"Yaaawn…"
A city guard yawned and stretched. He twisted his sore, stiff body and held his breath as he glanced down from the wall.
In the hazy dawn light, he could see the refugees were still restless, a chaotic mess, but he couldn't be bothered to look any closer.
The soldiers on the wall simply assumed the refugees were fighting over pitiful scraps of trash—garbage none of them would even look twice at.
Scenes like this had been a constant occurrence ever since the refugees gathered outside the city walls. The soldiers had long grown accustomed to it. What they couldn't get used to was the overwhelming stench.
"Old Wang, I heard your son is sick. How is he doing?" the drowsy soldier called out to his colleague a few meters away, trying to liven himself up with some conversation.
The Soldier called Old Wang, his face a bit flushed, turned his head away uncomfortably and responded weakly:
