The wind in the west of the city felt like it was wrapped in sandpaper, lashing painfully against the face.
The air was heavy with an unshakeable, fermented stench—a blend of cheap tobacco, body odor, and the pungent reek of ancient grime that was far more suffocating than the hypocritical burning incense of the Prefect Mansion.
The leading scribe, holding a lantern that flickered like a will-o'-the-wisp, halted before rows of low, crooked barracks that looked like dilapidated wooden boxes on the verge of falling apart at any second.
Chapter 95