Broken bricks and shattered tiles, the village was in complete ruins.
Fortunately, there were still some usable broken timbers that could be haphazardly assembled into makeshift shelters.
But these wooden beams were quite heavy and couldn't be moved by the starving refugees.
These ten or so wooden huts were all the work of one emaciated man.
The man had a weather-beaten appearance, with dry lips, dressed in a set of tattered cloth garments, looking neither tall nor sturdy. It was unknown how far he had traveled, as the straw sandals on his feet were worn to shreds.
What drew the most attention was his head, his hair seemed to have just started growing out, like a bristle of pig skin.
At this moment, the man was carrying a log thicker than his body, briskly walking through the crowd. Facing the many refugees' gratitude, he merely gave a shy smile.
"Warrior master, have some water..."
