Once again, dawn broke, its light shining on the charred ruins of the Lower City District.
The fire was out.
The frenzy had died with the flames, leaving behind only a bone-chilling cold and a field of debris.
The rioters, who had been "dragon slayers" just last night, were now squatting in the shadows of crumbling walls, hugging their knees like a band of orphans abandoned in the wilderness.
They stared at the toppled statues—the very idols they once revered as guardian deities, now reduced to fragments. Many of the heads had rolled into the gutter, still wearing their compassionate smiles.
"What... what have we done?"
Buck sat by a smashed carriage, staring at the boning knife in his hand, which was still dripping blood.
It was the blood of a monk.
Last night, he had thought this blood was a mark of glory.
This morning, it had become the noose that would soon hang his entire family.
