Khorijin sat on the horseback as she gazed upon the massive wasteland that had become the region of Anatolia. Piles of men's corpses were at every street corner, while women and children were huddled and bound in servitude, crying their eyes out, and praying to their God for deliverance from their cruel fate.
Yet these barbaric sights were nothing new in this medieval world. Perhaps if a person from Berengar's past were to witness this scene, they would feel their heart wrench. Yet the Mongol beauty's mind was as cold as ice in the face of such transgressions.
There was no guilt, no pity, and no remorse. In this world, absolute strength ruled above all, and those who could not defend themselves were not worthy of the life they clung to. Yet despite this utter coldness, there was a troubled expression on the woman's face.
