The next morning dawned.
Within an abandoned village.
The sky was overcast, and a fine, continuous drizzle drifted down.
A chilly wind blew, cold to the bone.
The people scattered in the simple dwellings throughout the village gradually woke from their sleep.
After a day of ragged running, they were caught up in this damp and cold weather.
Those who were weak felt even weaker, some fell ill.
The caravan had no choice but to delay their departure by a day, taking time to recover in this place.
...
Inside a still-intact earthen house.
A red clay stove was placed at the doorway, where crimson charcoal burned within, constantly radiating heat to the surroundings.
Atop the stove, a black pottery crockpot bubbled with noise, white steam spewing from the edges of the lid, occasionally lifting it.
Cheng Ming, the young Taoist acolyte, sat beside the stove, his eyes drowsy from sleep, yet his nose continuously sniffed towards the crockpot.
