Published: January 4, 2026
One day soon, I came to inspect the relief supply site, bringing Zoe along.
There were dozens, even hundreds, of relief sites, and each time I visited a different one.
Different sites had different people and different circumstances.
Until the situation settled down, I intended to frequently visit various sites for inspection.
That day was no different. But when I arrived at the site, the scene before my eyes made me stop and frown.
“Is something wrong, Master?” Zoe asked.
Not with a curious expression, but a serious one.
Zoe, who had served me for many years, seemed to understand from my expression that “something was happening.”
Yet she asked anyway.
Probably because from the visible scene, she couldn't read what that “something” was.
It made sense, given Zoe’s background—it wasn’t something obvious at first glance.
I gave a small nod and said, “There’s too much smoke from cooking fires.”
“Smoke from cooking fires? ...Indeed,” Zoe followed my gaze and examined the scene.
At the relief site, more than ten plumes of smoke were rising.
Most were white, but some were black.
“That’s strange. This site shouldn’t be a large-scale relief operation.”
“That's not all—the black smoke is worrying.”
“Perhaps the people cooking are inexperienced?”
Zoe immediately understood the meaning of the “black smoke.”
Though now she was the governor’s deputy, Zoe originally served as a maid at Prince Thirteen's Residence.
She understood cooking better than an ordinary deputy.
Usually, cooking smoke comes from stoves and is mostly white.
During disaster relief, rice is the main food used, so the smoke is mostly white.
But here, although mostly white, there were patches of black smoke mixed in.
It was clear this was not proper cooking smoke.
Despite the bad news, I thought, “I’m glad I came.”
“Let’s go.”
“Yes!”
I led Zoe and entered the relief area.
Located on the outskirts of Larak, the provincial capital, this place was even larger than the Central Square, which gathered large crowds during festivals.
Refugees sat on the ground here and there; some had erected simple tents made of wood and grass to shield themselves from the rain.
Most people lifted their heads and looked at us with curious eyes as we passed by.
Relieved that they had the energy to look up, I glanced at their hands.
“Master, look at those with tents,” Zoe said.
“Yeah, I see. They’re cooking for themselves.”
Before Zoe pointed it out, I had already noticed.
Those who had made tents from grass and wood had also created simple stoves from earth, using them to cook something.
I approached one such stove.
“May I have a moment?”
“Huh? Who are you?”
A middle-aged woman cooking at the stove stopped and looked up at me.
Dressed in the governor’s official uniform, I must have seemed suspicious to her.
I pointed to the stove and asked, “Are you cooking rice?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She answered, as if to say, “So what?”
“Why are you cooking rice yourself?”
“Because we received rice; we have to cook it ourselves.”
“Received? You mean it was distributed to you?”
“Yes. Apparently, there aren’t enough people to cook at the relief site. They said they’d distribute rice, so we should manage cooking on our own.”
“...”
I fell silent.
Behind me, Zoe muttered, “Is that really how they’re doing things...?”
Distributing rice for victims to cook themselves.
All sorts of thoughts rushed through my mind.
“This won’t do.”
“What’s wrong, Master?”
“...”
Suddenly recalling something, I turned and left the woman behind, who still looked puzzled, and strode forward.
I looked around, as if searching for something.
“Master? What are you looking for?”
Zoe hurriedly followed behind me.
From my behavior, she could tell I was searching for something.
Without answering, I pressed on, scanning my surroundings for what I suspected was there.
“There—found them.”
After a while, I found them.
In front of a grassy patch, several children lay listless.