It was snowing...
She spread open her grimy palm, and the snowflake that landed in it felt icy cold.
There were none of the familiar, pure white, crystalline snowflakes from memory. The snow in reality was tinged black, falling with a soft rustle. Mixed with thick ash, it turned the whole world ash-gray and black. The last leaf drifted from the trees, leaving bare trunks. Everything was dying.
At the foot of Lone Peak, the area around the market had expanded into a refugee camp.
Coughing rang without end from the makeshift shelters bound together from branches and weeds, while several bonfires barely gave off any warmth.
"Cough, cough, cough... This stench is awful. I'm about to choke to death..."
The old man from the village coughed like a broken bellows from a blacksmith's shop.
Big Ox was deeply worried.
The changes following this heavenly disaster were terrifying. They had to keep cloth over their mouths and noses at all times. The weather had turned cold, it was snowing, and worst of all, they had not seen the sun again. They could no longer enjoy its warmth or see the azure sky.
Their pitiful belongings were inside the battered shelter, while the village livestock were behind it. All manner of smells mingled together, foul and unbearable.
The little boy squeezed closer to Big Ox. It was warmer near him.
"Uncle Big Ox, are we going back to the village?"
The boy remembered that although the house at home was shabby, it had been warm.
Big Ox shook his head and sighed.
"We can't go back."
"Why can't we go back? This place is kind of scary..."
The boy looked toward the strangers in the other shelters. Their gazes were cold. In years of famine, vicious bandits emerged. The most frightening