Red spreads under the city walls like the deepest dye. Heads hang over the city gates, becoming the most vivid symbols of death.
"In the eyes of Mexica, the divine descendants with noble blood are just sacrifices to the War God... So, is there anything different about the priests of the Holy City?"
The Elder Priest Wezil tightly shut his mouth, and with a dark expression, he stood up. Without saying a word, the journey ahead was filled with silence.
Everyone walked past the heads of the divine descendants of Tlaxcala and came to the outskirts of the city. The view suddenly expanded, mountains undulated in the distance, and the fields were full of green grass. Near the city walls, the battlefield was being cleared. Traces of the gruesome battle were everywhere, yet the vitality of spring was budding amidst the busy work.
