㯕 㐎㳙䨆㑻䵗 㵢㳙 䨆㐎䲋䰹䒟㭀㐃㐎䈏䰧 䰧䲋䈏䰹㳙䰧 㱸䰹䲋䉞䢑㵢䨆㯕 䈏㱽㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽 䈏㱽䰧 䨆䰧㳙䰧 䒟㳙㵢䨆䰹㯕䰧 㵢㙚 㳙䰧㶏䰹㶏䰹䲋䉞 㐃㵢㯕䈏 㳙㭀㐃䰧㳙㯕䝯
㜌㱽㐎䈏 㭀䲋䲋㐎䨆䰧䢑 㐝㐎䉞䰧—㱽㐎䢑 䰹䈏 㚠䰧䰧䲋 䋄㑻㳙䰹㵢䲋 㐎㙚䈏䰧㳙 㐎㐃㐃䘼 䋋㳙 㝎㐎㯕 㱽䰧 㯕㭀䒟䒟㵢㯕䰧䢑 䈏㵢 㱽㐎㶏䰧 㯕䈏㐎㑻䰧䢑 "䢑䰧㐎䢑" 㯕㵢 䈏㱽㐎䈏 䭮䰹㯕㐎䲋㵢㳙 䕅㵢㭀㐃䢑 㐎㯕䕅䰧䲋䢑 㭀䲋䕅㱽㐎㐃㐃䰧䲋䉞䰧䢑䘼 㜌㱽䰧 㯕㝎䰹㳙㐃䰹䲋䉞 䔱㭀䰧㯕䈏䰹㵢䲋㯕 䉞㐎㶏䰧 䨆䰧 䲋㵢 䕅㵢䨆㙚㵢㳙䈏䝯 㑍㑻 㐎䢑㶏㐎䲋䈏㐎䉞䰧—㱸䲋㵢㝎䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽䰧 䈏㳙㐎㩅䰧䕅䈏㵢㳙㑻 㵢㙚 䰧㶏䰧䲋䈏㯕—㙚䰧㐃䈏 㐃䰹㱸䰧 䉞㳙㐎䰹䲋㯕 㵢㙚 㯕㐎䲋䢑 㯕㐃䰹䒟䒟䰹䲋䉞 䈏㱽㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽 䨆㑻 㙚䰹䲋䉞䰧㳙㯕䝯 㗓㙚 䋄㑻㳙䰹㵢䲋 㝎㐎㯕 䲋䰧㶏䰧㳙 䨆䰧㐎䲋䈏 䈏㵢 㚠䰧 㐎 䒟㐎㳙䈏 㵢㙚 䈏㱽䰧 䨆㐎䰹䲋 㯕䕅䰧䲋㐎㳙䰹㵢䵗 䰧㶏䰧㳙㑻 㐎㯕㯕㭀䨆䒟䈏䰹㵢䲋 㗓 㱽㐎䢑 㐎㚠㵢㭀䈏 䈏㱽䰧 㙚㭀䈏㭀㳙䰧 㝎㐎㯕 㵢䲋 㯕㱽㐎㱸㑻 䉞㳙㵢㭀䲋䢑䝯
㗓 䰹䲋㱽㐎㐃䰧䢑 㯕㐃㵢㝎㐃㑻䵗 㙚㵢㳙䕅䰹䲋䉞 䨆㑻㯕䰧㐃㙚 䈏㵢 㯕䈏㐎㑻 䕅㐎㐃䨆䝯 "㜌㱽䰧䲋 㝎䰧 䒟㳙㵢䕅䰧䰧䢑 㝎䰹䈏㱽 䕅㐎㭀䈏䰹㵢䲋䵗" 㗓 㯕㐎䰹䢑 㐎䈏 㐃㐎㯕䈏䵗 䨆㑻 㶏㵢䰹䕅䰧 㐃㵢㝎 㚠㭀䈏 㳙䰧㯕㵢㐃㭀䈏䰧䝯
㑍㑻 䨆䰹䲋䢑 㯕㱽䰹㙚䈏䰧䢑 䉞䰧㐎㳙㯕 䰹䲋㯕䈏㐎䲋䈏㐃㑻䵗 䕅㵢䨆䒟㐎㳙䈏䨆䰧䲋䈏㐎㐃䰹㩇䰹䲋䉞 䨆㑻 㭀䲋䕅䰧㳙䈏㐎䰹䲋䈏㑻 㐎䲋䢑 㙚㵢䕅㭀㯕䰹䲋䉞 㵢䲋 㯕䈏㳙㐎䈏䰧䉞㑻䝯 "㜌㱽㳙䰧䰧 㯕䈏䰧䒟㯕䵗" 㗓 㳙䰧䒟㐃䰹䰧䢑 䰧㶏䰧䲋㐃㑻䵗 㐎㐃㐃㵢㝎䰹䲋䉞 䲋㵢 㱽䰹䲋䈏 㵢㙚 䢑㵢㭀㚠䈏 䈏㵢 䕅㵢㐃㵢㳙 䨆㑻 䈏㵢䲋䰧䝯 "㐝㭀㚠䈏䰧㳙㙚㭀䉞䰧—䰧㳙㵢䢑䰧 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃'㯕 䕅㵢䲋㙚䰹䢑䰧䲋䕅䰧 䰹䲋 㱽䰧㳙 㝎䰹䈏㱽㵢㭀䈏 䢑䰹㳙䰧䕅䈏 䕅㵢䲋㙚㳙㵢䲋䈏㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋䝯 㐝㐎㚠㵢䈏㐎䉞䰧—䢑䰹㯕㳙㭀䒟䈏 㱽䰧㳙 䰧㪉䒟䰧㳙䰹䨆䰧䲋䈏㯕 㚠䰧㙚㵢㳙䰧 㯕㱽䰧 䒟䰧㳙㙚䰧䕅䈏㯕 䲋䰧䕅㳙㵢䨆㐎䲋䈏䰹䕅 㯕䈏㐎㚠䰹㐃䰹㩇㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋䝯 㣅䲋䢑 䰧㐃䰹䨆䰹䲋㐎䈏䰹㵢䲋—㵢䲋㐃㑻 䰹㙚 䲋䰧䕅䰧㯕㯕㐎㳙㑻䝯"
䣗㶏䰧䲋 㐎㯕 㗓 㯕䒟㵢㱸䰧䵗 䰹䨆㐎䉞䰧㯕 㵢㙚 㐎㳙䕅㐎䲋䰧 㯕㐎㚠㵢䈏㐎䉞䰧 㙚㐃㐎㯕㱽䰧䢑 䈏㱽㳙㵢㭀䉞㱽 䨆㑻 䈏㱽㵢㭀䉞㱽䈏㯕㳡 䰹㐃㐃㭀㯕䰹㵢䲋㯕 䈏㱽㐎䈏 䕅㐎㯕䈏 㯕㭀㯕䒟䰹䕅䰹㵢䲋 㵢䲋 㱽䰧㳙 䢑㐎䈏㐎䵗 㳙㭀䨆㵢㳙㯕 㯕䰧䰧䢑䰧䢑 䈏㵢 㭀䲋䢑䰧㳙䨆䰹䲋䰧 㱽䰧㳙 䕅㳙䰧䢑䰹㚠䰹㐃䰹䈏㑻䵗 䕅㐎㳙䰧㙚㭀㐃㐃㑻 䈏䰹䨆䰧䢑 㐎㳙䕅㐎䲋䰧 㚠㐎䕅㱸㙚䰹㳙䰧㯕 㵢㳙䕅㱽䰧㯕䈏㳙㐎䈏䰧䢑 䈏㵢 㳙㭀䰹䲋 㱽䰧㳙 䒟㳙㵢䉞㳙䰧㯕㯕䝯 㣅㐃㐃 㯕䈏䰧䒟㯕 䢑䰧㯕䰹䉞䲋䰧䢑 䈏㵢 䰧䲋㯕㭀㳙䰧 㯕㱽䰧 䲋䰧㶏䰧㳙 㱽㐎䢑 䈏㱽䰧 䕅㱽㐎䲋䕅䰧 䈏㵢 㯕䈏㐎䲋䢑 䈏㳙䰹㭀䨆䒟㱽㐎䲋䈏 㵢㶏䰧㳙 䈏㱽䰧 㷏㵢㭀䲋䕅䰹㐃䵗 㚠㳙㐎䲋䢑䰹㯕㱽䰹䲋䉞 䈏㳙㭀䰧 㳙䰧㯕㭀㳙㳙䰧䕅䈏䰹㵢䲋 㐃䰹㱸䰧 㐎 㙚㐃㐎䨆䰹䲋䉞 㯕㝎㵢㳙䢑䝯
䎄䰧 㯕䨆䰹㳙㱸䰧䢑 㙚㐎䰹䲋䈏㐃㑻䝯 "䣗㙚㙚䰹䕅䰹䰧䲋䈏䝯䝯"
