The southern coast of the New Continent had a saying that adventurers passed around year-round.
It was better to live alone as a wandering ghost in the wilderness than to seek comfort by huddling together in a refugee camp.
That was how dangerous the refugee camps here were.
Every day, countless people in places like this teetered on the brink of life and death for all sorts of reasons, struggling over whether they could survive.
Every day, countless others secretly struck out at people around them, barely staying alive by seizing their fellow refugees' possessions.
The people here were exceptionally afraid of death, yet completely unafraid when true death arrived.
Once someone was targeted in a place like this, unless they had enough strength to protect themselves, the dried bones scattered across the wilderness were the best example.
December 14, Year 8 of the Doomsday Calendar. In the blink of an eye, it was already the third day since the Tian Yuan Fleet had left the Fuan Great United Territory.
After losing their greatest hope, the entire refugee camp had become extremely dispirited in only two days.
Although they were very unwilling to admit they had been abandoned, the hard evidence was right before them. Anyone would have felt somewhat desperate.
Early in the morning.
People came and went along the road lined with coffins in the tent camp. Many carried small packs, heads lowered as they hurried toward the camp's outskirts.
Of course, this was not because they thought the camp had no hope and wanted to leave.
Rather, after many days, the food around the camp had long since been consumed by tens of thousands of people. To find more, they had to go farther away.
They had to rise earlier and set out earlier so they could