As the day drew to its end, the sun crawled across the sky with the dusk approaching slowly. The heavy crown was thus handed to the darkness that followed, the sun sank between the high, snow-capped mountains, leaving behind trails of blood red and saffron scattered throughout the indigo canvas.
The streaks of twisted red in the sky as though that distant celestial body was reflecting the carnage below. However far removed it may be from the mortal suffering below, it still bore witness to every life lost, every trickle of blood spilled, and every lost light of vitality snuffed out.
On the fifth day of the ceasefire, Li Xinyuan left the tent he had been toiling away inside, ears ringing from the constant cacophony of pained noises he was surrounded by and could not hope to soothe entirely.
