The guard gave him a contemptuous look, sneered a few times, and drank his own wine again. Pen @ fun @ pavilion wWw. ｂｉｑUｇE。 info The young man seemed to hear his shouts and walked over slowly, the guard glanced at him and clenched his scimitar, the young man didn't seem to notice the two guards, just handed the wine to Porcha. Porcha didn't bother to thank him, he took the clay pot and drank it, and his throat continued to make a rapid grunt. Soon the pot was empty, and Porcha burped twice, and that drunken red appeared on his face. Then he stared at the young man for a few seconds, and then suddenly he shouted loudly again, louder and more energetic than before: "Thank you, Egir, alas, I am so embarrassed now. I saw a very beautiful steed at the door of the tavern just now, and do you remember that I had one before, a very beautiful white steed with a little spot on his forehead. Hey, my eyes were so confused, and my damn hands went to untie the reins, and it turned out to be like this, can you help me?"

"Two chiefs, this is my friend. He did have such a horse before, and I gave it to him. Please forgive him for his stupid mistake. The young man spoke earnestly, and the guard looked at him suspiciously. Then he pulled out two more purses, which Porcha estimated to be about two hundred dinars. The two guards weighed it, smiled with satisfaction, waved their hands, and signaled that he could lead Polcha away, but Porcha still looked so drunk, and followed his mouth of Egil Haha.

The young man led him out of the tavern, and Porcha finally stopped looking crazy, he looked at the young man with a flattering expression, "Master, I can make you a cow and a horse! Thank you so much just now hahaha." The young man did not speak, but looked at him coldly and said, "Are you worth two hundred dinars?"

There was a familiar Carad accent in the youth's discourse, mellow and earthy. This was the first thing that came to Porcha's mind, and he inexplicably recalled his father, whose accents were similar, except that his father's voice was deeper. He muttered and repeated the words: "Two hundred dinars... Two hundred dinars—" As if he had not yet understood the meaning of the sentence, his eyes were bewildered and trembling, as if many scenes flashed before him, and he did not know what was really happening and what was imaginary. Then he looked around, and saw that there were no pedestrians in the street, and the young man was still staring at him coldly as before, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead, trying to stabilize his tone, but finally anger made him cry out, "You bastards!" The muscles on his face trembled violently, and his eyes burned with anger, like a campfire in the night. It was not as if he was scolding at the young man, but at the many people around him, what he could see and what he could not see. His body was still trembling, he didn't seem to be able to calm himself yet, in fact he hadn't lost his temper for a long time, this time it seemed to be too hard, and his emotions couldn't bear it well.

When the young man saw his angry look, his eyes softened a lot, but they were still so calm and mysterious. He suddenly stepped forward and hugged Porcha tightly, Polcha was completely stunned, but his body was still shaking, and the blazing sun shone into his pupils, and he had not felt such a tight warmth in many years.

"Join us and prove who you really are. He only heard the young man's voice in his ear, "Don't let your father down." ”

When Polcha returned to reality from his thoughts, the knock on the door became more urgent, and the people outside the door began to cry out impatiently: "Old Porcha, don't you plan to do business when it comes?" Polcha hurriedly wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and hurried to open the door. He felt a voice crying out from within himself, but in fact, it had been heard many times since he had returned to this vile business, and yet he tried to keep it to a damn that he didn't want to remember the rest of the story, for it only confirmed again and again what he had said that day: these people were bastards.

However, he still remembered the young man named Leon Xiluo, but now Leon must be old too. He had also inquired about Reon, but in the end there was no news, and he himself had returned to his old ways, which seemed to be in response to Polgar's judgment: decades meant nothing to him, he had killed countless people, both warriors and cowards, he had traveled countless roads, crossed the mountains of Rhodoc, found his way to victory in the snowy fields of Vecchia, met many companions, some died, some were separated, and finally he returned to the steppe alone and resumed the life of decades before, no different from before, except for being more lonely。 But at last he had a hut of his own, a fire of his own, and his sword and shield beside him, stained with rust and dust like his memories.

At last he opened the door, and the fire illuminated the tired faces of the Kugit outside. Porcha coldly let them into the house, and there were beds made of hay scattered on the floor, and three or four of them fell asleep, and their leader said a few polite words to Polcha, saying that this was a big order, and that he needed to take them on a journey to Kulau early tomorrow morning, and Porcha said a few words, and he went to sleep.

Porcha carried in the "goods" they had left outside the door as usual, this young man was very handsome, Porcha was stunned for a moment, because he felt that this young man was very familiar, but he didn't think too much about it. Until he took out the young man's clothes, a lot of paper was scattered. Porcha was a little curious, so he opened it and looked at it. He remembered that when he was in the army, Jamila would often teach him some of the Callad script, and he was grateful to the gentle girl for that. However, the words on the paper were not so easy to understand, and he hurriedly flipped through a few pages, his eyes resting on the title of the paper, and he clearly remembered the first words that Jamila had taught him that day, and he had silently sworn that he would never forget the name for the rest of his life, so he finally read it out accidentally: Leonshiro. He was stunned for a moment, then looked at the young man's golden hair as if he suddenly remembered something.

Without further thought, he stole around and found a bag and stuffed the manuscript into it. The snoring of those Kujits was already heard. He lightly touched the fire, pinned the rusty heavy scimitar to his waist, and carried the young man out of the door again with the cracked crack cavalry shield that had not been used for many years, and took one last look at the fire before leaving, and his cheeks seemed to burn.

Without further thought, he stole around and found a bag and stuffed the manuscript into it. The snoring of those Kujits was already heard. He lightly touched the fire, pinned the rusty heavy scimitar to his waist, and carried the young man out of the door again with the cracked crack cavalry shield that had not been used for many years, and took one last look at the fire before leaving, and his cheeks seemed to burn.

When they came to the improvised stables he had set up outside the house, it was at the height of the night, and the moonlight and stars cast a silver halo in the sky, barely illuminating a few paths. Porcha untied the rope for him first and woke him up. Feljans opened his eyes in a daze, startled at the sight of two mad eyes on Porcha's swarthy face. Polcha didn't care about his mood, just asked him seriously: "Is your mother Jamila?" Fellyans nodded stunnedly, Polcha suddenly breathed a sigh of relief, his tone softened a lot, and told him: "I'm Polcha, did your mother mention me?" Ferjans first looked at him suspiciously, carefully recalled his mother's description of Polcha, and then nodded sneeringly. Porcha finally laughed out loud and told him what had happened. Feljans didn't believe it at first, but when he touched his pocket, he was horrified, the loss of the purse was a trivial matter, but the manuscript was gone, and the pain in the back of his head continued. At this time, I saw Polcha smile strangely, took out a bag, and Feljans hurriedly reached in and fumbled for it, confirmed it a few times, and only breathed a sigh of relief when he found that not a single manuscript of his poem was missing. He glanced at Porcha gratefully, showing his trust in him.

Ferjans briefly introduced his experience and encounters, Porcha was silent for a long time, and many memories flashed before his eyes, and the faces of Fattis, James and many others also appeared one by one. Finally, after confirming Ferjans's determination, the voice in Porcha's heart finally prevailed, and the curtain of this self-deceptive life was torn away by his own hands. He showed the same kind of cute smile that he had not seen in a long time: "I am an excellent tracker and guide, I will tell you everything about Leon on the way, and the two of you can take care of each other, lest you be deceived by people like Polgar again." Feljans was also delighted, hugging Porcha excitedly, and words of thanks kept on his lips. Porcha muttered to himself, "There must be no turning back this time." "In his memory, there was always such a constraint in life that prevented him from really taking a step towards the path of his true hope, and now that life was running out of time for him, he had the only hope left, and he longed to really ignite the flame of his life.

Finally Porcha decided to find a quiet village to rest for two days, it was really unsafe to travel during this time, and Polgar's eyes and ears could find them on the road at any time. Feljans listened to him, and they hurried towards the Rana steppe.

When the old man opened the wooden door that had not been knocked for a long time in the morning, the swarthy face of the Kugit in front of him reminded him of that gloomy and dark night many years ago, when the sound of arrows came from all directions, and his countrymen bled and fell and died in the vast grassland. He was the leader of the group, the chief who knelt before Gerak and begged for the lives of his countrymen, the merchant who gave up all his possessions and nothing but longed to return home safely. He did not return to his homeland, for he had escaped the massacre of the Kugit that night, but he had been shot in the back and leg. He walked slowly, and the crimson blood dripped down the path behind him until he lost consciousness. When he woke up again, the faces in front of him changed to the familiar Karadians. He was unconscious, and heard only the familiar accents around him, which told him that he had been rescued and that he was now in Zegasi. A startling, unreal fear enveloped him, and he cried out like a madman, "Only me, only me, none of them survived!" Not many people took his words seriously, but looked at him with mockery at his crazy look, and it was not until a few days later that they saw a large number of refugees at the entrance of the village, and they looked in amazement at the man they thought was insane, but now silent.

Eventually, the Karadians of Zeghasi began to flee as well, and they were willing to take the man with them, but the man was unwilling to go. He was never able to face that night, and he always felt that he had made those compatriots both cowards and the ghosts of the Kujits. In the end, he did not leave, but walked alone into the depths of the forest of Zegasi, and no one knew what he was doing.

In fact, he didn't do anything, he just lived out of instinct. He tries to forget everything, happy, sad, cruel or decisive. But who can let the so-called time be gone? No matter how indifferent the so-called memory becomes, the image of that tragic night often appears vividly in front of his eyes, as if it no longer existed as a memory, that night was detached from his memory, and became a symbol of all his panic and uneasiness. When he heard the miserable groans of civilians in the distance, saw the roaring fires burning in the sky, smelled some kind of bloody smell, and touched the cold stones and trees, the night stirred in his mind. He survived in such a situation, the illusion of survival instinct and spiritual fear, and he went deeper and deeper into his heart, he had no one to talk to, but he no longer had the luxury of talking.