"It is as expected of Young Master's soup. It tastes delicious."
Sven sat cross-legged on the snowy ground as he held a bowl of steaming hot soup in his hand. He sniffed the soup and tilted the bowl. He took a big gulp and exhaled a cloud of hot air.
Many others were like him. Tens of thousands of refugees drank the hot soup and chatted with each other around the soup cauldron. Many also held a bottle of wine in their hands; they drank until their faces were red. They held hands and danced as if it was not winter yet; it was a day that was worth a celebration.
Sven's gaze was gentle. His thoughts drifted to an unknown place. Last winter, he had led his Shabby Bandit Gang brothers in many robberies when the magical beasts raged. He saw only scenes of devastation and bloodied corpses.
However, that year, he only saw happy people and their resolute faces despite their sufferings. That thought made him emotional.
