The Nature of a Warlord

In an endless stretch of fields, in a plot of land planted with green onions...

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

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

The old man wore a battered gray military uniform. Though his hair had turned completely white, his eyes were as sharp as blades. Look closely, and one could see a murderous aura in them that would never fade.

Hearing the boy's question, the old man smiled kindly and said mysteriously, "This thing in Grandpa's hand is a medal."