As for Erin, her gaze always lingered on the dilapidated, crude huts.
Most of the tents in this camp were constructed from worn-out burlap and wooden poles, utterly incapable of warding off the biting wind. A heavier snowfall would be enough to crush them.
In truth, such collapses had likely occurred numerous times already. The remnants of huts could be seen scattered amidst nearby snowdrifts, and even unclaimed corpses were abandoned in the snow, left to be buried by the blizzard.
Only when they turned into undead would someone bother to deal with them.
Gazing upon this hellish mortal landscape, a trace of sorrow flickered in her eyes.
The only solace she found was that as she moved forward, the scenes before her slowly shifted beyond mere misery and despair—there was still a faint glimmer of warmth to be found.
It was a wooden shack with a large pot steaming inside, bubbles rising from the surface of a soup so thin it resembled water.
