Within the woodland of the hillside, there was in fact no real wind and rain at this moment.
However, as the villagers shouted again and again, it was as if wind and rain were everywhere, above and below.
This is the sorrow of nature, also the sorrow of mortal dust.
Because the villagers rely on the heavens for their livelihood, when the seasons are harmonious, life is good; if the weather is poor, be it drought or flood, their income drops sharply, forcing them to sell their children.
If it comes to a time when taxes and levies become more rampant, even if there is harmony in the heavens, the wind and rain from the mortal world leave the villagers nowhere to hide and unable to bear it.
The villagers express their grievances loudly, voice after voice, shout after shout.
So intertwined like a web—who can break free and walk out?
In the dark room, the old woman's eyeballs were on the verge of falling out from her sockets, her eyes radiating an excited and greedy glint.
