Chen Yi was already used to Liu Lang's lack of filter. Scolding him was useless. Only a good beating would teach him a lesson.
Retracting his gaze, Chen Yi looked at the frail boy standing before him, holding a bowl with both hands. He smiled gently and said, "Hold it steady."
He poured a ladle of rice gruel—half soup, half grains—into the bowl. The boy cast a fleeting glance at him, bowed low, and mumbled a soft, "Thank you, benefactor," before carefully carrying the bowl away.
Beside him, Xiao Wan'er was doing the same, her eyes lowered as she doled out the gruel to the refugees. She couldn't bear to look closely, nor could she clearly make out the mud-caked, emaciated faces of these people, but their continuous chorus of gratitude filled her ears. Some voices were deep, some clear, some genial, and others muffled. Without exception, almost all were weak and feeble. It was only after they took a sip of the gruel that their SLURP finally carried a hint of vitality.
