A time when the day is about to pass again. The two Arab shepherd boys finally came out of the forest and saw the two miserable white branches of the old tree standing high in the wind.

They looked in the direction of the village to the west, the sun was setting, the wind roared like a mad beast, they had never heard such a fierce roar of the wind, and a layer of fiery red clouds rolled in the western sky. A reed stream flowed merrily in front of them. But he felt that something was wrong.

The sunset shouldn't be so voluptuous red.

An Arab teenager sensed something, and his hand holding the dagger trembled. He could feel a wave of anger rising from the hilt of the knife and filling his chest. The ancestral little scimitar seemed to tell him something.

They jumped over the round stones under the branches of the old trees, as if they had re-entered the village after a hundred years. Not a single person was seen along the way, not a single livestock was seen, not even a single dog barked.

They saw a mess of hoof prints and intermittent drops of blood all over the ground. The traces and bloodstains of the scuffle are more and more, bigger and bigger, and more and more clear, leading them all the way to the truth that they are unwilling to face and admit to it.

What happened? They were so scared that they didn't even dare to ask each other about it.

The closer they get to the treehouse where they live, the more scared they become. Later, they were finally crushed and did not dare to go home again. At this moment, they were standing under the oldest black locust tree in the village, and when they were leaving, the village asked the children to gather here for activities. The branches covered with black bark tumors grow together in a twisted branch. They saw the massive treehouse huddled in the crooked crevices of the trees, turning right on the sixth branch. At this moment, the door was ajar, as if they were still waiting for them to come here to eat Aunt Xia's dinner.

They glanced at each other, and a teenager mustered up the courage to jump on the branch and pull the door. When the door opened, a man threw himself on the door and fell to the ground, as if he had been standing behind the door waiting for them. The boy shouted wildly and jumped backwards. The man was dying, half of his head was smashed, his neck was broken, his collarbone poked out of his swollen, twisted right shoulder, and the edges of the huge hole in the back of his neck were covered with small spike wounds.

They gasped. They knew him. He's the sentinel here. At the moment, his beautiful clothes were covered with a thick red and white liquid. If he was still conscious, he would be extremely angry about it.

The boy stood in the doorway, smelling a strong smell of death wafting from the room. He leaned against the doorframe, feeling his feet take root in the tree and could no longer move. He stood on a tree and stared at the western sky in a daze.

He now knew why the clouds were so red: the towers of arrows to the west of the village were being lit one by one, and in the night, in the wind, they became huge flaming torches.

As if hearing something, he jumped down from the tree. His friend pulled him by the hand and rolled with him into the black shadows of the tree. In the dark twilight, a dozen horses appeared on the slopes, and they swept across the dry village road like a gust of wind, and on the back of the horses were samurai who looked swarthy in the starlight, and the cold light glistened in their waists. They all had torches in their hands. No sooner had the group of horsemen crossed the tree where they were hiding, and one of the samurai at the head of the group gave a scolding, turning the horse's head in circles, and the sound of horses' hooves dispersed. Wherever the sound of horses' hooves went, there was a bright white fire gushing out. In just a few moments, the village was ablaze. The samurai at the head stood silently in the moonlight for a moment, threw the torch into the open door of the hole, and slapped his horse away without waiting for the fire to rise.

With a flicker of the torches, the two boys saw the blue tattoo on the face of the samurai, who was the Tatar cavalry known for its brutality.

They felt a shiver coming from behind them, as if the huge hooves of a camel were stepping down their backbones. The two looked at each other, and they saw in each other's eyes the fear, which was more fierce and desperate than they had been in the face of a wild wolf.

They smuggled through the dark grass by the roadside, with a glimmer of hope, bent on taking a look at their home. Although I knew what it would be.

The old tree, which had lived for an unknown number of years, burned wildly in the fire, becoming a fiery red cavern, and the smell of wood and charred flesh wafted through the air.

As if aware of the coming apocalypse, the sheep cried out in the pen under the tree, trying to jump out of the hedge made of thorns and cinnamon. Before the two teenagers could think of opening the fence, the pile of red rubble collapsed and buried the bleating brutes underneath.

The boy stared at the ground, where there was a large long scimitar, the blade full of bumped gaps. "They're finally here. And my father's bow, my father's ......," said the boy, the tip of his sword hanging limply to the ground. He fell to his knees, picked up a broken toy bow and arrow from his knees, and became a little crazy. "He told us to take care of him, he made us take care of him. , he told us to take care of his. His friend stood behind him like a log, feeling the cloth bag in his arms.

They had been standing in front of their former home in a daze for so long that the two Tatar horsemen easily spotted the two teenagers who had slipped through the net. Without saying a word, the Tatar cavalry jumped over the fire, as if stepping over an inconspicuous fence in the field, and outflanked the two teenagers from behind.

The sound of the steel knife unsheathed woke the boy and his friend. The boy spotted the third cavalryman in the darkened passage behind the trees, and slowly reined in his horse towards them. The cavalryman's mount was a tall black stallion. There were no horses in their village, and they had never seen such a tall and majestic horse, more than four feet tall, with white eyes and a chest as wide as a wall, blocking all the way out. The rider on the horse wore a huge iron helmet on his head, like a nearing Grim Reaper.

The boy struggled to wield the scimitar he had picked up from the ruins, his chest surging with power that he didn't know where it came from, and a terrible rage rushed over his head like lava, making him fearless against death, against steel, or at a beating horse, or a fierce samurai, or everything, and he felt the scimitar in his hand beating in his hand at this moment, as light as if it had no weight.

His friend was still rolling his eyes for a way to escape, and the boy was already roaring hoarsely, brandishing his long scimitar, and met the nearest Tatar cavalryman. The horse did not hold its footsteps, and jumped away with a crooked step, its long knife glistening in the fire.