The azure sky had not a cloud in sight, and the scorching sun baked the earth; the water in the Qinhuai River was nearly gone, and the soil in the fields had dried and cracked into blocks.
Niu Yanghui looked at the piles and piles of people outside the city, and his heart was heavy. It was not that he did not want to let these people into the city, but many had already been allowed entry, and letting more in would risk causing chaos. All they could do was to send out as much grain as possible. Yet even with the grain, every day there were crowds of people dying. For fear of an outbreak, any discovered dead were burned immediately to prevent an epidemic.
Niu Yanghui tilted his head, gazing at the sun overhead, and muttered to himself: "Heaven, if you have any mercy left, please send rain quickly!" If things continued like this, Niu Yanghui truly worried that the government would not be able to control it, and there would be riots among the people.
