Isaac Pocket World, Brown Village.
In that forgotten corner lay an ordinary yet lonely little village.
Every house in the village was low and squat, as though bent beneath the weight of time, huddled heavily against the earth.
In the distance, endless mountains and dense forests rose and fell like the backs of giant beasts, barely visible and radiating an inviolable majesty.
Every house in the village had been hastily built from rough wood and hard stone, looking exceedingly crude.
As if a slightly stronger gust of wind could scatter them apart.
Icy drafts seeped through the cracks in the walls, telling of the hardship and struggle of life.
On the roofs, a few battered tiles pinned down blackened thatch, swaying precariously as though they might fall at any moment.
Adding another touch of sorrow to these already fragile dwellings.
Nearly every house in the village was like this, as though covered in a gloomy gray hue.
The scant furnishings outside the thatched cottages made it easy to see just how harshly the people here lived.
Before the houses, strings of hides and dried meat swayed gently in the wind, while wild fruit gathered from the mountains dried in wooden frames.
Those were the spoils of their hunts, and almost their only means of survival.
The hides were dull and lifeless, while the dried meat was shriveled and scant, revealing an indescribable poverty and hardship.
The adults in the village worked with numb expressions. Their eyes had long lost their former light, leaving behind only endless exhaustion and helplessness.
The women mechanically repeated the tasks in their hands, laboring for their next meal.
The grown men, meanwhile, left the village early every morning to hunt deep in the mountains.
Their hands were rough and cracked, covered in thick calluses—the marks