The February wind comes from the Highland, bringing a slight chill with its dryness. It's the dry season now, yet the freshly built white walls of the camp are damp, as if it had just rained.
At this moment, a young craftsman in his twenties, tanned to a dark hue, is standing by the stone white wall, studying it intently. He places his calloused hands on the surface of the white wall, feeling the wall's hardness and moisture. Then, using his fingernail, he scratches the surface, leaving shallow marks.
Upon closer inspection, there is already a row of scratch marks of varying depths on the long white wall. These marks seem to express some natural mystery, or perhaps a mysterious Divine Rune, elusive and enigmatic.
"How strange... It changes every day..."
