Marlow had suffered many times for murder, yet he had never been able to face his own sins.
There was wind from all directions, blowing over the stacked wheat stubble in the fields, threading through the tiny gaps with bursts of chill.
Startled by the sudden wind, Marlow patted the wheat stubble, then stood up alertly to look around before letting out a heavy sigh.
"Damn it… it's just a gust of wind..."
He muttered to himself in a low voice, trying to reassure himself.
His eyes were tired; this twenty-year-old had fled the city-states that morning, running all day until night fell and he could no longer see the road ahead. That's when he arrived at the nearby fields to rest.
Marlow closed his eyes, urging himself to fall asleep quickly, but the cold wind made it impossible for him to find comfort in any position.
