Tens of thousands of people would soon be caught up in a ruthless war, and rivers of blood would surely flow, and still, the world continued to turn, and one day ran into the next. They gathered on the border of Mikawa.
The strangest atmosphere. Eight thousand men stood together in a mass, and not a single one of them spoke. The sky objected to their presence. Gray clouds blocked out the sun's, and threatened to unleash the rain. A gust of wind swept through them, casting messy hair up out behind them. Grim faces squinted against the clouds of dust. They were exhausted. The regret was obvious.
