"I haven't done anything wrong."
Roger murmured to himself, as if he were mad, repeatedly saying this phrase for a long time.
The chilly wind after the rain had yet to disperse, occasionally dropping fine strands that cut across the rough metal.
Winter in Old Dunling is approaching, and no one knows when the first snow will fall, dragging this city into a cold abyss.
"This war has lasted too long, and the choices we make now, how are they different from those made centuries ago? It's still about surviving, endlessly surviving, praying for the slightest bit of hope.
But has hope really arrived? Who can give us hope?
There is nothing, it's all in vain."
Roger felt a churn in his stomach and vomited a large blot of blood, swiftly followed by a searing pain.
