The air in the center of Huangling had become so thick with the scent of funeral incense that it felt like breathing through a wet cloth. It wasn't the pleasant, aromatic smoke used in temples for prayer; it was the heavy, cloying stench of the dead being prepared for the earth. The smell clung to the hair and clothes of every villager who had dared to step out of their boarded-up homes. It was the scent of pure desperation.
Old Man Geng, the village head, stood at the northern perimeter where the main road dissolved into the scorched plains. He looked smaller than he had only a week ago. His skin was the color of old parchment, and his hands shook as he arranged the ritual items on a low stone slab. He was preparing an exorcism—a final, frantic plea to whatever was twisting the reality o
