The Nature of a Warlord

In an endless field, in a plot planted entirely with scallions...

"Grandpa, what's that in your hand?"

A little boy of about seven or eight lay across an old man with white hair, asking curiously.

The old man wore a worn-out gray military uniform. Though his hair was completely white, his eyes were as sharp as blades. Look closely, and one could see a murderous glint in them, one that could never be erased.

Hearing the boy's question, the old man smiled kindly and said mysteriously, "What Grandpa has here is a medal."