When the dry crow calls sounded.
The fireworks falling accelerated suddenly, dots of firelight transformed into streaks of crimson.
These streaks of crimson hung down from the sky like thin lines, one after another, pierced into the struggling bodies of the crows, then their shriveled bodies swelled as if inflated, as magic surged, the aura of death and darkness surrounding the crows was devoured completely, their withered feathers regained vitality, gleaming with colors, like flowers blossoming after the spring thunder, in just an instant, a multitude of colorful big birds appeared on the perches between the rooftops on both sides of the street.
Truly colorful crows.
But no matter how bright a crow is, it's still a crow.
"Caw!"
