The moonlight pierced through the narrow gaps in the window barricades, cutting long, sharp lines across the floor of the hut. These beams of silver light illuminated the dust motes hanging in the air and fell directly across Huang Bantian’s face. He was sitting on the floor, his back against a sturdy wooden post, holding the ceramic bowl Liu Er had provided. The sound of his eating was the only thing filling the room—a steady, rhythmic slurp as he shoveled the plain wheat porridge into his mouth with a wooden spoon.
He didn't eat like a man who was guest in someone else's home; he ate with a focused, animalistic intensity. There was no grace to it, only the raw efficiency of someone who viewed food as fuel and nothing more. Liu Er watched him from the shadows of the hearth, his own hands
