The foothills where the floodwaters had receded looked like the carcass of some gargantuan beast that had been picked clean. The trees, already withered by the harsh winter, were reduced to jagged, leaning stumps; their bark had been torn away, leaving behind raw, pallid wood.
Silt and broken branches had piled into small mounds in the low-lying areas. Where there had once been graves buried at the base of the hill, the topsoil had been swept away by the flood, leaving only the upright headstones standing bare. The air was thick with a nauseating stench—a mixture of putrid rot and damp, muddy earth.
Cheng Nuo and the others picked their way across the slippery sludge. Their boots sank into the soft mire with a wet "squelch" at every step. Several times, they nearly lost their footing, only saved by grabbing onto each other for support.
Chapter 181