Refugee gathering place.
A huge pot bubbled away, steaming hot, its enticing aroma spreading through the air and making the refugees gathered beside it see green with hunger.
Most of the refugees standing guard by the pot were men. Though they could hardly be called strong and sturdy, at least there was some color in their faces and some light in their eyes. They were in a completely different state from those refugees who were barely clinging to life, one foot in the grave.
Yet despite drooling with greed, none of these men dared move recklessly. Instead, they kept casting fearful glances at one man.
He was a man with a knife scar across his face and a cold, sinister gaze.
A short knife hung at his waist. Though somewhat rusted, its sharp blade still told everyone that it was a weapon of murder.
At that moment, Scarface was wolfing down food from a ration bag.
He was eating so hastily that crumbs occasionally fell from the corners of his mouth.
The eyes of many refugees burned with fury at the sight.
Many of them had not eaten proper food for a very, very long time.
Tree bark, grass roots, even algae from puddles—so long as it could be swallowed, they would not let it pass.
So when they saw Scarface openly eating flatbread and even deliberately wasting it, one could well imagine how they felt.
But Scarface did not care in the slightest. After finishing another piece of flatbread, he sighed in satisfaction, rose to his feet, shook the crumbs from his clothes, and walked over to the stove.
Someone lay there.
A woman, thin as a rake.
At that moment, however, her face was beyond recognition, and her body was covered in wounds.
Even so, the woman had