"Do you not see the Snow Sea on Horse Drive River, where the vast yellow sands stretch to the sky.
The wind roars in Luntai in September night, stones as large as buckets scatter across the land like chaos.
...
At midnight, the army marches while spears clash, the wind is sharp as knives, cutting the face.
The horse's fur carries snow and steam of sweat, five-colored coins quickly freeze into ice, and in the tent, grass memorials, and inkstone water congeals..."
This poem by Cen Shen, a Tang dynasty frontier poet, fits perfectly in this desolate prehistoric world.
The cold wind is like a knife, and beast skins congeal with frost.
When the wind blows, sand and stones fly, accompanied by fallen pine needles and dead leaves, resembling the apocalypse.
In such an environment, even three strong adult men often feel short-handed or struggle to survive, Chen Zhou can't imagine the kind of days other challengers are living.
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