Hua Mingshu, dressed in a simple and tattered white robe, smiled and stretched out his hand to accept the enthusiastically offered meat soup, downing the mutton soup that had been cooked with nothing more than a pinch of salt and some ginger and green onion in a single gulp.
"It's delicious."
The white-haired Angel, dressed in white, sincerely offered his praise.
It was more than mere politeness.
The golden mutton soup, made from lambs less than a year old, looked like liquid gold under the noon sun.
Whether it was the lamb or the ginger, both were the highest form of tribute that these impoverished grounds and War Orphans could offer—raising sheep required a significant amount of grass and carried the risk of predation by Radiation Beasts; cultivating ginger depleted the soil's nutrients, and the yield of ginger would plummet without fertile soil.
This was the most precious thing they could offer, more valuable than the blood that flowed from their own cuts.
