The middle-aged man reeked of alcohol, his eyes unfocused, as if he had drunk himself into a stupor, and a few dry, hard buns still lay in the bowl before him.
This refugee shelter, while ostensibly a haven for refugees, was known to the people of the Capital City as a den of beggars.
The deeper one went inside, the more foul-smelling it became.
Those refugees, clad in tattered clothes, hadn't bathed for many days; their hair was matted together. With the summer heat, flies were buzzing everywhere.
They devoured the distributed buns and porridge greedily, but no one dared touch the buns in the middle-aged man's bowl.
Murong Jiu's presence was clearly out of place here, when suddenly a small, dirty hand reached out, clutching the hem of her dress tightly.
"Sister, sister, are you a court physician? My mother is sick, can you save her?"
She looked down, meeting a pair of large black eyes and a dirty little face.
