The next day, the horizon had yet to pale with the light of dawn.
Tumo's figure had already shattered the last vestiges of predawn silence, with four dark silhouettes following close behind.
The five men, like a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood, charged toward the salt-crusted wasteland.
There were no shouts, no conversation—only the dull thud of shovels biting into the hard earth, one after another.
The sun rose, stretching their shadows long. A few early-rising pioneers, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, saw the bizarre scene and couldn't help but stop in their tracks.
"Look, isn't that Tumo? Has he gone mad?"
"Who knows. What are they in such a rush to trade for? It can't possibly be the sugar, can it? HAHAHAHA!"
A man leaned against a wall, picking his teeth with a look of utter disdain.
