Yang An rolled up his sleeves and began handing out steamed buns.
With his strong hands, he held the buns securely and passed them out one by one.
The villagers accepted the still-warm white-flour buns. Feeling their soft, fluffy texture beneath their fingertips, many could not resist holding them to their noses first. The fragrance of wheat mingled with the steam and filled their lungs, warming their hearts.
"Uncle Shouzhuo really spared no expense!" A middle-aged woman cradled her bun, her voice full of emotion. "All these white-flour buns-how much grain must they have cost?"
The man beside her chimed in, "Exactly! Who could ever afford to be this generous before? It's only because Yang Jing has made something of himself that they can do this now. Look how big these buns have risen, so white they practically dazzle your eyes. When could we ever dream of something like this?"
Everyone joined in, their eyes filled with gratitude and an envy they could scarcely hide.
One younger villager could not help clicking his tongue. "Everyone says Yang Jing is doing well in the city, but now it's clear he's really struck it rich! Anything that slips through his family's fingers would probably be thicker than our waists..."
At those words, many silently nodded, and the buns in their hands seemed to grow heavier.
While the villagers murmured among themselves, Yang Shouzhuo took two buns and walked toward the refugees at the end of the alley.
Seeing someone approach, the refugees instinctively shrank back, yet their eyes remained glued to the buns in his hands, hungry and fearful.
Yang Shouzhuo's gaze settled on two children, a little boy and a little girl.
The boy was around five or six, so thin he was little more than a bundle of bones, yet