Looking at the gun in his hand, Ghost Head's mind was flooded with distant memories once again. The breeze stirred, lifting waves in the wheat fields. Holding a thin bamboo stick he had picked up by the roadside, he chased the wind. The fragrance of flowers lingered in the air, irresistible to him. The wind danced over a babbling creek; the air was so fresh, it felt as though he had returned to those times—playing with kids his age in the stream, searching for crabs. Not too many, not too few, but whenever he managed to catch one, it filled him with joy. Coming back to reality, there was no fresh air, nor was there any so-called breeze.
In this wasteland city, the air was heavy and suffused with the stench of rotting corpses. Even the wind felt as though it cut through him like three winters—bone-chilling cold.
"Assemble!"
