After Iron Throat took Wei and Minnow away, a small space was left empty inside the wooden shed.
It was not an obvious emptiness.
Nothing dramatic.
No broken boards or blood left behind.
And yet everyone avoided looking at it.
Their eyes slid past that patch of ground without thinking, as if there were something there that should not be acknowledged. As if staring too long might pull them into the same absence.
Before much time passed, a few boys were brought back in from outside.
They looked as though they had just been thrown into icy water and dragged out again before their bodies could adjust. Their faces were drained of color, pale with a bluish cast. Their lips were purple. Their legs trembled so badly they could barely stand.
But their eyes—
Their eyes were empty.
Like wells that had dried up long ago.
No water left at the bottom.
Nothing reflected back.
One of them was the youngest.
So thin he looked like a bundle of bones wrapped in skin.
Hua stepped forward and scooped a cup of salty water from a wooden barrel, handing it to him.
"Little brother," Hua said softly.
"Rough day?"
He lowered his voice even more.
"Did they… take a lot today?"
The boy didn't answer.
He took one sip of water. Some of it ran down the corner of his mouth, but he didn't bother wiping it away. His body folded in on itself as if all strength had been removed at once, and he collapsed into the straw, curling up tightly.
He didn't say a word.
Hua stood there for a moment, watching him.
In the end, he asked nothing else.
A while later, footsteps sounded outside the shed again.
This time, four boys came in together.
Their steps were steady. Almost light.
Their shoes hit the ground cleanly—no dragging, no hesitation—as if they had just woken from a comfortable sleep.
Someone noticed marks on one boy's face, just beneath the jawline and along the neck. Dark red stains.
Not fresh wounds.
The color had already deepened, but the edges were uneven, as if something had gripped him again and again, squeezing and releasing.
The boy didn't try to hide it.
If anything, he lifted his chin slightly, as though he wanted others to see.
Their movements were all a little stiff.
Not like injured legs.
More like tight backs and aching waists, each step carefully controlled.
But they didn't seem to care.
Because each of them carried an oil-paper bag.
The tops were open.
A piece of bone stuck out from one of them.
Cold meat.
The smell spread immediately.
It did not ask permission. It did not stay contained. It crept through the shed, slow and thorough, like an invisible net settling over every nose.
They ate as they walked.
They didn't bother finding a place to sit. They stopped by the door and began chewing in large bites.
Sometimes they laughed.
The laughter was quiet, stretched thin, sticky with satisfaction.
"Tchk."
The sound of meat tearing.
Not loud.
But deliberate.
As if someone had slowed down on purpose.
The smell grew thicker.
Several boys swallowed unconsciously. Their throats tightened. Their eyes shone too brightly, unfocused, like wolves starving in the dark.
A few took half a step forward, then froze, pretending they had only lost their balance.
"Brother," someone asked cautiously, lowering his voice.
"Today's… people. Were they easy to deal with?"
He changed the word halfway through the sentence.
The boy holding the bag smiled.
"Old," he said casually, as if describing a worn piece of clothing.
"Temperamental."
"And you still—"
"Temperamental," the boy repeated.
He bit into the meat and chewed slowly.
"But generous."
As he said it, his other hand pressed unconsciously against the inside of his wrist.
There, a faint ring of bruising circled the skin.
"Next time something like this comes up," someone said quickly,
"take me with you."
The boy glanced sideways at him.
"Look at you."
His gaze traveled up and down the other boy's body. His smile carried a meaning that didn't need explanation.
"Think you could handle it?"
Laughter broke out at once.
Too fast.
Too forced.
The four boys had clearly eaten quickly on the way back, but inside the shed, they slowed down.
They chewed carefully.
Sometimes they licked their fingers, as if savoring the aftertaste.
Hua's younger brother pushed his way out from the crowd and stood at the front.
He probably hadn't seen meat in a very long time.
Hunger had hollowed out his face, sharpened his eyes.
He tilted his head up and forced a careful smile, his voice trembling.
"Brothers… could I have just a little?"
"Just a bite."
The four boys exchanged looks.
It didn't feel like discussion.
It felt like appraisal.
One of them laughed suddenly.
"If you want meat, earn it yourself."
"He's too small," another added.
"He'd get rejected."
"Old men like them small," a third said.
They laughed quietly.
It made the skin crawl.
At last, one of the boys picked a long, dry strip of meat from between his teeth.
He looked at it for a moment.
Hesitated.
Then flicked it away.
The strip landed in Hua's brother's palm.
"Eat it yourself."
The meat was thin, stringy, like a dried worm. It glistened with saliva.
Hua's stomach tightened.
But his brother didn't hesitate.
He shoved it into his mouth at once, shut his eyes, and chewed hard, as if trying to carve the taste into memory.
When he swallowed, his throat bobbed violently.
Then he lifted his head.
His eyes were frighteningly bright.
The four boys kept eating.
From time to time, they glanced at the others staring at the oil-paper bags.
There was a trace of pride in their eyes.
Not mockery.
More like waiting.
Waiting for someone to come closer.
No one spoke.
The shed filled only with the sound of chewing, and the soft rustle of crumpling oil paper.
Until nothing was left but bone.
One of the boys tossed it aside.
"Thunk."
The bone hit the ground.
Like a signal.
The next instant, someone moved.
Arms, legs, shoulders collided. Someone was knocked down. Someone else threw themselves over what they had grabbed, curling around it on the ground.
The four boys leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with obvious enjoyment.
Hua stood off to the side, watching everything.
His expression was complicated.
Without thinking, he touched his own face.
Then quickly dropped his hand.
At that moment, a boy crept forward and pointed at one of the oil-paper bags, his voice barely audible.
"Brother… give me the bag."
"Sure," the boy said lazily.
"Bow once."
The boy dropped to his knees at once. His forehead struck the ground hard.
Someone nearby muttered under their breath,
"Fast reaction."
The tone carried regret.
As if he wished he had thought of it first.
They all knew this scene.
Too well.
Some of them were even waiting for it.
Gradually, the wooden shed grew quiet again.
As if nothing at all had happened.