Refugee Riot

Mo Yunsong finally could not keep walking.

It was not that his legs had given out, but that pity had stirred in his heart.

By the roadside, a child of seven or eight, terribly thin, was crouched on the ground, using her fingers to gouge out a chunk of cracked earth and stuff it into her mouth.

The dirt was hard as stone. Unable to bite through it, she moistened it with saliva and swallowed it bit by bit.

The Old Daoist's hand slipped involuntarily into his shoulder bag, where it touched the last few dry flatbreads.

Shen Hui gave him a look and gently shook his head.

But the Old Daoist's heart was too soft, and his hand still reached out.

"Child, this is for you."

He held the flatbread out before the little girl.

The child raised her head. Her eyes were disproportionately large, nearly taking up half her face.

She stared at the flatbread in a daze for a moment, then suddenly stretched out her hand.

But before her fingers could touch it, another hand shot out faster from beside her.

It belonged to a tall, gaunt man, bare-chested, with each rib jutting out like a skeleton draped in human skin.

He snatched the flatbread but did not run. Squatting right where he was, he stuffed it into his mouth, cheeks bulging high, Adam's apple bobbing as he desperately forced it down.

Before Mo Yunsong could say anything, three or four more people rushed over, swarming the gaunt man.

Some pried open his mouth, some clawed at his throat, and some wrapped their arms around his waist and pressed him to the ground.

Pinned beneath them, the gaunt man let out muffled cries, yet stubbornly refused to spit out the flatbread.

The group rolled into a tangled