Ian curled up in the narrow isolation room.
The space was small, only able to accommodate a few tattered straw mats and a couple of stiff blankets.
The air was mixed with dampness and decay, like the scent of death lingering.
Darkness enveloped the surroundings.
Repressed sounds constantly echoed in his ears.
Someone coughed, someone groaned, someone cried softly.
Others mumbled gibberish, whispering nonexistent names, or repeating bizarre dreams to themselves.
This was already the late stage of the illness, Ian guessed the other might not live much longer.
Ian wrapped the ragged blanket around himself, trembling all over.
Despite the air being hot and damp, he felt as though he was lying naked in the snow, every inch of skin tingling with cold.
His head throbbed violently, like a sheet of paper being slowly torn to shreds.
Even moving a finger became an extravagant hope.
Ian knew it wasn't an ordinary illness; this was the "Snow Spirit Curse."
