The sun set in the west, scattering light and shadows. Everyone stood on the edge of the mountain region, being blown by the wind of February, which was neither cold nor hot. Marching on the tropical highlands was relatively easy, and there was little need for warmth, so the baggage was not overly burdensome.
Where Xiulote's gaze reached, the sky bore faint traces of marching dust. Even though more than half a month had passed, the procession escorting the captured Tekos still stretched endlessly, winding out from the southwestern mountains. Upon closer inspection, those exiting the mountains had grown increasingly emaciated, clearly having marched for a long time.
The King pondered for a moment, then spoke softly.
"Ezpan," he once said, "if you can bring in a hundred thousand people, you would be the foremost contributor to the southern campaign! Now, how many have you gathered?"
