The night robbed the world of its light.
The moon, stained a blood-red, hung high in the sky, scattered stars shining over the whole firmament.
Under the willow tree, the villager watching over the graves sneezed, tightened his coarse cotton jacket, and said, "Damn, this weather really is cold."
The other villager on watch stood opposite him, carrying a hand lantern. He said, "My wife said there'll be rain tonight, don't know if she's right."
"Even a rainstorm we can't dodge, talk about lousy luck." The man under the willow hugged his shoulders and said, "Endless shifts guarding the cemetery is one thing, but we still gotta stand out here and get pelted by raindrops, while the village chief's all comfy, hugging his wife and burrowing under the quilt."
The villager with the lantern cursed and said, "You got a death wish or what, dare to say anything."
The head of a village was no different from a local tyrant; whatever he said was an order, and the villagers all had to listen.
