Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 886

Capítulo 886: Final step(1)

”Have my things been sorted out?”

“Yes, Your Grace .They’re already loaded in the carriage.The army is just waiting the order to advance”

Alpheo gave no further reply, only shifted his stance, widening the gap between his legs so that his squire could more easily fasten the greaves around his calves. The sound of buckles clinking filled the tent mimicking the sound of preparation coming from outside.

The boy working on him was Doran, nephew to Lord Xanthios ,foisted onto him after the old vulture had begged a favor to have the lad serve under the Prince of Yarzat. Not that the boy was bad; far from it. Doran was competent, obedient, quiet.

Still, Alpheo missed when it was Ratto that fastened his armor.

That damned boy had been loud, messy, but he had been a wind of life in camp. The men loved him. Even Alpheo had found his insolence refreshing. Ratto was now with Egil, and from what Alpheo had heard, doing well. The boy had learned to fight and was making proof of it on each battle.

Egil had said as much, and he did not hand out praise lightly. That was enough proof for him.

A kind smile tugged at Alpheo’s lips as he thought of the lad. The Golden Steeds would soon need fresh blood , a proper cavalry arm, armored and drilled to strike like thunder. Ratto would fit right in. It was high time, too, that old Sir Mereth be given his peace , a small castle by the sea perhaps. Changes were to be made to the cavalry unit, and as history teached old people were always the least fond of changes.

When Doran finally set the purple cloak on his shoulders and pinned it with the silver brooch, Alpheo gave a short nod.

He looked, as he always did before battle, fabulous.

“Have the servants prepare the tents for travel,” he said. “We won’t stay long.”

He didn’t need to look at Doran to know the question in his eyes.

“You’ll see your time, lad,” Alpheo said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t hang your head so low , it’ll fall off before you ever wear a helm.”

“But, Your Grace,” Doran ventured, voice low but hopeful, “weren’t you barely older than me when you took command of your company?”

“I was,” Alpheo admitted, with a half-smile. “But I commanded from horseback not in the mud. If I’d gone down there with them, I’d have been trampled into soup long before we ever made Yarzat what it is.”

“Thanks to the Divines that you didn’t, Your Grace.”

That earned the boy a flick on the forehead. “I don’t like ass-lickers,” Alpheo said with mock severity. “Next battle, perhaps, will be your moment.”

Doran laughed despite himself, rubbing his brow while Alpheo left the tent without turning back, though he could imagine the grin splitting the boy’s face behind him: that bright, foolish joy that came from being noticed by someone you’d die to impress.

There wasn’t much left to be said when Alpheo stepped outside his tent. He’d seen this sight half a dozen times before , the slow making of his army preparing to march. And yet, no matter how familiar it was, it still pulled something deep in his chest, pride.

Each carried near thirty kilograms of steel between armor and shield, and another fifteen strapped to their packs. Inside those packs lay everything a man wearing those colours could call his own: a shovel for the trenches, a tent barely larger than a coffin, a kit of oil and limestone to keep his armor from rusting, a spoon, a knife narrow as a whisper to eat, a waterskin , and for some touch of humanity dice, trinkets, and small talismans of home.

They could march twenty kilometers a day without breaking sweat, and still make camp by sundown. Double that in safe territory, where the only thing that could stop them was the sun itself.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the man creeping up behind him until a weight landed hard on his shoulder.

“About time you crawled out,” said a familiar voice. “We were growing mold waiting for you.”

Alpheo turned his head and met Egil’s grinning face, which normally made enemies furious and friends tired. He brushed the man’s elbow off his shoulder with a grunt.

“The lords’ retinues are still not ready,” Alpheo replied flatly. “You’ll have time to grow moss yet.” He gave Egil a long, assessing look. “Though from what I hear, you’ve already grown roots in your room this past month.”

Egil’s grin sharpened. “More like seeds.”

Alpheo’s expression didn’t change. Gods, he thought, he’s probably right.

Some years and an entire brood of bastards bound to his name by gossip if not by blood. Egil might’ve lost his tribe years ago, but the man was hell-bent on repopulating it single-handedly.

Alpheo exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that might stop the headache before it came.

“Seeds,” he repeated, voice dry as sand. “Let’s hope none of them bloom before we’re gone.”

Egil merrily laughed at that.

Still, the man was a storm given legs and a sword. He was eccentric as the sun, but by the divines if he were not a fantastic commander to have under the belt.

Nonetheless Alpheo couldn’t help but think badly of that quirk of his.

If he ever learned to care for his bastards as much as he cared for making them, I’d have one less trouble in this world.

He felt a hand clasping his shoulder lightly. “Better this way than the other. One month as a guest, I had thought trouble would come knocking.” Alpheo turned around to see Asag comforting him

“I suppose shedding some blood will help with that,” Egil said, cracking his knuckles as he turned to the newcomer. His grin was sharp and feral, the kind that came before storms. “In a certain sense, I’ll be fighting against one of the demon’s spawn. It’s about damn time. I’m getting rusty, it feels like years since I last broke a lance on a man’s chest.” He glanced toward Alpheo, a glint of curiosity beneath the swagger. “Speaking of which… didn’t think your proposal would actually pass.

“The Imperator agreed with me,” Alpheo said evenly, fastening the clasp of his cloak.

Egil snorted. “Aye, but I recall a good many trying to change his mind. From what I hear, they’d have sooner flayed you than let you lead them east.And between me, you, and the Romelian spy hearing our words” he gave a small smile ”I do not believe the Imperator’s words worth that much anymore. You have all seen just how many lords answered his call.

His position is as solid as a sand castle and we are the sticks holding that shit up””

“From a strategist’s point of view, your plan had merit,” Asag chirped in. “But in practice? You did just convince half the empire to abandon an entire province. That tends to make enemies.”

“They clamored plenty,” Jarza added as he came close when he noticed the group, voice low and hoarse. “But I suppose the gesture of you and the Emperor giving up your share of the spoils was enough to shame most of those pampered bastards into silence. Still, it burns me. We bleed and spend more for this empire than anyone in that hall,and yet we’ve got to fight tooth and nail just to be heard.”

Alpheo’s gaze drifted toward the camp, where men hauled backpacks and banners into line. The smell of oiled metal and horses thickened the air. “We play with the cards we’re dealt,” he said finally.

Especially when we can’t leave the table. He didn’t say that part, though judging by the faces of his comrades, they knew it well enough.

Silence lingered for a breath too long. Doubt had settled on them like dust after a march. So Alpheo did what he always did when facing the void, he filled it with fire.

“Come now,” he said, voice rising just enough to pull their eyes back to him. “Not all is black. We’ve the best ground we could ask for. One flank shielded by the river, the other by our steel. We’ll be the hinge that decides the battle and when victory comes, it will be our banners the wind carries first.We should take honor in that”

Egil smirked faintly; Asag’s brow eased. Even Jarza, dour as stone, raised his chin a little.

Alpheo pressed on. “Think of it, ‘the saviors of Romelia.’ That’s what they’ll call us. Imagine the songs, the chronicles. Our names will be written in history books instead of rotting on forgotten graves. Do you remember where we began? We were nobodies, condemned to die in the mud, no tomb, no tale, no mark upon the world.” He paused, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Now look where we stand. On the verge of something greater than our own lives. Too far gone to look back. The only road left is forward.”

A wind swept across the camp, tugging at the banners In that moment, even the doubts seemed to bow to it.

Alpheo turned toward the horizon, where he imagined the enemy waiting “And if our path runs through Romelia,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “then we’ll fight as though it were our own land we’re defending.”

No one spoke after that. There was no need to. The silence that followed was not the hush of fear but the calm before the storm, of men who yet did not know how strong was the current that waited on the river.

And who of them it would bring along.

The drums began to beat soon after.

And with them, the march to war began, one that whichever way it went would change the table it was played on.

爐

䝸㵊㮵㞢㮵䈈䝸㼨㤶

㤶䞽

㳾䣋䯆㴶

盧

蘆

䣋㲀㮵䣋䐂

擄

䓝䐂䣋䝸

老

㞢䝸㽉㵊

㞢㽉㽉

䝸䓝䣋䠁䗷䯆㜥䕲

擄

老

盧

㜥㼨䝸

魯

䐂㔱䓝䣋

㴶䣋䣋㮵

㤶䣋䯆

路

㧄㞢䂙䓝 䠁㞢䯆 㫻㮵䣋㵊䣋䯆䝸 䓝㞢䗷 㵊㫻㞢䝸 㛲㫻㤶䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䝹䠁㫻䣋㮵㼨㞢㽉 㨬㞢㴶䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㞢䠁䣋 㽉㞢㴶 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䓝㞢䗷 㤶䯆䂙䣋 㵊㴶㤶㮵䯆 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㵊㴶㤶㮵䗷㵊 䝸㤶 䗷䣋䞽䣋䯆䗷䈈 㞢䯆䗷 㼨䯆㵊䝸䣋㞢䗷 䝸䓝㮵㤶㴶䯆 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㽉㤶䝸 㻨䣋䓝㼨䯆䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㵊䣋㮵㫻䣋䯆䝸 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䓝㞢䗷 䯆㛲㮵㵊䣋䗷 㵊㼨䯆䂙䣋 䓝㼨㵊 䐂㤶㛲䝸䓝䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㫻㮵㼨䯆䂙䣋 䝸䓝䣋䐂’䗷 㮵㞢㼨㵊䣋䗷 㛲䯆䗷䣋㮵 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㤶㴶䯆 㮵㤶㤶䞽㵊䈈 䝸㞢㛲䲝䓝䝸 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䂙㛲㵊䝸㤶䠁㵊䈈 㞢䯆䗷 䞽㞢䝸䝸䣋䯆䣋䗷 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䓝㤶㵊㫻㼨䝸㞢㽉㼨䝸䐂㜥

㝜㤶䝸 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㻨䣋䝸㮵㞢䐂㞢㽉 㴶㞢㵊 㴶㼨䝸䓝㤶㛲䝸 㮵䣋㞢㵊㤶䯆㜥 䥓䣋䝸㴶䣋䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䝸䓝㮵䣋䣋 㵊㤶䯆㵊 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 㶕㞢㮵 㧄䠁㫻䣋㮵㤶㮵䈈 㼨䝸 㴶㞢㵊 㞢㽉䠁㤶㵊䝸 㞢 䠁㞢䝸䝸䣋㮵 㤶䞽 㞢㮵㼨䝸䓝䠁䣋䝸㼨䂙㜥 㔱䓝䣋 䣋㽉䗷䣋㵊䝸䈈 㣇㞢䣋㵊㼨䯆㼨㛲㵊 㽉㼨㳾䣋䗷 䝸㤶 㫻㽉㞢䐂 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䓝㼨㵊 㵊䯆㤶㴶 㞢䯆䗷 㼨䲝䯆㤶㮵䣋 䣋㲀䣋㮵䐂䝸䓝㼨䯆䲝㜥

䣋㞢䗷䠁㮵

䝸䝸䓝㞢

䣋㴶䣋㮵

㛲㮵䣋㽉

䣋䓝䲝䝸㼨

䣋䓝㔱

䲝㮵䝸䣋䯆䣋

㻨䐂

䞽㤶㮵

䞽㤶

㞢䗷䯆

㞢

䝸㼨䗷㵊䝸䯆㞢

㞢

㤶㮵䞽

㛲㤶䝸

㴶䗷㤶㛲㽉

㼨㳾䠁㽉’㵊

㞢䣋䐂㵊㮵

䐂㽉㞢㻨䣋㮵

䣋䝸㞢㳾

䣋䓝㞢㲀

䝸㜥䓝㞢䝸

㤶䝸㤶

㮵㵡䈈㤶䐂㫻

䣋䣋䯆䣋䗷䗷

䝸㵊㤶䓝䣋

䂙䓝㼨㴶䓝

㤶䞽

䯆䝸㞢䠁䣋

㤶䝸

㞢䣋䲝㲀䗷㞢䯆䝸㞢

䐂㵊䣋䲝㤶㛲䝸䯆䈈

䯆䣋㵊㤶㻨䈈㽉

㤶䞽㮵

㮵㤶䞽

㵊㼨䓝

䝸䣋䂙䣋㫻㵡

䣋䠁䂙㮵䣋㵊㵊䓝

䣋㤶䈈䠁㮵

䕲䯆䗷 䝸䓝䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋㮵䣋 㴶㞢㵊 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㼨䗷䗷㽉䣋 㵊㤶䯆㜥

㣇㞢㲀㼨㛲㵊 䭥㤶䠁䣋㽉㼨㞢㜥

㧄㞢㜥㵊䝸

䞽㤶

䝸䓝䣋

㽉䯆㮵㼨㞢䗷䲝

䓝㔱䣋

䢻䣋 䓝㞢䗷 䠁㞢䗷䣋 䝸䓝䣋 㧄㞢㵊䝸䣋㮵䯆 䘮㮵㤶㲀㼨䯆䂙䣋㵊 䓝㼨㵊 䓝㤶䠁䣋 㼨䯆 䝸㮵㛲䝸䓝 㞢䯆䗷 㵊㫻㼨㮵㼨䝸䈈 䗷㮵㞢㫻㼨䯆䲝 䓝㼨䠁㵊䣋㽉䞽 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䂙㛲㵊䝸㤶䠁㵊䈈 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㵊㼨㽉㳾䈈 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㽉㞢䯆䲝㛲㞢䲝䣋㜥 䢻䣋 䗷㼨䯆䣋䗷 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䯆㤶㻨㽉䣋㵊䈈 䓝㛲䯆䝸䣋䗷 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䞽㤶㮵䣋㵊䝸㵊䈈 㽉㞢㛲䲝䓝䣋䗷 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䝸㞢㻨㽉䣋㵊㜥 䕲䯆䗷 㼨䯆 䝸㼨䠁䣋䈈 䓝䣋 䠁㞢䗷䣋 䓝㼨䠁㵊䣋㽉䞽 㤶䯆䣋 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋䠁䈈䠁㞢㮵㮵䐂㼨䯆䲝 㼨䯆䝸㤶 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 㻨㽉㤶㤶䗷㽉㼨䯆䣋㵊䈈 䂙䓝㞢㮵䠁㼨䯆䲝 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䗷㞢㛲䲝䓝䝸䣋㮵㵊䈈 㞢䯆䗷 㴶䓝㼨㵊㫻䣋㮵㼨䯆䲝 㫻㮵㤶䠁㼨㵊䣋㵊 㤶䞽 㞢 㮵䣋㻨㤶㮵䯆 䣋䠁㫻㼨㮵䣋 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋䠁 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋 䓝䣋㞢䗷㵊 㼨䯆㵊䝸䣋㞢䗷 㤶䞽 䝸䓝㤶㵊䣋 㞢㮵㮵㤶䲝㞢䯆䝸㵊 㻨㞢㵊䝸㞢㮵䗷㵊 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 䢲㤶㮵䣋䈈 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 㵊㛲㫻㮵䣋䠁㞢䂙䐂 㤶㲀䣋㮵 䝸䓝䣋 䝸㼨䝸㽉䣋㵊 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 䂙㤶㛲㮵䝸㜥

㝜㤶㴶 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䓝䣋 䓝㞢䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䝸䣋㵊䝸 㤶䞽 䝸㼨䠁䣋䈈 㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 㛲䯆䗷䣋㮵㵊䝸㤶㤶䗷 䓝䣋 䓝㞢䗷 䯆㛲㮵䝸㛲㮵䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㻨䣋䝸㮵㞢䐂㞢㽉 㵊㼨䯆䂙䣋 䝸䓝䣋 㲀䣋㮵䐂 㵊䝸㞢㮵䝸㜥㜥㜥

䗷㞢㼨㫻

䯆㤶䝸䠁䓝㵊

䣋䣋㮵䓝䝸

㤶㴶䗷㽉㛲

䗷䣋㲀䣋㼨㽉䣋㻨

䯆㞢䝸䓝

㜥㤶䞽䞽

䣋䞽䈈㽉㽉

䝸㤶

䓝㞢䗷

㵊㞢㵊㫻㵊䣋

㽉㞢㽉㴶䈈

㞢䣋䈈䝸㳾

㞢䂙㞢㼨㫻䝸㽉

䝸㤶

㤶㮵䣋䠁

䝸䓝䣋

䝸䓝䣋

䲝㲗㮵㼨䣋䯆㵊

䣋䲝㞢㽉㻨䠁

䂙䈈㮵䓝䠁㞢

䣋䓝䝸

㵊䣋䗷䓝㽉㼨䣋䗷

㼨㽉㳾䣋

㵊䣋䗷䠁䣋䣋

䣋㴶䣋㮵

㞢

䝸㵊㞢㽉

㤶䯆䯆㞢㼨㛲䝸䠁

㔱䐂䓝䣋

䝸䓝䝸㞢

䣋㮵㵊䓝䝸㞢䣋䗷䝸

㴶䓝䯆䣋

䝸䣋䓝

㞢㴶㮵

䣋䓝䝸

䣋㶕䓝䯆

㴶䂙㜥䯆㤶㮵

㼨䝸

㤶䝸

䐂㞢㽉䂙

䓝䯆䣋䝸㤶㜥㔱䠁䣋㮵㵊䓝

䯆㤶

㲗㤶㤶㽉㵊 䝸䓝䣋䐂 㞢㽉㽉 㴶䣋㮵䣋㜥

㔱䓝䣋 䂙㼨㲀㼨㽉 㴶㞢㮵 㵊䝸㮵䣋䝸䂙䓝䣋䗷 䯆㤶䝸 䞽㤶㮵 䝸䓝㮵䣋䣋 䠁㤶䯆䝸䓝㵊䈈 㻨㛲䝸 䞽㤶㮵 䣋㼨䲝䓝䝸 㽉㤶䯆䲝䈈 䲝㮵㼨䯆䗷㼨䯆䲝 䐂䣋㞢㮵㵊䈈 䐂䣋㞢㮵㵊 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䲝㮵㤶㛲䯆䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䣋䠁㫻㼨㮵䣋 㼨䯆䝸㤶 䗷㛲㵊䝸 㞢䯆䗷 㵊㞢㽉䝸䣋䗷 㼨䝸㵊 㴶㤶㛲䯆䗷㵊 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㽉㤶㤶䗷 㤶䞽 㼨䝸㵊 㵊㤶䯆㵊㜥

㞢䗷䓝

㮵䣋䣋㴶

㤶䞽

䝸䐂䣋䓝

䣋䲝䯆㤶

㤶䗷䣋䈈䯆

㽉㛲䲝㼨䝸䐂

䯆㮵㛲䝸

䐂䓝䝸䣋

㤶䝸

䝸䓝䣋䠁

㴶䝸㞢䓝

㤶䞽

㻨㜥㞢㳾䂙

䝸㻨㛲

㤶㤶䝸

㣇䝸㤶㵊

㮵䞽㞢

㶕䓝㞢䝸 䓝㞢䗷 㻨䣋䲝㛲䯆 㞢㵊 㞢 䠁㞢㮵䂙䓝 㻨䣋䂙㞢䠁䣋 㞢 䠁䣋㞢䝸 䲝㮵㼨䯆䗷䣋㮵㾱 㴶䓝㞢䝸 㴶㞢㵊 䠁䣋㞢䯆䝸 䝸㤶 㛲䯆㼨䝸䣋 㛲䯆䗷䣋㮵 㞢 䯆䣋㴶 㻨㞢䯆䯆䣋㮵䈈 㼨䯆㵊䝸䣋㞢䗷 㛲䯆䠁㞢䗷䣋㜥 䢲㼨䝸㼨䣋㵊 㻨㽉䣋䗷 䗷㮵䐂䈈 䓝㞢㮵㲀䣋㵊䝸㵊 㻨㛲㮵䯆䝸 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䞽㼨䣋㽉䗷䈈 㞢䯆䗷 㴶䓝㤶㽉䣋 㫻㮵㤶㲀㼨䯆䂙䣋㵊 㤶䞽 䭥㤶䠁䣋㽉㼨㞢䯆㵊 㲀㞢䯆㼨㵊䓝䣋䗷 㴶㼨䝸䓝㤶㛲䝸 䞽㤶㮵䣋㼨䲝䯆 㼨䯆䝸䣋㮵㲀䣋䯆䝸㼨㤶䯆㜥

䕲䯆䗷 䯆㤶㴶䈈 㞢㵊 䝸䓝䣋 䣋㞢㵊䝸䣋㮵䯆 㴶㼨䯆䗷 㵊㴶䣋㫻䝸 㞢䂙㮵㤶㵊㵊 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㮵㤶㳾䣋䯆 㵊䝸㮵䣋䣋䝸㵊 㤶䞽 䐂䣋䝸 㞢䯆㤶䝸䓝䣋㮵 “㽉㼨㻨䣋㮵㞢䝸䣋䗷” 䂙㼨䝸䐂䈈 㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 㣇䣋㮵㞢䝸䓝 䂙㤶㛲㽉䗷 䯆㤶䝸 䓝䣋㽉㫻 㻨㛲䝸 㵊䣋䣋 䝸䓝䣋 䲝䓝㤶㵊䝸㵊 㤶䞽 㴶䓝㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䓝㞢䗷 䗷䣋㵊䝸㮵㤶䐂䣋䗷㜥

㧄䯆䣋㮵䈈㞢䣋䝸

㤶䞽

㞢䓝䗷

䣋䓝䝸

䝸䲝䣋㵊㞢

㮵㮵䣋㛲㮵䗷㵊䣋䯆䗷䣋

㵊㤶䗷䝸㤶

䣋㤶䣋㮵䞽㻨

㤶㻨䣋䣋䞽㮵

䓝䝸䝸㞢

㤶㜥㛲䠁䗷㵊䯆㼨䝸䣋䗷

䠁㞢䯆

䣋䝸䓝

䢻䣋

䓝䣋䝸

㼨䝸䂙䐂

㲀䣋䣋䯆

㤶䣋䯆㫻

䢻䣋 䓝㞢䗷 㻨䣋䣋䯆 䐂㤶㛲䯆䲝 㴶䓝䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䂙㞢㽉㽉䣋䗷 䓝㼨䠁 䝸䓝䣋 䢻㞢䠁䠁䣋㮵 䈈 䓝䣋㮵㤶 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 㲗㼨䯆䲝䣋㮵㵊䈈 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㞢䯆 㴶䓝㤶 䂙㮵㞢䂙㳾䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䞽㤶㮵䝸㮵䣋㵊㵊 㽉㼨㳾䣋 㞢 䯆㛲䝸㜥 䢻䣋 㵊䝸㼨㽉㽉 㮵䣋䠁䣋䠁㻨䣋㮵䣋䗷 㴶㞢㳾㼨䯆䲝 㛲㫻 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䗷㞢㴶䯆䈈 䓝㞢㽉䞽䆛䗷䣋㞢䗷䈈 䓝㼨㵊 㻨㤶䗷䐂 㴶㮵㞢㫻㫻䣋䗷 㼨䯆 㽉㼨䯆䣋䯆 㞢䯆䗷 䲝㽉㤶㮵䐂㜥

㔱䓝䣋䐂’䗷 䂙㞢㽉㽉䣋䗷 䓝㼨䠁 䝸䓝䣋 䯆䣋㴶 䭥㤶䠁㛲㽉㛲㵊䈈 㞢䞽䝸䣋㮵 䝸䓝䣋 䓝䣋㮵㤶 㴶䓝㤶 㵊㽉㞢㛲䲝䓝䝸䣋㮵䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䘮㞢㵊䓝㼨㞢䯆㼨 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 㻨䣋㵊㼨䣋䲝䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㧄䝸䣋㮵䯆㞢㽉 䂙㼨䝸䐂 㵊㤶䠁䣋 䞽㤶㛲㮵 䂙䣋䯆䝸㛲㮵㼨䣋㵊 㞢䲝㤶㜥 䢻㤶㴶 㫻㮵㤶㛲䗷 䓝䣋 䓝㞢䗷 㻨䣋䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋䯆㜥 䢻㤶㴶 䯆㞢ï㲀䣋㜥

㝜㤶㴶

㵊㞢㴶

䣋䐂㜥㵊䣋

䣋㮵䈈䣋㮵䲝䝸

䣋䓝

䣋䝸䓝

㤶䞽

䝸䓝䣋

䣋䓝㼨䯆䗷㻨

㤶㽉䯆䐂

㛲䝸䓝䗷

㽉㛲䗷㽉

䣋䠁㮵䓝㞢䠁

㼨䯆䗷㫻䯆㤶䲝㛲

䝸䣋䞽㽉

䣋㵊㵊䐂㽉㽉䯆䣋䗷

䓝㼨㵊

㔱䓝䣋䐂 䓝㞢䗷 䲝㛲䝸䝸䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䓝㤶䠁䣋 䞽㮵㤶䠁 㴶㼨䝸䓝㼨䯆䈈 㽉䣋㞢㲀㼨䯆䲝 㤶䯆㽉䐂 䂙㞢㮵䂙㞢㵊㵊 㞢䯆䗷 䂙㼨䯆䗷䣋㮵㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㶕㞢㮵 㧄䠁㫻䣋㮵㤶㮵’㵊 㵊㤶䯆㵊 䓝㞢䗷 䝸㤶㮵䯆 㞢㫻㞢㮵䝸 㴶䓝㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䞽㞢䝸䓝䣋㮵 䓝㞢䗷 㻨㽉䣋䗷 䝸㤶 㛲䯆㼨䝸䣋䈈 㞢䯆䗷 㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 䓝㞢䗷 㻨䣋䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䓝㞢䯆䗷 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㵊㴶㛲䯆䲝 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㽉㞢䗷䣋㜥

䘮㮵㼨䗷䣋䈈 䝸䓝䣋䐂 㵊㞢㼨䗷䈈 㴶㞢㵊 䝸䓝䣋 㴶㤶㮵㵊䝸 㵊㼨䯆 㤶䞽 㞢㽉㽉㜥䥓㛲䝸 㴶㞢㵊䯆’䝸 㼨䝸 䲝㮵䣋䣋䗷 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㮵㛲㼨䯆䣋䗷 㳾㼨䯆䲝䗷㤶䠁㵊䈈 䝸䓝䣋 䓝㛲䯆䲝䣋㮵 䞽㤶㮵 䵝㛲㵊䝸 㞢 㽉㼨䝸䝸㽉䣋 䠁㤶㮵䣋 㫻㤶㴶䣋㮵䈈 㞢 㽉㼨䝸䝸㽉䣋 䠁㤶㮵䣋 䲝㤶㽉䗷䈈 㞢 㽉㼨䝸䝸㽉䣋 䠁㤶㮵䣋 䲝㽉㤶㮵䐂䠌

䠁䐂

㤶㮵㽉䗷䈈

㼨㵊䣋䗷

㵊㴶㞢

“䈈䠁䣋

㮵㤶㽉㞢䠁

㤶䯆䣋

㜥䯆㴶㽉㞢㼨䲝㼨

䣋䣋䈈䘮”㽉㞢㵊

㵊㳾䯆㼨䓝䲝䝸

䓝㼨㵊

䓝䝸䣋

㻨䣋㼨䯆䓝䗷

㜥㮵䯆㵊㤶䝸䲝

㻨䝸㛲

㔱䓝䣋

‘䠁䯆㞢㵊

䝸㞢

㼨㵊䓝

㤶䣋䯆䝸

䞽㤶

䝸㵊䂙㮵䣋㛲䣋䞽㫻㽉

䣋㮵㼨䗷

㮵䣋䲝䯆㼨䝸㫻䯆㼨䝸㮵㛲

㞢䗷㵊㼨

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 䗷㼨䗷 㞢㵊 㻨㼨䗷㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㳾䯆㼨䲝䓝䝸 㵊㫻㛲㮵㮵䣋䗷 䓝㼨㵊 䓝㤶㮵㵊䣋 㞢䓝䣋㞢䗷䈈 䓝㞢䯆䗷 䞽㞢㽉㽉㼨䯆䲝 䝸㤶 䓝㼨㵊 㵊㴶㤶㮵䗷 㞢㵊 䝸䓝䣋䐂 㞢㫻㫻㮵㤶㞢䂙䓝䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䝹䠁㫻䣋㮵㞢䝸㤶㮵 㵊㫻䣋䂙㼨㞢㽉 㵊㤶㽉䗷㼨䣋㮵㵊㜥

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊’㵊 㵊䝸㤶䠁㞢䂙䓝 䂙䓝㛲㮵䯆䣋䗷㜥 㧄㲀䣋㮵䐂 䝸㼨䠁䣋 䓝䣋 㽉㤶㤶㳾䣋䗷 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋䠁䈈 䓝䣋 䞽䣋㽉䝸 㼨䝸䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㞢䠁䣋 䂙㮵㞢㴶㽉㼨䯆䲝 㛲䯆䣋㞢㵊䣋䈈 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㵊㞢䠁䣋 㴶䓝㼨㵊㫻䣋㮵 㤶䞽 㵊㼨䂙㳾䯆䣋㵊㵊 㼨䯆 䓝㼨㵊 㵊㤶㛲㽉㜥 䠎㼨㵊䲝㛲㵊䝸 㞢䯆䗷 䞽䣋㞢㮵䈈 㻨㤶㮵䯆 㤶䞽 㼨䲝䯆㤶㮵㞢䯆䂙䣋 㤶䞽 㴶䓝㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋䐂 㴶㤶㛲㽉䗷 㻨䣋 㛲㵊䣋䗷 䞽㤶㮵 㞢䯆䗷 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 䞽㞢㼨䯆䝸䈈 㛲䯆㵊㫻㤶㳾䣋䯆 䝸㮵㛲䝸䓝 䓝䣋 䗷㞢㮵䣋䗷 䯆㤶䝸 䯆㞢䠁䣋㜥

䲝㞢䣋㛲䣋㽉

㼨䯆

㵊㤶䠁䯆䣋䝸䲝䓝㼨

㽉䠁䣋㤶䭥㼨䈈㞢

䣋䝸䓝

䈈㫻䣋㮵䠁㮵㤶㧄

㵊㴶㞢

㤶䞽

䝸㔱䓝㞢

㮵㞢㶕

䞽㽉㜥㤶㛲

㲀㞢㣇㵊㛲㼨

䝸㼨䓝㴶

䣋㵊䂙䯆䗷㤶

㵊㤶䯆

㣇㞢䲝㼨䂙䈈 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䯆㞢䠁䣋䗷㜥

䢻䣋 䓝㞢䗷 㤶䯆䂙䣋 㻨䣋䣋䯆 㻨䣋㞢㛲䝸㼨䞽㛲㽉䈈 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㻨㤶䐂㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㳾㼨䯆䗷 㤶䞽 㻨䣋㞢㛲䝸䐂 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䗷㮵䣋㴶 䞽㞢㼨䝸䓝 䞽㮵㤶䠁 䠁䣋䯆 㞢䯆䗷 㽉㛲㵊䝸 䞽㮵㤶䠁 䲝㤶䗷㵊㜥 㔱䓝䣋 䲝㤶㽉䗷䣋䯆 㫻㮵㼨䯆䂙䣋 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋 㲀㤶㼨䂙䣋 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䂙䓝㞢㮵䠁䣋䗷 㵊䯆㞢㳾䣋㵊 㞢䯆䗷 㵊䣋䯆㞢䝸㤶㮵㵊 㞢㽉㼨㳾䣋㜥 䥓㛲䝸 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䠁㞢䯆 㴶㞢㵊 䲝㤶䯆䣋 䯆㤶㴶䈈 㤶㮵 㫻䣋㮵䓝㞢㫻㵊 㵊㤶䠁䣋䝸䓝㼨䯆䲝 䣋㽉㵊䣋 䓝㞢䗷 䝸㞢㳾䣋䯆 䓝㼨㵊 㫻㽉㞢䂙䣋㜥

䯆㼨

㵊䣋㮵䐂㞢

㽉㤶㮵㞢㽉䂙

㛲䞽㽉㽉

䗷㲀㵊㤶㮵㼨㞢

㴶䓝㼨䝸

䞽㜥㤶䯆㞢㨬䞽䗷

㽉㵊䲝䈈㲀䣋㤶

㞢䣋㳾䗷䠁㮵

㔱䣋䓝

䈈㽉㞢㴶

䝸㤶

㮵㽉㵊䂙㛲䝸䣋䆛䯆㛲㤶㵊㤶

㞢䗷䯆

㼨䓝㵊

㴶㞢䐂㵊

㤶䯆

䯆㛲㽉䂙䣋䈈

䓝㞢䗷

㼨䠁䓝

㮵䣋䝸㵊

䝸䓝䯆䣋㞢䣋㻨

㼨䓝㵊

䣋䂙䠁㮵䝸㞢㫻㜥䯆䓝

䯆㼨

㵊㼨䢻

㤶䝸㴶

䝸㤶㽉䠁䣋䗷䝸

㞢䓝䗷

㼨䓝㵊

㞢㮵䗷䈈㳾

㼨㽉㳾䣋

㼨䯆㵊㳾

㛲䯆䝸㻨㮵

㤶㜥㽉䗷䂙㛲

㞢䗷䓝

䗷㞢䯆

㤶䯆䝸

㮵䂙䝸㫻䣋

䓝㞢㼨㮵

㵊䓝㼨

㽉䝸䂙㵊㵊䣋㤶

䯆㼨

䐂䣋㔱䓝

㵊㼨䯆㵊䝸㞢

㞢䗷㮵䣋㳾䂙䂙

㼨䓝㵊

䯆䲝㽉㲀㞢䣋㼨

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊㵊’

㽉䣋䗷㞢㻨

䞽䣋㞢䂙

㳾䯆䣋䈈䂙

䂙㽉㳾㻨㞢

㲀䣋䯆䣋

䣋㵊䯆䣋

䞽㞢㮵䓝䝸䣋

㽉䗷䈈䣋䗷㽉㛲

㞢䠁䲝䝸㼨㼨䯆䯆㞢㼨㜥㤶

䞽䠁㤶㮵

㛲㫻

䓝䣋䝸

䣋䲝㼨㫻㫻㞢㵊㼨㞢䯆㮵䗷

䣋䐂䈈㞢㮵㵊

㤶㝜䣋䯆

䕲䯆䗷 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㲀㤶㼨䂙䣋䈈 㤶䯆䂙䣋 䂙㽉䣋㞢㮵 㞢㵊 䂙㮵䐂㵊䝸㞢㽉䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㳾㼨䯆䗷 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䂙㤶㛲㽉䗷 䞽㼨㽉㽉 䓝㞢㽉㽉㵊 㴶㼨䝸䓝 㽉㼨䲝䓝䝸䈈 㴶㞢㵊 䯆㤶㴶 㽉㼨䝸䝸㽉䣋 䠁㤶㮵䣋 䝸䓝㞢䯆 㞢 㮵㞢㵊㫻䈈 䂙㤶㞢㮵㵊䣋 㞢䯆䗷 㻨㮵㤶㳾䣋䯆䈈 㞢㵊 䝸䓝㤶㛲䲝䓝 䲝㮵㤶㛲䯆䗷 㤶㛲䝸 㤶䞽 㵊䝸㤶䯆䣋㜥

䡘䝸㼨㽉㽉䈈 㴶䓝䣋䯆 䓝䣋 㵊㫻㤶㳾䣋䈈 䠁䣋䯆 㤶㻨䣋䐂䣋䗷㜥㝜㤶䝸 㻨䣋䂙㞢㛲㵊䣋 䝸䓝䣋䐂 㽉㤶㲀䣋䗷 䓝㼨䠁䈈 㻨㛲䝸 㻨䣋䂙㞢㛲㵊䣋 䝸䓝䣋䐂 䞽䣋㞢㮵䣋䗷 㤶䝸䓝䣋㮵㴶㼨㵊䣋㜥

㴶䝸㮵㞢㤶䗷

㤶䲝㽉䯆䈈

䝸㞢䣋㻨䓝㮵

䲝䝸䯆䓝㼨

㶕㽉㵊㽉㼨㼨㤶

㞢

㴶䗷䣋㮵

䯆䝸䗷䐂䣋㛲㵊㞢

䯆䂙㤶䣋

㞢㫻䂙㽉䣋㞢

㳾䗷㤶㽉䣋㤶

䝸㞢䝸䓝

㼨㞢䯆䗷䝸㵊䝸

㴶㮵䓝䣋䣋

㞢䯆䗷

䝸㼨㴶䗷㜥䣋㞢

㮵㤶䣋䠁

䓝䝸䣋

䡘㛲䗷䗷䣋䯆㽉䐂䈈 㞢 㵊䓝㤶㛲䝸 䝸㤶㮵䣋 䝸䓝㮵㤶㛲䲝䓝 䝸䓝䣋 㞢㼨㮵㜥

“䡘㔱䕲㝜䠎 䠎㗚㶕㝜䪿”

䣋㼨䗷㮵

㤶䯆㛲㵊䗷

㴶㵊㞢

䯆㳾㼨䓝䲝䝸

㵊䓝䂙㫃㞢㤶

㞢

䣋䝸䓝

䝸䣋䓝㞢㵊䈈㵊䓝

䓝㴶䝸㼨

䝸㵊㤶䈈䯆䣋

㛲㼨䝸㳾㽉䣋㞢䯆䠁㻨㵊㞢

㞢㵊

䞽㤶

㞢䣋㵊䠁

䗷㽉㤶䂙

㼨㮵䲝䯆

㤶䞽

䣋㤶䯆

㼨㳾㽉䣋

㵡䯆䝸䣋

䂙㜥㞢䯆㫻㼨

㞢䲝㫻㵊㼨䯆㮵

㼨䢻㵊

䣋㞢䂙䠁

㵊䝸䣋䣋㽉

䣋䂙㮵䂙㳾㞢䗷

䣋䓝䝸

䗷䓝㞢

㲀䣋䂙㤶㼨

㻨䯆㼨䗷䣋䓝

䣋㞢䠁䝸㽉

㵊㼨㽉㽉䓝㮵

㤶㲀㵊䣋㤶䓝

㞢䣋㽉㜥䠁䝸

䝹䝸

㞢䯆㼨䝸䯆㵊䝸

䞽㤶䣋䣋䈈㻨㮵

㞢䯆䗷

䝸䲝䠁䯆䣋䣋㼨

䈈䓝㫻㴶㼨

㼨䂙㵊䲝㫻䯆㞢㮵

䝸䣋䓝

䓝㜥䠁㼨

㽉㼨㼨㽉㶕㵊㤶

䣋䝸䓝

䗷䝸㼨䯆䣋㵊㼨㵊

䣋㔱䓝

㤶㴶䓝

䠁䞽㮵㤶

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊’㵊 䓝㞢䯆䗷 㴶䣋䯆䝸 㼨䯆㵊䝸㼨䯆䂙䝸㼨㲀䣋㽉䐂 䝸㤶 䓝㼨㵊 㵊㴶㤶㮵䗷䈈 䓝㼨㵊 䓝䣋㞢㮵䝸 㫻㤶㛲䯆䗷㼨䯆䲝㜥 䕲㵊㵊㞢㵊㵊㼨䯆㵊䠌䝹㵊 䝸䓝䣋 㽉㤶㮵䗷 㼨䯆 㽉䣋㞢䲝㛲䣋 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㤶䐂䆛㧄䠁㫻䣋㮵㤶㮵㜥

䥓䣋䞽㤶㮵䣋 䓝䣋 䂙㤶㛲㽉䗷 㵊䣋䣋 㴶䓝㞢䝸 㴶㞢㵊 䓝㞢㫻㫻䣋䯆㼨䯆䲝䈈 䓝㼨㵊 㳾䯆㼨䲝䓝䝸㵊 䂙㽉㤶㵊䣋䗷 㼨䯆 㞢㮵㤶㛲䯆䗷 䓝㼨䠁䈈 㵊䓝㼨䣋㽉䗷㵊 㮵㞢㼨㵊䣋䗷䈈 䂙㛲䝸䝸㼨䯆䲝 㤶䞽䞽 䓝㼨㵊 㲀㼨䣋㴶㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㵊䠁䣋㽉㽉 㤶䞽 㵊㴶䣋㞢䝸 㞢䯆䗷 䞽䣋㞢㮵 䞽㼨㽉㽉䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㞢㼨㮵㜥

䯆䗷䈈㼨

䓝䲝㤶㮵䓝䝸㛲

䞽㤶㮵

䣋䓝㽉䞽㵊

䝸䓝䣋

㼨䓝䠁

㞢䣋䂙䠁

㫻 䗷䣋㵊㽉㞢䓝䣋䝸䣋

䝸䝸䓝㞢

䓝䯆䈈㔱䣋

㞢䗷䓝

䝸㼨

䯆䝸㤶

䞽㤶㴶䣋䗷㽉㤶㽉

䲝㤶㽉䯆

㤶㲀䣋㮵

䞽㞢㮵䠁㼨㽉㼨㞢

䓝䣋

㞢䓝䝸䝸

㽉㤶㛲㴶䗷

䝸㼨

㵊㽉䲝䯆㼨䂙㼨

㞢䲝䈈㤶

䯆䗷䣋㼨䝸㵊㞢

㞢䯆䓝㛲䝸

䯆䣋䗷㞢㮵䣋

䈈

䓝㞢䝸䝸

䠁㛲䓝

䝸㽉㵊䣋䣋

㴶䓝䂙䓝㼨

䞽㤶

䣋䓝䝸

㤶䞽

㽉䣋㼨䞽

䝸䝸䓝㜥㞢

㼨䓝㵊

䝸䈈㴶䣋

㛲㻨䝸

䓝䝸䣋

䝸㵊㮵䣋

㴶㞢㵊

㤶㵊䗷䯆㛲

䈈

㵊㞢㴶

䕲 䠁㤶䠁䣋䯆䝸 㽉㞢䝸䣋㮵䈈 䝸䓝䣋 䂙㼨㮵䂙㽉䣋 㤶䞽 㳾䯆㼨䲝䓝䝸㵊 㻨㮵㤶㳾䣋 䵝㛲㵊䝸 䣋䯆㤶㛲䲝䓝 䞽㤶㮵 䓝㼨䠁 䝸㤶 䲝㽉㼨䠁㫻㵊䣋 䝸䓝䣋 㵊䂙䣋䯆䣋 㻨䣋䐂㤶䯆䗷㜥

䕲 䠁㞢䯆 㵊䝸㤶㤶䗷 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㼨䗷䗷㽉䣋 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 㫻㞢䝸䓝 㞢䯆䗷 㵊㴶㞢䐂䣋䗷 㞢 㵊䠁㼨㽉䣋 䞽㮵㤶䐘䣋䯆 㞢䂙㮵㤶㵊㵊 䓝㼨㵊 䞽㞢䂙䣋䈈 䗷㮵㤶㤶㽉 㮵㛲䯆䯆㼨䯆䲝 䗷㤶㴶䯆 䓝㼨㵊 䂙䓝㼨䯆 㞢䯆䗷 䗷㮵㼨㫻㫻㼨䯆䲝 㤶䯆䝸㤶 䓝㼨㵊 䂙䓝䣋㵊䝸 䠁㼨㵡㼨䯆䲝 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㽉㤶㤶䗷㜥

㮵㫻䯆㛲㼨㼨䲝㮵㵊㵊

㔱䣋䓝

䂙㽉䈈䯆㻨㮵㤶㤶㞢䣋㽉

䝸䓝䣋

䣋䣋䣋䗷䠁㵊

䲝䯆䲝䓝㞢㼨䯆

㤶䯆䝸

㼨䣋䯆㻨䲝

㼨䗷䗷

㴶䓝䂙㼨䓝

㵊㴶㮵㤶䗷

䓝㼨㵊

䝸㼨

䝸㼨䲝䯆䓝

䞽䣋䣋㜥㽉

䞽㤶㮵䠁

䓝䣋

䠁㤶㵊䝸

䢻䣋 䗷㼨䗷䯆’䝸 㵊䂙㮵䣋㞢䠁㜥 䢻䣋 䗷㼨䗷䯆’䝸 䣋㲀䣋䯆 䞽㽉㼨䯆䂙䓝㜥 䢻䣋 㤶䯆㽉䐂 䲝㛲㮵䲝㽉䣋䗷 㤶䯆䂙䣋䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㵊䠁㼨㽉䣋 㵊䝸㼨㽉㽉 䂙㞢㮵㲀䣋䗷 㼨䯆䝸㤶 䓝㼨㵊 㽉㼨㫻㵊䈈 㻨䣋䞽㤶㮵䣋 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㴶㤶㮵䗷 㴶㞢㵊 㴶㮵䣋䯆䂙䓝䣋䗷 䞽㮵䣋䣋 㻨䐂 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㵊㞢䠁䣋䈈 䯆㤶㴶 䓝㤶㮵㮵㼨䞽㼨䣋䗷 㞢㵊 䓝䣋 㴶㞢㵊䈈 㼨䯆 㞢 㵊㫻㮵㞢䐂 㤶䞽 㻨㽉㤶㤶䗷㜥 㔱䓝䣋 䠁㞢䯆 㴶㤶㻨㻨㽉䣋䗷䈈 㳾䯆䣋䣋㵊 㻨㛲䂙㳾㽉㼨䯆䲝䈈 㞢䯆䗷 䂙㤶㽉㽉㞢㫻㵊䣋䗷 䞽㞢䂙䣋䆛䞽㼨㮵㵊䝸 㼨䯆䝸㤶 䝸䓝䣋 䗷㼨㮵䝸 㴶㼨䝸䓝 㞢 䗷㛲㽉㽉 䝸䓝㛲䗷䈈 䬟㛲㼨䂙㳾㽉䐂 䞽㤶㽉㽉㤶㴶䣋䗷 㻨䐂 㤶䯆䣋 㞢䯆㤶䝸䓝䣋㮵 㞢䯆䗷 㽉㞢㵊䝸 㫻㽉䣋㞢㵊䣋䗷 䓝㛲䠁㜥

㔱䓝䣋 㵊㼨㽉䣋䯆䂙䣋 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䞽㤶㽉㽉㤶㴶䣋䗷 㴶㞢㵊 䓝䣋㞢㲀㼨䣋㮵 䝸䓝㞢䯆 㞢䯆䐂 䂙㮵䐂㜥

“䕲㫻㤶㽉㤶䲝㼨䣋㵊䈈 䠁䐂 㽉㤶㮵䗷䈈” 㵊㞢㼨䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㳾䯆㼨䲝䓝䝸 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 䲝㼨㲀䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋 㤶㮵䗷䣋㮵㜥 䢻㼨㵊 㲀㤶㼨䂙䣋 䝸㮵䣋䠁㻨㽉䣋䗷 㴶㼨䝸䓝 㮵䣋㵊䝸㮵㞢㼨䯆䣋䗷 䗷㼨㵊䲝㛲㵊䝸㜥 “㶕䣋 䝸䓝㤶㛲䲝䓝䝸 㼨䝸 㴶㞢㵊 㞢䯆 㞢㵊㵊㞢㵊㵊㼨䯆㜥 䝹䝸 㴶㞢㵊㜥㜥㜥 㤶䯆䣋 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 䝹䠁㫻䣋㮵㞢䝸㤶㮵’㵊 㵊㫻䣋䂙㼨㞢㽉㵊”

㔱䓝䣋 䣋㵡㫻㽉㞢䯆㞢䝸㼨㤶䯆 㻨㮵㤶㛲䲝䓝䝸 䯆㤶 䂙㤶䠁䞽㤶㮵䝸㜥 䢻䣋 㫻㮵㤶㻨㞢㻨㽉䐂 㴶㤶㛲㽉䗷 䓝㞢㲀䣋 㫻㮵䣋䞽䞽䣋㮵䣋䗷 㞢䯆 㞢㵊㵊㞢㵊㼨䯆 䝸㤶 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䣋㵡㫻䣋㮵㼨䣋䯆䂙䣋㜥

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 㵊䝸㞢㮵䣋䗷 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋 䂙㤶㮵㫻㵊䣋䈈 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㽉㞢䂙㳾 䞽㞢䂙䣋 㫻㮵䣋㵊㵊䣋䗷 㼨䯆䝸㤶 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㛲䗷䈈 䝸䓝䣋 䲝㽉㞢㵊㵊䐂 䣋䐂䣋㵊 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㵊䝸㼨㽉㽉 㵊䣋䣋䠁䣋䗷 䝸㤶 䲝㽉㼨䠁䠁䣋㮵 䞽㞢㼨䯆䝸㽉䐂 䣋㲀䣋䯆 㴶䓝䣋䯆 䗷䣋㞢䗷㜥

㶕䓝䐂 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋 㧄䠁㫻䣋㮵㤶㮵’㵊 䯆㞢䠁䣋 㴶㞢㵊 䓝䣋 㻨㮵㼨䯆䲝㼨䯆䲝 䝸䓝䣋㵊䣋 䝸䓝㼨䯆䲝㵊 㴶㼨䝸䓝 㛲㵊䠌

㔱䓝䣋䐂 㴶䣋㮵䣋䯆’䝸 㵊㤶㽉䗷㼨䣋㮵㵊䈈 㞢䯆䐂㤶䯆䣋 䂙㤶㛲㽉䗷 㵊䣋䣋 䝸䓝㞢䝸㜥 㔱䓝䣋䐂 䗷㼨䗷䯆’䝸 䠁㞢㮵䂙䓝 㵊㤶 䠁㛲䂙䓝 㞢㵊 㵊䓝㞢䠁㻨㽉䣋㜥 㔱䓝䣋䐂 䓝㞢䗷 䯆㤶 䗷㼨㵊䂙㼨㫻㽉㼨䯆䣋㵊 䯆㤶㮵 㮵䣋㞢㵊㤶䯆 㞢㫻㫻㞢㮵䣋䯆䝸㽉䐂㜥 㔱䓝䣋䐂 㴶䣋㮵䣋 㽉㼨㳾䣋 㻨䣋㞢㵊䝸㵊䈈 㤶㮵 㫻㛲㫻㫻䣋䝸㵊 㫻㛲㽉㽉䣋䗷 㻨䐂 㼨䯆㲀㼨㵊㼨㻨㽉䣋 㵊䝸㮵㼨䯆䲝㵊㜥

䕲 䂙䓝㼨㽉㽉 䂙㮵䣋㫻䝸 㛲㫻 䓝㼨㵊 㵊㫻㼨䯆䣋㜥 䢻䣋 㮵䣋䠁䣋䠁㻨䣋㮵䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㴶䓝㼨㵊㫻䣋㮵㵊㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㵊䝸㤶㮵㼨䣋㵊㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㻨㽉㞢䂙㳾 䠁㞢㮵㳾㵊 㤶䯆 㣇㞢㲀㼨㛲㵊’㵊 㵊㳾㼨䯆㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㮵㞢㵊㫻㼨䯆䲝 㲀㤶㼨䂙䣋㜥

㮵㵊䝸䣋㤶㼨㵊

䢻䣋

䯆䠁䣋

䯆䣋㵊䣋䈈㤶䯆䯆㵊

㞢䓝䗷

䠁㼨㵊䗷㵊㼨㵊

㤶䝸

㵊㞢

㴶㞢䝸䣋䯆䗷

䗷䯆㳾㼨

䠁䝸䓝䣋

㜥䗷㤶

䞽㤶

㴶䓝䣋䯆

䯆䝸㼨䯆㤶䓝䲝

䣋䝸䓝

㽉䗷㤶䝸

䣋䝸䐂䓝

㤶䝸

㫻䠁㮵䣋㼨䂙䞽㞢

䥓㛲䝸 䝸䓝䣋 㵊䠁䣋㽉㽉 㤶䞽 㻨㽉㤶㤶䗷 㞢䯆䗷 䗷㮵㤶㤶㽉 㼨䯆 䝸䓝䣋 㞢㼨㮵 䝸㤶㽉䗷 䓝㼨䠁 㤶䝸䓝䣋㮵㴶㼨㵊䣋㜥

㔱䓝䣋䐂 㴶䣋㮵䣋 㴶㼨䯆䯆㼨䯆䲝㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㴶㞢㮵䈈 㞢䞽䝸䣋㮵 䣋㼨䲝䓝䝸 㽉㤶䯆䲝 䐂䣋㞢㮵㵊䈈 㴶㞢㵊 䞽㼨䯆㞢㽉㽉䐂 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵㵊㜥 䢲㼨䝸䐂 㞢䞽䝸䣋㮵 䂙㼨䝸䐂 䓝㞢䗷 䝸䓝㮵㤶㴶䯆 㤶㫻䣋䯆 㼨䝸㵊 䲝㞢䝸䣋㵊㜥 㔱䓝䣋 䯆㤶㻨㽉䣋㵊 㴶䓝㤶 㤶䯆䂙䣋 㵊䂙㤶㮵䯆䣋䗷 㣇㞢㲀㼨㛲㵊 䯆㤶㴶 䲝㮵㤶㲀䣋㽉䣋䗷 㻨䣋䞽㤶㮵䣋 䓝㼨䠁㜥 㔱䓝䣋 㻨㞢䯆䯆䣋㮵㵊 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 㵊䣋䂙㤶䯆䗷 㫻㮵㼨䯆䂙䣋 䞽㽉䣋㴶 㫻㮵㤶㛲䗷㽉䐂 㞢䂙㮵㤶㵊㵊 䝸䓝䣋 㧄㞢㵊䝸 㞢䯆䗷 㻨䣋䐂㤶䯆䗷㜥

㲀䣋䯆㮵䣋

㼨䂙䐂䗎䝸㤶㮵

䂙㮵㵊㤶㽉䣋㜥

䓝㞢䗷

䣋㻨䯆䣋

䕲䯆䗷 䐂䣋䝸 䓝䣋㮵䣋䈈 㤶䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䣋㲀䣋 㤶䞽 䝸㮵㼨㛲䠁㫻䓝䈈 䝸䓝䣋 䝹䠁㫻䣋㮵㞢䝸㤶㮵 䠁㞢㮵䂙䓝䣋䗷 䯆㤶䝸 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䠁䣋䯆䈈 㻨㛲䝸 㴶㼨䝸䓝 䝸䓝䣋㵊䣋 䗷㮵㤶㤶㽉㼨䯆䲝 䓝㛲㵊㳾㵊䈈 䝸䓝䣋㵊䣋 㵊䠁㼨㽉㼨䯆䲝 䂙㤶㮵㫻㵊䣋㵊 䝸䓝㞢䝸 㻨㤶㮵䣋 䯆㤶 䂙㮵䣋㵊䝸䈈 䯆㤶㮵 䓝㞢䗷 㞢䯆䐂 㴶䣋㞢㫻㤶䯆 䞽㤶㮵 䝸䓝㞢䝸 䠁㞢䝸䝸䣋㮵㜥

㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊’㵊 䵝㞢㴶 䂙㽉䣋䯆䂙䓝䣋䗷㜥 “㶕䣋 䠁㤶㲀䣋 䞽㤶㮵㴶㞢㮵䗷䈈” 䓝䣋 㵊㞢㼨䗷䈈 䓝㼨㵊 䝸㤶䯆䣋 㽉䣋㞢㲀㼨䯆䲝 䯆㤶 㮵䣋㫻㮵㼨䣋㲀䣋 䝸㤶 㽉㼨䯆䲝䣋㮵 㤶䯆㜥

㞢䝸

䓝䯆㞢㵊䗷

䝸䓝䣋

㵊䲝㼨㫻㞢㮵䲝䯆

㽉㤶㽉䗷㮵䣋

㞢䗷㵊䓝䣋

䗷㜥㮵㵊㴶㤶㵊

䯆㤶㼨䈈䯆䝸䓝䲝

䝸䓝䣋

䝸㮵䣋䓝㼨

㞢䐂㽉

㵊䣋㞢㫻䗷㵊

䯆䝸䣋㵊㼨㼨㽉䲝䯆

㼨㼨㲀㻨䯆㵊㽉䣋㼨

㼨䯆

䣋㞢䲝䣋㮵

䓝䝸䣋

䣋䝸㜥䯆㛲

䞽㼨

䠁㤶䣋㵊

䐂䣋㼨䯆䈈㻨㤶䲝

䝸䓝㞢䝸

䣋㵊䗷㫻㮵㴶㞢㽉

㼨䝸㳾䲝䯆䓝㵊

㴶䞽䣋

䝸䓝㼨㮵䣋

䓝䐂䝸䣋

䝸䠁䣋䣋㲀䣋㽉㵊䓝㵊

㛲㮵䓝䝸㤶䲝䓝

㞢䓝㮵㵊䗷䣋

䈈㤶㳾䣋㵊䝸䂙㵊

䣋䠁䯆

䯆䝸㼨㴶㼨䂙䝸䲝䓝

㽉㵊㽉㤶㤶䣋䐂

䈈䗷䣋㮵㤶

㤶䝸

㞢䯆䗷

㛲䈈䠁䗷

䣋䠁䗷㤶䝸㛲䯆

䝸䓝㮵㼨䣋

䯆㤶䣋䠁䠁䝸

䣋䓝㴶㤶㵊

䗷㼨㵊䂙䯆䝸䣋㞢

䯆䐂㽉㤶

䝸㛲㫻

䣋㮵㻨䣋䞽㤶

㼨㤶㞢䠁㵊㻨䝸㤶䯆䯆㼨㞢

䣋㵊䣋䐂

㵊㛲㵊㽉㮵䂙䣋䝸

䯆㼨㮵䲝㼨䯆䯆䲝

㞢㵊

䕲

䗷䓝䣋㵊㼨䝸䣋㞢䝸

䞽㼨

㞢䣋㮵㛲䗷䯆䓝

䞽㤶

䝸㤶

㻨㻨㤶䗷䣋㻨

㵊䕲

䣋䝸䓝

㼨䯆

㞢

㼨䢻㵊

㞢㵊

㤶㵊䓝㴶䣋

㴶㻨䣋䝸䣋䣋䯆

㜥䓝䝸㞢㫻

“䈈㽉㵊㼨㫻”㞢䣋䂙㵊

㧄㲀䣋䯆 䝸䓝䣋 㻨㮵㞢㲀䣋㵊䝸 㤶䞽 䓝㼨㵊 㮵㼨䗷䣋㮵㵊 㵊㫻㛲㮵㮵䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䓝㤶㮵㵊䣋㵊 䞽㞢㵊䝸䣋㮵 㞢䝸 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㼨䲝䓝䝸㜥

㔱䓝䣋 㮵㤶㞢䗷 䂙㛲㮵㲀䣋䗷䈈 㽉䣋㞢䗷㼨䯆䲝 䝸䓝䣋䠁 㞢㴶㞢䐂 䞽㮵㤶䠁 䝸䓝䣋 㛲䯆㵊䣋䝸䝸㽉㼨䯆䲝 㵊䂙䣋䯆䣋㜥 䥓㛲䝸 㶕㼨㽉㽉㼨㤶㵊 䝸㛲㮵䯆䣋䗷 㤶䯆䂙䣋 䠁㤶㮵䣋 㼨䯆 䓝㼨㵊 㵊㞢䗷䗷㽉䣋䈈 䲝㞢䐘䣋 㽉㼨䯆䲝䣋㮵㼨䯆䲝 㤶䯆 䝸䓝䣋 䂙㤶㮵㫻㵊䣋 㽉䣋䞽䝸 㻨䣋䓝㼨䯆䗷䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㤶䯆䣋 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 㵊䠁㼨㽉䣋䗷 㞢㵊 䓝䣋 䗷㼨䣋䗷㜥

㲗㤶㮵

㮵䣋㫻㵊㞢䘮䓝

㴶㞢䗷䣋䯆䝸

㵊㞢㴶

㤶㛲䓝䝸䝸䲝䓝

䓝䣋䝸

䝸䓝䣋

䓝䣋㞢㮵䘮㵊㫻

㜥䯆䣋㤶䢻䝸

䲝䣋䝸

䗷䗷䣋㞢

㞢

㜥㤶㛲䝸

䝸㤶

䝸㼨

䓝䝸䣋㞢㻨㮵㞢䈈䝸䣋

㞢䠁’䯆㵊

䗷䯆㴶㼨㜥

䣋䓝

䣋㼨䯆䲝䞽㮵㵊

㴶㜥䗷䝸䝸䓝䂙㼨䣋

䢻䣋 䝸㤶㮵䣋 䓝㼨㵊 䣋䐂䣋㵊 㞢㴶㞢䐂 㞢䯆䗷 䞽㞢䂙䣋䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䓝㤶㮵㼨䐘㤶䯆 㞢䓝䣋㞢䗷䈈 㴶䓝䣋㮵䣋 䝸䓝䣋 㵊㫻㼨㮵䣋 㤶䞽 䝸䓝䣋 䂙㼨䝸䐂’㵊 㳾䣋䣋㫻 㮵㤶㵊䣋㜥 㭽㤶㼨䯆䲝 䝸㤶㴶㞢㮵䗷 䝸䓝䣋 㫻㽉㞢䂙䣋 㴶䓝䣋㮵䣋 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㞢䯆 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 㻨㮵㤶㛲䲝䓝䝸 䝸䓝㼨㵊 㫻㽉㞢䲝㛲䣋 㛲㫻㤶䯆 䭥㤶䠁䣋㽉㼨㞢 䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㫻㮵㼨䯆䂙䣋 䝸㛲㮵䯆䣋䗷 䝹䠁㫻䣋㮵㞢䝸㤶㮵䈈 䝸䓝䣋 㞢㫻㤶㵊䝸㞢䝸䣋 㴶䓝㤶 䓝㞢䗷 㛲䯆㻨㤶㛲䯆䗷 䝸䓝䣋 䠁㞢㽉㼨䂙䣋 䝸䓝䣋㼨㮵 䞽㤶㮵䣋䞽㞢䝸䓝䣋㮵㵊 䓝㞢䗷 㵊䣋㞢㽉䣋䗷 㞢㴶㞢䐂 䂙䣋䯆䝸㛲㮵㼨䣋㵊 㞢䲝㤶䈈 㴶㞢㼨䝸䣋䗷㜥㜥