The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Mealtime.

Vikir ate in the mess hall on a rare off-duty day.

Black bread, pickled sardines, and wilted greens. No corrosion. That was it.

Despite the fact that it was a meal for a Major-level guard, it was pretty poorly organized.

'They must be running low on supplies these days.'

If this was good enough for a Major, what about the lower ranking guards?

At this point, he couldn't even imagine what the prisoners were eating.

He didn't see many familiar faces in the labor camp these days, and he wondered if they've all starved to death.

Vikir was sitting alone, eating.

"Is that true?"

"Yes. It is."