The Nagaril People in the bitter cold did not unite into a single collective as they had imagined they would.
Instead, the scarcity of supplies split them into many small groups, which attacked one another for the chance to survive.
Once the killing began, it would never stop. The various regions of Hot Land could not support the survival of nearly two hundred million people. In the end, perhaps only one or two million would survive—or even fewer.
This had also made the Nagaril People sensitive, wary, cautious, and highly aggressive.
They did not trust foreigners, and they trusted their own kind even less. After all, no one knew whether their fellow Nagaril truly hoped they would live well, or merely wanted a bite of them.
Inside a cave, a thirty-six-year-old Nagaril frowned. "I don't like those foreigners. They've always treated us like idiots."
"I really don't like their views, and I'm unwilling to admit this, either. I believe we aren't all fools, but you've proven that they might not have been wrong about this!"
"Listen to the stupid things you're saying. A foreign woman says she can bring us endless food and free us from the cold. Do you believe her?"
The warrior who had delivered the news lowered his head in shame.
Every cave had someone similar to a "village chief." He was the person everyone trusted, and he was responsible for distributing food and leading everyone in battle. That was their work.
The fighting around Hot Land had never stopped. If not for the fact that plants now grew faster and their yields had inexplicably increased by quite a bit, they might already have been swallowed up or turned into a larger tribe.
Under such harsh conditions, these Nagaril People had long since abandoned meaningless fantasies and