The year was 1181, early spring.
In the south, winter was but a fleeting moment. Barely a month had passed since the Holy Night Festival, and the snow had ceased to fall from the heavens.
The fairies that symbolized the frost and winter had departed, leaving behind only wistful reveries of their stunning grace for those who admired them, disregarding the darkness and ruthlessness that was uniquely theirs.
During this time, Idiot lived life at his own pace, just as before.
The first month had him reverting to a state of exhaustion so profound that even shifting his feet seemed an insurmountable task. Unable to move, to walk, let alone run, he could barely straighten his back and resorted to crawling on the ground.
