It was the same land, yet it was as if several decades had passed.
The sky was grim, with leaden clouds hanging low.
The once-neat fields were mostly desolate and overgrown with weeds. The few plots that were still farmed looked barren and lifeless.
The new brick and stone houses were mostly dilapidated, with broken windows and peeling walls. No smoke rose from their chimneys.
In the center of the estate, the waterwheel—once a symbol of new technology and hope—was now completely destroyed. It had collapsed, half-submerged in the murky creek, its gears rusted.
Beside the fields where the Lord and the Priest once demonstrated new farming tools, a large crowd of tenants had now gathered. Their faces were sallow, their expressions agitated, some even ferocious.
Dressed in rags, they held crude farming tools and even clubs, shouting something with great agitation. Anger and disappointment were etched on every face.
