The dry season, the mild sunlight, the lush forests, the rolling mountains. Otomi villages were always nestled in the valleys among the mountains, gathering flowing springs that moistened the barren bean fields. A shallow fence circled around the village to fend off the attacks of coyotes outside. Inside, small enclosures were made to rear turkeys and native dogs.
These simple defenses were meaningless to the samurai. The villagers, trapped by their hamlets like birds tethered by their feet, could only emit powerless cries under the pounce of a cat.
Soon, both the village and the fields turned into flames, with women and children being driven away, leaving only the black smoke that screened the sun. Such was the cruel nature of war.
Xiulote followed with a troop of two hundred men, silently observing everything before him. His weltanschauung, like blocks of iron, was continuously hammered, changed, and forged into steel.