The night on the plateau was very cold.
Bone-chilling cold.
A cold that left no hope in sight, freezing through to the core.
On a snow-covered hillside, there was a small wind-leaking house with a dying fire inside, around which several people sat to keep warm.
This place was peculiar, unusually cold, so much so that not even the Undead wanted to come.
So many people hid here, hoping to survive this harsh period by relying on the unique environment.
But this hillside had an owner, a fat man in a black coat and white inner shirt.
Initially, this fat man allowed everyone to stay in the broken house, as long as they shared some of the firewood they collected each day to keep warm.
Later, this fat man demanded half of all the firewood, and the people didn't mind; the world outside was chaotic, and survival was all they sought.
Then the fat man decided to distribute all the collected firewood himself, giving half of what he used to the refugees.
