The north wind in the 327th year of the Zhaoheng calendar was like a knife blowing on my face, which was painful. This poor place in Linchuan City is located on the border of the northern border. The father does not love the mother, and there is nothing but wind and famine on weekdays. Who would have thought that spring has not even started for half a month, and the bandits are like flies that have smelled shit, and they are killing each other like flies.
Fifteen-year-old Qiao Cheng huddled in his half-collapsed adobe house, holding half a bag of brown rice he had just bought in his arms tightly, but his ears were as straight as radar. The shouts of death, cries, and the rumble of collapsed houses mixed together, making people feel numb. His parents died early, leaving him alone, struggling to make ends meet by helping others herd cattle and doing odd jobs. At this moment, the city was in chaos. He had no strength to resist, so he was thankful to be able to save his life.
