We leave the dead village behind, but not the dead. Their remnants follow us—a black track winding through the stubble of burned crops and the hunched silhouettes of survivors. The fields beyond the houses look worse than I remember from the last inspection: every stalk mowed down to the root, soil upturned in spastic furrows, as if the earth itself tried to spit out its own heart. I count seven people at work, none older than forty, none younger than the scarred child I spot squatting at the edge of the ditch.He stares at us, unblinking, thumb pressed against a cheek mottled with pink scar tissue. His hair is cropped unevenly, the left side nearly singed off, but his posture is steady—he meets my gaze and does not flinch away, though the others do. A few of the women labor with shovels, lifting clods of dirt to the foundations of what was a granary, and two men swing improvised hammers against a ruined cart, stripping it for wood. All eyes keep drifting back to my guard, measuring t
Huling Na-update : 2025-12-17 Magbasa pa