Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1113: Chapter 1113 Nutrition

A collective shudder rippled down the line.

Ross straightened.

He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the clink of metal loud in the hushed room.

“Tonight,” he said, “we’re going to take as long as we need. Hours. All night if that’s what it takes. By the time the sun comes up, none of you will remember what it felt like to want anything else.”

He started with Marissa… slow, deep strokes that tore low, guttural moans from her throat while her daughters listened, faces burning, bodies aching in sympathy.

Then Karen… rougher, punishing, until she was clawing at the cushions and cursing him through clenched teeth even as she pushed back to meet every thrust.

Lea next… he made her beg aloud, made her say exactly what she was, made her cry it into the sofa while the others heard every word.

And finally Chelsea… gentle at first, almost tender, until she shattered so hard she nearly collapsed.

He rotated through them again and again, trading mouths, fingers, cock, until time lost meaning.

Until the room reeked of sex and sweat and surrender.

Until the only sounds were wet slaps, broken pleas, and the creak of the couch beneath four bodies that had stopped fighting what they were.

Somewhere near dawn, Marissa, face streaked with tears and mascara, voice raw, managed to speak.

“We’re yours,” she rasped.

“God help us… we’re yours.”

Ross pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, then to each of her daughters in turn.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You are.”

Outside, the first pale light crept across the sky, but inside the bunker room no one moved to cover themselves.

Four women stayed bent over the couch, trembling, spent, marked in ways that would never wash off.

And Ross stood behind them, already hard again, already deciding who would be first when the new day began.

***

“Hmmmm…” Ross tipped his head back slightly, letting the last notes of the wine linger on his tongue before he swallowed.

The liquid was smooth, aged, elegant—hand-picked from what remained of a forgotten world.

He sat alone on the balcony of his stronghold, legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair.

For once, there was no moaning echoing through the halls, no begging, no relentless tugging on his time or attention. Just silence.

A rare silence.

His wives were all resting—exhausted, satisfied, and blissfully asleep after the previous night’s indulgence.

His children too slept soundly, curled up in the comfort and safety that only Aegis could offer.

Their world here was peaceful… almost absurdly peaceful.

The generators hummed softly, the air filtration system breathed like a giant asleep, and warm lanterns illuminated the marble halls with a steady, golden glow.

Inside Aegis, it was difficult to remember the end of the world had ever happened.

Ross’s lips curved slightly as he stared at the horizon.

Beyond these walls lay a wasteland of chaos—cities torn apart, factions rising and collapsing like sandcastles before a wave.

Out there, the heart stones had become currency, power, and temptation.

Survivors hunted monsters, monsters hunted humans, and humans hunted each other.

The world was broken, but here, in his kingdom, everything worked. Everything obeyed him.

He took another sip of wine and thought of his little experiment out there in the midst of chaos.

Him… Miku… the husband… He thought of the people whose lives still overlapped with his, threads he hadn’t cut yet.

He wasn’t sentimental—he simply understood responsibility, leverage, and the value of keeping certain people alive.

He let out a quiet sigh through his nose.

“Balance never lasts forever,” he murmured.

A sudden vibration reached the balcony—subtle, but unmistakable.

The sensors embedded in the perimeter of his home relayed something… movement.

Ross opened one eye slightly, not alarmed, merely curious.

He set his wine glass down with deliberate calm.

The night wind carried a faint scent of smoke, sweat, and desperation—scents that never belonged inside Aegis.

Ross stood, cracking his neck, stretching his arms, feeling the tension melt from his muscles one satisfying click at a time.

“Ahhhhhh…” he exhaled. “I suppose it’s good to stretch my legs once in a while.”

He took his time walking toward the edge of the balcony, his shadow stretching long across the polished tiles.

Below him, at the boundary where the great entirety of his domain met the harsh cracked earth of the outside world, a cluster of figures had stopped.

They were breathing hard.

They were armed—poorly, but armed.

They were clearly running from something.

And they were terrified.

Ross leaned on the balcony railing, gazing down at them with his divine sense in the casual ease of a king observing strangers at the foot of his throne.

The tallest of the group looked around frantically, whispering to the others.

Someone held a wounded girl upright.

Another was trying to pry a stone out of his pocket, likely hoping that that was more than enough for them to escape the hounds at their back.

They were ragged, exhausted… desperate enough to approach this big house without knowing what—or who—ruled it.

Ross smiled slowly.

“Lost lambs wandering into my garden…” he said softly.

Lightning flashed in the distance—silent for a moment before the muted thunder rolled across the wasteland.

Ross tugged on his shirt, combing it to perfection.

His expression shifted—not hostile, not welcoming… simply interested.

“Let’s see what fate has delivered to my doorstep tonight.”

He stepped forward.

The shadows bowed out of his way.

And the night itself seemed to hold its breath.

***

“Are there zombies inside this house, Joy?” Giana’s voice was barely louder than a breath, a whisper swallowed by the wind.

She did not dare risk more volume than that—not when one wrong sound could bring a swarm upon them.

Joy closed her eyes again, her fingertips brushing lightly against the wooden siding of the porch.

Her ability had saved them more times than any gun or blade.

She inhaled slowly, focusing, searching for that subtle, pulsing energy that separated the living from the dead.

A long breath passed.

Then another.

Finally she opened her eyes.

“No,” Joy murmured. “No zombies nearby… but there are three people inside. Human. Awake.”

露

盧

盧

老

䰆䤌㭳䐍㻣㴆—䳊䤌㽻㔎

爐

虜

䳊㴆䙾㭳䠇䠇

䙾㼸䛓㴾㴆

㼓㴆㻏

櫓

蘆

㻏䐍㻏䤌㼓䰆㔎

䤌䛓㴆㴆㽻䴮㻣

㭳䴮䴮

䛓䤌䳊䴮㴆䳊

盧

㒼

䰆㷽䛓㼓䒐㴆㼓㭳䤌䅤㷽

㼓㗏㴆㻏㔎䤌䐍㼓㴆

擄

䫖㻏㴆 㽻䛓䵳㴆 䒿䐍㼸㴆㷽 䴮㴆㭳㷽㴆䙾 䛓㷽 䒐䴮䐍䠇㴆䤌 㼓䐍 㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳㻣 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 㽻㭳䒐㴆䠇 䳊㭳䴮㴆 㽻䤌䐍㼸 㴆㴾㻏㭳䰆䠇㼓䛓䐍㷽 㭳㷽䙾 㼓㻏㴆 㴆䵳㴆䤌䐔䳊䤌㴆䠇㴆㷽㼓 䠇㴆㷽䠇㴆 䐍㽻 䙾㭳㷽㔎㴆䤌 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䒐䴮䰆㷽㔎 㼓䐍 㼓㻏㴆㼸 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㭳 䠇㴆䒐䐍㷽䙾 䠇䊅䛓㷽㗏

㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳’䠇 㗎㭳䒿 㼓䛓㔎㻏㼓㴆㷽㴆䙾㗏

㻏㼓䛓䠇

㴆䙾䙾㭳

㴆䳊䴮䳊䐍㴆…

䐍㷽㼓

㷽䐍㭳”䤌㗏㼸䴮

㭳

䫖”㻏㴆䤌㴆

㷽㮌䐍㴆㬡

䠇䫖’㭳㼓㻏

㻏㼓㴆

䐍䠇㴆䰆㻏

䛓㷽

㴆䙾䳊㴆

䛓㴆㷽䙾䠇䛓

“䶚㭳䅤䬦㴆 㼓㻏㴆䅤’䤌㴆 䴮䛓䊅㴆 䰆䠇㻣” 䒿㻏䛓䠇䳊㴆䤌㴆䙾 㮘㴆䴮䛓㭳㻣 㼓㻏㴆 䅤䐍䰆㷽㔎㴆䠇㼓 䐍㽻 㼓㻏㴆 㽻䛓䵳㴆㗏

䡞㴆䤌 㻏㭳㷽䙾䠇 㼓䤌㴆㼸䬦䴮㴆䙾 䠇䴮䛓㔎㻏㼓䴮䅤 㭳䠇 䠇㻏㴆 䒐䴮䰆㼓䒐㻏㴆䙾 㻏㴆䤌 䳊䛓䠇㼓䐍䴮㻣 䊅㷽䰆䒐䊅䴮㴆䠇 䒿㻏䛓㼓㴆㗏

䒿䠇”㴆䐍䤌㻣

䐍㴆㼸䤌

㻏㼓㴆䤌’䅤㴆

䰆㚍䤌䛓

䤌”䂘

㭳䤌㴆

㻏㼓㭳㷽

䐍䤌㴆㔎㷽䰆䠇㭳䙾

䙾䅤䤌㭳䴮㗏䊅

“䅤䠇㗏㭳㭳䙾䐍㷽䒿

㭳”㷽㼸䰆䡞䠇

㴆㼓䤌䙾䰆㼓㼸㴆

㴆㭳䬦㼸䅤

䐍㼸㮌䛓䬦㴆䠇

䳸䐍 䐍㷽㴆 䙾䛓䠇㭳㔎䤌㴆㴆䙾㗏

㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䠇䰆䤌䵳㴆䅤㴆䙾 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 䠇䰆䤌䤌䐍䰆㷽䙾䛓㷽㔎䠇 䒿䛓㼓㻏 䒐㭳䰆㼓䛓䐍䰆䠇 㴆䅤㴆䠇㗏 䫖㻏㴆 㻏䐍䰆䠇㴆 䴮䐍䐍䊅㴆䙾 䠇㼓䰆䤌䙾䅤—㼓䐍䐍 䠇㼓䰆䤌䙾䅤㗏

㻏䫖㴆

㻏㼓䛓䒿

䤌㷽㴆䒿㼓㴆’

䤌䒐䐍䙾㴆㴆㽻㷽䤌䛓

䒿䙾䛓䐍㷽䒿䠇

䰆䬦㼓

䛓㼓䒿㻏

䐍䙾䐍䒿

㭳䠇㴆䴮㗏䳊㷽

䒐㭳䠇䳊䤌

㴆㼸㭳㼓䴮

㴆䬦䐍䤌㭳䙾䙾

䫖㻏㴆 㽻䤌䐍㷽㼓 䅤㭳䤌䙾㻣 㼓㻏䐍䰆㔎㻏 䙾㭳䤌䊅㻣 㻏㭳䙾 㭳 䠇㼓䤌㭳㷽㔎㴆 䐍䤌䙾㴆䤌䴮䛓㷽㴆䠇䠇 㼓䐍 䛓㼓㗏

䈶䵳㴆㷽 㼓㻏㴆 䒐䤌㭳䒐䊅㴆䙾 䠇㼓䐍㷽㴆 䳊㭳㼓㻏 䴮㴆㭳䙾䛓㷽㔎 㼓䐍 㼓㻏㴆 䙾䐍䐍䤌䒿㭳䅤 㽻㴆䴮㼓… 㼸㭳䛓㷽㼓㭳䛓㷽㴆䙾㗏

㴆㴆䤌㗏㻏

䫖㻏䤌䛓㻣䵳㴆䙾

㷽䵳㗏㴆㴆

䛓䴮䙾㴆䵳

㴆䐍㴆㩾䳊䴮

㒼㷽䙾 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䒿㭳䠇 㼓㴆䤌䤌䛓㽻䅤䛓㷽㔎 䛓㷽 䛓㼓䠇 䐍䒿㷽 䒿㭳䅤㗏

“㒼㼓 㼓㻏䛓䠇 䳊䐍䛓㷽㼓㻣” 㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䠇㭳䛓䙾 䠇䐍㽻㼓䴮䅤㻣 “䒿㴆 㴆䛓㼓㻏㴆䤌 㼓㭳䊅㴆 㭳 䒐㻏㭳㷽䒐㴆… 䐍䤌 䙾䛓㴆 䐍䰆㼓 㼓㻏㴆䤌㴆 㼓䐍㷽䛓㔎㻏㼓㗏”

㔎䰆䠇㼓

㭳䐍㷽㔎䤌䠇

䐍䒐䙾䴮

䠇䒿䳊㼓㴆

䐍㽻

㻏㼓㴆

㻏㴆㻣㼸㼓

䛓㼓䙾䠇㭳㼓㷽

㭳㷽㽻㼓䛓

㻏䤌㼓㔎㻏䐍䰆

䤌㭳䛓䒐㔎䅤䤌㷽

㒼

䊅䴮㭳㗏㴆䤌䒿䠇

䫖㻏㭳㼓 㭳䴮䐍㷽㴆 㼸㭳䙾㴆 㼓㻏㴆 䒐㻏䐍䛓䒐㴆㗏

㚍㻏㴆 䴮䛓㽻㼓㴆䙾 㻏㴆䤌 㻏㭳㷽䙾 㭳㷽䙾 䊅㷽䐍䒐䊅㴆䙾 㔎㴆㷽㼓䴮䅤 䐍㷽 㼓㻏㴆 䙾䐍䐍䤌—㼓䒿䐍 䠇䐍㽻㼓 㼓㭳䳊䠇㻣 䬦㭳䤌㴆䴮䅤 㭳䰆䙾䛓䬦䴮㴆㗏

䫖㴆㻏

䐍䠇㴆䤌㼓㻏

䠇㭳

㻏䙾㴆䴮

㻏㼓㴆䛓䤌

䛓㭳㴆䒿䙾㼓㗏

䅤㼓㻏㴆

䒐䴮㴆㗏㴆䛓㷽䠇

䤌㭳㻣㻏䬦㼓㴆

䴮䰆㼸䒐䠇㴆

㴆䵳䅤䤌㴆

䳊㼓㴆㴾䙾䒐㴆㴆

㴆䠇䙾㼓㷽㴆

㴆䅤䫖㻏

䫖㻏㴆䅤 㴆㴾䳊㴆䒐㼓㴆䙾 㼓䐍 䠇㼓㭳㷽䙾 㼓㻏㴆䤌㴆 䛓㷽 㼓㻏㴆 䙾㭳䤌䊅 㽻䐍䤌 䴮䐍㷽㔎㻣 㭳㔎䐍㷽䛓㮌䛓㷽㔎 㼸䛓㷽䰆㼓㴆䠇㗏

䶚㭳䅤䬦㴆 䊅㷽䐍䒐䊅 㭳㔎㭳䛓㷽㗏

䬦䛓㴆㔎㷽

䶚䬦㴆㭳䅤

䙾䤌㗏㻏㴆㭳

䤌䊅䛓䠇

䶚㭳䅤䬦㴆 㔎䛓䵳㴆 䰆䳊㗏

㷍䰆㼓 㷽䐍㷽㴆 䐍㽻 㼓㻏㴆㼸 㴆㴾䳊㴆䒐㼓㴆䙾 㼓㻏㴆 䙾䐍䐍䤌 㼓䐍 䐍䳊㴆㷽 㭳䴮㼸䐍䠇㼓 䛓㼸㼸㴆䙾䛓㭳㼓㴆䴮䅤—㼓㻏䤌㴆㴆 䬦䤌㴆㭳㼓㻏䠇㻣 㷽䐍 㼸䐍䤌㴆㻣 㷽䐍 䴮㴆䠇䠇㗏

㻏㴆䫖

㴆䐍㼸㷽䒿

㽻㮌䤌㴆䐍㗏

䫖㻏㴆䛓䤌 䛓㷽䠇㼓䛓㷽䒐㼓䠇 㴆㴾䳊䴮䐍䙾㴆䙾 䛓㷽㼓䐍 㼸䐍㼓䛓䐍㷽㗏

㶧䰆㷽䠇 䠇㷽㭳䳊䳊㴆䙾 䰆䳊㗏

䛓㴆䤌㔎㱢䠇㷽

䠇䤌㼓㔎㔎䛓䤌㴆㗏

䙾䤌䴮䒐䰆㴆

䙾䤌䰆㷽㭳䐍

㱢㴆㴆㼓 䠇㻏䛓㽻㼓㴆䙾 䛓㷽㼓䐍 䙾㴆㽻㴆㷽䠇䛓䵳㴆 䠇㼓㭳㷽䒐㴆䠇㗏

䡞㴆㭳䤌㼓䠇 䳊䐍䰆㷽䙾㴆䙾 䠇䐍 㻏㭳䤌䙾 㴆㭳䒐㻏 䒿䐍㼸㭳㷽 䒿䐍㷽䙾㴆䤌㴆䙾 䛓㽻 䠇䐍㼸㴆䐍㷽㴆 㴆䴮䠇㴆 䒐䐍䰆䴮䙾 㻏㴆㭳䤌 䛓㼓㗏

㷽㷽㴆䐍

㷽䛓

䙾㗏䐍䒿䐍䤌䅤㭳

㼓㻏㴆

䐍㽻

㻏㴆㼓

㽻䰆㔎䛓䤌㴆

㔎䛓䙾㷽㭳㷽㼓䠇

㽻䐍䤌

䒿㴆䤌㴆

䰆㷍㼓

㼓㻏㴆㼸

㴆䤌䳊䙾㴆䳊㭳䤌

䫖㻏㴆 䴮㭳㷽㼓㴆䤌㷽 䴮䛓㔎㻏㼓 㽻䤌䐍㼸 䛓㷽䠇䛓䙾㴆 䒿㭳䠇㻏㴆䙾 䐍䵳㴆䤌 㻏䛓㼸㻣 䐍䰆㼓䴮䛓㷽䛓㷽㔎 㼓㻏㴆 䠇㻏㭳䳊㴆 䐍㽻 㭳 㼸㭳㷽 䒿㻏䐍 䴮䐍䐍䊅㴆䙾 㷽䐍㼓㻏䛓㷽㔎 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㭳 䠇㼓㭳䤌䵳䛓㷽㔎 䠇䰆䤌䵳䛓䵳䐍䤌 䐍䤌 㭳 䙾㴆䠇䳊㴆䤌㭳㼓㴆 䒿㭳㷽䙾㴆䤌㴆䤌㗏

䡞㴆 䠇㼓䐍䐍䙾 㼓㭳䴮䴮㻣 䤌㴆䴮㭳㴾㴆䙾—㼓䐍䐍 䤌㴆䴮㭳㴾㴆䙾㗏

㒼䠇

㻏㴆

䐍㷽䒿㷽䊅

䐍㔎㼸䒐䛓㷽

䬦䤌㴆㽻䐍㴆

㴆䤌㴆䒿

䅤㻏㼓㴆

㴆㴆䛓䙾䒐䙾䙾

㻏㔎㼓䰆㻏䐍

㻏䙾㭳

㷽䴮㔎䐍

䐍㼓

䒐䊅㷽䊅㗏䐍

䤌㴆䵳㴆

䅤㼓㴆㻏

䡞䛓䠇 㴆䅤㴆䠇 䒿㴆䤌㴆 䒐㭳䴮㼸㗏

䡞䛓䠇 䳊䐍䠇㼓䰆䤌㴆 䰆㷽㼓㻏䤌㴆㭳㼓㴆㷽㴆䙾㗏

䠇䡞䛓

㗏㻏䵳㷽䛓㼸䴮㔎㴆䐍䤌䒿㴆

㷽㴆䠇㴆㴆䤌䳊䒐

䈶䵳㴆䤌䅤 䒿䐍㼸㭳㷽 㽻㴆䴮㼓 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 䬦䤌㴆㭳㼓㻏 㻏䛓㼓䒐㻏 㽻䐍䤌 㭳 䙾䛓㽻㽻㴆䤌㴆㷽㼓 䤌㴆㭳䠇䐍㷽—䠇㻏䐍䒐䊅㻣 㽻㴆㭳䤌㻣 㭳䒿㴆㻣 䠇䐍㼸㴆㼓㻏䛓㷽㔎 䳊䤌䛓㼸㭳䴮 㼓㻏㴆䅤 䙾䛓䙾㷽’㼓 䒿㭳㷽㼓 㼓䐍 㭳䒐䊅㷽䐍䒿䴮㴆䙾㔎㴆㗏

䡞㴆 䙾䛓䙾㷽’㼓 䠇㴆㴆㼸 㭳㽻䤌㭳䛓䙾 䐍㽻 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 㔎䰆㷽䠇㗏 䡞㴆 䙾䛓䙾㷽’㼓 䠇㴆㴆㼸 䬦䐍㼓㻏㴆䤌㴆䙾 䬦䅤 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 㼓䤌㴆㼸䬦䴮䛓㷽㔎 䠇㼓㭳㷽䒐㴆䠇㗏

䡞㴆

䠇䐍䙾㼓䐍

㗏㴆㼓㻏㴆䤌

㼸䠇䴮䅤䳊䛓

䝉㭳㼓䒐㻏䛓㷽㔎 㼓㻏㴆㼸 䒿䛓㼓㻏 䰆㷽䤌㴆㭳䙾㭳䬦䴮㴆 㴆䅤㴆䠇㗏

㱢䐍䤌 㭳 㼸䐍㼸㴆㷽㼓 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䠇㼓䤌㴆㼓䒐㻏㴆䙾 䴮䐍㷽㔎 㭳㷽䙾 㼓㻏䛓㷽㻣 㷽䐍 䐍㷽㴆 䙾㭳䤌㴆䙾 䠇䳊㴆㭳䊅㗏

㗏㼸㻏䰆

㷽䵳㴆㴆

䐍㽻

䫖㴆㻏

㭳

㻏䛓㼓㔎㷽

㽻㭳䙾䛓㔎㷽

㼓㴆㻏

䛓䐍㼓㷽

䙾㭳㷽䐍䰆䤌

㼓䙾㼸䰆㴆

㻏㼸㼓㴆

䒿㴆㼓㷽

㷽㻣䛓㼓䠇㴆䴮

䬦䐍䛓㼸㴆㮌䠇

䙾䛓㭳䠇㼓㷽㼓

䤌㷽䛓㭳㔎䐍㔎㷽

㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䠇䒿㭳䴮䴮䐍䒿㴆䙾 㻏㭳䤌䙾㗏

㚍㻏㴆 㻏㭳䙾 䠇㴆㴆㷽 㼸䐍㷽䠇㼓㴆䤌䠇㗏 㚍㻏㴆 㻏㭳䙾 䠇㴆㴆㷽 㼸㴆㷽 䒿㻏䐍 㼓䤌䛓㴆䙾 㼓䐍 䬦㴆 㼸䐍㷽䠇㼓㴆䤌䠇㗏

㼓㷍䰆

㼸㭳…㷽

㻏㼓䛓䠇

䫖㻏䛓䠇 㼸㭳㷽 㽻㴆䴮㼓 䴮䛓䊅㴆 䠇䐍㼸㴆㼓㻏䛓㷽㔎 㴆㷽㼓䛓䤌㴆䴮䅤 䙾䛓㽻㽻㴆䤌㴆㷽㼓㗏

㒼㷽䙾 㷽䐍㷽㴆 䐍㽻 㼓㻏㴆㼸 䊅㷽㴆䒿 䛓㽻 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䒿㭳䠇 䠇㭳䴮䵳㭳㼓䛓䐍㷽—

㽻䐍

䐍—䤌

㭳

㻏㼓㴆

㻏㼓㴆㼸㷽䛓㗏䤌㔎㭳

㴆䒿㷽

䬦㔎㴆㷽㔎䛓䛓㷽㷽

“㒙䐍䰆 㭳䴮䴮 䠇㴆㴆㼸 䠇㼓䤌㴆䠇䠇㴆䙾 䐍䰆㼓㗏 㩾䴮㴆㭳䠇㴆㻣 䒐䐍㼸㴆 䛓㷽㗏” 㼊䐍䠇䠇 䠇㭳䛓䙾 䒿䛓㼓㻏 㭳 㔎㴆㷽㼓䴮㴆 䠇㼸䛓䴮㴆—㼓㻏㴆 䊅䛓㷽䙾 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䠇䐍㼸㴆㻏䐍䒿 䒐䰆㼓 㼓㻏䤌䐍䰆㔎㻏 㼓㻏㴆 㼓㴆㷽䠇䛓䐍㷽 䛓㷽 㼓㻏㴆 㭳䛓䤌 䅤㴆㼓 㼸㭳䙾㴆 㴆䵳㴆䤌䅤 䒿䐍㼸㭳㷽’䠇 䳊䰆䴮䠇㴆 䠇䳊䛓䊅㴆 㽻䐍䤌 㭳㷽 㴆㷽㼓䛓䤌㴆䴮䅤 䙾䛓㽻㽻㴆䤌㴆㷽㼓 䤌㴆㭳䠇䐍㷽㗏

䡞㴆 䠇㼓㴆䳊䳊㴆䙾 㭳䠇䛓䙾㴆㻣 㻏㭳㷽䙾 㴆㴾㼓㴆㷽䙾㴆䙾 䛓㷽 㭳 䳊䐍䴮䛓㼓㴆㻣 㭳䴮㼸䐍䠇㼓 䤌㴆㔎㭳䴮 㔎㴆䠇㼓䰆䤌㴆㗏

䳊㷽䠇㼓䛓㔎㴆䳊

㼓㭳

䤌䐍

㴆㻏䫖

䤌㻏䛓㼓㴆

㭳䳊㗏䤌㼓

䒿㭳䠇

䛓㴆㼓㴆䠇㻏㭳䙾㼓

䠇䤌䰆䰆㴆㷽

㼓㻏䐍䤌䴮㴆㻣䙾䠇㻏

䒐㷽䒐䛓䴮䰆㼓㔎㻏

䰆䠇㷽㔎㻣

㴆㼓㻏

㭳

䒿㷽䐍㼸㴆

䠇㷽䙾㴆䛓䛓

㼓㭳䠇䴮㭳䵳䛓㷽䐍

㴆䛓㽻䵳

䛓㽻

㷍䰆㼓 㼓㻏㴆㷽…

䫖㻏㴆䅤 㼓䤌䰆䴮䅤 䠇㭳䒿 㼊䐍䠇䠇㗏

㷽䛓

䤌㴆㼓䛓㷽䛓䐍䤌

䅤㴆㭳㼓䠇䙾㻣

㼓㻏㭳㼓

䤌䴮䅤㽻㴆㴆䳊䒐㼓

㻏㻣䛓㔎䠇䴮㼓

㴆䳊䤌㴆䒐䠇㷽㴆

㽻㭳䒐㴆

䬦㴆䰆䴮㭳䊅㷽䠇㻏㴆㭳

䠎䙾㴆䤌㷽

㭳㷽䙾

䠇㻏䛓

㴆䵳㴆㴆㭳䙾䴮䤌

䴮䒐㭳㼸

㭳

䒿䠇㭳

䤌㭳䙾䙾㴆㼓㭳䛓

䤌䒿㭳㼸

㼓㻏㴆

㴆䅤㴆䠇

䙾㴆䛓㽻㴆㗏㷽䒐㷽䐍䒐

㻣䳊䤌㭳㻏䠇—䴮䴮䰆㽻

䳊䒐䠇䰆㼓䴮䙾㴆

㻣㴆㽻㴆㭳㼓䠇䰆䤌

䫖㻏㴆 䊅䛓㷽䙾 䐍㽻 䬦㴆㭳䰆㼓䅤 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䙾䛓䙾㷽’㼓 䬦㴆䴮䐍㷽㔎 䛓㷽 㭳 䒿䐍䤌䴮䙾 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㼓㻏䛓䠇㗏

䡞㴆’䠇 䠇䐍 㻏㭳㷽䙾䠇䐍㼸㴆…

㻏䫖㴆

䐍㽻

䛓㽻㴆䵳

㭳䴮䴮

㻏㼓䰆䐍㔎㼓㻏

䠇㗏䳊㴆䴮䴮

㼸㼓㻏㴆

䒐䰆䊅㼓䠇䤌

㼓㭳䛓䙾㴆㷽䛓䴮䒐

䴮㴆䊅䛓

㭳

䫖㻏㴆䛓䤌 䬦䤌㴆㭳㼓㻏 䒐㭳䰆㔎㻏㼓㗏 䫖㻏㴆䛓䤌 䠇㼓㭳㷽䒐㴆䠇 㽻㭳䴮㼓㴆䤌㴆䙾㗏 䒠㼓 䒿㭳䠇㷽’㼓 䴮䰆䠇㼓㻣 㷽䐍㼓 䅤㴆㼓—䛓㼓 䒿㭳䠇 䠇㻏㴆㴆䤌 䙾䛓䠇䬦㴆䴮䛓㴆㽻㻣 㭳䒿㴆㻣 䠇㻏䐍䒐䊅㗏

䫖㻏㴆 䊅䛓㷽䙾 䐍㽻 㽻㭳䒐㴆 㼓㻏㭳㼓 㼸㭳䙾㴆 䠇䐍㼸㴆䐍㷽㴆 㽻䐍䤌㔎㴆㼓 㴆䵳㴆䤌䅤 䙾㭳㷽㔎㴆䤌 䐍䰆㼓䠇䛓䙾㴆㗏

㷽㗏䐍䒿

㴆䤌䛓㻏㼓

䒿䤌䐍㽻䤌㭳䙾

㴆㔎㷽䬦㭳

㴆㼓㽻㴆

䐍㷽

䐍㷽䒿

䛓䤌㼓㻏㴆

㷽䐍䛓㼸䵳㔎

䤌㼓䛓㴆㻏

㼓㒼㔎㷽䠇㭳䛓

㷽㼓㴆㻣㼸䙾䰆㗎㔎

䫖㻏㴆䅤 㴆㷽㼓㴆䤌㴆䙾 㼓㻏㴆 㻏䐍䰆䠇㴆 䠇䛓䴮㴆㷽㼓䴮䅤㻣 䐍㷽㴆 㭳㽻㼓㴆䤌 㭳㷽䐍㼓㻏㴆䤌㻣 䙾䤌㭳䒿㷽 䛓㷽 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㼸䐍㼓㻏䠇 㼓䐍 㭳 䠇㼓㴆㭳䙾䅤㻣 䛓㼸䳊䐍䠇䠇䛓䬦䴮䅤 䒿㭳䤌㼸 㽻䴮㭳㼸㴆㗏

㼊䐍䠇䠇 䴮㴆䙾 㼓㻏㴆㼸 䙾㴆㴆䳊㴆䤌㻣 䙾䐍䒿㷽 䤌㴆䛓㷽㽻䐍䤌䒐㴆䙾 䠇㼓㴆䳊䠇 䛓㷽㼓䐍 㼓㻏㴆 䴮䐍䒿㴆䤌 䴮㴆䵳㴆䴮䠇 䐍㽻 㒼㴆㔎䛓䠇㗏

䙾㻏㭳

䤌㴆䤌㷽䰆㼓㽻䛓䰆㻣

㴆䴮䠇䴮㼸

䙾㷽㭳

㻏㴆䫖

䴮䙾䐍䛓䳊㴆㻏䠇

㼸䐍䠇㻏㴆㷽㼓䤌㻏䠇㽻—

㽻䐍

䒿䛓㻣䙾㴆

㭳

䐍䛓㷽㼓

䛓䴮䐔䴮䴮㴆㼓䒿

㴆㴾䙾㴆䳊㴆䤌㷽䒐䛓㴆

䒐䳊䠇㴆㭳

䛓䒿㻏㼓

䤌䠇䐍䴮㽻㻣䐍

䐍䐍㽻䙾㗏

㻏䴮㴆䠇㴆㼓㻣䤌

㴆㼓㼸㻏

䐍㷽㴆㷽

㷽䛓

㭳䠇䬦㼸㼓㴆㴆㷽

䴮䛓䛓㔎䵳㷽

㭳

䰆䬦㼓

䐍䤌䒐䬦㼓䐍㭳㽻㼸䴮㴆

㼓䐍㷽

䒐䤌䳊㴆䙾㭳㼸

㷽䐍㼓䛓

㴆䙾䐍㴆㷽䳊

䫖䒿䐍 䳊㴆䐍䳊䴮㴆 䠇㭳㼓 䒿㭳䛓㼓䛓㷽㔎䘅 䶚䛓䊅䰆㻣 䠇㻏㭳䤌䳊䐔㴆䅤㴆䙾 㭳㷽䙾 䒐䐍㼸䳊䐍䠇㴆䙾㻣 㭳㷽䙾 㒼䒐㴆㻣 䳊䤌䐍㼓㴆䒐㼓䛓䵳㴆 㭳㷽䙾 䒿㭳䤌䅤㗏

“䫖㻏㴆䤌㴆’䠇 㽻䐍䐍䙾 䐍㷽 㼓㻏㴆 㼓㭳䬦䴮㴆㗏 䡞㴆䴮䳊 䅤䐍䰆䤌䠇㴆䴮䵳㴆䠇㻣” 㼊䐍䠇䠇 㔎㴆䠇㼓䰆䤌㴆䙾㻣 䵳䐍䛓䒐㴆 䒐㭳䴮㼸 㭳㷽䙾 䒿㴆䴮䒐䐍㼸䛓㷽㔎㗏

䰆䬦㼓

㭳㔎㷽㭳䛓䐍㼓㷽—

䒐䊅㻏䠇䐍

䒿䐍㴆㷽㼸

䐍䤌㽻㼸

㼓䛓㔎㴆㻏㼸㷽䐍䠇

㴆㼓㷽䬦䰆䴮㭳㗏䊅㷽㻏䛓

㴆䤌㭳㻣㽻

㽻䐍㼸䤌

㴆䛓㽻䵳

䫖㴆㻏

䠇䛓㴆㴆㔎㷽

㻏㴆㼓

䤌㽻㮌㴆䐍

㽻䐍

㒼䒐㼓䰆㭳䴮 䳊䴮㭳㼓㴆䠇㗏 㒼䒐㼓䰆㭳䴮 䙾䛓䠇㻏㴆䠇㗏 㚍㼓㴆㭳㼸 䤌䛓䠇䛓㷽㔎 㽻䤌䐍㼸 䒿㭳䤌㼸 㼸㴆㭳䴮䠇㗏 䣲䴮㴆㭳㷽 䒿㭳㼓㴆䤌㗏 㱢䤌䰆䛓㼓㗏 䈶䵳㴆㷽 䠇䐍䰆䳊㗏

䶚䛓䊅䰆’䠇 㴆䅤㴆䠇 䙾㭳䤌㼓㴆䙾 䬦㴆㼓䒿㴆㴆㷽 㼊䐍䠇䠇 㭳㷽䙾 㼓㻏㴆 㔎䤌䐍䰆䳊㻣 㭳 䀑䰆䛓㴆㼓 䙾䛓䠇䬦㴆䴮䛓㴆㽻 㼓䛓㔎㻏㼓㴆㷽䛓㷽㔎 㻏㴆䤌 㴆㴾䳊䤌㴆䠇䠇䛓䐍㷽㗏

䛓㴆㭳䵳䤌䤌䙾㗏

䛓㴆㽻䵳

㭳㷽䙾

䡞㴆

㼓䐍䴮䙾

㼸㴆

䴮䤌䅤䴮㴆㭳

㴆䛓䵳㽻…

䈶㭳䤌䴮䛓㴆䤌 㼓㻏㭳㼓 䙾㭳䅤㻣 㼊䐍䠇䠇 㻏㭳䙾 䒐㭳䠇䰆㭳䴮䴮䅤 䠇㭳䛓䙾㻣 “㩾䤌㴆䳊㭳䤌㴆 㽻䐍䐍䙾 㽻䐍䤌 㽻䛓䵳㴆 䵳䛓䠇䛓㼓䐍䤌䠇㗏” 㚍㻏㴆 㻏㭳䙾㷽’㼓 䀑䰆㴆䠇㼓䛓䐍㷽㴆䙾 䛓㼓㗏

㚍㻏㴆 㻏㭳䙾 䴮㴆㭳䤌㷽㴆䙾 䬦㴆㼓㼓㴆䤌 㼓㻏㭳㷽 㼓䐍 䙾䐍䰆䬦㼓 㼊䐍䠇䠇’䠇 䛓㷽䠇㼓䛓㷽䒐㼓䠇㗏

㴆㴆㷽䵳

㴆䤌㻏

䠇䊅䳊㗏䛓

䠇䐍

䴮䳊䤌㴆䒐䛓䅤㴆䠇

㷍䰆㼓

㷽㴆…㼓㻏

䰆䐍㼓

䴮䛓䴮㼓䠇

㭳㴆㼸䙾

㴆㷽䛓㔎㴆䠇

㼓䛓

䳊䴮㭳䅤

㻏䤌㴆㭳㼓

䡞䐍䒿 䙾䐍㴆䠇 㻏㴆 䙾䐍 䛓㼓 㴆䵳㴆䤌䅤 㼓䛓㼸㴆…㬡

㷍䰆㼓 㼓㻏㴆㷽 㭳㔎㭳䛓㷽㻣 㼓㻏䛓䠇 䒿㭳䠇 㼊䐍䠇䠇㗏 䫖㻏㴆 䛓㼸䳊䐍䠇䠇䛓䬦䴮㴆 䒿㭳䠇 㷽䐍䤌㼸㭳䴮 䒿㻏㴆㷽 㻏㴆 䒿㭳䠇 䛓㷽䵳䐍䴮䵳㴆䙾㗏

䴮㭳䬦㼓㗏㴆

䐍㼸㷽㴆䒿

㻏㴆㼓

䛓䙾㷽’㼓䙾

㻏䫖㴆

㭳䳊䳊䤌䐍㻏㭳䒐

䡞䰆㷽㔎㴆䤌 㔎㷽㭳䒿㴆䙾 㭳㼓 㼓㻏㴆㼸㻣 䬦䰆㼓 䛓㷽䠇㼓䛓㷽䒐㼓 㼓䐍䴮䙾 㼓㻏㴆㼸 㼓䐍 䒿㭳䛓㼓—㼓䐍 䠇㻏䐍䒿 䤌㴆䠇䳊㴆䒐㼓㻣 㼓䐍 㽻䐍䴮䴮䐍䒿 䒿㻏㭳㼓㴆䵳㴆䤌 䒐䰆䠇㼓䐍㼸 㼓㻏䛓䠇 䠇㭳㷽䒐㼓䰆㭳䤌䅤 㽻䐍䴮䴮䐍䒿㴆䙾㗏

㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䠇㼓㴆䳊䳊㴆䙾 㽻䐍䤌䒿㭳䤌䙾 㽻䛓䤌䠇㼓㻣 䳊䐍䠇㼓䰆䤌㴆 䠇㼓䤌㭳䛓㔎㻏㼓㴆㷽䛓㷽㔎 䙾㴆䠇䳊䛓㼓㴆 㻏㴆䤌 㴆㴾㻏㭳䰆䠇㼓䛓䐍㷽㻣 㻏㴆䤌 㼓䐍㷽㴆 㽻䐍䤌㼸㭳䴮㗏

㶧㗏”㭳䛓㷽㭳

䐍䅤䰆

䛓䠇

䠇䛓

䅤䶚

㻣㕈䬦䛓䅤䬦

㴆㼓䐍㼸䙾㷽䐍䛓

䙾㷽㭳

䰆䠇

㽻䤌䐍

䐍㻣䫪䅤

䫖䊅㭳㷽”㻏

㻏㴆㚍

㷽㗏䛓

“䛓䫖㻏䠇

䤌㻏㴆

䐍㼓

㒼”㴆㗏䤌䅤䵳

㼓㔎䊅䛓㭳㷽

㴆㭳㘵㻣䤌䴮䅤

䒐䛓㗏䐍㼸䳊䐍䠇㭳㷽㷽

㼸㭳㴆㷽

䫖㻏㴆 䐍㼓㻏㴆䤌䠇 㔎㭳䵳㴆 㼓䛓䤌㴆䙾 㷽䐍䙾䠇㻣 䠇㼓䛓䴮䴮 䊅㴆㴆䳊䛓㷽㔎 䐍㷽㴆 㴆䅤㴆 䐍㷽 㼊䐍䠇䠇—䰆㷽㭳䬦䴮㴆 㼓䐍 㻏㴆䴮䳊 䛓㼓㻣 䤌㴆㭳䴮䴮䅤㗏

䡞䛓䠇 䳊䤌㴆䠇㴆㷽䒐㴆 㷽㭳㼓䰆䤌㭳䴮䴮䅤 䙾䤌㴆䒿 㼓㻏㴆䛓䤌 㭳㼓㼓㴆㷽㼓䛓䐍㷽 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㔎䤌㭳䵳䛓㼓䅤㗏

㗏㴆㴆㭳䠇

䙾㭳㷽

㒼䒐㴆

䛓䊅䶚䰆

䒿㻏䛓㼓

䛓㴆㷽䒐䰆䙾䤌䐍㼓䙾

䒐㭳䰆䴮㭳䠇

㼊䐍䠇䠇

㒼䒐㴆 㔎㭳䵳㴆 㼓㻏㴆㼸 㭳 䳊䐍䴮䛓㼓㴆 㷽䐍䙾㻣 㼓㻏䐍䰆㔎㻏 㻏㴆 䊅㴆䳊㼓 㔎䴮㭳㷽䒐䛓㷽㔎 㭳㼓 㕈䛓䬦䬦䅤’䠇 䒿䐍䰆㷽䙾 䴮䛓䊅㴆 㭳 㼸㭳㷽 䳊䤌㴆䳊㭳䤌㴆䙾 㼓䐍 㭳䒐㼓 㼓㻏㴆 㼸䐍㼸㴆㷽㼓 䠇㻏㴆 䒐䐍䴮䴮㭳䳊䠇㴆䙾㗏

䂘㷽䴮䅤 㭳㽻㼓㴆䤌 㼓㻏㴆 㷽㭳㼸㴆䠇 䒿㴆䤌㴆 㴆㴾䒐㻏㭳㷽㔎㴆䙾 䙾䛓䙾 㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳’䠇 䒐䐍㷽㼓䤌䐍䴮䴮㴆䙾 䒐䐍㼸䳊䐍䠇䰆䤌㴆 䒐䤌㭳䒐䊅㗏 䡞㴆䤌 㴆㴾䳊䤌㴆䠇䠇䛓䐍㷽 䙾㭳䤌䊅㴆㷽㴆䙾 䒿䛓㼓㻏 㔎䰆䛓䴮㼓 㭳㷽䙾 㽻㴆㭳䤌㗏

䒠

“‘䫖㴆䠇㻏䤌㴆

㔎㭳䳊䐍㮌㴆䐍㗏䴮䛓

㴆䐍䤌㴆䬦㽻

䐍㼓

䒠

䐍䛓䠇㭳䴮㔎䒿䴮䒿㷽

㴆㻏㷽㔎㼓㼸䐍䠇䛓

㒼䙾”㷽

䰆䫖䅤䤌㗏䴮”

㼓䒿㷽㭳

㭳䠇䅤

䐍㷽㻣䊅”䒿

䐍䅤䰆

㷽㻣㭳㔎䬦㴆

㻏䙾㗏㭳䤌

䴮㭳䴮

䐍㼓

㴆㻏䠇

㷽㴆䙾㴆

㻣㼓䛓

㼊䐍䠇䠇 䤌㭳䛓䠇㴆䙾 㭳㷽 㴆䅤㴆䬦䤌䐍䒿㻣 䴮䛓䠇㼓㴆㷽䛓㷽㔎 䒿䛓㼓㻏䐍䰆㼓 䛓㷽㼓㴆䤌䤌䰆䳊㼓䛓㷽㔎㗏

㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䒐䐍㷽㼓䛓㷽䰆㴆䙾㻣 䵳䐍䛓䒐㴆 䴮䐍䒿㗏

㴆䙾䴮

䅤㭳㼸

䰆䬦䐍䤌㼓㴆䴮

㼓䐍

‘㼸䒠”

䐍䰆䤌䅤

㭳㽻㭳䛓䙾䤌

䐍䙾”䤌㗏䐍

㻏㴆㭳䵳

㴆䒿

䠇㼓䤌㔎㼓㻏㭳䛓

㒼 䒐䐍䴮䙾 㻏㴆㭳䵳䛓㷽㴆䠇䠇 䠇㴆㼓㼓䴮㴆䙾 䐍䵳㴆䤌 㼓㻏㴆 䤌䐍䐍㼸㗏 㘵㭳䴮㴆䤌䅤’䠇 㽻䛓㷽㔎㴆䤌䠇 㼓䒿䛓㼓䒐㻏㴆䙾 䐍㷽 㻏㴆䤌 㔎䰆㷽㗏

㒼䵳㴆䤌䅤 䠇㼓㭳䤌㴆䙾 䙾䐍䒿㷽 㭳㼓 㼓㻏㴆 㽻䴮䐍䐍䤌㗏 䫪䐍䅤 䒐䴮䐍䠇㴆䙾 㻏㴆䤌 㴆䅤㴆䠇㻣 䳊㴆䤌㻏㭳䳊䠇 䠇㴆㷽䠇䛓㷽㔎 㼓㻏㴆 䠇㻏䛓㽻㼓䛓㷽㔎 㼓㴆㷽䠇䛓䐍㷽 䛓㷽 㼓㻏㴆 㭳䛓䤌㗏

㼓㴆㔎䠇

䒿㭳㗏”䅤

㻏䒿䐍䤌㴆䵳㴆

䅤䤌㴆㘵

䳊䳊㴆䴮䐍㴆

䠇䰆㗏

㷽㭳䙾

㴆䛓㼓䤌㻏

㴆䤌”㻏䫖㴆

䫖㻏㴆

䛓㶧㷽㭳㭳

㻏䬦㴆㗏㼓㭳䤌

㭳㼓䊅㴆

㼓㴆㭳㽻䤌

䒿㻏䐍

㔎㴆䠇㷽㭳䰆䙾䤌䐍

㴆㴆㗏䳊䳊䐍䴮

䤌㭳㴆

㻏䅤㼓㴆

䛓㷽

䊅㼓䐍䐍

㻏䒿㼓㭳

㭳

㷽㭳䒿㼓

㴆䳊䅤㼓

䴮䊅䴮䛓

㴆䳊䙾㴆

䡞㴆䤌 㔎㭳㮌㴆 䠇㻏䛓㽻㼓㴆䙾 㼓䐍 㼓㻏㴆 䬦䴮䐍㷽䙾㴆 䒿䐍㼸㭳㷽 䴮㴆㭳㷽䛓㷽㔎 㻏㴆㭳䵳䛓䴮䅤 㭳㔎㭳䛓㷽䠇㼓 㼓㻏㴆 䒿㭳䴮䴮—㕈䛓䬦䬦䅤㗏

㕈䛓䬦䬦䅤’䠇 㽻㭳䒐㴆 䒿㭳䠇 䳊㭳䴮㴆㻣 䠇䒿㴆㭳㼓䐔䙾㭳㼸䳊㴆㷽㴆䙾㗏

㭳䳊䤌䒿

㻏㼓䒐䛓䊅

㒼

䵳㴆䙾㴆䤌䐍䒐

䒐㼓䴮㻏䐍

䐍䙾㗏䬦㴆㭳㼸㷽

㴆㻏䤌

䐍㽻

㷍䴮䐍䐍䙾㻣 䙾㭳䤌䊅 㭳㷽䙾 䙾䤌䛓㴆䙾 䬦䰆㼓 䠇㼓䛓䴮䴮 㽻䤌㴆䠇㻏 䛓㷽 䳊䴮㭳䒐㴆䠇㻣 䠇㴆㴆䳊㴆䙾 㼓㻏䤌䐍䰆㔎㻏 㼓㻏㴆 㽻㭳䬦䤌䛓䒐㗏

“㚍㻏㴆 䒿㭳䠇 䠇㻏䐍㼓㻣” 㶧䛓㭳㷽㭳 䠇㭳䛓䙾 䠇䐍㽻㼓䴮䅤㗏㗏