Golden October arrived, walking through the cessation of wind and rain, and the warm sun shone down on the tropical highland, where the shores of the Lake Region still brimmed with life, with tall grass and warbling birds.
Harvest time had come. Chiwaco, with a bamboo basket on his back and a farming tool in hand, stood in the fields before the Milites encampment. On his aged smiling face, there was the joy of harvest time, and flowing through his deep pupils was the golden hope. Hope that had been nurtured through the drab, protracted rainy season, now transformed into tangible, ripe fruits.
"The harvest is bountiful!"
The old Militia murmured to himself. A hundred thousand acres of lush farmland unfolded before him, like the most touching and graceful long scroll extending to the very edge of the sky. Ten thousand Milites dispersed according to their units, carrying bamboo baskets, holding Stone Sickles, and busy bending over in the harvest fields.
