In the early autumn countryside, the smoke-like summer heat had gradually dissipated.
If one were to look down from high above, one could see those crisscrossing, scar-like patches of grey-white barren land. Devoid of weeds, wildflowers, or trees. No houses were built upon them, and not even animals roamed there.
Beneath the distant autumn sky, they shimmered with a cold, silvery-grey light.
They resembled pale corpses floating on the lake, bathed in moonlight.
And like the grains of salt exuded from the bodies of dead fish washed up by the sea.
Those were the sins of mankind—the marks burned and oiled by a maliciously wielded brand, a testament to the poison blades with which they pierced the world and wounded each other.
Beyond these horribly deathly marks, the breath of human civilization still stained the wilderness.
Henrik was a lumberjack.
