bantayden Chapter 780 - 431: Change
Chapter 780 - 431: Change
The warmth from last night’s food distribution hasn’t completely dissipated yet, and the eyes hiding in the shadows remain vigilant but are less likely to flee at the sight of people.
Little Mud shrinks into the deepest shadow, back pressed against the cold stone, not daring to move an inch.
She’s eleven, or maybe twelve, thirteen... she can’t remember.
Age is a meaningless number in Black Swamp Town.
People are only divided into two kinds, those who can move and those waiting to die.
Little Mud doesn’t remember her parents’ faces, only the salty taste when the dust choked her on the day the mine shaft collapsed.
Later, she was told her mother was buried underneath, and her father lasted six months before dying at home.
The body was dragged away the next day, filling a pit.
Children like her are not uncommon in Black Swamp Town.
When they’re truly starving, they crawl to the swamp’s edge to dig for insects, nails perpetually blackened.
Little Mud’s hair is matted into a single mass, like someone poured tar over it, sticking to her scalp.
Pustules climb from her neck to her shoulders and back, the burst areas oozing yellow fluid, soaking the piece of burlap trying to cover her modesty, turning it black.
When the wind blows, the stench wafts, even rats avoid her.
She stares at the alley’s entrance, where footsteps and unfamiliar voices approach.
"These people come from the North." This sentence began circulating around town last night.
She knows these Northern Territory savages.
The adults, during idle chat in the mine, said the Northern savages eat people.
But because she remembers the taste of that hot porridge, when the footsteps approach again, Little Mud doesn’t flee immediately.
The footsteps stop at the alley’s entrance. A few young people in matching protective suits peek in, their gaze lingering on her briefly.
She lets out a short, sharp scream, turning to run, but a hand grabs her wrist.
These people are strong; she struggles desperately, her voice hoarse, as if howling, "Let me go! Don’t eat me!"
Little Mud is dragged out of the alley, sunlight suddenly hitting her face, instinctively making her squint.
Steam rises from the square, barrels lined up one after another, as if prepared in advance.
She is lifted and tossed into a barrel...
"They really are going to cook me," Little Mud thinks in despair.
The expected burning pain does not come; the water is warm.
Little Mud is stunned.
The next second, a bar of soap with the scent of grease and wood ash is pressed onto her shoulder.
Rough, but not painful.
Someone vigorously scrubs her back.
Black sludge falls from her body, dispersing along the water’s surface.
The grime around the pustules is gradually washed away, revealing skin underneath, pale to the point of transparency.
...
On the high steps, Thorne stands, hand resting on the railing, able to see the entire square.
Barrels, steam, razors, piles of cut hair.
People are forcibly sat down, their hair shaved off; some cry, some curse, but these people don’t stop.
He initially thought this place was inhabited by monsters twisted by mud and disease.
But when each face is washed clean, the hair falls away, exposing complete features, he suddenly realizes an uncomfortable truth: these people are no different from him.
The same eyes, the same nose bridge, the same instinct to close their eyes when water splashes on their face.
Just crushed by time and despair into their current state.
This realization makes Thorne’s throat tighten.
Beside him, Pete says, "Once they’re clean, they feel human again."
He pauses: "People won’t willingly die in the mud like pigs."
After the cleaning, someone leads Little Mud to the side.
A resized old cotton coat is shoved into her arms.
The fabric is coarse but thick and clean, carrying a slight scent of sunshine.
It’s the Red Tide uniform, ill-fitting but flea-free.
It’s the best clothing she’s seen since she can remember.
The woman from the medical team makes her sit, unscrewing a small bottle. Purple liquid is poured onto a cloth and pressed onto her festering skin.
Pain explodes suddenly; Little Mud gasps and instinctively shrinks back, but she’s held firmly.
"Bear it," the voice is calm.
A coolness quickly overrides the prickling pain, like the wind blowing over a searing wound, her shoulders and back stop itching.
At the village entrance, there’s something she’s never seen before, an upright large copper mirror.
Little Mud is pushed in front of the mirror, instinctively lowering her head, then her chin is lifted.
The person in the mirror stuns her.
She raises a hand to touch her face, then the new cotton coat, her chest suddenly tightens.
She doesn’t want to die anymore; she wants to live.
Wants to live like this, clean and neat.
...
After cleaning the body, shaving hair, and applying medicine, the next step is environmental cleanup.
Filth can’t just stay on bodies or continue piling where they live.
A fire is lit by the swamp, not for warmth, but for those crooked, mud-soaked black poplar logs.
The trunks are dragged out, still dripping water, full of wormholes that make one frown at a glance.
Thorne stands nearby, his brow furrowed tightly: "Lord Pete, these logs are all wet, full of insect eggs. If used to build houses, they’ll collapse in three months, and the indoors will be even more stench-filled than outside."
In his experience, such materials are fit only to burn or continue to rot in the mud.
Pete doesn’t argue, ordering the bark to be stripped, the logs placed over the fire.
Flames lick the surface of the wood, steam first crazily evaporating, then the color gradually deepening.
The outer layer chars black, cracks open but quickly stabilize as if sealed with a shell.
"Fire can kill insects," Pete says while adjusting the logs’ position, "The charring layer resists decay and moisture."