Todos os instrumentos têm alma

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"Caw, caw."
A flock of black crows perched upon the crumbling eaves, bringing with them the stench of death.
As far as the eye could see, collapsed and shattered houses stretched endlessly, the once level ground now battered and ruined, riddled with the craters left by battles between powerful foes. The land was a vast, desolate ruin.
The heavy scent of blood hung thick in the air, and the very earth itself was stained a deep, dark red.
Among the broken walls and fallen stones, corpses lay strewn about, shattered swords scattered haphazardly around them. The crows pecked relentlessly at the rotting flesh, a nauseating spectacle.
Even the river that wound through this place had been dyed a blood-red hue. One could easily imagine the countless deaths that had taken place here—so many that even the rushing water could not wash the blood away.
It was a scene straight from hell.
The dying light of the setting sun cast its glow upon the ruins, making the blood-soaked earth appear even more crimson.
Beside a heap of rubble, a corpse lay face-down. Across its back, a ghastly wound revealed gleaming white bone, and several crows were still tearing at the decaying flesh.
Suddenly, the corpse stirred, sending the crows flapping into the air in alarm.
To be precise, it was not the corpse that moved, but a pair of hands beneath it, struggling to push it aside.
Perhaps the body was too heavy, for the hands could not move it at first. After a moment, gathering their strength, they finally managed to roll