The yellow sand grains twinkled with a light of despair, as if narrating a world of death unreachable.
"That is our village, our homeland..."
"This time, we are really leaving."
The workers standing by the large propeller looked on with a touch of melancholy.
Twenty villages, nearly a hundred thousand people, dwindled to just ten thousand, what a tragedy.
The low houses were gradually buried by the sandstorm.
The slight greenery that once was had vanished.
That was their homeland, now devoid of any life.
The Well had dried up, the cacti had died.
What remained was nothing but a ruin of civilization.
A faint sadness lingered in their hearts.
The feast had ended.
The village had fallen.
And I, high in the sky, flew towards the distant coastlines.
The sandstorm was boundless,
We shall meet no more.
...
About a month later, the speed of Sky City had increased to 6 kilometers per hour, roughly the normal walking speed of humans.
