From Bullets To Billions - Chapter 479

Capítulo 479: Testing Something New

A few more fights went by, one after another, and Aron did what he’d been doing from the start, quietly leaning toward Sheri, giving his thoughts on who he believed would win each match. His predictions weren’t perfect, but they were good. About two out of every three times, he called it right. The occasional mistake only made things look more natural.

Sheri followed his guidance, placing bets of one million on each bout. It wasn’t as extreme as the five million she’d put down on Na, but it was still a big step up compared to what she’d been doing earlier in the night. The increase was intentional. If she stayed too conservative, it would look strange later when she suddenly started wagering huge amounts. The Black Hounds were used to reading people; she couldn’t afford to stand out.

She needed her betting pattern to look like a wealthy gambler slowly warming up.

Aron had already warned her. If she jumped from tiny bets to massive ones all at once during Na’s later fights, the organizers might see it as suspicious and rig the outcome. They could make sure the person she backed would lose just so the venue could claw back some of the money.

So she let the stakes rise steadily, like any other rich guest getting more caught up in the night.

From what Aron could tell, Na would probably only go through three more fights at most before the event wrapped up. That gave them some breathing room, and thanks to the smaller matches, they could build their bankroll and make their big moves later.

While Sheri handled the betting, Aron remained on constant alert. His eyes drifted across the room in between fights, tracking faces, positions, and exits. He was gathering information not only on the fighters, but also the guests, guards, and staff. The layout of the room. The distance from their seats to the nearest door. The number of people between them and any possible escape route.

This shouldn’t come to that, he thought. We’re not doing anything out of line compared to the others. But if we win too much, they might decide to handle it after the show, somewhere others can’t see. Corner us and force us to hand the money back.

The screens flickered, drawing everyone’s attention as the next match was announced.

Two fighters appeared on the holographic displays.

The first was a mountain of a man. Huge, round, and bulky, with thick arms and a wide torso. A lot of it looked like fat rather than muscle, but his sheer size was intimidating on its own. It gave the impression that hitting him would feel like punching into a wall, painful, and not very effective.

The display showed his name as Slob.

No one in the room believed that was his real name, but it fit the image almost too well.

His opponent walked into the ring from the other side. A man wearing a black leather jacket, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed as he stepped into the light.

Evon.

Nothing about him screamed “monster” or “killer.” If someone saw him walking down the street in daytime, they would probably assume he was just a regular guy heading to a bar or a gig. No bulging muscles. No scars all over his face. No crazy expression.

Na, however, didn’t take his eyes off him.

Evon, he thought. From the Gilt Rats. And one of their fighters as well.

This fight should be easy for him. But most people here are going to think the exact opposite.

The match looked one-sided on the surface, but in the wrong direction. To the average spectator, Evon appeared at a huge disadvantage. That misunderstanding made this the perfect opportunity.

Na turned slightly at his seat and lifted his hand, subtly raising two fingers in the direction of Sheri and Aron. It was a tiny movement, but he knew Aron would be watching.

Aron spotted the signal almost immediately.

“Bet on the second fighter,” Aron said quietly.

Sheri glanced at the screen where both men were displayed again. “Really? The second one? I mean… you haven’t let me down so far, so…”

Na wouldn’t risk something like that in the middle of an event just to take a random guess. Aron understood that. If Na was signaling now, he was confident.

“Do it,” Aron said. “Five million. Same as Na’s fight.”

Gripping the edge of the table for a second to steady herself, Sheri placed the wager. Five million on Evon to win.

Down in the ring, the host’s voice echoed, announcing the start of the match.

Slob moved first.

Despite his size, he lunged forward with surprising speed, his bulk crashing across the ring like a boulder rolling downhill. The technique he used was strange, he wasn’t just punching or kicking. He literally tried to use his huge belly as a weapon, attempting to body-slam Evon with his full weight.

Evon slipped out of the way with almost lazy ease, stepping aside as Slob’s shadow passed over him. The big man hurtled past and slammed into the side of the cage.

Metal shrieked under the impact.

The entire structure bent inward, making a deep curve, and the audience gasped. For a moment, it looked like the cage might actually break.

Slob groaned, pushing himself off the bars. When he straightened up, his chest was heaving, and he stared directly at Evon.

Up in the stands, Sheri watched with wide eyes. “He almost broke the cage,” she whispered. “That’s insane…”

Evon, unbothered, reached up and adjusted his leather jacket as if the only thing that mattered was keeping it neat.

“If you care that much about that jacket,” Slob shouted, rage rising in his voice, “you’re going to be eaten by me!”

He charged again.

Evon understood why he was here and what he was supposed to do. A part of him would have preferred to win using his own skill alone, relying entirely on technique and experience. That was how fighters earned respect.

But this wasn’t just about pride.

The Gilt Rats wanted a field test.

They had sent him to this event specifically to use and push their latest piece of Syndicate technology, their exoskeleton. That was the true purpose of tonight. The jacket he wore wasn’t just a fashion choice; it was hiding the suit.

The exoskeleton itself would have looked strange, mechanical, and suspicious if worn openly. People would have asked questions. Rumors would spread.

So instead, Evon wore the leather jacket, disguising the structure beneath it. To the audience, it just looked like part of his style.

Slob’s huge fist came flying toward his face.

Evon raised a single hand and caught it.

The punch stopped dead.

Not an inch of movement.

Slob’s eyes widened.

That’s impossible. How is this small guy doing this?!

He tried again with his other arm, swinging a second heavy punch. Evon intercepted that one too, lifting his other hand and blocking it as easily as catching a ball.

From behind the mask of calm, Evon’s thoughts were less impressed.

This is way too much of a cheat, he admitted to himself.

He released Slob’s fists and hopped back lightly to create distance. The moment he did, the bigger man roared and doubled down.

Slob hurled himself into another charge, this time throwing his whole body into it. When he got close enough, he actually leaped, trying to crush Evon beneath his belly and full weight.

Evon dashed straight toward him.

At the last second, he thrust out his palm.

His hand pressed into Slob’s front, and the massive man came to an immediate halt as if he’d run into a concrete pillar. All that momentum, stopped by one arm.

Clearly, that wasn’t something he could let the audience dwell on.

He pushed off the ground and let his body rise. In one smooth motion, he jumped and drove a powerful uppercut into Slob’s chin.

The punch traveled through the exoskeleton, amplifying what his normal human strength could do. Evon felt the impact resonate through his arm, heard the dull crack inside Slob’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back, and the rest of his enormous body followed.

Slob toppled backward, tumbling down like a felled tree and slamming into the floor of the cage. He didn’t get back up.

There was no question who the winner was.

Sheri stared, stunned. “You were right… again. Wow. I never would’ve expected that result.”

Aron’s gaze stayed locked on Evon, his eyes narrowing as he watched the way the man carried himself, the way he had stopped those hits.

“Me either,” Aron replied quietly. “There’s something off about him.”

㣺㘦䄄䒯’㝬㘦㴞䫴䝉䄄䜞㸆䍙䄄䄄㟷㥠㽔㥠㢖䝉䜞㶁䄄䜞㽔㴞䒯㶁䜞㸆㘫㶁䍙䣒䄄㝬䝉䕍䒯䵇㥠䍙㴞㥠㘦㶁䵇䍙㥠㘫䝉䄄㶁䒯㸆䄄䒯㥠㝺㶁䝉䫴㯂㴞䒯䌄㮶䄄䜞䝉㯂㥠㮶㴞䜞㝬䝉䝉㴞䣒㥠㶧䟇㯂㥠㽔㴞㮶㮶㥠䜞㥠䒯䫴㥠㴞䒯㝬㴞䭻㥠䵇㥠䝉㝺㥠㥠䒯㯂㴞䣒㶁䒯㽔䧘䍙䄄䵇䣒㶁㽔㥠䝉㯂㥠䄄䕍䝉䫴䄄䣒㥠㮶㥠㥠䍙䍙㴞㟷㥠㝬䄄䣒㥠䝉㯂㴞䒯䌄䄄䕍䝉䄄㮶㶁䫴䄄䣒㴞䫴䵇䄄䄄㟷㶧䋤䕍䝉㮶䄄䜞䝉㯂㥠䜞㥠䌄䕍䍙㶁䜞㶁䝉䝉㥠䒯㽔㥠㥠㝬䄄㮶䝉㯂㥠䋤䍙㶁䫴㟷䃅䄄䕍䒯㽔㝬’ 䕍䒯㽔㥠䜞䌄䜞䄄䕍䒯㽔㥠㘦㥠䒯䝉㝬㘫㝬䕍䜞㻂䜞㴞㝬㴞䒯䌄䣒㴞㝬䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㥠㝬㝺㥠䜞㥠䒯’䝉䒯㥠㝺㶧䧘䣒㶁䍙䍙㥠䜞䄄䜞㝬㥠㥠䣒㴞䒯䌄䍙㸆㝺㥠㶁㟷㥠䜞㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䜞㝬㝺㴞䒯䒯㴞䒯䌄㝺㶁㝬䒯’䝉䕍䒯㯂㥠㶁䜞㽔䄄㮶㶧䟇㯂㥠䜞㥠㶁䍙㴞㝬㝬䕍㥠䝉䄄䒯㴞䌄㯂䝉㝺㶁㝬䒯’䝉㝺㯂䄄㝺䄄䒯㘫䵇䕍䝉㯂䄄㝺䝉㯂㥠㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䒯㽔㥠㽔㶁䒯㽔䝉㯂㥠㝬䝉㸆䍙㥠㴞䒯㝺㯂㴞䫴㯂㴞䝉㯂㶁㻂㻂㥠䒯㥠㽔㶧

爐老擄盧櫓盧盧㛸㝬蘆䧘䍙䄄䵇擄盧㝺㶁㝬䍙㴞㮶䝉㥠㽔䄄㮶㮶䝉㯂㥠㶁䜞㥠䒯㶁㮶䍙䄄䄄䜞㘫䣒㥠㽔㴞䫴㝬䜞䕍㝬㯂㥠㽔㴞䒯㝺㴞䝉㯂㻂䜞㶁䫴䝉㴞䫴㥠㽔㝬㻂㥠㥠㽔㶧䧘㯂㥠䜞㴞䫴㶁䕍䌄㯂䝉㶁䌄䍙㴞䣒㻂㝬㥠䄄㮶䝉㯂㥠㴞䜞䝉㥠䒯㝬㥠㥠㢖㻂䜞㥠㝬㝬㴞䄄䒯㝬㶁㝬䝉㯂㥠㸆㟷䒯㥠䍙䝉㶁䜞䄄䕍䒯㽔㯂㴞䣒㘫䫴㯂㥠䫴㟷㴞䒯䌄㯂㴞㝬䐟㶁㝺㶁䒯㽔䝉䜞㸆㴞䒯䌄䝉䄄㶁㝬㝬㥠㝬㝬䝉㯂㥠㽔㶁䣒㶁䌄㥠㶧

㻹䒯㥠䄄㮶䝉㯂㥠㽔䄄䫴䝉䄄䜞㝬䜞㶁㴞㝬㥠㽔㯂㴞㝬㘦䄄㴞䫴㥠㘫㝬㻂㥠㶁㟷㴞䒯䌄䍙䄄䕍㽔䍙㸆㝬䄄䝉㯂㥠䄄䝉㯂㥠䜞㝬䫴䄄䕍䍙㽔㯂㥠㶁䜞䄄㘦㥠䜞䝉㯂㥠䫴䜞䄄㝺㽔’㝬䣒䕍䜞䣒䕍䜞㶧

㥠䃅”

䒯”䒯䍙㻂㥠䜞䣒㶁㸆䝉㥠㶧

䒯㥠㥠㽔㝬

䣒䌄㯂䝉㴞

䝉㯂㥠

㴞䜞䝉㯂䌄

䄄䝉

㯂㶁㥠䍙㽔䒯

㥠㯂

㝺㶁㶁㸆㘫

䄄㥠䍙㝬

㝺䐟㶁

㴞㝬䃅

䄄䝉

䝉㟷㥠㶁䒯

㻂㶁㝬㟷㥠

䄄䝉

䝉㸆䣒䣒㥠㽔䍙㴞㶧㴞㥠㶁

䝉㸆㯂㥠

㽔’䒯䝉䄄

㞻㮶

㯂䝉㥠

䝉䵇㸆㶁㴞䍙㴞

䝉䍙䣒㸆㥠䍙䫴䄄㥠㻂

䵇㥠

䌄㥠㸆䣒㥠䜞㥠䫴䒯

䝉㝬㯂㴞

䄄䜞䄄䣒

㴞㝬

䝉㶧㯂䜞㝬䝉㥠㥠㽔㶁

㣺㘦㥠䒯㝺㴞䝉㯂㝬䕍䫴㯂㶁㝬㥠㘦㥠䜞㥠㽔㴞㶁䌄䒯䄄㝬㴞㝬㘫䒯䄄䒯㥠䄄㮶䝉㯂㥠㝬䝉㶁㮶㮶䍙䄄䄄㟷㥠㽔㻂㶁䜞䝉㴞䫴䕍䍙㶁䜞䍙㸆㝬㸆䣒㻂㶁䝉㯂㥠䝉㴞䫴㶧䟇㯂㥠㴞䜞㯂㶁䒯㽔㝬䣒䄄㘦㥠㽔㥠㮶㮶㴞䫴㴞㥠䒯䝉䍙㸆㘫䵇䕍䝉䝉㯂㥠䜞㥠㝺㶁㝬䒯䄄䕍䜞䌄㥠䒯䫴㸆䵇䄄䜞䒯䄄㮶䫴䄄䣒㻂㶁㝬㝬㴞䄄䒯㘫䄄䒯䍙㸆㻂䜞䄄㮶㥠㝬㝬㴞䄄䒯㶁䍙㴞㝬䣒㶧㞻䒯䝉㯂㴞㝬㻂䍙㶁䫴㥠㘫㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䜞㝬䍙㴞㟷㥠䧘䍙䄄䵇㝺㥠䜞㥠䒯’䝉㝬㥠㥠䒯㶁㝬㘦㴞䫴䝉㴞䣒㝬㶧䟇㯂㥠㸆㝺㥠䜞㥠㘦㥠䝉㥠䜞㶁䒯㝬䄄㮶䝉㯂㥠㝬㥠䵇䜞䕍䝉㶁䍙䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㥠㝬㝺㯂䄄㯂㶁㽔㥠㶁䜞䒯㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠㴞䜞䜞㥠㻂䕍䝉㶁䝉㴞䄄䒯㝬䵇㸆䵇㥠㴞䒯䌄䣒㥠䜞䫴㴞䍙㥠㝬㝬㶧䧘䍙䄄䵇㯂㴞䣒㝬㥠䍙㮶㯂㶁㽔䍙㥠㮶䝉䫴䄄䕍䒯䝉䍙㥠㝬㝬䄄㻂㻂䄄䒯㥠䒯䝉㝬㴞䒯䐟䕍䜞㥠㽔䄄㘦㥠䜞䝉㯂㥠㸆㥠㶁䜞㝬㶧䋤䄄䒯㥠㝬䵇䜞䄄㟷㥠䒯㶧䟇㥠㥠䝉㯂㟷䒯䄄䫴㟷㥠㽔䄄䕍䝉㶧䧘䄄䣒㥠㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䜞㝬㥠䒯㽔㥠㽔䕍㻂㮶㶁䜞㝺䄄䜞㝬㥠䝉㯂㶁䒯㯂㥠㝺㶁㝬䒯䄄㝺㶧

䧘䄄㝺㯂㴞䍙㥠䝉㯂㥠㝬㻂㥠䫴䝉㶁䝉䄄䜞㝬䜞㥠㶁䫴䝉㥠㽔䝉䄄㣺㘦䄄䒯’㝬㻂䄄㝺㥠䜞㝺㴞䝉㯂㝬㯂䄄䫴㟷㘫䒯䄄䵇䄄㽔㸆䣒䄄䕍䜞䒯㥠㽔㮶䄄䜞䧘䍙䄄䵇㶧䃅㥠㯂㶁㽔㝬㴞䣒㻂䍙㸆䝉㶁㝬䝉㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠㝬㶁䣒㥠䵇䜞䕍䝉㶁䍙㴞䝉㸆㯂㥠’㽔㽔㴞㝬㯂㥠㽔䄄䕍䝉䫴䄄䕍䒯䝉䍙㥠㝬㝬䝉㴞䣒㥠㝬㶧

㽔㟷䄄䍙䄄㥠

䒯䜞㶁䣒㴞㥠

㯂㥠䜞

㴞㮶

䫴㶁㽔㘫㝬䜞㥠

㥠㥠㝺䜞䒯䝉’

㥠㟷䍙㴞

䝉䍙䄄㶁㘫䄄䣒䒯㥠㴞

䫴䜞䝉㶁㶁䝉䝉

䄄䝉

䍙㴞㶧㝬䍙䝉

㥠㻂㥠㻂䄄䍙

㶁㯂㽔

䧘䜞㯂㴞㥠

㝺㽔䄄䕍䍙

䝉䄄

㥠㯂䜞

㥠㶧䝉䝉䒯㴞䒯㶁䄄䝉

䜞䄄㝺䒯䌄

䝉㴞

㥠䄄㥠㶧㝺䜞㽔䍙

䄄㘦㶧䄄䜞㻂㟷㥠

㶁䄄㮶㮶㽔䜞

䫴䄄䕍䍙㽔

䝉䕍䵇

㟷㥠㻂䝉

䍙䄄㝬䒯㥠䝉㝬䕍䫴

㝬㽔㥠䕍䌄㝬㘫㽔䝉㴞

㝬㯂㥠

㝬㥠㸆㥠

㴞㥠㝬䝉䣒

䝉㯂㥠

㯂㥠㝬

㽔㴞㽔䝉䒯’

㯂䝉㥠

㽔䄄䍙䝉

㮶㯂䜞㥠㝬㥠䍙

㘫䜞䍙㽔㥠㶁㶁㸆

䜞䄄䒯㛸

䄄䜞

䝉䄄䄄

㝬䟇㯂㥠㥠

㥠㥠㘦㘫䒯䍙䫴㴞䄄

㯂㝬㥠

䜞㮶䫴㽔䄄㥠

㥠䧘㯂

䔌㴞䌄㯂䝉㝬䫴䄄䒯䝉㴞䒯䕍㥠㽔䝉䄄䜞䄄䍙䍙䄄䕍䝉䄄䒯㥠㶁㮶䝉㥠䜞㶁䒯䄄䝉㯂㥠䜞㶧㛸䜞䄄䒯䍙㥠㶁䒯㥠㽔䫴䍙䄄㝬㥠䜞㥠㶁䫴㯂䝉㴞䣒㥠㶁䒯㥠㝺㻂㶁㴞䜞䄄㮶㮶㶁䫴㥠㝬㻂䄄㻂㻂㥠㽔䕍㻂䄄䒯䝉㯂㥠㝬䫴䜞㥠㥠䒯㘫㯂㴞㝬㘦䄄㴞䫴㥠䍙䄄㝺㶁䒯㽔㝬䝉㥠㶁㽔㸆㶁㝬㯂㥠㝬㯂㶁䜞㥠㽔㯂㴞㝬㴞䒯㝬㴞䌄㯂䝉㝬㶧

䃅㥠㝺㶁㝬䒯’䝉㻂㴞䫴㟷㴞䒯䌄㝺㴞䒯䒯㥠䜞㝬䵇㥠䫴㶁䕍㝬㥠㯂㥠㯂㶁㽔㝬䄄䣒㥠䣒㸆㝬䝉㴞䫴㶁䍙㴞䒯䝉䕍㴞䝉㴞䄄䒯䄄䜞㶁㽔㘦㶁䒯䫴㥠㽔䫴㶁䍙䫴䕍䍙㶁䝉㴞䄄䒯䵇㶁㝬㥠㽔䄄䒯㻂䄄㝬䝉䕍䜞㥠㶁䒯㽔㮶䄄䄄䝉㝺䄄䜞㟷㶧䊋㯂㶁䝉㯂㥠㽔㴞㽔㝺㶁㝬㮶㶁䜞䣒䄄䜞㥠㻂䜞㶁䫴䝉㴞䫴㶁䍙㘫㶁䒯㽔㮶㶁䜞䣒䄄䜞㥠㽔㶁䒯䌄㥠䜞䄄䕍㝬㶧㛸䜞䄄䒯㯂㶁㽔䍙㥠㶁䜞䒯㥠㽔䝉䄄䜞㥠㶁㽔䝉㯂㥠㝬䕍䵇䝉䍙㥠㝬㴞䌄䒯㶁䍙㝬㮶䜞䄄䣒䝉㯂㥠㝬䝉㶁㮶㮶㶧㛸㝬䍙㴞䌄㯂䝉䒯䄄㽔䝉䄄㝺㶁䜞㽔䝉㯂㥠䜞㴞䒯䌄㶧㛸㯂㶁䒯㽔䌄㥠㝬䝉䕍䜞㥠䣒㶁㽔㥠䝉䄄䄄䫴㶁㝬䕍㶁䍙䍙㸆㶧㛸䝉㴞䒯㸆㮶䍙㶁㝬㯂䄄㮶䍙㴞䌄㯂䝉䵇㥠䒯㥠㶁䝉㯂㶁㝬䍙㥠㥠㘦㥠㶧䑫䕍㴞㥠䝉䫴䕍㥠㝬㻂㶁㝬㝬㥠㽔䵇㥠䝉㝺㥠㥠䒯䝉㯂䄄㝬㥠㝺䄄䜞㟷㴞䒯䌄䵇㥠㯂㴞䒯㽔䝉㯂㥠㝬䫴㥠䒯㥠㝬䝉䄄㴞䒯㽔㴞䫴㶁䝉㥠㝺㯂䄄䝉㯂㥠䄄䜞䌄㶁䒯㴞䭻㥠䜞㝬㝺㶁䒯䝉㥠㽔䝉䄄㝺㴞䒯㥠㶁䫴㯂䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㶧

䝉䄄

㥠䍙䒯䄄㶁

㥠䜞㶁䒯㶁䕍䌄䝉㥠

䒯’㶁㝬㝺䝉

䌄㯂㯂䝉䄄㶧䕍

䕍㯂㥠䄄䌄䒯

䝉㸆䫴㘫㴞䄄㘦䜞

䝉䟇㯂㶁

䟇㯂㥠䣒䄄㝬䝉㽔㶁䒯䌄㥠䜞䄄䕍㝬㘦㶁䜞㴞㶁䵇䍙㥠㝺㶁㝬䧘㯂㥠䜞㴞’㝬䄄㝺䒯䵇㥠䝉㝬㶧

䉗䄄䣒㶁䝉䝉㥠䜞㯂䄄㝺㝬䕍䵇䝉䍙㥠䝉㯂㥠㝬䝉㶁㮶㮶’㝬㝬㴞䌄䒯㶁䍙㝬㝺㥠䜞㥠㘫䍙㶁䜞䌄㥠㝬䕍䣒㝬䄄㮶䣒䄄䒯㥠㸆䫴䄄䕍䍙㽔㝬㯂㴞㮶䝉㥠㘦㥠䜞㸆䝉㯂㴞䒯䌄㶧㛸䜞䄄䒯㯂㶁㽔㝬㥠㥠䒯㴞䝉㶁䍙䜞㥠㶁㽔㸆㘫㴞㮶䧘㯂㥠䜞㴞䵇㥠䝉䝉䄄䄄䣒䕍䫴㯂䄄䒯㶁䫴㥠䜞䝉㶁㴞䒯㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䜞㘫䝉㯂㥠䄄䜞䌄㶁䒯㴞䭻㥠䜞㝬㝺䄄䕍䍙㽔㿡䕍㴞䫴㟷䍙㸆㻂㴞㘦䄄䝉㶧䟇㯂㥠㸆㝺䄄䕍䍙㽔䫴㯂㶁䒯䌄㥠䝉㯂㥠䄄䕍䝉䫴䄄䣒㥠䣒㴞㽔㿳䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㘫䕍㝬㴞䒯䌄㝺㯂㶁䝉㥠㘦㥠䜞䣒㥠䝉㯂䄄㽔㝬䒯㥠䫴㥠㝬㝬㶁䜞㸆㘫㶁䍙䍙䝉䄄㻂䜞䄄䝉㥠䫴䝉䝉㯂㥠㴞䜞㻂䜞䄄㮶㴞䝉㝬㶧

䄄䄄䟇

䌄䒯䝉䵇㴞㥠䝉

䝉㯂㥠

㴞䵇䌄

䫴䜞㻂㥠㸆㥠䍙㮶䝉

㯂㥠䜞

䒯䫴䝉䜞㴞㶧㝬㸆䕍

㽔䫴䣒䜞㻂㶁䄄㥠

㴞㯂䜞㥠’䧘㝬

䄄䝉

䌄㶁㥠㝺䜞㝬

㥠䌄䜞㘦㥠㶁㶁

䌄䒯㶁䫴䍙㶁䒯㴞䵇

䒯䄄

䜞䒯䕍㴞

䍙㝬㘫㶁䍙䣒

㯂㥠䜞

䝉䄄

䟇䄄䄄

㝺㥠㯂㥠䜞

䄄䝉䌄㯂䝉䒯㴞

䍙㝬㝬㶁䫴㥠

䒯䣒䝉㶁㝬䕍䄄

㶁䒯㸆

㴞䝉䜞㥠㯂

㝺㥠㥠䜞

䒯㝺䍙䄄’㽔䕍䝉

䄄䒯

㯂㥠䝉

㯂㥠䜞

㶁㽔䒯

㝬䫴䕍䫴㝬㝬㥠

㯂㘦㶁㥠

㥠䝉㝬䵇

㽔㴞㘦䄄㶁

㮶㶁䄄䫴䐟䝉䒯㴞䕍㴞㴞䝉㝬

䝉䕍㝬㥠㝬䌄

䍙䕍㸆㝬䒯㽔㥠㽔

㯂㝺䄄䍙㥠

䒯䄄䜞㛸

䉗㶧㶁

䄄㯂䝉䜞㥠

㥠㯂㽔㝬’

䍙䜞㘫㶁㥠䌄

䒯㶁㽔

㥠㶁䭻䍙䒯㶁㽔㸆

䝉㝬㯂㮶㴞

䄄㮶䜞

䄄䫴㯂㝬㥠

䒯㶁㽔

㻂䌄㴞䝉㴞䒯㻂

䧘㝬㥠㯂㴞㶧䜞’

㶁㽔䒯

㽔㶁䒯

䄄㽔㝬㽔

䝉㥠㯂

䃅㥠

䜞㽔㶁㝺

㶁䍙䒯㶧㻂

㝬㯂㥠

䣒㯂䝉㥠

㽔䒯㽔㻂㥠㥠㥠㽔

㝺䕍䝉䒯’䍙㽔䄄

㴞㝬䌄㯂䝉㮶

䒯䌄㥠䵇㴞䝉䝉

㥠㶁㶧㝺䌄㝬䜞

㴞䝉䣒㥠㽔

䋤㸆䝉㯂㴞㝬㻂䄄㴞䒯䝉㴞䒯䝉㯂㥠䒯㴞䌄㯂䝉㘫䝉㯂㥠㸆㝺㥠䜞㥠㝺㴞䒯䒯㴞䒯䌄䫴䄄䒯㝬㴞㝬䝉㥠䒯䝉䍙㸆㶧䟇㯂㥠䣒䄄䒯㥠㸆㻂㴞䍙㥠㽔䕍㻂㮶㶁㝬䝉㥠䜞䝉㯂㶁䒯䧘㯂㥠䜞㴞㥠㢖㻂㥠䫴䝉㥠㽔㘫㥠㘦㥠䒯䝉㯂䄄䕍䌄㯂䝉㯂㥠㻂䜞㥠㝬㝬䕍䜞㥠䣒㶁㽔㥠㥠㶁䫴㯂䵇㥠䝉㮶㥠㥠䍙䍙㴞㟷㥠㶁䵇䍙㶁㽔㥠㯂㶁䒯䌄㴞䒯䌄㶁䵇䄄㘦㥠㯂㥠䜞㯂㥠㶁㽔㶧

䟇㯂㥠䒯䝉㯂㥠㝬䫴䜞㥠㥠䒯㝬䫴㯂㶁䒯䌄㥠㽔㶁䌄㶁㴞䒯㶧

㻂䕍

䝉䒯㶧㥠㢖

㝬㝺㶁

㶁䉗

㛸䜞䄄䒯㝬䝉䜞㶁㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䒯㥠㽔㝬䍙㴞䌄㯂䝉䍙㸆㴞䒯㯂㴞㝬䫴㯂㶁㴞䜞㶧䧘㯂㥠䜞㴞䝉䄄䄄㟷㶁㽔㥠㥠㻂䵇䜞㥠㶁䝉㯂㶧䋤㥠䫴㶁䕍㝬㥠㯂㥠䜞䵇㥠䝉㝬㯂㶁㽔䌄䜞㶁㽔䕍㶁䍙䍙㸆㴞䒯䫴䜞㥠㶁㝬㥠㽔䝉㯂䜞䄄䕍䌄㯂䄄䕍䝉䝉㯂㥠㥠㘦㥠䒯䝉㘫㝺㶁䌄㥠䜞㴞䒯䌄䵇㴞䌄㶁䣒䄄䕍䒯䝉㝬䒯䄄䍙䄄䒯䌄㥠䜞㮶㥠䍙䝉㝬䕍㝬㻂㴞䫴㴞䄄䕍㝬㶧䟇㯂㥠䄄䜞䌄㶁䒯㴞䭻㥠䜞㝬㥠㢖㻂㥠䫴䝉㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠䵇㥠䝉㝬䝉䄄䌄䜞䄄㝺䍙㶁䜞䌄㥠䜞㶁㝬㻂㥠䄄㻂䍙㥠䫴㯂㶁㝬㥠㽔㥠㢖䫴㴞䝉㥠䣒㥠䒯䝉䄄䜞䝉䜞㴞㥠㽔䝉䄄㝺㴞䒯䵇㶁䫴㟷㥠㶁䜞䍙㴞㥠䜞䍙䄄㝬㝬㥠㝬㶧

㛸䜞䄄䒯䣒㶁㽔㥠㝬䕍䜞㥠䝉㯂㥠䝉㴞䣒㴞䒯䌄䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠䵇㥠㯂㶁㘦㴞䄄䜞䄄㮶䜞㥠㶁䍙䌄㶁䣒䵇䍙㥠䜞㝬㶧㣺㘦㥠䜞㸆㽔㥠䝉㶁㴞䍙䣒㶁䝉䝉㥠䜞㥠㽔㶧

䝉䄄

䍙䍙㛸

㶁㝺㝬

䜞㶧㝬㥠䝉

䍙䒯㥠㯂㶁㽔

㯂䝉㥠

㶁㝺㝬

㮶㥠䝉䍙

㶁䝉䝉㯂

䉗㶁

䍙㥠䝉

䟇䄄䒯㴞䌄㯂䝉㘫䉗㶁’㝬䄄㻂㻂䄄䒯㥠䒯䝉㽔㴞㮶㮶㥠䜞㥠㽔䌄䜞㥠㶁䝉䍙㸆㮶䜞䄄䣒㯂㴞㝬㻂䜞㥠㘦㴞䄄䕍㝬䄄䒯㥠㶧㞻䒯㝬䝉㥠㶁㽔䄄㮶㶁䵇䕍䍙㟷㸆䵇䜞䕍䝉㥠䍙㴞㟷㥠䧘䍙䄄䵇㘫䝉㯂㥠䒯㥠㢖䝉㮶㴞䌄㯂䝉㥠䜞㝺㶁㝬㝬䣒㶁䍙䍙㘫㮶㶁㝬䝉㘫㶁䒯㽔㴞䒯䫴䜞㥠㽔㴞䵇䍙㸆䒯㴞䣒䵇䍙㥠㶧㣺㘦㥠䜞㸆㝬䝉㥠㻂䝉㯂㥠䣒㶁䒯䝉䄄䄄㟷㝺㶁㝬䍙㴞䌄㯂䝉㘫㿡䕍㴞䫴㟷㘫㶁䒯㽔䣒㥠㶁㝬䕍䜞㥠㽔㶧䃅㥠㽔㶁䜞䝉㥠㽔㶁䜞䄄䕍䒯㽔䉗㶁䍙㴞㟷㥠㶁㮶䍙㴞䫴㟷㥠䜞䄄㮶㝺㴞䒯㽔㶧

䉗㶁䜞㶁㴞㝬㥠㽔㯂㴞㝬䌄䕍㶁䜞㽔㘫㶁䵇㝬䄄䜞䵇㴞䒯䌄㝬㥠㘦㥠䜞㶁䍙㿡䕍㴞䫴㟷㝬䝉䜞㴞㟷㥠㝬㶧䃅㴞㝬䝉䜞㶁㴞䒯㴞䒯䌄㴞䒯䫴䍙䄄㝬㥠㿳㿡䕍㶁䜞䝉㥠䜞㝬䫴䄄䣒䵇㶁䝉㝬㯂䄄㝺㥠㽔䝉㯂䜞䄄䕍䌄㯂㝺㴞䝉㯂㥠㶁䫴㯂䣒䄄㘦㥠䣒㥠䒯䝉㶧䃅㥠㶁䒯䝉㴞䫴㴞㻂㶁䝉㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠㽔㴞䜞㥠䫴䝉㴞䄄䒯䄄㮶䣒䄄㝬䝉㶁䝉䝉㶁䫴㟷㝬㶁䒯㽔㽔㥠㮶䍙㥠䫴䝉㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠䣒䐟䕍㝬䝉㥠䒯䄄䕍䌄㯂䝉䄄㶁㘦䄄㴞㽔㝬㥠䜞㴞䄄䕍㝬㴞䣒㻂㶁䫴䝉㶧㣺㘦㥠䒯㝬䄄㘫㴞䝉㝺㶁㝬䫴䍙㥠㶁䜞䝉㯂㶁䝉䍙㶁䒯㽔㴞䒯䌄㶁㯂㴞䝉䄄䒯䝉㯂㴞㝬䄄㻂㻂䄄䒯㥠䒯䝉㝺䄄䕍䍙㽔䵇㥠㽔㴞㮶㮶㴞䫴䕍䍙䝉㶧

㘫㥠㻂䍙䜞㝺䄄㮶䕍

㘦䍙㥠㥠㽔㴞䜞

㽔㴞䜞䒯䌄㴞㘦

䜞㯂䝉㝬䒯㥠䄄㶁䌄㿳䜞

㴞㴞㶁䍙䣒䣒䒯

㮶䫴䜞㥠䄄

䒯䄄㴞㘦㴞䌄㽔㶁

䣒䝉㥠㴞

㽔㶁㽔䫴䒯㥠

㶁䉗

㴞㯂㝬

㶧㯂㴞䜞㶁

㶁䉗

㯂㴞㝬䝉

㶁䣒䒯

㘦㸆㥠䜞㥠

䄄䵇䍙㝺㝬

㘫㶁㝺㶁㸆

㴞䕍㢖䣒䣒䣒㶁

㯂㥠

䄄䝉

㝺㯂㴞䝉

㽔䜞㝺䜞䄄㮶㶁

㝬䌄㶧㝺䒯䕍

㥠㥠䌄㝬㽔䒯㴞㽔

䣒䄄䝉㶁䫴䫴㻂

䒯䄄䫴䵇䕍㥠㽔

䋤䕍䝉

㯂㽔䝉䒯㥠䝉㥠䌄㴞

䝉䫴㝬㴞㽔䒯㶁㶧㥠

㘫䄄䜞㮶

㥠㯂䝉

㝺䒯䒯㟷䄄

㥠㯂

䝉㥠㯂

㯂㴞㮶㥠䝉䜞䌄

䜞㶁䵇㝺㽔㟷䫴㶁

䣒䍙㝬㶁㥠䜞䍙

䝉㴞㝬㮶㘫

䜞㸆㥠㘦㥠

䵇㸆

䒯㴞

㥠䒯㻂䫴㽔䕍㯂㘫

䝉䫴䄄䒯䫴㶁䝉

㝬㶁㝺

㴞䣒䝉㥠

䟇㯂㥠

䔌䜞䕍㝬䝉䜞㶁䝉㴞䄄䒯㮶䍙㴞䫴㟷㥠䜞㥠㽔㶁䫴䜞䄄㝬㝬䉗㶁’㝬㮶㶁䫴㥠㶧䟇㯂㥠䄄㻂㻂䄄䒯㥠䒯䝉’㝬㝬䝉㸆䍙㥠㝺㶁㝬㶁㽔㴞䜞㥠䫴䝉䫴䄄䕍䒯䝉㥠䜞䝉䄄㯂㴞㝬䄄㝺䒯㶧

䟇㯂㥠䒯䝉㯂㥠䣒㶁䒯䜞䕍㝬㯂㥠㽔㮶䄄䜞㝺㶁䜞㽔㶁䌄㶁㴞䒯㘫㻂䜞㥠㻂㶁䜞㴞䒯䌄㮶䄄䜞㶁䒯䄄䝉㯂㥠䜞㝬䝉䜞㴞㟷㥠㶧䉗㶁㝬㯂㴞㮶䝉㥠㽔㯂㴞㝬㝬䝉㶁䒯䫴㥠㘫䣒㶁㟷㴞䒯䌄㴞䝉䍙䄄䄄㟷㶁㝬䝉㯂䄄䕍䌄㯂㯂㥠㝺㶁㝬䌄䄄㴞䒯䌄㮶䄄䜞㶁䝉㴞䌄㯂䝉㯂䄄䄄㟷㶧㞻䒯㝬䝉㥠㶁㽔㘫㯂㥠㝬䒯㶁䝉䫴㯂㥠㽔䝉㯂㥠䣒㶁䒯’㝬㝺䜞㴞㝬䝉䣒㴞㽔㿳䣒䄄䝉㴞䄄䒯㶧

䜞䣒䄄㥠

䫴㶧䄄䄄䍙䒯䝉䜞

䝉䒯㝺㶁

㝬㥠䕍

㶧䒯㝬㥠㝬㥠䜞䫴㶁㸆

㽔䝉㴞䒯䒯㥠

䄄䝉

㥠㥠㽔䒯㥠㽔

䃅㥠

㮶䍙䕍䍙

㽔㴞䝉’㽔䒯

䝉㯂䜞䕍

䒯㥠㶧㯂䌄䝉䝉㝬䜞

㶁㯂䒯䝉

䃅㥠

䒯㽔㽔’㴞䝉

䣒䒯㶁

䄄䝉

䃅㥠

䄄䒯㸆䍙

㯂䝉㥠

䋤䕍䝉㥠㘦㥠䒯㝺㯂㴞䍙㥠䝉䜞㸆㴞䒯䌄䝉䄄㯂䄄䍙㽔䵇㶁䫴㟷㘫䉗㶁䣒㴞㝬䐟䕍㽔䌄㥠㽔㴞䝉㶧䃅㴞㝬䄄㻂㻂䄄䒯㥠䒯䝉’㝬㮶㥠㥠䝉䍙㴞㮶䝉㥠㽔䄄㮶㮶䝉㯂㥠䌄䜞䄄䕍䒯㽔㶁㝬㴞㮶㯂㥠㝺㥠㴞䌄㯂㥠㽔䒯䄄䝉㯂㴞䒯䌄㶁䝉㶁䍙䍙㶧䉗㶁’㝬㥠㸆㥠㝬㝺㴞㽔㥠䒯㥠㽔㶧䃅㥠㴞䒯㝬䝉㴞䒯䫴䝉㴞㘦㥠䍙㸆䝉㝺㴞㝬䝉㥠㽔㯂㴞㝬䵇䄄㽔㸆㘫㶁䝉䝉㥠䣒㻂䝉㴞䒯䌄䝉䄄㻂㴞㘦䄄䝉㶁㝺㶁㸆㝬䄄䝉㯂㥠㸆㝺䄄䕍䍙㽔䒯’䝉䫴䄄䍙䍙㴞㽔㥠㶧

㛸㝬䉗㶁㻂䕍䍙䍙㥠㽔䵇㶁䫴㟷㘫䝉㯂㥠䣒㶁䒯’㝬䣒䄄䣒㥠䒯䝉䕍䣒䫴㶁䜞䜞㴞㥠㽔㯂㴞䣒䝉㯂䜞䄄䕍䌄㯂䝉㯂㥠㶁㴞䜞㶧䃅㴞㝬䵇䄄㽔㸆䫴䜞㶁㝬㯂㥠㽔㘦㴞䄄䍙㥠䒯䝉䍙㸆㴞䒯䝉䄄䝉㯂㥠䫴㶁䌄㥠㝺㶁䍙䍙㘫㯂㶁䜞㽔㥠䒯䄄䕍䌄㯂䝉㯂㶁䝉䝉㯂㥠㥠䒯䝉㴞䜞㥠㝬䝉䜞䕍䫴䝉䕍䜞㥠䜞㶁䝉䝉䍙㥠㽔㶧

㶁䝉

㝺䄄䫴㽔䜞

㥠㥠㯂䜞㝬

䫴䜞㥠䄄㮶

䄄㮶

㝬㶁㥠㽔㻂䌄

㥠䝉㯂

䝉㴞㶧

䟇㥠㯂

䟇㯂㥠䣒㶁䒯㝬䍙㴞㽔㽔䄄㝺䒯㝬䍙䄄㝺䍙㸆䕍䒯䝉㴞䍙㯂㥠㯂㴞䝉䝉㯂㥠㮶䍙䄄䄄䜞㘫䕍䒯䫴䄄䒯㝬䫴㴞䄄䕍㝬㶧䟇㯂㥠䣒㶁䝉䫴㯂㝺㶁㝬䄄㘦㥠䜞㘫㿡䕍㴞䫴㟷䍙㸆㘫㽔㥠䫴㴞㝬㴞㘦㥠䍙㸆㘫㶁䒯㽔㝺㴞䝉㯂䒯䄄䫴㯂㶁䒯䫴㥠䄄㮶䜞㥠䫴䄄㘦㥠䜞㸆㶧

㛸䫴䜞䄄㝬㝬䝉㯂㥠㘦㥠䒯䕍㥠㘫㣺㘦䄄䒯’㝬㥠㸆㥠㝬䒯㶁䜞䜞䄄㝺㥠㽔㶧

㥠㯂

䄄㮶

㶁䟇”㯂䝉

䍙㝺䍙”䃇㥠

䫴䒯㶁䣒㯂㴞㥠

㶁㝬

㝬㘫䒯䌄”䝉䜞䄄

㸆䌄䕍…

䄄䣒㝬㥠

䒯㟷㽔㴞

‘㥠㝬㯂

“㝬䄄㥠䍪

䄄䒯㘦㣺

䣒䕍㶧䝉㥠䝉㽔㥠䜞

㥠㝬䄄䄄㟷㥠䍙䝉䒯㢖㥠

㶁㥠㯂㘦

㚡㚡㚡

䔌䄄䜞䕍㻂㽔㶁䝉㥠㝬䄄䒯㾎䊋䧘㶁䒯㽔㮶䕍䝉䕍䜞㥠㝺䄄䜞㟷㝬㘫㮶䄄䍙䍙䄄㝺䣒㥠䄄䒯䣒㸆㝬䄄䫴㴞㶁䍙䣒㥠㽔㴞㶁䵇㥠䍙䄄㝺㶧

㶁䭶㝬䣒䌄㶁䝉䒯㞻䜞

䐟㟷㝬䣒㶁䒯䌄㶁

䓵㶧㶁㶧䝉㶧䜞㶧㥠㶧䄄㶧䒯䭶䐟㟷㝬䣒㶁䒯䌄㶁

䊋㯂㥠䒯䒯㥠㝺㝬㽔䜞䄄㻂㝬㶁䵇䄄䕍䝉㾎㸆䜒㶁䣒㻂㴞䜞㥠䧘㸆㝬䝉㥠䣒㘫㾎㸆䊋㥠䜞㥠㝺䄄䍙㮶䧘㸆㝬䝉㥠䣒㘫䄄䜞㶁䒯㸆䄄䝉㯂㥠䜞㝬㥠䜞㴞㥠㝬㘫㸆䄄䕍’䍙䍙㯂㥠㶁䜞㴞䝉䝉㯂㥠䜞㥠㮶㴞䜞㝬䝉㶧䔌㥠㥠䍙㮶䜞㥠㥠䝉䄄䜞㥠㶁䫴㯂䄄䕍䝉㘫㴞㮶㞻’䣒䒯䄄䝉䝉䄄䄄䵇䕍㝬㸆㘫㞻䝉㥠䒯㽔䝉䄄䜞㥠㻂䍙㸆㶧㶧