By the count of years, this was probably Rod's seventh year running the little tavern [Shave Off Tumors].
He still remembered that when he had first arrived at Plague Outpost, there had not been a single tavern in the entire outpost.
He had thought he'd found a perfect business opportunity, one that could earn him enough to lie flat for the rest of his life.
After all, this was a city that had endured pain.
And pain needed alcohol to be forgotten.
Only by numbing the brain with alcohol would people want to shave off the tumors on their bodies, finding hope amid the pain.
The facts proved that he had been disastrously wrong.
If "hope" itself did not exist, then "searching" for it became a false proposition. That was what the plague was like—it permanently changed people's bodies.
Shave off the tumors, and new flesh would grow from the wound.
Though March's temperatures were clearly rising bit by bit, there was none of spring's joy in the outpost's streets.
Rod often felt this place resembled Dragon Gold City. The straight Road to Prison ran north to south through Plague Outpost, like Dragon Avenue in Dragon Gold City, where one ought to see a bustling tide of people.
The clamorous cries of vendors would mingle with the clip-clop of horses and the creak of wheels, constantly reaching one's ears. There would probably be gossip, too, like, "Who visited Miss Briana again?"
But the outpost was desolate in its silence.
There were no voices. Even carriages and horses moved slowly, afraid to make the slightest sound.
Apart from the synchronized tramp of patrolling guards, all that remained was the razor sign swaying in the breeze, occasionally striking a corner of the doorframe and shattering the tranquil, eerie afternoon.
Atmosphere silently colored