On the table, a soft *plop* sounded.
A wobbly slice of boiled pork, perfectly marbled with fat and lean, landed in the food basin before Song Ciwan.
Yes, what sat before her wasn't an ordinary bowl, or even a common, large soup tureen, but a basin the size of one you'd wash your face in! That was why, upon first glance, Song Ciwan had silently dubbed it a "food basin" in her mind.
The food basin was already heaped high with glistening white rice, and the villagers beside her kept piling on more meat.
As they served her, they continued to press, "You poor dear, look at you, so thin you're nothing but a handful of bones… Here, here, eat up! Don't hold back!"
The enticing aromas of food mingled in the air, and from somewhere, a stomach rumbled in a deafening, appreciative growl.
The other refugees at Song Ciwan's table had long since given in. They needed no encouragement, already stuffing their faces and wolfing down their food with abandon.
