The wind continued to howl, with the yellow sands still obscuring the sky.
Song Heping roughly pried open Hunter's lips—cracked and crusted over with blood due to excessive bleeding and severe dehydration—and poured in the last bit of murky, rust-flavored water that was more precious than gold.
Hunter's body convulsed unconsciously, making a sound like a broken bellows struggling to swallow.
His head was held by bandages, which had long been stained a nauseating dark brown by seeping blood, pus, and sand.
"...Water... please..."
Seeing the water, a young soldier under General Haftar's command, who looked barely seventeen or eighteen, stared blankly, his lips cracked and bleeding. His sand-covered face was a deathlike gray and pallid; his voice was so weak it was almost completely swallowed by the roar of the sandstorm.
His fingers scratched unconsciously at the scorching sand.
"There is none left."
