Cold was a terrible problem.
Heat could be dealt with, and there were many ways to do so.
But when it came to cold, aside from wearing thicker clothes or finding a source of heat, there seemed to be no other solutions.
The Nagaril People were suffering. Their good days had barely begun when the fucking apocalypse arrived.
Nagaril had built three large shelters in total, but shelters capable of accommodating five or six million people were far from enough for a population of more than two hundred million.
More than one hundred ninety million Nagaril People had nowhere to go. They could only search for a chance to survive in the wilderness and in their own cities.
All the cities on the surface had stopped restricting them. They could go wherever they wanted in the Central Region, and even in the eastern region.
Anywhere at all.
They could urinate on the bulletin board of the largest exchange in the trade center, or wipe their shit on the statue outside Slem's Central Casino.
They could enter the offices where the rulers handled their daily work, or sleep aboard the enormous ships docked at the ports.
No one restricted their freedom anymore.
The Nagaril People had once fought with the Federal Government over this. They believed the Federation had used their people to build cities on their land, yet refused to let the Nagaril People enter them.
It had been an extremely outrageous insult, but now they could no longer feel it—or rather, that feeling had escalated.
Although they could go to any city or building they wanted, those places had lost much of their appeal.
What they wanted now were living conditions that would let them survive. They wanted to enter the shelters.
The aircraft slowly came to a stop