The sunlight trickled through the gaps in the roof made of grass and wood, illuminating the dust swirling in the straw house.
In the dark room, this faint light was blurry, and the smell of manure mixed with the musty odor of soil swirled in the air.
Lying on a makeshift bed made of benches and straw, a man kept his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, and his chapped lips trembled continuously.
A few drops of golden liquid flowed from a wooden tube, falling onto the man's lips.
Armand picked up a leaf and let a handful of water slide down its veins into the man's mouth, helping the golden liquid flow into his body.
"Chant Master, is it done?"
Though older than the young monk before him by two cycles, the old uncle dared not put on airs in front of Armand and asked cautiously.
