This winter felt like it would never end. A year had passed, and even now, in the first month of the Twelfth Year of Jianwu, spring had not come.
Even without blizzards blotting out the sky, the ground remained covered in frost. A full year of frozen earth was still a catastrophe. Across the Six Commanderies of Great Liang, thirty percent of all farmland had been ruined by the cold.
Plant in spring, harvest in autumn. With no spring planting, there would be no autumn harvest. The deep winter of the first month brought no snow, and famine swept through Great Liang.
Of a million refugees, ten percent had starved to death, and another ten percent had been devoured by Demon Fiends. The remaining eighty percent were still alive, but only just—waiting for death.
The Little Emperor remained unmoved.
He did not open the granaries to distribute food, nor did he discuss resettling the refugees, acting as if he couldn't see the millions upon millions of common people in Great Liang.
