In the camp, only fewer than a hundred people were left after the battle with the Insect Race, teetering on the brink, at risk of being overrun at any moment.
...
Night, in a temporary camp somewhere on the Planet.
The crackling flames brought a sliver of Light and warmth to this small camp.
The survivors of the Phantom Spirit Clan used dry wood and Rocks to build makeshift shelters, barely able to withstand some of the sandstorms.
Although this still couldn't block the real storm, at least tonight everyone could have a somewhat good night's sleep.
"Sarah, how many companions do we have left?"
In front of a small shelter, by the bonfire, Raton was bandaging his wounds in the crudest way while inquiring about the current situation.
Beside him, a female Phantom Spirit Person with slightly gray skin was stirring a glob of viscous liquid in a shabby little bucket, her face showing a trace of distraction; after hearing Raton's words, she took a long time to snap back and said:
