"Chen Jingqiu"

The slanting flagpole above had long since faded. It curled listlessly in the fishy wind, like a dying sign.

Beneath the pole, the dense lines of "long strips" stretched to the edge of sight. They writhed along with hardly a sound. Now and then, a few muffled coughs arose, only to be swallowed by the wilderness.

Only a dozen or so enormous earthenware vats were set over makeshift stoves. Firewood crackled beneath them, licking at their bottoms as steam twisted upward, making the figures in line sway along with it, hazy and indistinct.

This was not the capital, nor some noble estate or bustling market. It was merely a poor, remote corner of the countryside.

The people waiting in line were naturally no high officials or nobles, no scions of eminent clans, young masters or ladies, generals, ministers, kings, or lords—

They were merely groups of refugees with nowhere left to go.

Most were emaciated beyond recognition, their cheekbones jutting high and their eye sockets sunken deep. Yet their eyes all stared fixedly at the thin porridge boiling ahead of them, a dim flame burning within—perhaps a mixture of despair and hope.

Most wore rags that barely covered their bodies. The exposed skin was darkened by years of wind and sun, caked with grime and the dust of their flight. Among them was a gaunt woman cradling an infant. The child was so hungry he no longer had the strength to cry, his head lolling against her shoulder. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest proved he was probably still alive.

She patted him gently, as if she would never tire, while her eyes, like everyone else's, remained nailed to the nearest porridge vat.

Even the men maintaining order, carrying clubs and broken whips used for driving cattle,