The early summer sunlight pierced the thin morning mist of the Northern Frontier.
Viewed from above, the spectator stands around the Red Tide Fief First Parade Ground were already completely engulfed by crowds.
This was no chaotic, clamorous gathering of refugees, but a sea of people slowly rising and falling.
Vast swaths of dark cotton clothing stirred gently in the wind, stretching like an endless tide to the limits of sight.
Even the distant hillsides, exposed rocky ridges, and tree branches were covered with people.
To secure a spot with a clear view of the entire parade, some had arrived three days early with bedrolls on their backs and made camp here.
Yet there was no sour, rotten stench in the air. Instead, there was the aroma of potatoes roasting over charcoal, the faint sizzle of butter melting on iron griddles, and the distinctive sweetness of malt sugar drifting faintly on the morning breeze.
Vendors wove through the crowds with wooden boxes slung from their shoulders. The moment a lid opened, children gathered around.
Almost everyone wore thick, clean cotton clothing.
Their dark cotton clothes were hardly lavish in cut, but they held their shape and fit well.
These were standard goods mass-produced by the Red Tide Textile Mill. Commoners in the Southern Province could not afford them, yet here they were utterly ordinary everyday wear.
The patched, grease-stained linen of the old days had long since been consigned to memory.
But the more obvious change was written on their faces.
Their faces were ruddy and full, their eyes no longer sunken, their cheekbones no longer jutting out.
The strength gained from a steady diet of meat and fat let them stand with shoulders naturally spread and backs straight.
It was a posture found only in people who did not