In the winter of Jian'an Year Three, the cold wind across the Huai River region was like a blade tempered in ice. As it swept along the desolate official road, it carried scraps of dead grass that wormed into people's bones. Lin Yan huddled behind the drafty wall of a ruined temple. The modern down jacket he'd brought with him had been torn into strips during a scramble with the refugees. Now he stared in a daze at the pale blue glow in his palm. It was the only thing he could rely on in the three days since he transmigrated: it could conjure an unlimited amount of piping-hot, thick white rice porridge, fragrant with the distinctive aroma of newly harvested rice.
