At dawn, a layer of mist, thin as cow's milk, floated between the mountains and forests.
On this day, Old Kulu got up a whole two hours earlier than usual, pacing through the mountain paths of Mazaro Mountain, listening to the wind chant among the wilderness.
Thirty years have passed, from the prime of his life to twilight years, he once thought his fiery blood would be spilled on battlefields, yet he found his sweat soaked into this unremarkable mountain woodland.
The impassioned zeal of those years has ultimately turned into a tender affection, and he, has never once regretted it.
He passed by the cattle shed, giving a few heads of Snowflake Cattle a pat, an idea suddenly crossing his mind.
Instead of selling the ranch, why not pass it on to that girl?
