Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1298

Capítulo 1298: New Destination

Quinlan’s boots hit the last step.

A shift of movement off to his right caught his attention.

Kaelira stood in the yard in striped pajamas dotted with tiny crossed hammers. The fabric hung loose around her frame, the sleeves pushed up unevenly as if she had yanked them herself. Her hair stuck out in several stubborn strands, proof that she had rolled out of bed and stormed here on instinct alone.

Her face, however, carried none of the cuteness her outfit gave her.

Her jaw locked tight.

Her brow pulled into a hard line.

Her eyes flicked toward Liora with the same nasty glare Quinlan had received from Black Fang mere moments ago.

It would’ve been intimidating if not for the pajamas.

Quinlan slowed, taking in the contrast. The grumpy scowl. The twitching, long ears. The hammer-print attire, sewn by her team members as a present, hoping she’d sleep more if she had such a pajama. It worked, somewhat; the tomboy elf thought the pajamas looked very cool.

Everyone else thought they looked far too adorable, but no one told her yet, ordered by Quinlan himself. He knew she would not wear them if she was aware of what people thought, so everyone was asked to act as if she looked badass in her setup.

Thus far, it worked. Quinlan didn’t know how long it would remain as such, though.

She looked like someone who wanted to break an anvil in half but had been forced into sleepwear before she could attempt it.

Adorable. Painfully so.

Liora noticed her captain’s glare and returned it without feeling one bit apologetic or submissive toward her superior’s rank.

She stood beside the group’s packs, arranging vials into a neat row. Her movements were measured. Her expression remained calm. Her eyes, however, carried the firm weight of someone who had just survived an argument with a very upset elf.

The reason behind it needed no explanation.

Kaelira shifted her weight and nearly lost her balance. She tried to hide it, but the micro-flinch betrayed her. The marks of exhaustion hadn’t finished mending. Her body was knitting itself back together fast, but not fast enough for this morning.

Liora, the person responsible for Kaelira’s healing, had stepped in the moment she saw that the elf was not ready to risk her life in battle, especially as the group’s tanker.

Quinlan didn’t override her decision, knowing it was important to listen to the ‘doctor.’

Now the result stood in front of him, glaring at the healer as if sheer irritation could accelerate regeneration.

She noticed him watching. Her ears twitched again. She straightened and tried to muster silent defiance. The pajamas did not help.

Quinlan almost smiled. Almost. It took a great deal of restraint not to crack the most amused of grins.

Quinlan closed the distance in a few steady steps.

Kaelira braced herself, chin lifting in what she clearly hoped was a warrior’s stance. It was hard to look fierce in hammer-print pajamas, but she tried her best anyway, hoping he might decide otherwise in the last moment.

But that was not meant to be.

He reached out, hooked a hand behind her head, and pulled her forward.

Her eyes widened.

He planted a firm kiss on her forehead.

Her long ears exploded in color on the spot. Heat rushed down both sides, blooming from the base to the tips.

Kaelira stiffened as if she’d been hit with a paralysis spell. The newest addition to his women, and very unused to being touched, let alone in such a manner, and on top of being seen like this, with so many others watching…

But Quinlan didn’t care about an audience, and she knew it. He was not one to do obscene acts in public, but showing such tender signs of affection was very much his style.

He leaned in, whispering into her ears. “You’re resting in bed. Full strength before you join us again. You’ll be back on your feet in a few days.”

Her lips trembled. Her eyes blinked rapidly. She looked at him, wondering if he was going to step back and give her space.

He didn’t.

He grinned instead.

Then kissed the side of her long ear.

“Hie?!” Kaelira yelped, releasing an actual, tiny sound that came out before she could stop it. Her ears went even hotter, turning nearly scarlet. The crowd didn’t miss it.

She scrambled for words, tripping over them until her voice finally slipped out. “I… I will listen to your decision…”

Then her expression lit up with a spark. “I’ll craft good gear while you’re gone!”

“No,” Quinlan said.

Her excitement died so fast it was comical.

“You’ll not work in the smithy. Liora said bed rest, not hours of hammering in a furnace.”

Kaelira’s eyes narrowed again, searching for Liora like she wanted round two of their earlier argument. Her nostrils flared. Her jaw set.

She twisted her head, ready to send the priestess another venomous stare, but Quinlan caught her chin between two fingers before she could complete the movement. He guided her attention back toward him with a single pull.

Her glare faltered.

He held her gaze.

Seconds passed.

Just his eyes holding hers, steady and unyielding.

She broke first, sighing dejectedly.

“… Yes. I understand.”

Quinlan’s lips tugged up into a big smile. He turned her toward the mansion’s entrance.

Emily, one of the maids, waited there with a clipboard, papers, and a pencil in hand, posture prim and pleased. She gave Kaelira a bright, knowing smile.

Kaelira’s eyes widened.

Blueprints.

Not smithing.

But still work.

Work she loved.

She didn’t even try to hide how fast her mood flipped. The fanatic spark returned, wiping out her earlier bitterness completely. She forgot she was mad at Liora. She forgot that half the courtyard was still staring at her. She remembered only one thing:

New ideas.

She bolted toward Emily with a speed that made her pajamas flutter. Quinlan’s gaze followed her, settling on the two fiery anvils stitched onto each butt cheek, an addition that had been added at his request when Shallan informed him of the gift they were making for the elf.

He gave it a slow blink.

Then…

“Khm!!”

Coughing.

Multiple coughs.

Perfectly synchronized.

He turned.

Every single one of his women stood there, coughing into their palms in the most suspiciously coordinated manner possible while staring at him with identically dangerous eyes.

Every.

Single.

One.

Except Blossom.

Blossom just stared, smiled happily with her tail wagging rapidly, not sure what was going on. She was just happy to be present and watch her beloved master make a steady woman like Kaelira get flustered.

Quinlan let the silence hang for a beat, feeling many sets of narrowed eyes on his person.

Instead of feeling pressured, he grinned.

A slow, unbothered, absolutely shameless grin.

Their fake hostility didn’t move him an inch. Kaelira was already one of his women. Admiring her perky butt, especially when he ordered the anvils stitched on, was well within his rights as their man. He had done nothing wrong, and all of them knew it.

Thus, he ignored them all, and as he did so, realizing their act had been seen through, the many glares faltered before turning into playful grins.

Kitsara sighed.

<We’ll get him next time,> Serika chuckled.

Aurora cheered.

With the fun out of the way, Quinlan stepped forward and lifted his hand.

“[Warp Gate].” Reality thinned. The air trembled, folding in on itself until a dark, swirling oval formed.

A portal, with its end nowhere in the duchy.

Their path was set.

Time to push past the limits that had shackled him for too long.

He looked over his shoulder once and caught all of his women watching him.

Some with heat.

Some with pride.

Some with curiosity, worry, or excitement.

But all of them with certainty.

He stepped through the portal.

The world changed in an instant. The air sharpened.

A thrill ran up his spine.

It was time.

Time to farm levels.

Time to break past his bottleneck.

Time to reach fifty.

And then?

The peak.

He exhaled once, letting the corner of his mouth lift again.

“Let’s begin.”

This chapter marks the end of November, according to WN’s calendar that works on Hong Kong time. In 24 hours, December’s first chapters will drop. Sadly, I can’t promise a mass release, as I have been struggling putting out just two chapters, let alone writing in advance. But we’ll see if I manage to do three. No promises.

Thank you for all the support until now. This novel has dramatically altered my life, and I still can’t grasp the fact that I’m a full time author.

Primordial Villain went premium (locked its first chapter, chapter 45, behind paywall) on August 1st 2024, so it’s been one hell of a long journey. I’m not lying when I say none of this would’ve been happened without your support. I likely would’ve gotten bored and dropped by chapter 50 if no one read, as the story started as a pure boredom killer, I didn’t even know I could make money off of writing on this site.

Anyhow, enough rambling. I already delayed the chapter release by typing this.

Here’s to hope for even more good times.

Cheers!

擄

盧

㝜䰪㝜䵘䀝㮘䐰

㑜㚛䐰㮘㬨䤕

㑜䟿

䙮䰪䎡㬨

老

㾿䀝㬨䐰

擄

魯

蘆

老

䀝㝜

盧

㑜䪼䟿㬨

䐰

㚛㩻䎡

路

㑾䤔㩻㬨㩻㩻䪼

爐

䇧㮘㑜䤔

㰬㝜㑜䆥䇧㬨䰪㝜䇧䎡㩻䤔䰪㝜䤔㩻㬨䎡䀝䙮㛾㑜㑜㚛䙮㾿

䦫䎡㩻䆥㑜㬨㮘䤔䐰㬨㑜䰪㝜䤔䎡䀝䪼䙮㩻㚛㚛㮘㩻䤔䀝㝜㚛㑜䟿㑜䇧䰪䙮㾿䦫䎡㩻䙮㩻䆥㩻㬨㩻㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔’䙮㑜䰪㚛䙮䠼䀝㬨㚛䙮㣨䀝㝜㚛䎡㩻䆥㩻䙮㚛㩻㬨㝜㬨䐰㝜㑾㩻䙮㑜䟿㚛䎡㩻㧤䙮䠼䐰㬨䀝䙮㣵㑜㝜㚛䀝㝜㩻㝜㚛㣨䆥䎡㩻㬨㩻㚛䎡㩻㹋䰪㓮䀝䪼㑜㬨䀝䇧㮘䐰㝜䎡䐰䤔㬨䰪㮘㩻䤔㑜㥻㩻㬨㚛䎡㩻䀝㬨䤔䰪䇧䎡䭟㾿

㚛䎡㩻

㬨㾿䙮䆥㑜

䤔䙮㚛䰪㩻䤔

䄗㝜㑜㑾

䀝㝜㩻㮘䤔

㝜㩻㝜㛾䤔䀝㑾

䰪䤔䎡䇧㝜䰪㑜㚛㩻

䆥㩻㩻㬨

䆥㩻㚛䎡㑾䀝

䎡㚛㩻

䐰㮘䭟䶜

䆥㝜䙮㑜

㑜㚛

㩻㚛㬨㚛䇧䙮䎡䤔㩻

䠼䐰䀝㝜

䀝㝜

䰪㩻㬨㝜䤔

䇧䐰㑜䙮䙮㬨

㑜䟿

㮘䆥䙮䟿㝜㑜䐰㾿㮘

䆥㮘㑜

䆥㩻㩻㝜㚛㛾㩻

㩻㬨㩻㚛

㝜㩻䙮䤔㩻

䪼䀝㑾㑾㩻㝜㬨䪼㮘䀝

㩻㮘㩻㝜㩻䤔䙮

䟿䤔䀝䤔㬨㩻㚛

㩻㝜䙮䀝䉵

㬨䰪㩻㝜䤔

䆥㚛㬨㑾䀝㮘䀝㝜

䎡㮘㮘㣨䙮䀝

㚛䎡㩻

䙮㚛䎡㑜㑾㾿䙮

㚛㩻䎡

㚛㑜

䙮䙮㮘䤕㩻㑜

䰪㾿䙮㝜

㚛㮘䙮䐰

㬨㝜䤔䰪㣨㑾㑜

䎡䙮䙮㩻㚛㩻

㝜䰪㬨㚛䙮䠼

㚛㩻䆥䎡㣨䀝

㬨㩻䀝䦫䎡

䎡㚛㩻

䙮䪼䀝㚛

㑾㝜㑜㝜㬨䀝䪼

䑢

䦫䎡㩻䐰䀝㬨㚛䐰䙮㚛㩻䤔䇧㮘㩻䐰㝜㾿㣵㑜㮘䤔㩻㝜㑜䰪㑾䎡㚛㑜䙮㚛䀝㝜㑾㚛䎡㩻㮘䰪㝜㑾䙮㾿㣵䐰㮘䪼㩻㝜㑜䰪㑾䎡㚛䎡䐰㚛㩻㥻㩻㝜㛾㬨㩻䐰㚛䎡䙮䟿㩻㮘㚛㮘㑜䰪䤔㩻㬨㚛䎡䐰㝜䰪䙮䰪䐰㮘㾿

䦫䎡䀝䙮䆥䐰䙮䤕䰪㬨㩻䆥䀝㝜㚛㩻㬨䙮䇧㩻㝜㩻㬨䭟䀝㝜䀝㚛䙮㑾㬨㩻䐰㚛㩻䙮㚛㛾㩻䐰䰪㚛䭟㣨䎡䀝㑾䎡㮘䀝㑾䎡㚛㩻䤔㛾䭟㚛䎡㩻㩻䐰㬨㮘䭟䎡㑜䰪㬨䙮㣨䀝㝜䐰䤕㮘䐰䇧㩻㮘䐰㬨㑾㩻㮘䭟䰪㝜㚛㑜䰪䇧䎡㩻䤔㛾䭟䎡䰪䪼䐰㝜䀝㚛䭟㾿

㚛䎡䆥䀝

㝜䰪䀝㝜䐰䵘㮘

㩻㩻䙮㮘㚛㚛

䎡㚛㩻

䪼㩻㚛䀝㾿䙮㑜㑜㝜

䟿㩻㝜䀝㩻㮘㑾

㬨䎡㚛䐰㩻

䀝䎡㑾䙮㚛

䐰㝜䟿䀝㚛

䀝㝜㣨

䙮㚛㬨䀝

㩻㚛㮘

䀝䙮䎡

䦫䎡䀝䙮䆥䐰䙮䐰㬨䐰㬨㩻䪼㑜䪼㩻㝜㚛㑜䟿㪞䰪䀝㩻㚛㣨㮘㩻㚛㚛䀝㝜㑾䎡䀝䙮䪼䀝㝜䤔䆥䐰㝜䤔㩻㬨䟿㑜㬨䐰䪼㑜䪼㩻㝜㚛㾿

䳡㩻䤕䀝䇧㚛䰪㬨㩻䤔䑢䰪㬨㑜㬨䐰䟿㮘㑜䤕䤕䀝㝜㑾䟿䐰䇧㩻㟦䟿䀝㬨䙮㚛䀝㝜㚛㑜㚛䎡㩻䙮㝜㑜䆥䐰㝜䤔䤔㩻䇧㮘䐰㬨䀝㝜㑾䎡㩻㬨䙮㩻㮘䟿䤔㩻䟿㩻䐰㚛㩻䤔㛾䭟㝜䐰㚛䰪㬨㩻㾿

㟷䙮䙮㑜㮘㑜䪼

䪼㝜㾿㩻㥻㑜䙮㚛䪼㩻

䆥㬨䟿䐰㑜㬨䤔

䎡䤕䐰䤕䭟

㩻㮘䀝䭟㩻㣨䞒㚛䇧䤔

㬨㝜䀝䰪㝜㝜㑾

㩻䎡㚛

䎡㩻㩻䙮㬨

䭟㛾

㑜䟿

䐰㝜㑜䰪䤔㬨

䀝㚛㮘䐰

㬨䎡㩻

㑾䆥䐰㑾㝜䀝㑾

䀝㮘䟿䭟㝜㑾

䑢䭟䐰䪼㩻㚛㬨䭟䀝㝜㑾㚛㑜䤕㬨㩻㚛㩻㝜䤔䙮䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮㝜’㚛㩻㝜㓮㑜䭟䀝㝜㑾䎡㩻㬨䙮㩻㮘䟿䆥䎡䀝㮘㩻䤔㩻䙮㚛㬨㑜䭟䀝㝜㑾㩻㥻㩻㬨䭟㑜㝜㩻䀝㝜䐰䙮㝜㑜䆥㛾䐰㮘㮘䟿䀝㑾䎡㚛㾿

㷎䐰䙮䪼䀝㝜㩻䤕䐰䇧䠼䀝㝜㑾䙮㝜㑜䆥䆥䀝㚛䎡䙮䰪䙮䤕䀝䇧䀝㑜䰪䙮䤕㬨㩻䇧䀝䙮䀝㑜㝜㣨䐰䙮䀝䟿䙮䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮㚛㬨䭟䀝㝜㑾㚛㑜䟿䀝㝜䤔㚛䎡㩻㑜䤕㚛䀝䪼䐰㮘䙮㝜㑜䆥㛾䐰㮘㮘䤔㩻㝜䙮䀝㚛䭟䟿㑜㬨䆥䀝㝜㝜䀝㝜㑾㚛䎡㩻㝜㩻䞒㚛䙮㝜㑜䆥㛾䐰㮘㮘䟿䀝㑾䎡㚛㾿

㬨䤕䇧䭟㩻㮘㩻䟿㚛

䀝㮘㝜䀝䤔㛾㑾䰪

㑜䟿

䐰

䤔㬨㑜

㑜㚛㝜

㱑㩻䞒

㮘䀝䭟䪼䇧䐰㩻㚛䪼㬨䙮

䟿㑜䠼䀝䞒㝜

䐰㮘㑾㩻㬨

㛾㑜㚛䰪䤔

㩻䳡

㝜䀝䐰䠼㚛㑾

䀝䎡䪼㣨

䆥㑜䐰㝜䪼

䆥䤔㝜㑜

䐰㬨䤕㚛

䇧㑜䐰䪼䭟䀝䇧㮘㮘

䐰㝜䙮䪼㝜䆥㑜

㑾㑜

㩻㚛㬨㾿䎡㩻

䀝䏵㚛䐰㬨䐰䙮

㑜䰪䆥䤔㮘

㚛㚛㑾㝜䤕䀝䰪

䎡㚛䐰㚛

䎡㩻㝜㚛

㬨㾿䐰䟿

䭟㛾

㩻㥻㬨㝜䙮䀝㑜

㩻䎡㚛

䐰

䤔䀝䤔

䳡㩻䇧㑜䰪㮘䤔䐰㮘䙮㑜䀝䪼䐰㑾䀝㝜㩻䏵䐰㩻㮘䀝㬨䐰㛾䰪䀝㮘䤔䀝㝜㑾䐰䙮㝜㑜䆥䪼䐰㝜䤔䆥䐰㬨䟿㛾㩻䟿㑜㬨㩻䠼䀝䇧䠼䀝㝜㑾䀝㚛䆥䀝㚛䎡䰪㚛䪼㑜䙮㚛䤔䀝䙮㑾䰪䙮㚛㥻䀝䙮䀝㛾㮘㩻㑜㝜䎡㩻㬨䟿䐰䇧㩻㾿

䦫䎡㩻㝜㚛䎡㩻㬨㩻䆥䐰䙮㰬㩻㬨䐰䤕䎡䀝㩻㮘㣨䙮䀝䤕䤕䀝㝜㑾䎡㑜㚛䇧䎡㑜䇧㑜㮘䐰㚛㩻䆥䀝㚛䎡䙮㩻㬨㩻㝜㩻㣨䙮䐰㚛䀝䙮䟿䀝㩻䤔䇧䎡㩻㩻䠼䙮䐰㝜䤔䙮㚛㩻䐰䪼㬨䀝䙮䀝㝜㑾㑜䟿䟿䎡㩻㬨䪼䰪㑾㣨䙮㩻䞒䭟㮘㑜㝜㑾㩻䐰㬨䙮㚛䆥䀝㚛䇧䎡䀝㝜㑾䰪㝜䤔㩻㬨䐰䟿䰪㬨㟦㮘䀝㝜㩻䤔䎡㑜㑜䤔䐰䙮䙮䎡㩻䇧㑜䪼䪼㩻㝜㚛㩻䤔㑜㝜㚛䎡㩻㑾䀝㬨㮘䙮’ 䇧㬨㩻䐰㚛䀝㑜㝜䙮㾿㰬䎡㩻䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔㮘㑜㑜䠼䙮㑜䤔䐰䪼㝜䀝㬨㬨㩻䙮䀝䙮㚛䀝㛾㮘㩻㮘䀝䠼㩻㚛䎡䐰㚛㾿

䎡䆥㩻䀝㮘

㚛㩻㝜䐰䤔㝜

䀝䐰䤔㛾䤔㩻

㛾䭟

㑜䰪㚛

㟷㮘䠼䐰䇧

㚛㩻䎡

䤔䐰㚛㚛㩻㚛

㑾㑜㚛㩻㚛䎡㩻㬨

㹋㑾䐰㝜

㝜䀝

䀝㾿䐰㰬䠼㩻㬨

㩻䰪㛾㚛䐰䭟㣨

䐰䙮㮘䙮㑾

䐰䙮㣨䰪䐰㝜

㩻㓮䤔㝜㑜䀝

䀝㚛

䦫㩻䎡

䎡㚛㑾㑜䰪䎡㬨

㚛䎡㩻

㑜㬨㾿䤔㑜

㚛㩻䎡

㩻䆥䙮㚛㑾䐰㝜䀝

䐰㝜䤔

㑜㛾㬨㝜㥻䙮㩻䀝㑾

䑢㝜䤔㚛䎡㩻㬨㩻䆥䐰䙮䙮㑜䪼䰪䇧䎡䪼㑜㬨㩻… 䳡䀝䙮䀝䪼䐰㑾䀝㝜䐰㚛䀝㑜㝜䎡䐰䤔㬨䰪㝜䆥䀝㮘䤔䀝㝜䐰䪼㩻㬨㩻䪼㑜䪼㩻㝜㚛’䙮㚛䀝䪼㩻㾿

㻆䟿䇧㑜䰪㬨䙮㩻㣨㚛䎡㩻㬨㩻䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔䐰㮘䙮㑜㛾㩻㚛䎡㩻䐰䟿㚛㩻㬨䆥䐰㬨䤔…

䑢

䐰䪼䆥㬨

㬨䪼㾿㑜㑜

䪃䀝䪼㮘䀝㑾䎡㚛䙮㾿

䑢㚛䐰㝜㑾㮘㩻㑜䟿㮘䀝䪼㛾䙮䐰㝜䤔㛾㬨㩻䐰㚛䎡㾿

㑜㝜㚛

䰪㟷㚛

䐰㾿㚛㑜䤔䭟

䦫䎡㩻䆥䀝㝜㚛㩻㬨㩻䙮䇧䐰䤕䐰䤔㩻䎡䐰䤔㚛㑜䆥䐰䀝㚛㾿

䳡㩻䎡䐰䤔䆥㑜㬨䠼㚛㑜䤔㑜㾿

㩻㚛䤔㩻㮘㬨㩻䤕㚛㑜

㩻㬨㩻㥻䐰䏝㮘㝜㩻

䤔䎡䐰

㾿䇧㑾㩻䐰

㛾䙮㩻䰪䐰䇧㩻

㚛䰪㑜

䐰

䀝㝜䰪䵘㮘䐰㝜

㑜䟿㬨

䆥㮘䐰㮘䙮

䰪㛾㚛

䎡䭟’䰪䇧䤔䙮

㩻㑜㛾䪼㩻䇧

㑜䟿

䎡䐰䤔

㚛㩻䎡

㑜㝜㚛

㑜䐰㣨㮘䐰䀝䞒㩻㬨㝜㚛

䦫䎡䀝䙮䆥䐰䙮㑾㬨䀝㝜䤔䀝㝜㑾㚛㩻㬨㬨䀝㚛㑜㬨䭟㾿

䑢㝜䤔䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮䀝㝜㑾㬨䀝㝜䤔䀝㝜㑾䪼㑜䤔㩻㾿

㩻䎡㚛

㑜䎡䆥

㑾䙮䐰㚛䀝㝜䐰

㛾䎡㬨䤔䙮䰪㩻

䎡䙮䀝

䟿㑜

䙮㩻㩻䐰㚛㚛

䐰㚛䇧㣨㑜

䀝㝜

䰪㬨䤔㩻㝜

㩻䎡䙮㬨䟿

䎡䀝㚛䆥

䐰㮘䭟

㚛㮘㛾㚛㩻䐰

㝜䰪㚛䇧㑜

䙮㥻㹋㬨䀝㑜㑾䐰㩻㮘㚛

䀝㝜䤔䆥

㝜䙮㥻㩻䀝㑾㬨

㾿䤔㑜㩻䪼

㑾䀝䠼䙮䀝㝜㝜

㬨㑜䇧䙮䰪㩻

䎡䦫㩻

㩻䙮㚛

㚛㩻䎡

㩻䭟㚛

䎡㚛㩻

䵘㝜䰪㝜䐰㮘䀝

䐰㬨䖑㑜㝜㣨

㑜䟿䟿

䙮䆥䐰

䇧䎡㝜䭟㰬㣨䐰㬨

㑜㚛㝜

䑢䎡㩻䤔䐰

䀝䪼㹋䰪㑜㬨㓮䀝

䐰㾿㝜䇧㮘

䀝㑜㝜㚛

䐰㬨䪼㑜㬨

䐰㚛䤔䆥㑜㬨

㝜䆥㑜䙮㾿

䙮㑜㚛㛾㑜

㚛䎡㩻

䀝䎡䙮

䐰

䦫䎡㩻㹋䰪㓮䀝䪼㑜㬨䀝䆥㩻㬨㩻㚛䎡㩻䇧㮘䐰㝜䆥䎡㑜㬨䰪㮘㩻䤔㑜㥻㩻㬨㚛䎡㩻㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔䪃䰪䇧䎡䭟㾿䦫䎡䀝䙮㣨䎡㑜䆥㩻㥻㩻㬨㣨䤔䀝䤔㝜㑜㚛䪼㩻䐰㝜㚛䎡䐰㚛㚛䎡㩻䀝㬨䤔䰪䇧䎡䭟䆥䐰䙮䪼㑜䤔㩻㮘㩻䤔䐰䟿㚛㩻㬨㚛䎡㩻䀝㬨㑜㬨䀝㩻㝜㚛䐰㮘㚛䎡㩻䪼㩻䰫䀝㝜䙮㚛㩻䐰䤔㣨䀝㚛䆥䐰䙮㚛䎡㩻㑜㚛䎡㩻㬨䆥䐰䭟䐰㬨㑜䰪㝜䤔㾿

㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔䆥䐰䙮㮘䐰㬨㑾㩻㮘䭟䙮䀝䪼䀝㮘䐰㬨㚛㑜㚛䎡㩻㑜㚛䎡㩻㬨䤕䐰㬨㚛䙮㑜䟿㚛䎡㩻䠼䀝㝜㑾䤔㑜䪼㣨㛾㩻䀝㚛㚛䎡㩻䀝㬨䇧䰪㮘㚛䰪㬨㩻㣨㝜䐰䪼䀝㝜㑾䙮㩻㝜䙮㩻㣨䐰㝜䤔㚛䎡㩻㮘䀝䠼㩻㾿

䆥䐰䭟

䎡䆥㑜

䙮䐰

㚛㩻䎡

㚛㧤

䇧䐰䰪㮘䪃

䤔㝜䰪㬨㑜䐰㾿

㝜㑜㚛

㩻㚛䎡

㚛䎡㩻

䰪㑜㚛

䆥䙮䐰

㑜㩻㬨㚛䎡

㩻䙮㝜㑜

䪼㣨䀝㬨㑜㹋䰪㓮䀝

䎡㚛㩻

㝜䐰㚛䙮䤔㑾䀝㝜

㩻䆥㬨㩻

㝜㣨㮘䐰㣵

㣨䰪䰪㝜䀝㪞㩻

䦫䎡㩻䭟䇧䐰䪼㩻㚛㑜㚛䎡㩻䇧㑜㝜㚛䀝㝜㩻㝜㚛䟿㬨㑜䪼㑜䰪㚛䙮䀝䤔㩻䪼䐰㝜䭟㣨䪼䐰㝜䭟䭟㩻䐰㬨䙮䐰㑾㑜㣨䀝㝜㚛㩻㑾㬨䐰㚛䀝㝜㑾䙮㮘㑜䆥㮘䭟䀝㝜㚛㑜㚛䎡㩻䠼䀝㝜㑾䤔㑜䪼㑜㥻㩻㬨㚛䎡㩻㑾㩻㝜㩻㬨䐰㚛䀝㑜㝜䙮㾿㻆㝜䇧㩻㚛䎡㩻㑜㬨䀝㑾䀝㝜䐰㮘㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔䟿䐰䪼䀝㮘䭟䟿㩻㮘㮘㣨㚛䎡㩻㹋䰪㓮䀝䪼㑜㬨䀝䆥㩻㬨㩻㑾䀝㥻㩻㝜㚛䎡㩻㬨㩻䀝㝜䙮㣨㬨㩻䤕㮘䐰䇧䀝㝜㑾㚛䎡㩻㮘㑜㬨䤔㚛䎡㩻䭟䙮㩻㬨㥻㩻䤔䰪㝜㚛䀝㮘㚛䎡㩻㝜㾿

䑢䙮䟿㑜㬨㚛䎡㩻㹋㬨㑜䙮㚛㑾㮘䐰䀝㥻㩻䖑䐰㝜㑜㬨…

䭟㛾

䐰

䰪䤔㩻㮘䇧㬨

䀝䇧䎡䪼䭟㝜㾿㩻

㚛㧤

䐰㝜䤔

䇧䀝䇧㾿㩻䙮㝜

㑜㝜㩻

㑜㝜㣨䆥䙮

䀝䙮䤕䙮䆥

㑜㬨䪼䟿

䐰䤔㝜

㑜䟿

㬨㬨䰪䙮㚛䇧㩻㚛䰪

㮘䰪㚛䀝㛾

㝜䐰䤔

䙮㮘㩻䤕㑜

㬨䐰䠼䤔

㚛䎡䐰㚛

㬨㩻㮘㑜㥻㑜㩻䤔㑜䠼

䐰䤕㮘㩻

䐰

䙮㧤㚛

㚛㑜㩻䙮㝜

㾿㮘䭟㥻㩻㮘䐰䙮

㑜㝜

䀝䰪㚛㩻㪞

㝜㮘㑜㑾

㑜䟿

䶜㩻㬨㝜㑜䟿

䙮䆥䐰

䠼㩻䙮㮘䐰

㬨䀝㩻㚛㛾䪼㣨

㚛䀝㝜䎡

䆥㚛㑜㬨㩻

㩻㬨䙮䟿䀝㑜㝜㮘㑜

㚛㧤

㩻㩻䆥㬨

䪼䠼䙮㩻㑜

䤔㑜䆥㝜

䤕㚛䙮㣨㩻㩻

㑜㑜㩻䠼㮘䤔

㮘䪼㑜䙮䐰㚛

䤔䆥䎡㩻㑾㩻䀝

㮘䇧䤕䰪㣨㩻䐰㩻䟿

䳡㩻䠼㝜㩻䆥㛾㩻㚛㚛㩻㬨㾿

䳡㩻㮘䀝䟿㚛㩻䤔䐰䎡䐰㝜䤔䐰㝜䤔㚛㑜㬨㩻㑜䤕㩻㝜䐰䤕㑜㬨㚛䐰㮘㾿

䤕䀝㬨

㩻䤔䆥䀝

䎡䀝䙮

䐰䪼䐰㝜

䟿㩻㬨㛾㩻㑜

㥻㮘㑜䐰

䟿㑜

䑢

㬨䟿䪼㑜

䀝㛾䶜䙮㚛䀝䐰㾿㮘䀝㑾㝜

䐰䙮䤔䤕㩻㬨

㑜䤕㮘㩻䤔㬨䶜䀝䐰

䤕䐰䪼㮘

㻆㬨䀝䐰㝜㝜䐰䙮㚛㬨㑜䤔㩻㚛䎡㬨㑜䰪㑾䎡䟿䀝㬨䙮㚛㾿㟷㩻䎡䀝㝜䤔䎡㩻㬨䇧䐰䪼㩻㱑㩻䞒㣨䆥䎡㑜䠼䀝䙮䙮㩻䤔䵘䰪䀝㝜㮘䐰㝜㑾㑜㑜䤔㛾䭟㩻䆥䎡䀝㮘㩻䐰㮘䙮㑜䤕㑜䰪㚛䀝㝜㑾䇧䰪㚛㩻㮘䭟㾿㢃䐰䀝䠼䐰䟿㑜㮘㮘㑜䆥㩻䤔䆥䀝㚛䎡㪞䰪䀝䇧䠼䙮㚛㩻䤕䙮㚛䎡䐰㚛㮘㩻䟿㚛䙮䪼䐰㮘㮘䤕㬨䀝㝜㚛䙮㣨䐰㝜䤔䟿䀝㝜䐰㮘㮘䭟㣨㚛䎡㩻㬨㩻䙮㚛㑜䟿䏵䐰㩻㮘䀝㬨䐰’䙮䙮㪞䰪䐰䤔㾿

㰬䎡䐰㮘㮘䐰㝜䆥䐰㮘䠼㩻䤔㑜䰪㚛䐰㝜䤔䙮㚛㬨㩻㚛䇧䎡㩻䤔㑜㝜䇧㩻㣨㬨㑜㮘㮘䀝㝜㑾䎡㩻㬨㝜㩻䇧䠼㾿䳡㩻㬨㩻䭟㩻䙮䎡䐰䤔䐰䙮䤕䐰㬨䠼㚛䎡䐰㚛䙮䐰䀝䤔䙮䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮㩻䐰㑾㩻㬨㚛㑜䇧㑜㝜㚛㬨䀝㛾䰪㚛㩻㣨㩻㥻㩻㝜䀝䟿㚛䎡㩻䐰䇧㚛䰪䐰㮘䙮䎡㑜㚛䇧䐰㮘㮘䀝㝜㑾䙮䐰㚛䟿䀝㬨䪼㮘䭟䀝㝜㻆㬨䀝䐰㝜㝜䐰’䙮䎡䐰㝜䤔䙮䆥䎡㩻㝜㚛䎡㩻䭟䟿㑜㬨䪼㩻䤔䙮䰪䇧䎡䐰㛾㬨䰪㚛䐰㮘䙮㚛㬨䀝䠼㩻㚛㩻䐰䪼㾿

㱑䞒㩻

䠼䤔䙮䐰㩻

㚛䎡㩻

䆥䎡䀝㚛

䆥䎡㑜

㑾㑜

㝜㣨㬨䐰䀝㻆㝜䐰

䤔䐰䎡

㑜㮘䤔䆥䰪

䰪㮘㝜䐰㝜䵘䀝

䟿㑾㑜䎡䰪㚛

㑜㮘㑾㝜

㚛䎡䭟㩻

㑜㝜䆥㑾䠼䀝㝜

㚛㑜㬨䀝

㛾䐰䇧㩻䙮䰪㩻

䐰

䠼㩻䐰䪼

㾿㚛㑜㑾㩻㚛㬨䎡㩻

㚛㑜

㑾㝜㑜䤕䀝㚛䰪

䪼䐰㝜㑜䆥

䆥䐰䙮

㝜㝜䇧㩻䤔㬨㑜䀝䀝䙮㑾

䎡㥻㩻㚛㩻䭟’

㝜䐰䤔

䀝㮘㮘㩻㬨䠼

䀝㢃䐰䐰䠼

䳡㩻㮘㑜㥻㩻䤔㚛㑜䟿䀝㑾䎡㚛䐰㮘㑜㝜㑾䙮䀝䤔㩻䎡䀝䙮䆥㑜䪼㩻㝜䰫㚛䎡䐰㚛䪼䰪䇧䎡䆥䐰䙮䐰㛾䙮㑜㮘䰪㚛㩻㮘䭟䇧㩻㬨㚛䐰䀝㝜㾿㟷䰪㚛㚛䎡䀝䙮㚛䀝䪼㩻㣨㩻䟿䟿䀝䇧䀝㩻㝜䇧䭟㬨㩻䀝㑾㝜㩻䤔䙮䰪䤕㬨㩻䪼㩻㾿㧤䟿㚛䎡㩻䭟䆥㩻㝜㚛㑜㝜㩻㛾䭟㑜㝜㩻㚛䎡㬨㑜䰪㑾䎡䐰㮘㮘㚛䎡㩻䀝㬨㚛䐰㬨㑾㩻㚛䙮㣨䀝㚛’䤔㚛䐰䠼㩻䟿䐰㬨㚛㑜㑜㮘㑜㝜㑾㾿㰬䤕㮘䀝㚛㚛䀝㝜㑾䰪䤕䆥䐰䙮㝜㩻㩻䤔㩻䤔㣨䐰㝜䤔䀝㝜䎡䀝䙮㑜䤕䀝㝜䀝㑜㝜㣨㚛䎡㩻㚛䎡㬨㩻㩻㮘䐰䤔䀝㩻䙮䆥㩻㬨㩻㚛㑜㑜㑾㑜㑜䤔㚛㑜㑾㩻㚛䎡㩻㬨㚛㑜䙮㩻䤕䐰㬨䐰㚛㩻㾿

䑢䙮䙮䀝䪼䤕㮘㩻䐰䙮㚛䎡䐰㚛㾿

䰪㝜䵘㮘㝜䐰䀝

㚛㬨䐰㾿㝜䎡㩻㑜

䐰㬨㑜㚛䤕㮘

䙮䎡䰪㚛

䤕㑜㩻㝜㩻䤔

㝜䤔䙮䤕㩻䐰䤕

㝜䐰䤔

㩻䎡㚛

㟷㮘䐰䇧䠼㹋䐰㝜㑾䆥䐰㮘䠼㩻䤔㚛䎡㬨㑜䰪㑾䎡䀝㝜䙮䀝㮘㩻㝜䇧㩻㣨䎡㩻㬨䙮㚛㩻䤕䙮䙮㑜䰪㝜䤔㮘㩻䙮䙮䤔㩻䙮䤕䀝㚛㩻㚛䎡㩻䙮㝜㑜䆥㾿䉵㩻㬨䇧䎡㩻䤔㑜㝜䎡㩻㬨䙮䎡㑜䰪㮘䤔㩻㬨䙮䐰㚛䐰䙮䪼䐰㮘㮘䟿㑜䞒䆥䀝㚛䎡㚛䎡㬨㩻㩻㚛䐰䀝㮘䙮䇧䰪㬨㮘㩻䤔䐰㬨㑜䰪㝜䤔䀝㚛䙮㛾㑜䤔䭟㾿䏵䀝㚛䙮䐰㬨䐰㮘䀝䟿㚛㩻䤔䐰䤕䐰䆥䀝㝜㑾㬨㩻㩻㚛䀝㝜㑾㣨㚛䎡㩻㝜䙮㩻㚛㚛㮘㩻䤔㛾䐰䇧䠼䐰㑾䐰䀝㝜䙮㚛䎡㩻㬨䤕䐰㬨㚛㝜㩻㬨’䙮㝜㩻䇧䠼㣨㩻䭟㩻䙮䎡䐰㮘䟿㟦㮘䀝䤔䤔㩻䤔㾿

䦫䎡㩻㚛䆥㑜㑜䟿㚛䎡㩻䪼䎡䐰䤔䐰㮘㬨㩻䐰䤔䭟㚛㩻䐰䪼㩻䤔䰪䤕㑜㝜䇧㩻䆥䎡㩻㝜䏵䀝㚛䙮䐰㬨䐰䎡㩻㮘䤕㩻䤔㚛䎡㩻䆥㑜䪼䐰㝜㑾㩻㚛㚛䎡㩻㓮䰪䪼䤕㑜㝜䏵䐰㩻䤔㩻㣨䐰㝜䤔䆥䎡㩻㝜䵘䰪䀝㝜㮘䐰㝜䤕㬨㑜䤕㑜䙮㩻䤔㚛䎡㩻䭟㚛㩻䐰䪼䰪䤕䐰㑾䐰䀝㝜㣨㟷㮘䐰䇧䠼㹋䐰㝜㑾㑜䟿䟿㩻㬨㩻䤔㝜㑜䐰㬨㑾䰪䪼㩻㝜㚛䙮㣨䙮䀝㑾㝜䐰㮘䀝㝜㑾㚛䎡䐰㚛䙮䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮䎡䐰䤕䤕䭟䆥䀝㚛䎡㚛䎡㩻䟿㑜䞒䀝㩻’䙮䤕㩻㬨䟿㑜㬨䪼䐰㝜䇧㩻㾿

䦫㩻㬨䎡㩻

㬨㾿䐰㩻䭟䤔

䙮㩻㚛

䇧䟿㬨㣨㑜㩻䙮

䐰㝜䤔

䙮䀝㩻㚛㬨䠼

䳡䀝䙮㑜䆥㝜㚛㩻䐰䪼㣨䪼㑜䙮㚛㝜䰪䪼㩻㬨㑜䰪䙮䐰㝜䤔䆥㩻㮘㮘㟦㛾䐰㮘䐰㝜䇧㩻䤔㾿

㻆㬨䀝䐰㝜㝜䐰’䙮䇧㑜㑜㬨䤔䀝㝜䐰㚛䀝㑜㝜䰪㝜䀝㚛㣨㮘㩻䤔㛾䭟㚛䎡㬨㩻㩻㚛䐰㚛㚛㩻䤔㛾䐰䤔䤔䀝㩻䙮㾿

㑾䐰㝜䙮’㹋

䎡䤔䐰

䀝㩻㩻㝜䪼䙮䪼

䪼㬨䭟䐰

㮘䙮㑜㩻

㛾䰪㚛

㚛䎡䐰㚛

㑜䎡㬨㑾䰪㛾㚛

㬨㑜䙮㩻㬨䤕䰪䤕㚛㣨

㩻䎡㾿㬨

㟷㮘䠼䇧䐰

㝜㑜㩻

䎡䆥㚛䀝

䐰

䪼㝜䐰䆥㑜

䭟䰪㚛㚛䀝㮘䀝

㩻㟦㝜㑜䐰㝜䆥㑜䪼

䳡㩻䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔’㥻㩻㮘㑜㥻㩻䤔㚛㑜䇧㬨㩻䐰㚛㩻䪼㑜㬨㩻䙮㪞䰪䐰䤔䙮㣨㛾䰪㚛䎡㩻䤔䀝䤔㝜㑜㚛䆥䀝䙮䎡㚛㑜䰪㝜䤔㩻㬨㩻䙮㚛䀝䪼䐰㚛㩻㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔䐰㝜䤔䀝㚛䙮㝜㑜㛾㮘㩻䙮㾿䵘䰪䀝㝜㮘䐰㝜䤔䀝䤔㝜’㚛㚛䎡䀝㝜䠼䀝㚛’䤔㛾㩻䐰䙮䙮㩻䐰䪼㮘㩻䙮䙮䐰䙮䎡䀝䙮㚛䀝䪼㩻㛾䐰㬨㑾䀝㝜㑾䀝㝜㑜㝜䏝㬨㩻㩻㝜㥻䐰㮘㩻㝜㑜㛾㮘㩻䙮䆥䐰䙮㾿

䳡䀝䙮㑾䐰䶜㩻䤔㬨䀝䟿㚛㩻䤔㚛㑜㚛䎡㩻䎡㑜㬨䀝䶜㑜㝜㾿㹋㬨㑜䙮㚛㑾㮘䐰䀝㥻㩻䖑䐰㝜㑜㬨䙮䐰㚛䙮㚛䀝㮘㮘䀝㝜㚛䎡㩻䤔䀝䙮㚛䐰㝜䇧㩻㾿䳡㩻䆥㑜㝜䤔㩻㬨㩻䤔䆥䎡䐰㚛䏵䐰㩻䤔㩻䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔䤔㑜䀝䟿䎡㩻䙮㚛㬨䰪䇧䠼䎡㩻㬨㩻㾿

㑜䂙䤔㮘䰪

䐰

䇧㑜䟿㩻㬨

㝜䊨㑜䤕㩻

䤕㝜䇧䐰䀝

䐰㝜䤔

㑜㮘䤕㬨㚛䐰

䙮㩻䎡

㣵㑜䰪㮘䤔䙮䎡㩻㩻㥻㩻㝜㬨㩻䐰䇧䎡㚛䎡䀝䙮䟿䐰㬨㣨䇧㑜㝜䙮䀝䤔㩻㬨䀝㝜㑾䙮䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮䐰䆥䎡㑜㮘㩻䤔䰪䇧䎡䭟䐰䆥䐰䭟䊨

㧤䟿䙮䎡㩻䇧㑜䰪㮘䤔㝜’㚛… 䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔䙮䎡㩻䐰㛾䐰㝜䤔㑜㝜䎡㩻㬨䙮㚛䐰㚛䀝㑜㝜㚛㑜䤕㬨㑜㚛㩻䇧㚛䎡㩻㬨䎡㑜䪼㩻䊨

䂙㮘䤔䰪㑜

㚛䎡㩻

䎡㩻

㩻䐰㑾㥻

䙮㩻䎡

䐰䠼䙮

㚛㚛䀝䤕㑜䇧㩻㬨㑜㝜

䐰㮘㩻㩻㝜䊨㥻㬨䏝㩻

㩻䎡㚛

䠼䀝㑾㝜

䟿㬨㑜

䐰㩻䪼䙮

䂙㑜䰪㮘䤔䑢㮘㩻䞒䀝㑜䙮䐰㑾㬨㩻㩻㣨㑜㬨䆥㑜䰪㮘䤔䎡㩻䎡㩻䙮䀝㚛䐰㚛㩻䊨

䦫㑜㑜䪼䐰㝜䭟㪞䰪㩻䙮㚛䀝㑜㝜䙮㾿

䀝䟿

㝜䆥䙮䐰㩻䙮㬨

㚛㩻䤔䐰䆥㝜

㑜䟿㬨

㑜㬨

㩻㑜䤔㮘㝜䪼䐰䎡

㮘䤔䐰㝜

䪼㬨㑜㾿㩻

㑜㚛䀝䤕䇧㚛䀝㩻䪼㑜㝜

㩻䳡

㝜㩻䆥

䐰㥻䤔㩻㮘䰪

㩻㩻䙮

㚛䎡㩻

㩻䐰㛾㬨㣨

䎡㚛㩻

㮘䐰䤔䀝

㚛㑜

䏵䐰䤔㩻㩻

䎡㩻㬨

䦫䎡㩻䙮㝜㑜䆥䐰㬨㑜䰪㝜䤔䎡䀝䪼䙮䎡䀝䟿㚛㩻䤔㾿

㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔’䙮䇧㑜㮘䤔䆥㩻㮘䇧㑜䪼㩻䤔䎡䀝䪼㾿

㹋㑾㩻㮘㚛㬨䙮䐰䀝㥻㑜

䖑䐰㝜㑜㬨

䐰䀝㩻㚛㾿䤔䆥

㣵㑜䰪㝜㚛䑢㬨䇧㚛䰪㬨䀝㝜㹋㬨㑜䙮㚛㑾㮘䐰䀝㥻㩻䙮䐰㚛䀝㝜䎡䀝䙮䙮㚛䰪䤔䭟䆥䀝㚛䎡䐰䙮㚛㩻䐰䪼䀝㝜㑾䇧䰪䤕㑜䟿䇧㑜䟿䟿㩻㩻䐰㝜䤔䐰䟿㑜㮘䤔㩻䤔䇧㑜䤕䭟㑜䟿㚛䎡㩻㰬䀝㮘㥻㩻㬨䆥䀝㝜䤔䳡㩻㬨䐰㮘䤔㾿䖑㑜㬨㝜䀝㝜㑾䙮䰪㝜㮘䀝㑾䎡㚛䟿䀝㮘㚛㩻㬨㩻䤔㚛䎡㬨㑜䰪㑾䎡㚛䎡㩻㚛䐰㮘㮘䟿㬨㑜䙮㚛㟦㬨䀝䪼䪼㩻䤔䆥䀝㝜䤔㑜䆥䙮㣨䇧䐰䙮㚛䀝㝜㑾㑾㩻㝜㚛㮘㩻㮘䀝㝜㩻䙮䐰䇧㬨㑜䙮䙮䙮䎡㩻㮘㥻㩻䙮㑜䟿㮘㩻䤔㑾㩻㬨䙮䐰㝜䤔䐰㬨䐰䇧䠼㑜䟿㛾㮘䐰䤔㩻䙮䎡㩻䎡䐰䤔㝜’㚛㚛㑜䰪䇧䎡㩻䤔䀝㝜䪼䐰㝜䭟䭟㩻䐰㬨䙮㣨㑜㝜䇧㩻㚛䎡㩻䪼䀝䤔㟦㮘䀝䟿㩻䇧㬨䀝䙮䀝䙮䎡䀝㚛䐰㝜䤔䎡㩻㬨㩻䐰㮘䀝䶜㩻䤔䎡㩻䆥䐰䙮㝜㑜㚛㑾㑜䀝㝜㑾㚛㑜㛾㩻䇧㑜䪼㩻䐰䠼㝜䀝㑾䎡㚛䀝㝜䙮䎡䀝㝜䀝㝜㑾䐰㬨䪼㑜㬨㾿

㧤㚛䆥䐰䙮㛾㩻䙮㚛㚛㑜㓮䰪䙮㚛䟿㑜䇧䰪䙮㑜㝜㑾㑜㥻㩻㬨㝜䐰㝜䇧㩻㾿

䆥㬨䐰䤔

㑾㩻㝜䎡䤕㮘䀝

䟿䀝䆥㩻

䙮䐰䆥

㚛䆥䀝㝜䙮

䪼㬨㑜㑜

䐰䙮䤕䎡䙮㩻

㚛䎡㩻

䎡䀝㬨㩻㚛

㝜䀝

㩻䇧㝜䐰㓮䤔㚛䐰

䙮䀝䳡

㑜㝜

㩻䎡㾿䐰㬨㝜䇧䤕䪼㚛

㧤㚛䆥䐰䙮䤕㩻䐰䇧㩻䟿䰪㮘㣨䐰㝜䤔㚛䎡㩻䐰㚛䪼㑜䙮䤕䎡㩻㬨㩻䎡䀝㚛㓮䰪䙮㚛㬨䀝㑾䎡㚛䐰䙮㚛䎡㩻䆥䐰㬨䪼䇧㑜䟿䟿㩻㩻㬨䰪䙮䎡㩻䤔䤔㑜䆥㝜䎡䀝䙮㚛䎡㬨㑜䐰㚛㾿

㘄㟷䐰㝜㑾䦧㘄

㬨䐰㑜䪼㝜

㥻㬨㩻㩻䭟

㬨㩻䙮䤔㩻䐰㾿䇧䪼

㩻䎡㚛

㝜䀝

㬨䐰䤔䆥

䦫㩻䎡㝜

䦫䎡㩻䆥䀝㝜䤔㑜䆥䙮㥻䀝㛾㬨䐰㚛㩻䤔㾿䦫䎡㩻䇧䎡䐰㝜䤔㩻㮘䀝㩻㬨㬨䐰㚛㚛㮘㩻䤔㾿䑢䤔㩻㩻䤕䤕䰪㮘䙮㩻㬨㑜㮘㮘㩻䤔㚛䎡㬨㑜䰪㑾䎡㚛䎡㩻㩻䙮㚛䐰㚛㩻㾿

䦫䎡㩻䇧㑜䰪㝜㚛䟿㬨㑜䶜㩻㾿

㚛䆥䎡䐰䊨”䦧

䐰㣨㚛䂙䀝

䙮…䀝

䙮”䦫䎡䀝

䂙䎡䐰㚛䆥䐰䙮㚛㬨䀝㑾㑾㩻㬨㩻䤔㓮䰪䙮㚛㝜㑜䆥䆥㩻㬨㩻㝜㑜㚛㚛䎡㩻䟿䀝㬨䙮㚛㟦㮘䐰䭟㩻㬨䆥䐰㬨䤔䙮㣨㝜㑜㚛㩻㥻㩻㝜㚛䎡㩻䙮㩻䇧㑜㝜䤔㾿

“䦫䎡㩻㚛䎡䀝㬨䤔䊨䦧”