Two figures moved down the main road through a city that was barely more than a ruin. The side streets they passed were just like the way they had come: not a single shop intact, not one building spared from looting. A pervasive atmosphere of decay hung everywhere, filling Xiao Shu with increasing sorrow; he felt the end of the world could hardly look more desolate.

Just as he was sinking into his melancholy, Zhang Yuqiu suddenly pointed toward the intersection ahead and called out to him, "Look, look, what is that man doing?"

Xiao Shu followed the direction of Zhang Yuqiu's finger and indeed saw a man with startlingly pale skin, his head wrapped in a deep blue cloth turban, standing atop the highest pile of rubble. Clothing, like T-shirts and trousers, hung draped over his arms. Surrounding him, clustered tightly, were at least seventy or eighty men, women, and children. This pale-skinned man began taking the garments from his arm one by one, calling out prices to the crowd. Of course, currency had become worthless by this time; the only viable medium for exchange was food. Consequently, compressed biscuits or bottled water became the bargaining chips in the buyers' hands.

The common folk, their necks stretched out like those of ducks, stared wide-eyed at the continuously shifting auction items held by the pale man. Whenever someone spotted something they needed, or an item whose size seemed suitable, their faces would flush, and they would shout up toward the mound of debris, "Two compressed biscuits."

But invariably, someone else would shout a higher bid, their voice louder: "I'll offer three!" "Five, plus a bottle of water!" "Ten compressed biscuits!"

The pale man would then announce the rising bid: "Ten biscuits, who can offer more? Anyone else offer a higher price?" He called out louder and louder until the bidding faded away entirely. Then he would continue, "Ten biscuits, going once, ten biscuits, going twice, ten biscuits, third and final call!" With an excited cry of "Sold!", the pale man swiftly tossed the auction item to the highest bidder. The recipient caught it steadily with one hand, while with the other, they lofted the bundle of biscuits—tied tightly with plastic rope—high over dozens of heads, throwing it with perfect accuracy down to the pale man's feet.

In truth, as soon as the two-digit biscuit bid was called out, those wishing to buy generally despaired, because ten compressed biscuits were nearly a week's ration for one refugee. Xiao Shu recalled how, upon first arriving at the shelter, someone had tried to trade two compressed biscuits for his military canteen. In this current situation, he truly couldn't tell if the biscuits had depreciated or the clothing had appreciated. Regardless, as the transactions proceeded, Xiao Shu sensed disappointment, confusion, and distrust flickering in the eyes of the crowd, but most of all, sheer unwillingness to accept defeat. It was precisely because they hadn't secured what they wanted that everyone lingered around the pale man, refusing to disperse.

The moment the dozen or so items of clothing were sold off, the successful bidders had already quietly melted back into the throng with their spoils. The remaining eighty or ninety people, who had stood there for ages achieving nothing, glared daggers at the small mountain of compressed biscuits and bottled water piled at the pale man's feet, grinding their teeth with envy. Watching him pack the food, item by item, into woven sacks filled their hearts with an indescribable ache.

As the saying goes, "It is not scarcity that causes discontent, but inequality." This highly profitable auction held by the pale man had inflamed countless eyes. Suddenly, someone in the dispersing crowd shouted out, "Profiteer! They are working together, driving up the prices so we have to pay more for their clothes later!"