Listening to the old man, Old Hank felt the craving in his stomach awaken, nostalgically recalling the taste of meat soup, as if his rusty legs regained strength.
He had been hungry for so long, he almost forgot what it felt like to live like a human.
However, soon his newly aroused enthusiasm was crushed by the harsh reality that followed.
They arrived at Wheat Field Village.
What greeted them was not their longed-for hometown, but a scene of ruins and desolation.
Knee-high thorns and weeds had engulfed every inch of land, the blackened scorched earth faintly revealing the foundations left by burnt houses, as though the idyllic landscapes existed only in dreams.
Passing refugees had consumed all edible things, and even the inedible were taken for firewood; what survived were only bones and thorns, which even beasts found too tough to chew.
"...Is this Wheat Field Village?" A youngster at the edge of the village murmured bewilderedly, his eyes slowly losing hope.
