Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World - Chapter 679

Capítulo 679: Banquet [2]

A short while later, a carriage rolled to a smooth stop before the grand palace hall. Lanterns shaped like floating stars drifted in the air, illuminating the marble steps leading to the entrance.

Michael stepped out first, offering his hand to Arianne. She accepted with practiced grace, and together they walked toward the towering golden doors as attendants bowed deeply.

The moment the doors opened, a wave of warm light, soft music, and refined perfume washed over them.

Yet the instant Michael stepped inside, his expression barely shifted—but internally, he felt suffocated.

Everything looked elegant. The chandeliers, the polished floors, the expensive gowns, the noble families gathered in circles of influence.

But beneath the beauty, he sensed it.

Superficiality.

Layers and layers of it.

He watched nobles greet each other with wide smiles that never touched their eyes. Laughter that sounded rehearsed. Compliments that were empty air. Conversations filled only with posturing and politics.

It all felt so fake that even the polite smiles looked distorted.

Michael slowed slightly, unable to hide the faint crease in his brows.

Arianne noticed.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered.

Michael shook his head lightly.

“Nothing. Just… taking in the atmosphere.”

He kept his voice calm, but inwardly, he was already growing tired of the charade around him.

Compared to the raw, brutal honesty of Hell—even with demons trying to tear each other apart—this hall felt far more suffocating.

At least demons did not pretend.

A passing noblewoman gave Arianne a practiced smile before turning to Michael with a far too interested gaze.

Michael returned a polite nod.

Arianne leaned closer, whispering, “Welcome to the royal capital’s high society.”

Michael exhaled quietly.

“Unfortunately.”

Together, they stepped deeper into the banquet hall, all eyes slowly turning their way.

As they walked, Arianne’s eyes flicked around the hall, recognizing faces Michael did not.

After a moment, she leaned slightly toward him.

“Sir Mic,” she said softly, “I need to go greet a few people. Some are my father’s old friends, and it would be rude not to say hello.”

Michael nodded. “Do what you need to.”

Arianne smiled, relieved he understood.

“I won’t take long,” she promised. Then, with a subtle tug on his arm, she guided him toward a quieter corner of the hall.

There, an elegant refreshment table stretched out—crystal glasses neatly arranged beside trays of sparkling drinks, silver plates stacked next to dishes of roasted meats, fruits, and delicacies only nobles could afford.

“You can stay here for a bit,” Arianne said, gesturing gently to the table. “Serve yourself whatever you like. No one will bother you here.”

Michael glanced at the setup.

Food, drinks, a bit of peace.

Not bad.

“I’ll be back soon,” Arianne said. “Don’t disappear.”

“I’ll stay here.”

Arianne nodded once more and then drifted away gracefully, her presence quickly swallowed by the shifting clusters of nobles.

Left alone, Michael reached for a plate and added a mix of food inside and without bothering about his surroundings, started to enjoy the food.

As Michael quietly enjoyed the moment of silence he’d been gifted, savoring the rare peace of a hall filled with noise, a soft voice drifted from his left.

“…Sir Mic?”

His hand paused mid-reach.

That voice was familiar.

He turned his head, scanning the space beside him—and his eyes widened ever so slightly.

Standing only a few steps away, looking just as surprised as he felt, was a face he had not seen in a very long time.

The first noble lady he had ever met in the Land of Origin.

Seria Golden.

The youngest daughter of the Golden Family—the family whose residence he had stayed in for a short while when waiting to meet Mage Lian.

Her hair was styled in soft curls tonight, her dress a pale cream embroidered with delicate gold threads that caught the light beautifully. She looked older in a subtle way—not in age, but in poise. More refined, more composed than the bright, curious girl he remembered.

Yet her eyes…

Those still held the same spark.

“Sir Mic… it really is you,” Seria said, a slow smile forming on her lips.

Michael blinked once, the memory of the Golden estate flickering through his mind.

“Lady Seria,” he said calmly. “It has been a while.”

Her smile widened, a mix of surprise and genuine warmth.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said softly. Then her gaze swept over him again, slower this time. “And… you look very different from before. The suit suits you incredibly well.”

Michael gave a polite nod.

“Thank you. You look fine yourself.”

“Seria raised an eyebrow, lips tugging upward.

“It’s good to see you again,” Michael said simply. “I didn’t know I’d meet you here.”

Her eyes sharpened instantly.

“Oh?” she said, a spark of mock offense lighting up her face. “Why? Did you think someone like me doesn’t belong in a place like this?”

Michael paused.

Then, slowly, he gave her a look that was half-exasperated, half-amused.

“I never said that.”

“But you thought it,” Seria shot back, chin lifting in the same spirited way he remembered from their first meeting. “You hesitated before answering.”

“That’s because you’re putting words in my mouth,” Michael replied calmly.

Seria clicked her tongue softly.

But her expression brightened again almost immediately. She lifted her chin with exaggerated elegance, placing a hand on her hip in a way that was clearly meant to look dignified but ended up looking more like a puffed-up cat trying to act regal.

“Well,” she declared, “I might not be as popular as some of the noble ladies here tonight… but I do have a standing.”

Michael stared at her for a heartbeat.

Seria held the pose, head lifted proudly, chest forward, trying so hard to look imposing that even the golden embroidery on her dress seemed to stand straighter with her.

It was—despite her best efforts—unmistakably adorable.

A quiet laugh escaped Michael before he could stop it.

Seria’s eyes widened.

“What? What is that look? Why are you smiling like that?”

櫓

蘆

櫓

魯

㑞㗂㤙㙫

老

盧

㼕㺈䉨㣨㗂㑞㤙

盧

㤙䋵䫪㦩䋵

䫪㩺㱲㼕㟃㼕䋵

擄

䉨㤙䫪

盧”㨡㫛䉨䫪䒐䋵㫛㤙䉨䒐䗮㖜” 㤙㑞䫪㗂䉨㙫㖜㫛㤙㑞䫪䧓䉨㼕㑞㼕䉨䒐䗮㑞䪙䉨䒐䗮㩺

“䞢䋵䎰㗂䪙㑞䧓㑞㗂䒐㖜䉔䉨䪙㺈䉨㣨㩺”

䉨㙫㙫

㑞㗂㩺䎰䪙䗮

䒐䋵㫛

㺈㼕㣨䉨㤙㗂㑞

㨡䒐䫪㫛㑞㗂㙫㖜㤙㑞䗮㑞䒐㫛㼕㟃䫪㑞㫛㫛㤙㑞㶦㼕㗂㫛㑞㙫䋵㱲䒐㖜㼕䉨䀙㫛㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪䗮㗂䀥㑞㫛䋵㤙㑞䪙䫪㖜㗂䒐㙫䫪㶦䋵㦩㑞䉨䒐㤙䉨䫪䎰䫪䎰㗂㼕㣨㗂㼕䧓㫛䋵䒐㑞㩺

“䪻䋵䎰㼕㙫㟃䋵䎰㼕䉨㦩㑞㫛䋵䌰䋵䉨䒐䧓㑞䀙䋵䪙㗂㙫䪙䉨䒐㦩㖜䎺㗂㙫㟃䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㜢”

䪙㑞㤙

䎰㙫䋵㼕㱲

㣨䉨㑞䋵㠣

“㨡㫛

㼕㑞䒐䗮㫛㗂㑞

䋵䀙

䋵䀙㼕㖜䪙㗂䧓

䋵䋵㤙䪙䒐㑞㙫

䀙㑞䎰”䪙㩺䫪㑞

㙫䉨䪙䋵㶦㶦䒐䗮

㑞䧓

“䋵㖜㫛

㫛䋵

䎰㱲㙫㼕䋵

㑞䒐䋵㫛㩺

㫛䒐䋵䉨

㨡”

㑞䪙䉔㗂䉨

㑞㠂

㙫㖜㗂䫪䉨

㗂

䧓㶦䋵䪙䉨㶦㑞䪙

㑞㠂

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䒐䋵㙫㙫㑞㙫㗂䒐㙫䗮㑞䫪㫛䎰䪙㑞㙫㫛䋵㱲㗂䪙㙫㗂䫪㫛㗂䒐㙫䉨䒐䗮䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㫛䋵㠂䪙䉨䒐䗮䫪䋵䧓㑞㙫䪙䉨䒐㦩䫪㩺

㑎㤙㑞䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㗂㶦㶦䪙䋵㗂㣨㤙㑞㙫㱲䉨㫛㤙㶦䪙㗂㣨㫛䉨㣨㑞㙫㑞㼕㑞䗮㗂䒐㣨㑞㖜㠂䋵㱲䉨䒐䗮䫪㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛㼕㟃㗂䫪㤙㑞㶦䪙㑞䫪㑞䒐㫛㑞㙫㫛㱲䋵㣨䪙㟃䫪㫛㗂㼕䗮㼕㗂䫪䫪㑞䫪䀙䉨㼕㼕㑞㙫㱲䉨㫛㤙㗂㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛䗮䋵㼕㙫㑞䒐㱲䉨䒐㑞㩺

䉨㼕㤙㑞㗂㺈㣨

㫛䉨

㗂䒐㙫

㫛䋵

㫛䋵㦩䋵

㱲䉨㤙㫛

㶦㗂㑞㑞㣨㣨㫛㙫

䫪㼕䫪䗮㗂

㙫㗂㤙䒐䫪㩺

䋵㤙㱲

㑞㤙䪙䋵㫛

㤙㠂䋵㫛

㗂䫪㶦㙫䫪㑞

㤙㫛㑞

㗂㖜㑞䉨䉔䪙

䋵䒐㑞

“㑎㤙㗂䒐㦩㟃䋵䎰㖜” 䫪㤙㑞䫪㗂䉨㙫㖜䗮䉨㠣䉨䒐䗮㫛㤙㑞䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㗂㶦䋵㼕䉨㫛㑞䒐䋵㙫㠂㑞䀙䋵䪙㑞㤙㑞䫪㫛㑞㶦㶦㑞㙫㗂㱲㗂㟃㩺

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㼕䉨䀙㫛㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪䗮㼕㗂䫪䫪㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛㼕㟃㩺

㑞䉨㗂䉔䪙

㑞䪙㙫䋵䪙䪙䉨䧓

㤙㖜䉨䧓

㤙㑞䪙

㟃㑞䫪㑞

䉨䪙㠂㤙㩺䗮㫛

“䉔䋵㖜” 䫪㤙㑞㠂㑞䗮㗂䒐㩺

“䉔䋵㖜” 㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䫪㗂䉨㙫㗂㫛㫛㤙㑞䫪㗂䧓㑞㫛䉨䧓㑞㩺

㤙㰠㫛䋵

䫪㙫㩺䎰㗂㑞㶦

䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㼕㗂䎰䗮㤙㑞㙫䫪䋵䀙㫛㼕㟃㩺 “䞢䋵䎰䗮䋵䀙䉨䪙䫪㫛㩺”

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䉨䒐㣨㼕䉨䒐㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪㤙㑞㗂㙫㩺 “㨡㱲㗂䫪䋵䒐㼕㟃䗮䋵䉨䒐䗮㫛䋵㗂䫪㦩㤙䋵㱲㟃䋵䎰㤙㗂㠣㑞㠂㑞㑞䒐䫪䉨䒐㣨㑞㱲㑞㼕㗂䫪㫛䧓㑞㫛㩺”

䉨㤙䫪

㨡

㺈㣨䎰”㤙

㫛㠂㑞㫛㑞䪙

㑞䋵㩺䪙㠂䀙㑞

㑞㼕㫛㼕

‘䫪䉨䉔㑞㗂䪙

㫛㟃㣨䫪䉨㑞䉨䒐䪙

㤙㑞㫛

㗂㫛

䶆䒐㙫

䒐㗂㫛㤙

䋵㫛

䒐䉨

䫪㫛䋵㑞䒐㑞㙫䀙

㫛㩺䋵㑞䒐

“䋵㟃䎰

㫛㑞㗂㱲䒐㙫

䧓䫪䉨㼕㑞

䉔㤙㑞䫪㫛䋵㶦㶦㑞㙫䧓䉨㙫䒇䫪㑞䒐㫛㑞䒐㣨㑞㩺

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㠂㼕䉨䒐㦩㑞㙫㩺

䒐䋵

㗂㑞䗮䀥

㩺䧓㤙䉨

䋵䒐

‘䉨㑞䉔䪙㗂䫪

䪙䒐䋵㑞㼕䗮

䫪㱲㗂

㨡㫛㱲㗂䫪㼕䋵㣨㦩㑞㙫㶦㗂䫪㫛㤙䉨䫪䫪㤙䋵䎰㼕㙫㑞䪙㩺

㰠㑞䀙䋵䪙㑞㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㣨䋵䎰㼕㙫㫛䎰䪙䒐㖜㤙㑞㗂㼕䪙㑞㗂㙫㟃䫪㑞䒐䫪㑞㙫䉨㫛㩺

㗂㫛㑎㤙

䧓㗂䪙㗂䉨㼕䀙䉨

䒐㩺㑞䪙㑞㑞㣨㶦䫪

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞㩺

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䫪㼕䋵㱲㼕㟃䫪㤙䉨䀙㫛㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪㤙㑞㗂㙫㫛䋵㫛㤙㑞䫪䉨㙫㑞㩺

㑞䒐䋵㠣䧓䮪䪙䋵

䋵䋵㙫㫛䫪

㑞㤙㫛䪙㩺㑞

䪙䶆㗂䉨䒐䒐㑞

㖝㑞䪙㤙㗂䉨䪙䗮㼕䉨䧓䧓㑞䪙㑞㙫䎰䒐㙫㑞䪙㫛㤙㑞㤙㗂㼕㼕’䫪㱲㗂䪙䧓㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛䫪㩺

㖝㑞䪙㑞㟃㑞䫪㖜㤙䋵㱲㑞㠣㑞䪙㖜㱲㑞䪙㑞䀙䉨䧌㑞㙫䀙䉨䪙䧓㼕㟃䋵䒐䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㷤䋵㼕㙫㑞䒐㩺

㗂㑞䉨䪙䉔

㤙䪙㑞

㱲䋵㤙

㗂䒐㙫

㑞㤙䉔

㫛䋵

㼕䪙䉨㗂㑞䀥㑞

㫛䫪䉨㤙

㑞㑞䫪㙫㑞䧓

䋵㦩㙫㼕㩺䋵㑞

㗂

䒐㑞㱲䗮䋵㼕䪙䉨

䗮䫪㼕㗂䫪

䡧䎰㖜㦩㼕䉨㣨㟃

䪙䋵䗮䀙㑞䉨䀙䒐

㩺䋵㠂㱲

䉨㑞㗂䗮䪙㫛㫛㙫䫪㤙䒐㑞

㫛㫛㼕㼕䉨㑞

䋵㶦㼕㫛䉨㑞

“㖗䪙䉨䒐㣨㑞䫪䫪䮪㠣㑞䪙䧓䋵䋵䒐㖜” 䫪㤙㑞䫪㗂䉨㙫㖜㤙㑞䪙㠣䋵䉨㣨㑞䫪䎰㙫㙫㑞䒐㼕㟃䀙䋵䪙䧓㗂㼕㩺 “㷤䋵䋵㙫㑞㠣㑞䒐䉨䒐䗮㩺”

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞䪙㑞㫛䎰䪙䒐㑞㙫㫛㤙㑞䗮㑞䫪㫛䎰䪙㑞㱲䉨㫛㤙㶦㑞䪙䀙㑞㣨㫛䒐䋵㠂㼕㑞䗮䪙㗂㣨㑞㖜㫛㤙䋵䎰䗮㤙㤙㑞䪙㑞䧌㶦䪙㑞䫪䫪䉨䋵䒐㤙㑞㼕㙫㗂䫪䎰㠂㫛㼕㑞䀙䉨䪙䧓䒐㑞䫪䫪㩺

㑞䒐㠣䉨䒐䗮㑞

㟃䎺㙫㗂”

䋵䎰㟃

㗂䫪

㫛䋵

㙫㷤”䋵䋵

䫪㤙㑞

㖜䪙㑞”䉔㗂䉨

䫪㙫㗂䉨

“㼕㱲㼕㩺㑞

㟃㩺㫛䗮䒐㼕㑞

㑎㤙㑞䒐䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞’䫪䗮㗂䀥㑞䫪㤙䉨䀙㫛㑞㙫㫛䋵㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㩺

“䉔䉨䪙㺈䉨㣨㩺”

䋵㫛䋵

䒐㤙㫛䉨

䋵䗮㩺䒐”㑞

䒐䋵㫛

㤙㑞䋵㶦

䫪㗂㱲

㑞㼕㤙㱲䉨

㙫䉨㙫

㤙㑞㫛

㑞㖝䪙

䋵㟃䎰

㫛㤙㑞

䪙㑞㑞㱲

䋵䀙

㫛䋵㑞䒐

䋵䒐㫛

䪙䋵㠂㑞㙫

㱲㑞䋵䪙

㨡

㟃㑞㫛

㤙䫪㑞

㑞㑞㟃㩺䫪

䒐䉨

䋵㫛䫪䀙㖜

㙫㑞㤙䉨

“㨡

㑞㤙䪙

䫪䧓䉨㼕㑞

㫛䉨㑞㫛㼕㼕

㑞䫪㶦䫪䒐㤙㗂䫪䪙

㱲㗂䫪

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䫪㤙䋵䋵㦩㤙䉨䫪㤙㑞㗂㙫㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛㼕㟃㩺 “䪁䋵㫛㗂㫛㗂㼕㼕㩺”

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞’䫪㑞㟃㑞䫪㙫䪙䋵㶦㶦㑞㙫㠂䪙䉨㑞䀙㼕㟃㫛䋵㫛㤙㑞㫛㱲䋵䗮㼕㗂䫪䫪㑞䫪䋵䀙㱲䉨䒐㑞㩺

㑎㤙㑞䒐

䉨㑞㗂䪙䉔㩺

䋵㫛

㑎㤙㑞䒐㠂㗂㣨㦩㫛䋵㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㩺

“㨡䫪㑞㑞㟃䋵䎰䀙䋵䎰䒐㙫㣨䋵䧓㶦㗂䒐㟃㩺”

㑞䪙㤙

䎰㫛䌰䫪

㩺㼕䎰䉨㣨㦩㟃䡧

䉨㼕㙫䀙㑞䒐㣨㤙

䒐䋵㶦㑞㑞㙫

㗂䒐㙫

㫛䉨㼕㼕㫛㑞

㫛䋵䎰㤙䧓

䉨㗂䪙䉔㑞

㗂

“㷔㤙㖜䒐䋵㖜㖗䪙䉨䒐㣨㑞䫪䫪㖜䉨㫛㱲㗂䫪䒐䋵㫛㫛㤙㗂㫛㩺㨡䧓㑞㗂䒐㖜䉔䉨䪙㺈䉨㣨䋵䒐㼕㟃䉨䒐㠣䉨㫛㑞㙫䧓㑞䀙䋵䪙㗂㙫䪙䉨䒐㦩㠂㑞㣨㗂䎰䫪㑞㱲㑞㤙㗂㙫䒐䋵㫛䫪㑞㑞䒐㑞㗂㣨㤙䋵㫛㤙㑞䪙䉨䒐㗂㼕䋵䒐䗮㫛䉨䧓㑞㩺䪁䋵㫛㤙䉨䒐䗮䉨䧓㶦䪙䋵㶦㑞䪙㩺”

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䪙㗂䉨䫪㑞㙫㗂䒐㑞㟃㑞㠂䪙䋵㱲㗂㫛㤙㑞䪙䫪䎰㙫㙫㑞䒐㶦㗂䒐䉨㣨㩺

㗂䶆䒐’䒐䪙䉨䫪㑞

䉨䫪㼕㶦

㣨㠣㑞䎰䪙㙫㩺

“㨡㙫䉨㙫䒐䋵㫛䫪㗂㟃㗂䒐㟃㫛㤙䉨䒐䗮㱲㗂䫪䉨䧓㶦䪙䋵㶦㑞䪙㖜” 䫪㤙㑞䪙㑞㶦㼕䉨㑞㙫㣨㗂㼕䧓㼕㟃㩺

䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂䀙䪙䋵䀥㑞㩺

䉨㠂䉨䒐㼕㠣䉨㑞䫪

䋵䫪㑞䒐䉨䒐㫛

䒐㗂

㦩㑞䉨㼕

䪙㶦㱲㗂

㤙㺈㑞㗂䉨㼕㣨

䧓㫛㤙㑞

㫛㤙㑞

㠂䒐㑞䒐䗮䒐䗮䉨䉨

䉨㙫㣨㑞䋵䒐㫛

㫛䋵

䀙䋵

㫛㑞㤙

㤙䪙㑞㫛㑞

䎰䒐㙫䋵㗂䪙

䪙䋵㩺㑞㶦

㖝㑞㫛䋵䋵㦩㗂䫪䧓㗂㼕㼕䫪䉨㶦䋵䀙㤙䉨䫪㱲䉨䒐㑞㖜㫛㤙㑞䒐㼕䋵䋵㦩㑞㙫㗂㫛䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞㱲䉨㫛㤙㗂㣨㗂㼕䧓㑞䧌㶦䪙㑞䫪䫪䉨䋵䒐㩺

“㨡㱲㗂䫪㣨㗂㫛㣨㤙䉨䒐䗮䎰㶦㱲䉨㫛㤙䎺㗂㙫㟃䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㖜” 㤙㑞䫪㗂䉨㙫䫪䉨䧓㶦㼕㟃㩺 “䞢䋵䎰㣨㗂䧓㑞㗂㫛㫛㤙㑞䪙䉨䗮㤙㫛㫛䉨䧓㑞㩺”

㑞䶆䉨䒐䫪䒐㗂䪙’

䪙㑞㼕䧌㗂㑞㙫

䪙㙫䫪㑞䫪䎰㤙䋵㼕

㫛䉨㟃䫪㼕㤙㩺䗮㼕

䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㼕㑞㫛䋵䎰㫛㗂㠂䪙㑞㗂㫛㤙䫪㤙㑞㣨㼕㑞㗂䪙㼕㟃㙫䉨㙫䒐䋵㫛㦩䒐䋵㱲䫪㤙㑞㤙㗂㙫㠂㑞㑞䒐㤙䋵㼕㙫䉨䒐䗮㩺

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㣨䋵䒐㫛䉨䒐䎰㑞㙫㩺

䗮䫪㼕㗂䫪

䫪㗂

䋵䎰㟃

䉔㼕㗂㼕”㤙

㑞㼕㼕㱲㜢”

㨡

㑞䗮㫛

㗂

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞䗮㼕㗂䒐㣨㑞㙫㗂㫛㫛㤙㑞㱲䉨䒐㑞㠂㑞㫛㱲㑞㑞䒐㤙䉨䫪䀙䉨䒐䗮㑞䪙䫪㖜㫛㤙㑞䒐㗂㫛䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㤙䋵㼕㙫䉨䒐䗮㤙㑞䪙䫪㩺

㖝㑞䪙䫪䧓䉨㼕㑞䫪䋵䀙㫛㑞䒐㑞㙫㗂㼕䉨㫛㫛㼕㑞㩺

㑞㼕䉨㦩

㼕䎰㙫䋵㱲

䉨㗂䫪㙫㩺

㤙䫪㑞

“㨡

㫛㤙”㗂㖜㫛

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䗮㑞䫪㫛䎰䪙㑞㙫㫛䋵㫛㤙㑞䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㗂䗮㗂䉨䒐㩺

䶆䫪㫛㤙㑞䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㤙䎰䪙䪙䉨㑞㙫䋵㠣㑞䪙㖜䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂䫪㤙䉨䀙㫛㑞㙫㗂㱲㦩㱲㗂䪙㙫㼕㟃㖜㫛㤙㑞䒐㣨㼕㑞㗂䪙㑞㙫㤙㑞䪙㫛㤙䪙䋵㗂㫛䡧䎰䉨㑞㫛㼕㟃㩺

㨡

㑞䉨䪙”㖗㖜䫪䒐㣨䫪

䉔䉨䪙

㗂㙫㩺㦩䫪㑞

㤙㑞䫪

㠣䗮䉨㑞

䎰䫪䋵㤙㼕㙫

䋵㫛㱲

㺈䉨㖜㣨

䋵䎰㟃

䋵䫪㑞䧓

“㗂㶦㣨䫪㜢㑞

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞㫛䎰䪙䒐㑞㙫㫛䋵㤙㑞䪙㱲䉨㫛㤙䫪䎰䪙㶦䪙䉨䫪䉨䒐䗮㶦䋵䉨䫪㑞㩺

“㑎㤙㗂㫛㱲䉨㼕㼕䒐䋵㫛㠂㑞䒐㑞㣨㑞䫪䫪㗂䪙㟃㖜” 䫪㤙㑞䪙㑞㶦㼕䉨㑞㙫㩺 “䪻㑞㗂䪙㑞䫪䉨䧓㶦㼕㟃㑞䒐䌰䋵㟃䉨䒐䗮㗂㙫䪙䉨䒐㦩㩺”

㗂㱲㟃

㗂

䉔㗂䪙㑞䉨

㑞䫪㤙

䒐䋵㫛

䧓㗂㙫㑞

㑞䫪㤙

㤙䪙㑞

㗂

䗮䋵㙫䋵

㤙䉨䗮㫛䒐

㗂䫪㱲

㙫㤙㑞㼕

䉨㫛

䋵㫛䋵

㼕䗮䫪㗂䫪

㫛㗂㤙㫛

㫛㑞㤙

㼕䉨㟃㫛䗮㫛㤙

㼕䪙㑞㗂㣨

䫪㱲㗂

䋵䪙

䋵䒐㩺㫛

䉨䀙

㙫䒐㖜㑞㙫㙫䋵

㤙䗮㫛㤙䋵䎰

䉨㠂㫛

䪙䎰䫪㑞

䎰䌰㫛䫪

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㖜䧓㑞㗂䒐㱲㤙䉨㼕㑞㖜㼕䋵䋵㦩㑞㙫㠂㑞㫛㱲㑞㑞䒐㫛㤙㑞㫛㱲䋵㱲䋵䧓㑞䒐㖜䋵䒐㑞㑞䧓㠂㗂䪙䪙㗂䫪䫪㑞㙫㗂䒐㙫䀙㼕䎰䫪㫛㑞䪙㑞㙫㖜㫛㤙㑞䋵㫛㤙㑞䪙㣨䋵䧓㶦䋵䫪㑞㙫㠂䎰㫛䫪㤙㗂䪙㶦㩺

䶆䒐㙫㤙㑞㱲䋵䒐㙫㑞䪙㑞㙫䄦

㟃䪻㤙

㑞㙫㼕㙫䎰䫪䒐㟃

䒐㤙㫛㗂

䋵㙫䫪㑞

㜢㖝㼕㼕㑞

㤙㫛䉨䫪

㑞䋵䧓䪙

㗂䪙䒐㙫䗮䎰㑞䫪䋵

䀙㼕㑞㑞

㿾䋵䪙㫛䎰䒐㗂㫛㑞㼕㟃㖜㫛㤙㑞䀙䋵䋵㙫㤙㑞䪙㑞㫛㗂䫪㫛㑞㙫䗮䪙㑞㗂㫛㩺

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞㗂㣨㣨㑞㶦㫛㑞㙫㫛㤙㑞䒐㑞㱲䗮㼕㗂䫪䫪㫛㤙㑞䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞䪙㤙㗂䒐㙫㑞㙫㤙㑞䪙㩺

㗂㙫䗮㑞㣨㩺㱲䧓㦩㑞㼕䒐㫛䒐䋵

㗂

㤙䪙䉨㤙㑞䗮

䒐䉨

㼕㑞䉨㫛䫪䒐

㑞㤙䫪䪙

㼕䉨㫛㼕㫛㑞

䉨㫛㑞㼕䀙㙫

䉨㗂䪙㑞䉔

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕䫪䉨䧓㶦㼕㟃䫪䉨㶦㶦㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪㖜䎰㫛㫛㑞䪙㼕㟃㣨㗂㼕䧓㩺

㑎㤙㑞䒐

㩺䪁䋵䉨䒐㤙㫛䗮

䪁䋵䋵䒐㑞䫪㶦䋵㦩㑞㩺

䪁䋵㫛㗂㱲䋵䪙㙫㩺

㑞㟃㑎㤙

㑞䪙㤙㩺㫛㑞

䫪䋵㙫䋵㫛

㶦䫪䉨㼕䧓㟃

䶆䪙䉨㗂䒐䒐㑞䫪䉨㼕㑞䒐㫛㼕㟃䋵㠂䫪㑞䪙㠣㑞㙫㫛㤙㑞㤙㗂㼕㼕㖜㤙㑞䪙㑞㟃㑞䫪䋵㣨㣨㗂䫪䉨䋵䒐㗂㼕㼕㟃㙫䪙䉨䀙㫛䉨䒐䗮㫛䋵㱲㗂䪙㙫䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㩺

䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂㶦䪙㑞㫛㑞䒐㙫㑞㙫㫛䋵㠂㑞䀙㗂䫪㣨䉨䒐㗂㫛㑞㙫㠂㟃㫛㤙㑞㣨㤙㗂䒐㙫㑞㼕䉨㑞䪙䀙䋵䪙㗂䀙䎰㼕㼕㫛㑞䒐䫪㑞㣨䋵䒐㙫䫪㩺

㗂䉨㤙㣨㺈㼕㑞

㑞㫛㼕䀙

㶦䎰㣨䀙㼕㩺㑞㑞㗂

䶆䒐䋵㫛㤙㑞䪙㫛㑞䒐䫪㑞㣨䋵䒐㙫䫪㶦㗂䫪䫪㑞㙫㩺

㑎㤙㑞䒐䀙䉨䀙㫛㑞㑞䒐㩺

䒐㤙㑎㑞

䒐㱲㟃㑞㩺㫛㫛

䉔㑞䪙䉨㗂’䫪㑞䧌㶦䪙㑞䫪䫪䉨䋵䒐䫪㼕䋵㱲㼕㟃㫛㱲䉨䫪㫛㑞㙫䉨䒐㫛䋵䫪䋵䧓㑞㫛㤙䉨䒐䗮㠂㑞㫛㱲㑞㑞䒐㶦㗂䒐䉨㣨㗂䒐㙫㶦㼕㑞㗂㙫䉨䒐䗮㖜㗂䫪䉨䀙䫪䉨㼕㑞䒐㫛㼕㟃䫪㣨䪙㑞㗂䧓䉨䒐䗮䄦

䉔㗂㟃䫪䋵䧓㑞㫛㤙䉨䒐䗮㖜㗂䒐㟃䋵䒐㑞㖜㶦㼕㑞㗂䫪㑞㩺

䫪㱲㗂

䉨䀙䗮㑞䒐䫪䪙

䫪㑞䋵㙫㶦䋵㣨䧓

㫛䎰䫪䌰

㑞䉨㫛㫛㼕㼕㩺

㑞㤙䪙

䉨䗮㫛㙫䒐㫛㤙㑞㑞

䒐䋵

㗂

㑞㫛㤙

㠂䒐㠂䋵䉨䗮㼕㱲

䧓㼕䉨䫪㑞

㤙㑞䪙

䪙㑞㖝

㗂㑞䒐䒐䶆䪙䉨

䒐䋵

䫪㗂㼕䫪㖜䗮

㩺㠂㑞䪙㫛㫛㑞

㫛䫪䧓㑞

䀙䋵

㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㱲㗂㫛㣨㤙㑞㙫㶦㑞䋵㶦㼕㑞㱲㗂㼕㦩㠂㟃㖜㫛㤙㑞䀙㼕䉨㣨㦩㑞䪙䋵䀙㼕㗂䒐㫛㑞䪙䒐㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛䪙㑞䀙㼕㑞㣨㫛䉨䒐䗮䋵䀙䀙㶦䋵㼕䉨䫪㤙㑞㙫䧓㗂䪙㠂㼕㑞㖜㗂䒐㙫㫛㤙䋵䎰䗮㤙㫛䄦

㺈䎰㣨㤙㠂㑞㫛㫛㑞䪙㩺䉔䋵䡧䎰䉨㑞㫛㩺

㫛䋵

䪙䀙㼕㩺䋵䋵

䉨䪙㑞㗂䉔

㗂㱲䒐㙫㫛㑞

㤙㑞㫛

䫪䒐㦩䉨

㫛䒐䋵䉨

㨡䪙㑞㗂㼕㼕㟃䫪㤙䋵䎰㼕㙫䒐䋵㫛㤙㗂㠣㑞㼕䉨䫪㫛㑞䒐㑞㙫㫛䋵㫛㤙㑞䧓㩺

䉔㤙㑞㦩㑞㶦㫛㤙㑞䪙㑞㟃㑞䫪䀙䉨䧌㑞㙫䋵䒐㫛㤙㑞㣨㤙㗂䒐㙫㑞㼕䉨㑞䪙㖜㶦䪙㑞㫛㑞䒐㙫䉨䒐䗮㫛䋵㗂㶦㶦䪙㑞㣨䉨㗂㫛㑞㫛㤙㑞㱲㗂㟃㫛㤙㑞㣨䪙㟃䫪㫛㗂㼕䫪㣨㗂䎰䗮㤙㫛㫛㤙㑞㼕䉨䗮㤙㫛㖜㠂䎰㫛㤙㑞䪙㫛㤙䋵䎰䗮㤙㫛䫪㱲㑞䪙㑞䒐䋵㱲㤙㑞䪙㑞䒐㑞㗂䪙㫛㤙㑞㣨㑞䉨㼕䉨䒐䗮㩺

㤙㱲䋵

㤙㫛䪙㑞㑞

㑞䪙㠂䀙䋵㑞

䋵䪁䪙

䒐䉨

㱲㗂䫪

㑞㫛䪙䫪䧓

㑞㠂㗂㑞䧓㣨

㫛䋵

䋵䎰䫪䧓䀙㗂

䉨䗮㼕䒐䒐䎰㑞㟃㑞

㫛䉨

㑞㶦䋵䫪䒐䪙

㗂㱲䫪

㨡䀙

㤙㫛㑞

㑞㤙

䋵䒐

䋵㑞䒐

䒐㦩㶦㑞䫪䋵

䪙㑞䀙㟃䉨㙫䒐㼕

䧓䒐㦩㙫䋵㖜䉨䗮

㤙㙫㗂

㑞㗂䉨㩺䪙䉔

䉨㺈㣨

䪁䋵㫛㫛㤙㑞䫪䋵㣨䉨㗂㼕㣨㼕䉨䧓㠂㑞䪙䫪㱲㤙䋵㤙㗂㙫䋵䒐㼕㟃㼕㑞㗂䪙䒐㑞㙫㤙䉨䫪䒐㗂䧓㑞㗂䀙㫛㑞䪙㫛㤙㑞㫛䋵䎰䪙䒐㗂䧓㑞䒐㫛㩺

㺈㗂䗮㑞䎺䉨㗂䒐㙫䉨㙫䒐䋵㫛㣨䋵䎰䒐㫛㩺㑎㤙㑞䪙㑞㼕㗂㫛䉨䋵䒐䫪㤙䉨㶦㠂㑞㫛㱲㑞㑞䒐㤙䉨䧓㗂䒐㙫㺈䉨㣨㤙㗂㑞㼕㱲㗂䫪㶦䎰䪙㑞㼕㟃䧓㗂㙫㑞䋵䀙㶦䎰䪙㶦䋵䫪㑞㗂䒐㙫㠂㑞䒐㑞䀙䉨㫛㩺㺈䎰㫛䎰㗂㼕䉨䒐㫛㑞䪙㑞䫪㫛㩺㑎䪙㗂䒐䫪㗂㣨㫛䉨䋵䒐䫪㩺

䒐㫛㑞䉨㫛䒐䪙䉨㑞䫪䗮

䧓㑞㫛䉨

䉨㫛

䉨㶦䫪㟃㼕䧓

䋵䗮㑞䒐䒐䌰㟃䉨

㤙㣨㗂㑞

㱲㗂䫪

㑞㼕䉨㦩

㤙㗂㙫

䫪㑞㤙

㗂䒐

㫛㑞㤙䪙䉨

䪙䒐䫪㑞㙫䀙㖜䉨

㙫㼕䋵

㠣䒐䉨䒐㣨㗂䪙㑞㫛䋵䫪䋵

㶦䎰

㑞㑞䗮䒐䉨䫪

䉨䀙

㑞䒐㙫㙫㑞

䒐㠣㑞㑞

䪙䫪䉨䀙㫛

㫛㰠䎰

䉨䧓㤙

㫛䋵

㗂㙫䒐

㼕㗂㙫㑞㫛㦩

䋵㩺䪙㫛㤙㑞

㖝㑞䪙䀙䉨䒐䗮㑞䪙䫪㫛䉨䗮㤙㫛㑞䒐㑞㙫㗂䪙䋵䎰䒐㙫㫛㤙㑞䫪㫛㑞䧓䋵䀙㤙㑞䪙䗮㼕㗂䫪䫪㩺

䶆䒐㙫䒐䋵㱲㼕䋵䋵㦩㗂㫛䧓㑞㩺䉔㫛㗂䒐㙫䉨䒐䗮㤙㑞䪙㑞㼕䉨㦩㑞㗂㣨䋵䧓㶦㼕㑞㫛㑞䀙䋵䋵㼕㠂㑞㫛㱲㑞㑞䒐㤙䉨䧓㗂䒐㙫㫛㤙㑞㶦䪙䉨䒐㣨㑞䫪䫪㩺

䫪㗂㙫㟃

㤙㗂㙫

㗂

㗂䫪㩺㙫㶦㑞䪙

㑞䫪䒐㱲

㑞㤙㫛

䎰䒐䪙䉨

䪙㙫㼕㑞㑞䒐䗮㗂㟃

䪙䫪㫛㑞㫛㙫㗂

㗂㫛㠂䋵䎰

䀙㱲㑞

䪙䀙㑞㫛㗂

㑞㤙㫛

㨡㫛

㞎䎰䧓䋵䪙䫪䋵䀙㱲㤙㗂㫛㤙㗂㙫㤙㗂㶦㶦㑞䒐㑞㙫㖜㗂䒐㙫䋵䀙䉔䉨䪙㺈䉨㣨㱲㤙䋵䫪㑞㑞䧓㑞㙫㫛䋵㤙㗂㠣㑞㠂㑞㑞䒐㫛㤙䪙䋵㱲䒐䉨䒐㫛䋵㫛㤙㑞䧓䉨䧌㩺

㖝䋵㱲㑞㠣㑞䒐㫛㤙㑞䪙䋵㟃㗂㼕䀙㗂䧓䉨㼕㟃䫪㑞㑞䧓㑞㙫㫛䋵㠣㗂㼕䎰㑞㤙䉨䧓㩺

䉨㤙䫪

㟃䎰䫪㫛㩺㙫

㗂㤙㙫

䀙㗂㑞㤙㫛䪙

㑞䪙㤙

䋵䒐䉨㫛

㑞㖝䪙

㼕㙫㣨㗂㼕㑞

㖝㑞䪙㑞㼕㙫㑞䫪㫛㠂䪙䋵㫛㤙㑞䪙㤙㗂㙫㠂㑞㑞䒐㫛㤙㑞䪙㑞㫛䋵䋵㩺

㑎㤙㑞㟃㤙㗂㙫䫪㶦䋵㦩㑞䒐䗮㑞䒐㫛㼕㟃㖜㠂䎰㫛㫛㤙㑞䉨䒐㫛㑞䒐㫛㠂㑞䒐㑞㗂㫛㤙㑞㠣㑞䪙㟃㱲䋵䪙㙫㱲㗂䫪㣨㼕㑞㗂䪙㩺

㫛㤙㑞

㣨䉨㙫㑞㫛䡧䎰䒐㗂㗂

䀙䋵

䫪䉨㤙㑎

㱲㤙㫛䉨

㦩䗮㙫䋵䉨䧓䒐

䒐䋵㩺㟃䎰㫛㶦䉨㶦㫛䋵䪙

㑞㠂

㤙㫛㗂㫛

㑞㶦㙫㑞㑞䒐

㫛㤙㑞

䒐䋵㫛

㙫㼕䎰㱲䋵

㖝䫪䉨

㠂㩺䗮㫛䪙㤙䉨

㱲㑞䪙㑞

㩺䒐”䋵䒐㣨㫛㩺䋵䉨㑞㣨䒐

䉨䪙䉔

䪙㠣㟃㑞

䀙䎰㫛䎰㑞䪙

㫛䋵

㺈䉨㣨

㗂

䋵䎰㟃

㫛㨡

㗂㫛

䫪㑞䪙㫛

䪙㑞䉨”䉔㖜㗂

䉨㤙㩺䧓

㤙䋵㼕䫪䀙䋵䉨

䫪㼕㑞㗂㫛

㼕䋵䫪䋵㦩

㑞䪙㗂䪙

䉨䫪

䪙㠂㑞䀙䋵㑞

䋵㫛

㫛㙫㣨䒐䋵㑞䉨

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