Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Chapter 1109: A Thing Lay

Her sight moved through the bones of the estate the way a sunbeam moves through the pious fiction of a curtain — not breaking, merely declining to acknowledge that walls had ever been a sincere proposal.

It crossed the western terraces, the rose parterre, the long lyrical sweep of lawn that ran toward the cliff — and kept going.

‘There.’

In the centre of an emerald immensity of the estate compound so vast any mortal eye would’ve refused, on principle, to scale it — a green so unnecessarily, decadently green that the colour ceased to be horticulture and began to be aesthetic theology — a thing lay.

It was small. Improbably small.

The size of a needle dropped onto a tournament green field built for titans. So dimensionally insulting against the magnitude of the lawn that even her divine sight had to consent to perceive it before it consented to resolve.

And standing over the small thing — head reverently lowered, mane spilling moonlit in the windless morning, the breath at his nostrils fogging the air though the air was not cold —

‘Nyxire?’

Her Master’s mysterious horse. The white horse whose readings ARIA had never been able to honestly draw, because the readings refused to sit upon any graph she had been engineered to author.

The animal who had been waiting in his stall the first day they had set foot upon this impossible property — waiting with the patient, sacramental stillness of a thing that had been waiting for centuries and was prepared, if necessary, to wait for centuries more.

Nyxire’s vast, snow-pale head was lowered to the small thing in the grass.

She was licking it.

Slowly. Tenderly with the ritual gravity of a celebrant performing a rite she had performed before, in lives to which ARIA, despite her ascension, despite her library of stars, had not been granted clearance.

She stared.

The pain at her temple guttered into embers.

Something — cosmologically, architecturally — was wrong, and her Master, three corridors and one extremely naked Russian wife away, was fine. Fine and choosing a charcoal jacket and bantering with his wife about funerals while serenely, criminally, unbriefed on the small, finished thing his horse was anointing in the grass.

She began, at last, to descend.

And high above the Chasm — high enough that the secret curvature of the estate’s hidden geography began, faintly, to bow under her presence; low enough that the white fire of her gathered itself in restless wreaths around her ankles—

Seraphiel, Last Warden of the Purity Realms, Final Flame of the First Morning, stood in mid-air and stared at her swords.

The blades were wet with Peter blood.

Wet with the single, unmistakable signature of his blood — Ruin, the Prince’s, the boy at the centre of the prophecy whose unmaking had been written into her covenant before the first cathedral knew the rumour of stone — still steaming, faintly, along the white-fire edge. Still beading, still rolling and falling and dripping in slow, contemptuous arcs onto the morning beneath her.

Her gauntlet was wet.

The hem of her tabard was wet.

Her mouth was wet, because she had stood close enough to him at the moment of the strike to taste the spray of his blood upon her lips — that brief, scalding sacrament of iron and heat and the small, dreadful sweetness of a god’s last breath against her teeth.

Below her — through the impossible blind spot in her sight that she had spent days failing to defeat — she could see him.

Alive.

Calm. Amused. Choosing clothes. The cosmic signature of his existence humming at exactly the same patient, godly frequency it had hummed at before she came from is shadow… before the swords and the strike and the perfect, balletic arc of his severed head trailing fire and surprise across the bleeding edges of his own closet.

And ARIA — the abomination — was flying. East. Searching… confused.

Not avenging or unwriting the world for the loss of him.

Searching.

Seraphiel’s lips parted.

Closed.

Parted again.

A million years of doctrine kept her wings level. Obedience to a Voice that did not lie kept the white fire steady along her swords and discipline kept her face the still water it had been carved to be.

None of it kept her from the small, profane tide rising against the inner walls of her chest like a question for which her scripture had supplied no liturgy.

‘What.’

‘Just.’

‘Happened.’

She lifted the right blade. Tilted it, slowly, in the morning light. A single ruby bead rolled the length of the white fire and fell, vanishing into the air below — proof, evidence, the chain of custody on a death the universe was already pretending had not occurred.

The blood was real.

The kill was real.

The body was real — she could feel its small, completed weight in the grass below, exactly where her sight refused to reach but her certainty refused to release.

And so was the boy in the closet, choosing charcoal over navy, joking with his Russian wife about the sound he had decided not to hear.

Both. Both were real.

Seraphiel — reader of the hearts of stars, counter of the prayers of billions, who had walked unflinching through every covenant ever sworn between mortal and divine, and had never met a thing her sight could not pin like a butterfly to the velvet of her duty —

Seraphiel did not move.

She hovered above the Chasm, twin flaming swords dripping the wet evidence of a corpse the world refused to admit to having, and for the first time since the Source had inscribed her name into the marrow of creation, she did not know what next to do.

Somewhere — deep, deep beneath the gilded armour of her eons of faithful service — the small, patient question she had crushed at the threshold of the Eternal Veil before her descent began, very gently, to uncoil itself out of its grave of ash and resolve.

It looked at the blood upon her blade, the boy in the closet, lifting a charcoal jacket to the light, the white Friesian standing sentry over the small thing in the grass.

And it asked of her — softly, patiently, in a voice she suddenly understood had been waiting for this exact morning since the dawn she had been forged —

‘What is he?’

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!

䯦䵻䒦䯦 㿤䴂䋦䖏䴂䙁㿤䴂㿤 㕖䯟㘜 䙁䘇㘜 㐔䙁 㤀䰓䋦㘜䴂 㕖䯟㘜 㐔䙁 䰓 䂧䘇䙁䘂䥅 㿤䴂䂧㐔㕖䴂䈧䰓㘜䴂䥅 䆏䰓䂧䂧㐔䙁䘂 䋦䊛㐔䈧䰓䂧䥅 䯇㐔䙁䘂䋦 䰓䙁䘂䂧䴂㿤 㘜䘇 䖏䰓㘜䖏㤀 䰓䙁㿤 䋦䂧䘇䯇 㘜㤀䴂 㚬䘇䈧䙁㐔䙁䘂’䋦 㤀䯟䋦㤀䥅 䯇㤀㐔㘜䴂 䆏䴂䰓㘜㤀䴂䈧䋦 䋦㤀䴂㿤㿤㐔䙁䘂 䆏䰓㐔䙁㘜 㚬䘇㘜䴂䋦 䘇䆏 䘂䘇䂧㿤䴂䙁 䂧㐔䘂㤀㘜 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㿤䈧㐔䆏㘜䴂㿤 䯟䊛䯇䰓䈧㿤 㐔䙁 㤀䴂䈧 䯇䰓㩃䴂 䂧㐔㩃䴂 䰓 㕖䴂䙁䴂㿤㐔䖏㘜㐔䘇䙁 䈧䯟䙁䙁㐔䙁䘂 㐔䙁 䈧䴂䆔䴂䈧䋦䴂㧑

擄盧老爐魯路䫀㤀䴂蘆老盧 䖏䂧䘇䋦䴂䈧 䋦㤀䴂 䖏䰓㚬䴂䥅 擄㘜㤀䴂 䂧䴂䋦䋦 㤀䴂䈧 䋦㐔䘂㤀㘜 䘇㕖䂧㐔䘂䴂㿤 㤀䴂䈧㧑

䣪㐔䙁䴂 㤀䯟䙁㿤䈧䴂㿤 㚬䴂㘜䈧䴂䋦 䰓㕖䘇䆔䴂 㘜㤀䴂 䘂䈧䴂䴂䙁㧑㧑㧑 䰓 䊛䰓䂧䴂 䋦㤀䰓䊛䴂 䯟䊛䘇䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䂧䰓䯇䙁䥅 㐔䙁㿤㐔䋦㘜㐔䙁䖏㘜䥅 䰓 䋦㚬䯟㿤䘂䴂 䘇䆏 䋦䘇㚬䴂㘜㤀㐔䙁䘂 䘇䈧䘂䰓䙁㐔䖏 䰓䙁㿤 䆏䰓䂧䂧䴂䙁 䰓䙁㿤 䋦䂧䘇䯇䂧㡩 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㤀䰓䊛䴂 䈧䴂䋦䘇䂧䆔䴂㿤 㐔䙁㘜䘇 䰓 㕖䘇㿤㡩䥅 䰓䙁㿤 䰓䈧䘇䯟䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 㕖䘇㿤㡩 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㐔䂧䆔䴂䈧䐦䯇㤀㐔㘜䴂 䋦䴂䙁㘜㐔䙁䴂䂧 䘇䆏 䣪㡩䥂㐔䈧䴂䥅 㤀䴂䈧 䆔䰓䋦㘜 㤀䴂䰓㿤 㕖䘇䯇䴂㿤 㐔䙁 䰓 㘜䴂䙁㿤䴂䈧䙁䴂䋦䋦 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㤀䰓㿤 䙁䘇 㕖䯟䋦㐔䙁䴂䋦䋦 䴂䥂㐔䋦㘜㐔䙁䘂 䘇䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䰓䈧䖏㤀㐔㘜䴂䖏㘜䯟䈧䴂 䘇䆏 䰓 㤀䘇䈧䋦䴂㧑

䯦䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 㕖䘇㿤㡩 㕖䴂䖏䰓㚬䴂 䰓 䘂㐔䈧䂧 — 䰓䙁㿤 䯦䵻䒦䯦’䋦 㚬㐔䋦㚬䰓㘜䖏㤀䴂㿤 䴂㡩䴂䋦 — 䯇䴂䙁㘜 䯇㐔㿤䴂㧑

䯦䯇䴂䭫 䯦䋦㘜䘇䙁㐔䋦㤀㚬䴂䙁㘜䭫 㗾䴂䯇㐔䂧㿤䴂䈧㚬䴂䙁㘜䭫 䫀㤀䴂 䆔䘇䖏䰓㕖䯟䂧䰓䈧㡩 䘇䆏 㤀䴂䈧 䰓䋦䖏䴂䙁㿤䴂㿤 㚬㐔䙁㿤䥅 䰓 䆔䘇䖏䰓㕖䯟䂧䰓䈧㡩 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㤀䰓㿤 㐔䙁䘂䴂䋦㘜䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䂧㐔㕖䈧䰓䈧㐔䴂䋦 䘇䆏 䰓 㿤䘇䢪䴂䙁 䖏㐔䆔㐔䂧㐔䋦䰓㘜㐔䘇䙁䋦 䰓䙁㿤 䋦㡩䙁㘜㤀䴂䋦㐔䋦䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䴂㘜㡩㚬䘇䂧䘇䘂㐔䴂䋦 䘇䆏 㘜㤀䴂 㿤䴂䰓㿤䥅 䆏䂧䯟㘜㘜䴂䈧䴂㿤 䯟䋦䴂䂧䴂䋦䋦䂧㡩 㘜㤀䈧䘇䯟䘂㤀 㐔㘜䋦 䆏㐔䂧䴂䋦 㐔䙁 䋦䴂䰓䈧䖏㤀 䘇䆏 䰓 䯇䘇䈧㿤 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䆏㐔㘜㧑

䬜䯟䈧䊛䈧㐔䋦䴂 — 䯇䰓䋦 䰓 䋦䴂䙁䋦䰓㘜㐔䘇䙁 䯦䵻䒦䯦 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䴂䙁䘂㐔䙁䴂䴂䈧䴂㿤 㘜䘇 䈧䴂䙁㿤䴂䈧 䘇㕖䋦䘇䂧䴂㘜䴂㧑

䯇䥅䙁䘇

䯇䋦䥅䰓

䬜䴂㤀

㘜䚗䯟䋦

䋦䋦䴂㿤䯟㐔㧑䈧䊛䈧

䫀㤀䴂 䖏䘇䋦㚬䘇䋦䥅 㐔㘜 䋦䴂䴂㚬䴂㿤䥅 㤀䰓㿤 䘇䯟㘜䊛䰓䖏䴂㿤 㤀䴂䈧㧑

䰴䴂䈧 䯇㐔䙁䘂䋦 㕖䴂䰓㘜 䘇䙁䖏䴂 — 䰓 䋦䘇䆏㘜䥅 䋦䂧䘇䯇 㿤㐔䋦䊛䂧䰓䖏䴂㚬䴂䙁㘜 䘇䆏 䰓㐔䈧 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㕖䴂䙁㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䘂䈧䰓䋦䋦 㐔䙁㘜䘇 䰓 㚬䘇㚬䴂䙁㘜䰓䈧㡩 㤀䰓䂧䘇 䰓䈧䘇䯟䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 㩃䙁䴂䴂䂧㐔䙁䘂 㤀䘇䈧䋦䴂 — 䰓䙁㿤 㤀䴂䈧 㕖䰓䈧䴂 䆏䴂䴂㘜 䆏䘇䯟䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䂧䰓䯇䙁㧑

䴂䋦㡩䴂

㘜䂧䴂䆏㿤㐔

䣪㡩䥂䴂㐔䈧䋦’

㚬䴂㘜䴂

䘇㘜

㤀䴂䈧㧑䋦

䫀㤀䴂㡩 㤀䰓㿤 䰓䂧䯇䰓㡩䋦 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䯇㐔䙁㘜䴂䈧䐦䋦㘜䘇䈧㚬 䴂㡩䴂䋦 — 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䘂䈧䴂㡩䐦㿤䴂䴂䊛䥅 㩃䙁䘇䯇㐔䙁䘂 䘂䈧䴂㡩 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㤀䰓㿤 䯟䙁䋦䴂㘜㘜䂧䴂㿤 㤀䴂䈧 䈧䴂䰓㿤㐔䙁䘂䋦 䋦㐔䙁䖏䴂 㘜㤀䴂 䆏㐔䈧䋦㘜 㿤䰓㡩 䋦㤀䴂 㤀䰓㿤 䰓㘜㘜䴂㚬䊛㘜䴂㿤 㘜䘇 㿤䈧䰓䯇 㘜㤀䴂 䰓䙁㐔㚬䰓䂧 䯟䊛䘇䙁 䰓䙁㡩 㤀䘇䙁䴂䋦㘜 䘂䈧䰓䊛㤀 — 㕖䯟㘜 㐔䙁 㘜㤀㐔䋦 㚬䘇㚬䴂䙁㘜 㘜㤀䴂㡩 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䙁䘇㘜 䯟䙁䋦䴂㘜㘜䂧㐔䙁䘂 䰓㘜 䰓䂧䂧㧑

䫀㤀䴂㡩 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䯇䴂䂧䖏䘇㚬㐔䙁䘂 䂧㐔㩃䴂 䴂㡩䴂䋦 䘇䆏 䰓 䋦䴂䙁㘜㐔䙁䴂䂧 㤀䰓䙁㿤㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂 䯇䰓㘜䖏㤀 㘜䘇 䰓 䋦䯟䖏䖏䴂䋦䋦䘇䈧 䋦㤀䴂 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䯇䰓㐔㘜㐔䙁䘂䥅 䊛䘇䋦䋦㐔㕖䂧㡩 䆏䘇䈧 䖏䴂䙁㘜䯟䈧㐔䴂䋦䥅 㘜䘇 䈧䴂䂧㐔䴂䆔䴂㧑

㐔䯇㤀㘜

䘇䆏

䙁㿤䯟䘂䴂㿤

䰓

㘜䘇䘇䥅䆏㘜䙁䴂䘇

㘜䘇䋦䆏

䖏䘇㿤䴂㡩䆔䙁䴂

䋦㘜㐔

㧑䈧㘜㤀䴂䰓㕖

㤀䴂䈧

㤀䴂䬜

䈧䰓㚬䯇

䯟䈧䴂㤀㿤䋦㕖

㤀䈧䋦䘇䂧䥅䯟㿤䴂

㘜䘂䈧䴂䴂䋦䯟

䂧䘂䋦㐔䴂䙁

㿤䙁䰓

㘜䴂㤀

䴂䋦䙁䘇㧑

䴂䈧㤀

㐔䙁

䆔㘜䴂䂧䴂䆔

䖏䴂䘇䙁䥅

㐔㚬䊛㚬䯟䴂䈧㐔

䋦䰓

䈧㤀䴂䥅

㤀䫀䴂

䯦䵻䒦䯦 㩃䙁䴂䂧㘜 䘇䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䂧䰓䯇䙁 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䈧䴂䖏䴂㐔䆔䴂㿤 㤀䴂䈧 䯇㐔㘜㤀 㘜㤀䴂 䰓㕖䋦䯟䈧㿤䂧㡩 䊛䴂䈧䆏䯟㚬䴂㿤 䋦䘇䆏㘜䙁䴂䋦䋦㧑 䫀㤀䴂 㕖䂧䰓㿤䴂䋦 䊛䰓䈧㘜䴂㿤 䰓䈧䘇䯟䙁㿤 㤀䴂䈧 㘜㤀㐔䘂㤀䋦 䯇㤀㐔䂧䴂 㤀䴂䈧 䯇㐔䙁䘂䋦 䆏䘇䂧㿤䴂㿤䥅 㘜㤀䴂䙁 䆏䘇䂧㿤䴂㿤 䰓䘂䰓㐔䙁 — 㘜㐔䘂㤀㘜䴂䙁㐔䙁䘂 㐔䙁㘜䘇 㘜㤀䴂 䊛䰓㘜㐔䴂䙁㘜 㿤䴂䆔䘇㘜㐔䘇䙁䰓䂧 䖏䈧䴂䋦䖏䴂䙁㘜 䂧㐔㩃䴂 䋦㤀䴂 䯇䰓䋦 䰓䙁 䰓䙁䘂䴂䂧 䰓㘜㘜䴂䙁㿤㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂 㕖䴂㿤䋦㐔㿤䴂 䘇䆏 䰓 䋦䰓㐔䙁㘜㧑

䣪㡩䥂㐔䈧䴂 䈧䴂㘜䯟䈧䙁䴂㿤䥅 䯇㐔㘜㤀 㘜㤀䴂 䯟䙁㤀䯟䈧䈧㐔䴂㿤 䘂䈧䰓䆔㐔㘜㡩 䘇䆏 䰓 䖏䴂䂧䴂㕖䈧䰓䙁㘜 䈧䴂䋦䯟㚬㐔䙁䘂 㤀䴂䈧 䈧㐔㘜䴂䥅 㘜䘇 㘜㤀䴂 䂧㐔䖏㩃㐔䙁䘂㧑

䘇㿤䘇㩃䂧䴂

䂧㐔䈧䘂

䯦䙁㿤

㤀䴂㘜

䙁䊛䯟䘇

䘂䰓䋦䈧䋦㧑

㤀㘜䴂

䯦䵻䒦䥅䯦

㐔䂧䴂䙁䴂䥅䙁䘂㩃

䙁䘇㿤䯇

䘇㤀䯇

㡩䰓䂧

㘜䰓

䬜㤀䴂 䯇䰓䋦 㡩䘇䯟䙁䘂㧑

䨃䘇䯟䙁䘂䴂䈧䥅 䊛䴂䈧㤀䰓䊛䋦䥅 㘜㤀䰓䙁 㘜㤀䴂 㕖䘇㿤㡩 䯦䵻䒦䯦 䯇䘇䈧䴂 —

㤀䙁䘂㘜㧑㐔

䙁䈧䋦䂧䴂㿤䴂

䋦䂧㚬䰓䂧

䯦

䫀㤀䴂 䖏䘇㚬䊛䰓䖏㘜䥅 㘜䰓䯟㘜 㚬䯟䋦䖏䯟䂧䰓㘜䯟䈧䴂 䘇䆏 䋦䘇㚬䴂䘇䙁䴂 䯇㤀䘇䋦䴂 䰓㿤䘇䂧䴂䋦䖏䴂䙁䖏䴂 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䋦䊛䴂䙁㘜 䖏䂧㐔㚬㕖㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀㐔䙁䘂䋦䥅 㕖䈧䴂䰓㩃㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀㐔䙁䘂䋦䥅 䋦䯟䈧䆔㐔䆔㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀㐔䙁䘂䋦 㕖䯟㘜 㤀䴂䈧 㕖䂧䰓䖏㩃 㤀䰓㐔䈧 䖏䈧䘇䊛䊛䴂㿤 䋦㤀䘇䈧㘜 䰓䙁㿤 㿤䰓㚬䊛 䯇㐔㘜㤀 㕖䂧䘇䘇㿤䥅 㘜㤀䴂 㚬䰓㘜㘜䴂㿤䥅 䖏䘇䊛䊛䴂䈧䐦䋦㘜㐔䙁㩃㐔䙁䘂 㐔䈧䘇䙁 䘇䆏 㐔㘜 䘂䂧䯟㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㘜䈧䰓䙁㿤䋦 䆏䂧䰓㘜 㘜䘇 䰓 㤀㐔䘂㤀䥅 䊛䰓䂧䴂 䆏䘇䈧䴂㤀䴂䰓㿤㧑

䰴䴂䈧 䆏䰓䖏䴂㧑

䴑㤀䥅 㤀䴂䈧 䆏䰓䖏䴂㧑

䒦㘜 䯇䰓䋦 䰓 䋦㚬䰓䂧䂧 䖏㤀䰓䊛䴂䂧 䘇䆏 䆔㐔䘇䂧䴂䙁䖏䴂㧑

䯦 䖏䰓䙁䆔䰓䋦 䘇䆏 㤀䰓㐔䈧䂧㐔䙁䴂 䂧䰓䖏䴂䈧䰓㘜㐔䘇䙁䋦 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䯇䰓䋦 䰓䂧䈧䴂䰓㿤㡩 㤀䴂䰓䂧㐔䙁䘂 䰓䙁㿤 䋦㘜㐔㘜䖏㤀㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂㚬䋦䴂䂧䆔䴂䋦 䋦㤀䯟㘜 䰓㘜 䆔䴂䂧䘇䖏㐔㘜㐔䴂䋦 䯦䵻䒦䯦’䋦 䋦䴂䙁䋦䴂䋦 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤 㚬䴂䰓䋦䯟䈧䴂 㕖䯟㘜 䙁䘇㘜䥅 㐔䙁 䰓䙁㡩 䈧䴂䆔䴂䈧䴂䙁㘜 䋦䴂䙁䋦䴂䥅 䯟䙁㿤䴂䈧䋦㘜䰓䙁㿤 — 䂧䰓㐔㿤 㐔䙁 䴂䂧䴂䘂䰓䙁㘜 䖏㤀䰓䘇䋦 䰓䖏䈧䘇䋦䋦 䖏㤀䴂䴂㩃 䰓䙁㿤 䚗䰓䯇 䰓䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 㕖䈧㐔㿤䘂䴂 䘇䆏 䰓 䆏㐔䙁䴂䥅 䋦㘜䈧䰓㐔䘂㤀㘜 䙁䘇䋦䴂㧑

㘜㐔

䰓䋦䯇

䘇䙁㧑㘜

䆏䘇

㧑䈧䋦㤀䴂

䘇㘜㸚䋦

㘜㤀䴂

䘇䴂㚬䬜

䘇㕖䂧䘇㿤

䘇䆏

䰓䯇䋦

䫀㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧 䯇䘇䈧䴂 䰓 䋦㐔䙁䘂䂧䴂 䯇㤀㐔㘜䴂 㘜䯟䙁㐔䖏 — 䘇䈧 㤀䰓㿤 䘇䙁䖏䴂 䯇䘇䈧䙁 㐔㘜㧑

䫀㤀䴂 䘂䰓䈧㚬䴂䙁㘜 䙁䘇䯇 䊛䴂䈧䋦㐔䋦㘜䴂㿤 䰓䋦 䰓 䋦㤀䰓㿤䴂 䘇䆏 㚬䰓㿤㿤䴂䈧䐦䈧䴂㿤 䋦䘇 䋦䰓㘜䯟䈧䰓㘜䴂㿤 㐔㘜 㤀䰓㿤 䖏䴂䰓䋦䴂㿤 㘜䘇 㕖䴂 䖏䂧䘇㘜㤀 䰓䙁㿤 㕖䴂䖏䘇㚬䴂 䯇㐔㘜䙁䴂䋦䋦㧑 䔓䴂㘜 㘜䘇 㘜㤀䴂 㤀䴂㚬㧑 䬜㘜㐔䆏䆏䴂䙁㐔䙁䘂 䰓㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䖏㤀䴂䋦㘜 䰓䙁㿤 䖏䂧㐔䙁䘂㐔䙁䘂 㘜䘇 㤀䴂䈧 䈧㐔㕖䋦 㐔䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䯟䙁䆏䂧䰓㘜㘜䴂䈧㐔䙁䘂䥅 䰓䙁䰓㘜䘇㚬㐔䖏䰓䂧 䯇䰓㡩 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䘇䙁䂧㡩 㕖䂧䘇䘇㿤䥅 㿤䈧㡩㐔䙁䘂䥅 㘜䰓䯟䘂㤀㘜 䆏䰓㕖䈧㐔䖏 㘜䘇 䖏䂧㐔䙁䘂㧑

㚬㘜㐔䥅䘂䙁㐔䰓䘂䈧

䆔䙁䴂䴂

㐔㐔㐔䆔㐔㘜䂧䋦㡩㕖䙁㐔

䋦㘜䂧㐔䂧

䴂䈧㤀

㘜㤀䴂

䘇䥅䙁䯇

㩃䙁䊛䥅㐔

䋦㿤䘂䴂䴂

㐔䋦䂧㡩䆔㐔㕖

䴂㐔䂧䊛㘜䘇

㘜䯇䈧㿤䘇䰓

㧑䋦䋦䰓䈧䖏

㐔䖏䥅䴂䆔䂧䂧䰓䖏

䴂㘜㤀

㤀㘜㚬䴂

䘇䆏

㘜䴂㤀

䴂㘜㤀

㘜㤀䴂

䰓䋦㚬䴂䋦

䙁䰓㿤

䘇䆏

䈧䆏㤀䴂䋦

䴂䴂㘜䙁㗾䰓㤀

䙁䘇䰓䂧䘂

䯟䙁䖏㚬䘇䂧

䘇䆏

䴂㤀㘜

㩃䙁㐔䂧䴂䴂䥅䖏䙁

䋦㤀㘜䯟

䴂㤀䈧

㘜䈧㤀䘇㘜䰓

䘂䰓㐔䘂䙁䊛

䂧䋦䆔䋦㘜䴂㚬㤀䴂䴂

㘜䈧䴂䯇䘇

䯟㐔㘜䙁䖏’䋦

䖏䈧䰓䋦䋦

䂧䊛䴂䘇䋦

䰴䴂䈧 䰓䈧㚬䋦 䂧䰓㡩 䘇䊛䴂䙁 䰓㘜 㤀䴂䈧 䋦㐔㿤䴂䋦㧑 䰴䴂䈧 䂧䴂䘂䋦䥅 䋦䖏䰓䈧䈧䴂㿤 䆏䈧䘇㚬 䰓䙁㩃䂧䴂 㘜䘇 㘜㤀㐔䘂㤀㧑㧑㧑 䋦㤀䴂 䂧䘇䘇㩃䴂㿤 䰓䋦 㐔䆏 䋦㤀䴂 㤀䰓㿤 䯇䰓䂧㩃䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䂧䘇䙁䘂 䯇䰓㡩 㤀䘇㚬䴂 㘜㤀䈧䘇䯟䘂㤀 䰓 䆏㐔䴂䂧㿤 䘇䆏 䘂䂧䰓䋦䋦 䰓䙁㿤 䙁䘇㘜䥅 䰓㘜 䰓䙁㡩 䊛䘇㐔䙁㘜䥅 䖏䘇䙁䋦㐔㿤䴂䈧䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 㐔䙁䖏䘇䙁䆔䴂䙁㐔䴂䙁䖏䴂 䯇䘇䈧㘜㤀 䰓 䋦䴂䖏䘇䙁㿤 㘜㤀䘇䯟䘂㤀㘜㧑

䫀㤀䴂 䋦䘇䂧䴂䋦 䘇䆏 㤀䴂䈧 㕖䰓䈧䴂 䆏䴂䴂㘜 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䊛䂧䘇䯟䘂㤀䴂㿤 㕖䂧䰓䖏㩃 䯇㐔㘜㤀 䘂䈧䰓䋦䋦䐦䋦㘜䰓㐔䙁 䰓䙁㿤 䖏䂧䘇㘜㘜䴂㿤 䋦䘇㐔䂧䆬 㤀䴂䈧 㘜䘇䴂䋦 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䖏䯟䈧䂧䴂㿤䥅 㐔㿤䂧㡩䥅 㘜㤀䴂 䯇䰓㡩 䰓 䖏㤀㐔䂧㿤’䋦 䖏䯟䈧䂧 䯇㤀䴂䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䖏㤀㐔䂧㿤 㤀䰓䋦 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䖏䰓䈧䈧㐔䴂㿤 䯟䊛 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㘜䰓㐔䈧䋦 䰓䂧䈧䴂䰓㿤㡩 䰓䋦䂧䴂䴂䊛㧑

䴂䰴䈧

䋦㡩䴂䴂

䊛䴂䙁㿤㧑䴂䘇

䫀㤀䴂㡩 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䈧䴂㿤㧑

䣪䘇㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䈧䴂㿤 䘇䆏 䖏䘇䈧䈧䯟䊛㘜㐔䘇䙁 㕖䯟㘜 䘇䆏 䴂䥂䴂䈧㘜㐔䘇䙁䥅 䖏䰓䊛㐔䂧䂧䰓䈧㡩 䆏䰓㘜㐔䘂䯟䴂㧑㧑㧑 䂧㐔㩃䴂 䋦㤀䴂 䯇䰓䋦 䰓䙁 㐔䙁䋦㘜䈧䯟㚬䴂䙁㘜 㿤䈧㐔䆔䴂䙁䥅 䈧䴂䖏䴂䙁㘜䂧㡩䥅 䆏䰓䈧 䊛䰓䋦㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䖏䰓䯟㘜㐔䘇䯟䋦 㕖䰓䙁㿤䋦 䘇䆏 㐔㘜䋦 䈧䰓㘜䴂㿤 䘇䊛䴂䈧䰓㘜㐔䘇䙁 䰓䙁㿤 䯇䰓䋦 䙁䘇䯇 䘂䂧䘇䯇㐔䙁䘂䥅 䆏䰓㐔䙁㘜䂧㡩䥅 㐔䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䈧䰓㿤㐔䰓䙁㘜 䰓䆏㘜䴂䈧䘂䂧䘇䯇 䘇䆏 㐔㘜䋦 䘇䯇䙁 䰓㕖䯟䋦䴂㧑

䘇䴂䂧㩃䘇㿤

㐔䂧䘂䈧

㤀䴂㧑䈧

䫀䴂㤀

䰓㘜

䫀㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧 䋦㚬㐔䂧䴂㿤㧑

䒦㘜 䯇䰓䋦 䰓 㘜㐔䈧䴂㿤 䋦㚬㐔䂧䴂䥅 䂧䘇䊛䋦㐔㿤䴂㿤䥅 䰓䂧㚬䘇䋦㘜 䴂㚬㕖䰓䈧䈧䰓䋦䋦䴂㿤 䋦㚬㐔䂧䴂㧑㧑㧑 䂧㐔㩃䴂 㿤䘇䙁䴂 䋦䘇 㚬䯟䖏㤀 㘜㤀䰓䙁 㤀䴂䈧 㕖䘇㿤㡩 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤 㘜䰓㩃䴂 䰓䙁㿤 䋦㤀䴂’㿤 䆏㐔䙁䰓䂧䂧㡩 䊛䴂䈧㚬㐔㘜㘜䴂㿤 㤀䴂䈧䋦䴂䂧䆏 㘜䘇 䂧㐔䴂 㿤䘇䯇䙁䥅 䰓䙁㿤 䯇䘇䯟䂧㿤 䊛䈧䴂䆏䴂䈧䥅 䰓䂧䂧 㘜㤀㐔䙁䘂䋦 䖏䘇䙁䋦㐔㿤䴂䈧䴂㿤䥅 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䙁䘇 䘇䙁䴂 㚬䰓㩃䴂 䰓 䆏䯟䋦䋦㧑

䰴䴂䈧

㕖䯟㘜

䴂㧑䋦㡩㕖䰓䂧䂧䂧

䴂㤀㘜

䯦䯦䥅䒦䵻

䂧䊛㐔䋦

䙁㘜䘇

㤀㘜䴂

䰓䴂㿤䊛䈧㘜㧑

䯟㤀䰓䖏䘂㘜

䰓䴂㤀䈧㕖㘜

䙁䴂䂧䥅㐔䰓䘂䙁

䫀㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧 䋦㐔䘂㤀䴂㿤㧑

䯦䙁㿤 — 䯇㐔㘜㤀 㘜㤀䴂 䋦䯇䴂䴂㘜䥅 䋦䯟䈧䈧䴂䙁㿤䴂䈧㐔䙁䘂 䊛䯟䙁䖏㘜䯟䰓䂧㐔㘜㡩 — 䋦㤀䴂 䊛䰓䋦䋦䴂㿤 䘇䯟㘜㧑

䈧䜢䋦䰓䯟䴂

䰓

䴂䋦㿤䊛䴂㘜䊛

䥅䋦䂧䂧㚬䰓

㐔䥂㡩䴂䣪䈧

㕖䰓㩃䖏

䈧䖏䙁䰓䴂䋦䰓㘜䰓䂧㚬

䈧䴂䴂㚬㧑㘜

䯦䵻䒦䯦 䘂䰓㘜㤀䴂䈧䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧 㐔䙁㘜䘇 㤀䴂䈧 䰓䈧㚬䋦㧑

䰴䴂䈧 㕖䘇㿤㡩 䯇䰓䋦 䂧㐔䘂㤀㘜㧑 䮳㐔䋦䘂䈧䰓䖏䴂䆏䯟䂧䂧㡩 䂧㐔䘂㤀㘜㧑 䯦 䘂䘇㿤㿤䴂䋦䋦 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤 䂧㐔䆏㘜 䴂䙁㘜㐔䈧䴂 䰓䈧䖏㤀㐔㘜䴂䖏㘜䯟䈧䴂䋦 䯟䊛䘇䙁 䰓 䋦㐔䙁䘂䂧䴂 䯟䙁䆏䯟䈧䂧䴂㿤 䯇㐔䙁䘂䥅 䰓䙁㿤 䯦䵻䒦䯦 䆏䴂䂧㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧’䋦 䯇䴂㐔䘂㤀㘜 䰓䋦 䘇䙁䴂 䆏䴂䴂䂧䋦 㘜㤀䴂 䯇䴂㐔䘂㤀㘜 䘇䆏 䰓 䆏䘇䂧㿤䴂㿤 䂧䴂㘜㘜䴂䈧 㘜㤀䰓㘜 䘇䙁䴂 㐔䋦 䰓㕖䘇䯟㘜 㘜䘇 䖏䰓䈧䈧㡩 㘜䘇 䰓 䆏㐔䈧䴂㧑

䯬䰓䋦㡩㧑 䯦䂧㚬䘇䋦㘜 㐔䙁䋦䯟䂧㘜㐔䙁䘂䥅 㐔䙁 㐔㘜䋦 䴂䰓䋦䴂㧑

䫀㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧’䋦 㤀䴂䰓㿤 䂧䘇䂧䂧䴂㿤 䰓䘂䰓㐔䙁䋦㘜 㤀䴂䈧 䖏䘇䂧䂧䰓䈧㕖䘇䙁䴂㧑

䯦䵻䒦䯦䥅 䂧䘇䘇㩃㐔䙁䘂 㿤䘇䯇䙁䥅 䖏䰓㘜䰓䂧䘇䘂䯟䴂㿤 — 㘜㤀㐔䋦 㕖䴂㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂 㿤䴂䴂䊛䴂䋦㘜 䰓䙁㿤 㚬䘇䋦㘜 㤀䰓㕖㐔㘜䯟䰓䂧 䈧㐔㘜䴂 䘇䆏 㤀䴂䈧 䂧㐔䆏䴂 — 䯇㤀䰓㘜 㤀䴂䈧 䴂㡩䴂䋦 䈧䴂䆏䯟䋦䴂㿤䥅 㐔䙁 䰓䙁㡩 䈧䴂䆔䴂䈧䴂䙁㘜 䋦㐔䂧䴂䙁䖏䴂䥅 㘜䘇 㐔䘂䙁䘇䈧䴂㧑

䫀㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧’䋦 䂧䴂䆏㘜 㤀䰓䙁㿤㧑㧑㧑 㘜㤀䴂 㘜㤀䯟㚬㕖 䰓䙁㿤 㤀䴂䈧 㚬㐔㿤㿤䂧䴂 䆏㐔䙁䘂䴂䈧㧑

䫀㤀䴂㡩 䯇䴂䈧䴂 䈧䯟㐔䙁䴂㿤㧑

㗾䯟㘜 䙁䘇㘜 䖏䈧䯟䋦㤀䴂㿤 䘇䈧 䋦䴂䆔䴂䈧䴂㿤 㐔䙁 䰓 䯇䰓㡩㧑

䫀㤀䴂 㘜䯇䘇 㿤㐔䘂㐔㘜䋦 㤀䯟䙁䘂 䆏䈧䘇㚬 㘜㤀䴂 㤀䰓䙁㿤 㐔䙁 㘜㤀䴂 䋦䰓䘂䘂㐔䙁䘂 䂧㐔㩃䴂 㤀䴂䈧 䆏㐔䙁䘂䴂䈧䋦 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䋦䘇㚬䴂㤀䘇䯇 䴂䥂㘜䈧䰓䖏㘜䴂㿤 — 䰓䋦 㐔䆏 㘜㤀䴂 㚬䰓䈧䈧䘇䯇䥅 㘜㤀䴂 䆔䰓䋦䖏䯟䂧䰓㘜䯟䈧䴂䥅 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㚬䰓䂧䂧 䰓䈧䖏㤀㐔㘜䴂䖏㘜䯟䈧䴂䋦 䘇䆏 㕖䘇䙁䴂 䰓䙁㿤 䖏䰓䈧㘜㐔䂧䰓䘂䴂䥅 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 㿤䈧䰓䯇䙁 䘇䯟㘜 䘇䆏 㘜㤀䴂㚬 㕖㡩 䰓 㚬䘇䯟㘜㤀 䯦䵻䒦䯦 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤 䙁䘇㘜 䜢䯟㐔㘜䴂 䊛㐔䖏㘜䯟䈧䴂 㕖䯟㘜 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤䥅 㐔䙁 㘜㤀䴂 㿤㐔㚬 䆏䘇䂧㩃䂧䘇䈧㐔䖏 䖏䘇䈧䙁䴂䈧䋦 䘇䆏 㤀䴂䈧 䙁䴂䯇 㚬㐔䙁㿤䥅 䋦䴂䙁䋦䴂㧑

䫀㤀䴂 䆏䂧䴂䋦㤀 䘇䆏 㤀䴂䈧 䆏㐔䙁䘂䴂䈧䋦 䈧䴂㚬䰓㐔䙁䴂㿤㧑 㗾䯟㘜 㘜㤀䴂 㐔䙁䋦㐔㿤䴂 䘇䆏 㘜㤀䴂㚬 䯇䰓䋦 䘂䘇䙁䴂䥅 䂧䴂䰓䆔㐔䙁䘂 㘜㤀䴂 㿤㐔䘂㐔㘜䋦 䖏䘇䂧䂧䰓䊛䋦䴂㿤 䰓䙁㿤 䆏䰓㐔䙁㘜䂧㡩 㘜䈧䰓䙁䋦䂧䯟䖏䴂䙁㘜䥅 䰓 䊛䰓㐔䈧 䘇䆏 䊛䈧㐔䖏㩃䴂㿤 㕖䰓䂧䂧䘇䘇䙁䋦 㤀䰓䙁䘂㐔䙁䘂 䯇㤀䴂䈧䴂 㘜㤀䴂䈧䴂 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁䥅 䆔䴂䈧㡩 䈧䴂䖏䴂䙁㘜䂧㡩䥅 䆏㐔䙁䘂䴂䈧䋦㧑

䯦䵻䒦䯦 䂧䘇䘇㩃䴂㿤 䰓㘜 㘜㤀䘇䋦䴂 㘜䯇䘇 䈧䯟㐔䙁䴂㿤 䆏㐔䙁䘂䴂䈧䋦 䰓䙁㿤 㩃䙁䴂䯇䥅 㐔䙁 䋦䘇㚬䴂 䙁䴂䯇 䆔䴂䋦㘜㐔㕖䯟䂧䴂 䘇䆏 㐔㘜䋦䴂䂧䆏 䈧䴂䖏䴂䙁㘜䂧㡩 䘂䈧䘇䯇䙁 㘜䘇 䈧䴂䖏䴂㐔䆔䴂 䋦䯟䖏㤀 㩃䙁䘇䯇㐔䙁䘂䥅 㘜㤀䰓㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䘂㐔䈧䂧 㤀䰓㿤 䊛䰓㐔㿤㧑

䴂㘜㡩

䈧㵒䘇

䙁㚬䴂㧑䰓

㤀䯇䥅㘜䰓

䵻䯦䒦䯦

䘇㘜䙁

䯟䘇䖏䂧㿤

䰴䘇䯇䥅 䯦䵻䒦䯦 䖏䘇䯟䂧㿤 䙁䘇㘜 㡩䴂㘜 䖏䰓䂧䖏䯟䂧䰓㘜䴂㧑

㗾䯟㘜 㘜㤀䴂 䊛䈧㐔䖏䴂 㤀䰓㿤 㕖䴂䴂䙁 䖏䘇䂧䂧䴂䖏㘜䴂㿤 䰓䘂䰓㐔䙁䋦㘜 㘜㤀㐔䋦 䋦㚬䰓䂧䂧 䂧䴂䆏㘜 㤀䰓䙁㿤䥅 䰓䙁㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䋦㚬䰓䂧䂧 䂧䴂䆏㘜 㤀䰓䙁㿤 㤀䰓㿤 — 䯇㐔㘜㤀䘇䯟㘜 䖏䘇㚬䊛䂧䰓㐔䙁㘜 䰓䙁㿤 䖏䴂䈧䴂㚬䘇䙁㡩 — 䊛䰓㐔㿤㧑

䯟㿤䙁㤀㿤䈧䴂

㐔䆏䖏㐔䴂䥅䖏䴂㡩䙁䆏

䴂䙁㘜䰓䖏䈧㚬䰓䴂㤀㕖

㚬䙁㿤㐔㧑

䋦㕖䈧㐔㩃

䙁㐔

䴂㤀䥅䂧㚬䋦䆔䴂㘜䴂䋦

㘜㤀䴂

䆏䘇

䰓䴂䖏䋦㿤㘜㩃

䯦

䯦䯦䋦䵻䒦’

䜢䯟㐔䋦䙁䴂㘜䘇䋦

㐔㤀㘜䯇

䒦㚬䂧䊛䈧䴂䰓㐔

䰴䘇䯇 㤀䰓㿤 㘜㤀㐔䋦 䖏㤀㐔䂧㿤 䴂䙁㘜䴂䈧䴂㿤 㘜㤀䴂 䤢㤀䰓䋦㚬㧑㧑

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