Her body was trembling—not from cold, but from fear. The thing in the ocher-red robe had not even looked at her, yet she lay prostrate there, not daring to lift her head, not daring to move, not daring to breathe.
"This month's offering." The thing in the ocher-red robe spoke. His voice was no different from an ordinary person's—not high or low, not rough or thin, devoid of emotion, without any rise or fall, like a machine tuned to the proper pitch. "It is not enough."
The middle-aged woman lay flat on the ground, her voice squeezing out through the cracks between dirt and gravel. "The harvest was bad... nothing grew in the fields... even the grass dried up... there really isn't any more..."
The thing in the ocher-red robe gave no response. His eyes remained closed, his face without the slightest expression, like a divine statue enshrined in a temple, unable to hear mortal pleas or see mortal tears.
The middle-aged woman lifted her head. Her forehead was covered in dirt and tiny bits of gravel; a little skin had been scraped raw, and a thread of blood oozed out. She looked at that thing, her lips trembling, her voice trembling, her whole body trembling.
"Please... give us a few more days... I'll borrow it... I'll borrow it..."
"You won't be able to borrow it." When the thing in the ocher-red robe said those three words, his tone was exactly the same as when he had said "not enough," without the slightest change. "This month, your family's offering was already less than everyone else's. Less is less. There can be no extension."
He raised his right hand.
The instant that hand stretched out from the sleeve of the robe, Su Wanwan smelled something. It was not foul, nor was