Author Archives: sandy

Mu Xing let out a quiet sigh.

Ever since news of the miracle in the temple had spread, the temple had grown lively.

Even the king and queen of Naya came together in person to pay their devout respects.

If not for Mu Xing disliking the noise, they would have even arranged for craftsmen to repair the temple on the spot.

Or was overjoyed. During this period, Mu Xing could clearly see the change in the high priest.

No longer gloomy, and under Mu Xing’s guidance, Or treated all believers with great generosity, gentleness, and composure.

Except when it came to a certain big lion.

For some reason, since that day, Amos had been visiting the temple every few days.

Or hated seeing him, but every time the man came bearing a pot of flowers, putting on a show of sincerity.

Or would swear on his own faith: this Vistan never had any true belief in Naya’s god.

He must be hiding some despicable motive.

Yet the god seemed to like him.

So all Or could do was remain on guard, to prevent this loathsome foreigner from doing anything disrespectful to the god.

This day Amos, as usual, came in carrying a pot of expensive gilan flowers, ignoring Or’s unfriendly gaze. In high spirits, he said, “Great and exalted God of Naya, since I am not yet sure of your divine office, allow me this blunt title. I offer you my highest respect.”

He solemnly set the gilan flowers beneath the dais, golden eyes fixed intently on the crystal orb.

Or’s face was stiff. “Amos, our God has already received your respect. You may leave.”

Amos, displeased, glanced at him, then looked at the crystal ball with itching eagerness. He asked, “Perhaps the god is merciful—may I change into my beast form and nap here in the temple for a while?”

Or: “…”

His hand clenched tightly around his staff, teeth grinding. “Amos! Don’t you dare go too far!”

The god truly was far too patient.

Before hurling a fireball, Or thought resentfully: how could the god tolerate this rude outsider’s offenses?

He did not know that, in the god’s eyes, Amos appeared as nothing more than a beautiful big cat, always itching to stretch out his furry paws, eager to be close.

There was no malice—how could that be called offense?

He was obviously just adorable.

By now, Mu Xing’s impression of this so-called “godslayer” of the original tale had completely changed.

He was no ruthless beastman at all—just a silly, mischievous big cat.

Watching the two of them spar in their ordinary way, restrained only because they were inside the temple, Mu Xing found it rather amusing.

Unable to act too wildly in the temple, Amos left in a huff.

Or frowned and murmured, “My god, you are far too gentle. I fear this will cause some to lose their reverence.”

The majesty of a god was not to be profaned—so Or believed.

*

On the eighty-first day,

Mu Xing’s divine soul in the darkness finally touched upon some unseen barrier.

His immense soul force turned into a sharp blade, piercing the barrier with ease.

Across all former territories of the Naya Empire, every temple flared with a brilliance brighter than the sun.

Within the radiance, a majestic divine statue gradually took form.

Clad in green robes, embroidered with silver threads into flowers and plants, the god’s countenance was beautiful and gentle, long black hair falling down his back, a crown of wheat and gilan blossoms encircling his head.

Mu Xing lowered his gaze slightly. Wherever believers dwelled, his sight could reach.

The power of earth and nature surged into his palm, coalescing into a silver scepter.

Suddenly, the skies opened with rain.

Where the spring rain fell, withered ground burst into greenery, every plant swaying lightly, bowing before their god.

In an instant, all of Naya bloomed with flowers—nature’s offering to celebrate the birth of their god.

In the farmers’ fields, every crop thrived with boundless vitality. This year was destined for abundance.

The newborn god parted his lips, and an oracle descended: “I am the God of Earth and Nature. All lands under my protection shall be spared the scourge of storm or drought. All things shall flourish. My faithful shall know no hunger.”

The people of Naya, no matter where they were or what they were doing, all knelt and bowed their heads deeply.

Tears of joy streamed down their faces.

They had waited for this day for far, far too long.

Pale green divine power scattered into countless motes of light, falling upon the ground of the divine realm.

From the great trees and blooming flowers touched by the god’s grace, entirely new beings were born.

Plant spirits.

They were attendants of the God of Earth and Nature, charged with tending to his domain.

Because they had been created by the god’s own hand, these spirits were intimately familiar with his temperament.

Unlike the other believers, they did not fear him—instead, they would affectionately crowd around, giggling as they rubbed against him once or twice before going about their work.

Mu Xing looked around with curiosity.

The instant he became a god, countless truths had naturally come to him, so he did not experience any sudden ignorance or confusion.

But all of this before his eyes was still wondrous and new.

Gods, he realized, were not the same as the cultivators he had once known of.

Here in this divine realm, he had the distinct sense that he was truly omnipotent.

The rising of the sun and moon, the cycles of life and death—all of it rested within a single thought.

He had never felt so powerful before.

And it was, without a doubt, a profoundly intoxicating feeling.

The little ball of light had awakened at some point.

It asked with delight, “Well? Well? Don’t you feel absolutely invincible now? You could try it—you could, in a single instant, wipe out every living being in this divine realm. And the next moment, with just a blink, you could create an entirely new realm again.”

It was a deeply tempting lure.

But Mu Xing only looked at him with puzzlement. “Have you been sleeping so much that your head’s gone soft? What meaning would there be in such a thing?”

The ball of light: “?”

“Besides…” A cool sensation brushed his fingertip.

Looking down, he saw a tiny sprite wearing a crown of flowers. It had gathered its courage to sneak over and touch the god’s fingertip with its little hand.

Realizing it had been caught, the sprite’s face flushed crimson in an instant. Even its wings forgot to flap, and with a “plop” it dropped straight into the flowerbed.

Mu Xing smiled. “They are this adorable.”

“They were born, and thus they are living beings. Even if I could recreate countless lives in the blink of an eye, those would not be them.”

The ball of light stared blankly at him.

Even after gaining such overwhelming power, power that transcended reincarnation itself, he still held reverence for fragile, powerless life?

“Ahh…” With a sigh, the white light-ball spun rapidly in place until it made itself dizzy.

Mu Xing could only watch, bewildered.

He heard it murmur hazily, “Oh no, I’m dizzy. I need to sleep.”

Mu Xing: “…”

He had neither the time nor the patience to figure out what odd thing the ball of light was up to now.

But then he had heard the prayers of the believers below.

It had been several days since the god’s revival.

Across all of Naya, every temple now had a brand-new divine image, the god depicted as radiant and merciful.

The faithful had gathered of their own accord to repair and beautify the temples.

Master painters and sculptors worked to adorn the walls and domes with murals and carvings anew, while bards roamed the land singing of the countless miracles brought by the reawakened god of Naya.

In Bailing City—

The temple where the first miracle had appeared was now completely encircled by soldiers sent to guard it.

When Mu Xing cast his sight there again, he almost thought he had gone to the wrong place.

It was utterly different from the ruined, dilapidated temple he had seen before.

Every building had been repainted and restored, gleaming anew. The temple walls and domes were covered with colorful frescoes, rare pearls and gemstones inlaid throughout.

Glorious and magnificent.

Upon the high seat at the very center, a divine figure sat in solemn dignity—a statue carved by a master sculptor after the likeness of the great statue that stood in the city square outside.

As Mu Xing’s divine thought fell upon it, the statue instantly became his incarnation.

Or, who had been praying in the temple, sensed something in that very instant.

He raised his head sharply, staring in shock and elation at the figure before him. “God… is it you?”

His legs moved on their own, and he stood at once.

The god before him looked down with a smile. “Or.”

Or’s expression froze in astonishment.

Mu Xing normally had no desire to listen to the inner voices of his followers, but Or’s emotions were so intense he could not help but hear them.

The dignified, composed high priest’s heart was screaming with joy: The god actually knows my name! Or could die without regret!

Before he could even say a second word, Or dropped to his knees with a thud, pressing his lips reverently to the hem of the god’s robe. “My god, what commands do you have for me?”

Mu Xing: “…”

He had no commands—he had only wished to come see him.

But he could not say that.

He feared if he did, the high priest would faint from happiness.

“…Rise, and speak.”

Or carefully stood, not daring even to look directly at him.

Mu Xing did recall one matter. “I have heard many prayers. In the kingdom of Nato, things seem… unsettled.”

At the mention of business, Or at last regained some composure.

He told Mu Xing that because of the god’s revival, the people of Nato were yearning urgently to return.

There had never been enmity between the two kingdoms, and all were Naya people.

They should gather again as one, and reforge the glorious Naya Empire.

But the royal house of Nato was unwilling. The small duchies and minor lords mattered little, but if the two kingdoms merged, then—who would hold the crown?

What was more, the royal family of Nato had long since pledged themselves as followers of the God of Light.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

Mu Xing was startled awake by the commotion outside.

He pulled his awareness outward and glanced around. At first glance, he noticed that the temple looked completely different—much cleaner and more beautiful, with flowers everywhere.

But he only gave it a quick look.

Because right beside him, someone was fighting.

To be precise, it was Or… and a giant white lion?

The tall, handsome man—Mu Xing’s gaze pierced through his human form in an instant and saw his true body.

A massive snow lion, pure white without a trace of other color. Its fur was bristling, mouth emitting a threatening roar, and its golden eyes glared at the high priest in front of it.

“What kind of person just attacks without saying a word first!” Amos fumed, rubbing at his left ear.

The tip of it was burning hot; just now, a fireball had grazed past his cheek without mercy.

For the thick-skinned snow lion, this little burn was nothing. What made him furious was that a few strands of the flawless hair by his ear had been scorched.

That damned Naya priest dared to damage his perfect fur.

The gold of his eyes darkened—a clear sign of an orc’s anger.

Or’s voice was ice-cold. “Any blasphemer who dares show disrespect to my god deserves death.”

Mu Xing: “…”

Don’t say things like that. It makes me sound like some dark, evil deity.

Perhaps from generations of high priests being indoctrinated, Or’s loyalty and zeal for the divine had reached an almost pathological level.

That wasn’t quite right.

Mu Xing spoke: “Or.”

Or froze, then his face lit up with ecstasy. Ignoring Amos, he dropped to his knees. “My God! Was it You who called to me?”

Mu Xing deliberately used the lofty tone of a fortune-teller to admonish him: “Calmness, kindness, and tolerance are the virtues you should possess.”

Or blinked, then lowered his head in deep shame. “I was wrong.”

Without hesitation, he turned to Amos and apologized. “Forgive me, guest from Vista, for my rudeness just now.”

Just as expected.

Mu Xing had only wanted to test how to handle a fanatic like this.

The result was clear: he didn’t need to think of any strategies at all.

He only needed to give direct orders. In Or’s eyes, whatever the god said was right. Any command, even an order for him to end his own life, he would carry out without hesitation.

Amos, seeing this man inexplicably apologizing to him, could easily guess that the cold priest must have been speaking with someone unseen.

Could it really be Naya’s god?

He stared suspiciously at the crystal orb atop the high platform, his nose twitching slightly, as if catching some faint scent.

Seeing him staring straight at the crystal that carried his god’s soul, Or’s brows knit together. He instinctively wanted to scold him—but then remembered the divine admonition just moments ago, and forcibly swallowed the words.

God had said: be tolerant, be kind.

In the time Or was restraining himself, Amos had already padded lightly toward the platform.

A nose keener than any Naya’s caught a peculiar scent.

He stared fixedly at the crystal sphere, unable to resist stretching out a paw—

Whoosh!

If he hadn’t pulled back in time, that razor-sharp wind blade would have cost him his hand.

“Shameless Vista orc!” Or’s voice shook with fury, his emerald eyes blazing with fire. “How dare you desecrate my god with your filthy hand!”

Amos: “…”

He awkwardly rubbed his nose and stepped back.

Fine. This time, he admitted, he had indeed overstepped.

“My apologies, that was my mistake,” he said, retreating several steps under the high priest’s watchful gaze.

For the sake of the flowers Amos had brought—and more importantly, because the god had spoken—Or decided not to pursue the matter.

His face remained stern. “Since the offering has concluded, guest, please leave the temple.”

Amos walked out helplessly, but even as he went, he cast several longing looks at the crystal orb.

Just now, he could have sworn he caught a familiar scent.

It was just like snowgrass, the snow lion’s favorite plant. One whiff, and he felt an irresistible urge to shift into beast form, roll lazily on the ground, and have someone brush his fur.

Watching the magnificent lion leave, Mu Xing turned to his high priest.

Or’s face was still cold, clearly still simmering with anger from earlier.

Mu Xing said, “Or, there is no need for anger. I do not mind such small matters.”

He had only meant to tell Or not to be so sensitive about everything concerning him. Or was supposed to be a calm and intelligent high priest, but the moment anything touched upon “the god,” he would explode instantly.

Such an obvious weakness.

Yet Or’s face shone with emotion at his words. “My God truly is merciful and loving, possessed of supreme virtue. Your purity is cleaner than the dewdrops on a morning petal, brighter and more selfless than the flawless moon in the night sky. Your heart is as vast as the River Edoli…”

Mu Xing: “…”

Here we go again.

Praise rolling off his tongue like mass production.

He endured it, listening to the flowery words as if it were a poetry recital. Interrupting would do no good anyway.

Finally, when the flood of praise ended, Or’s expression cooled slightly. “But, Your tolerance is not an excuse for the insolent to offend You.”

He lifted his head, eyes resolute as he gazed toward where Mu Xing resided. “As Your high priest, Your most devout believer, I cannot allow anyone to so much as graze You with offense!”

Mu Xing let out a soft sigh.

Perhaps he himself had no faith, and it was difficult for him to truly understand such emotions.

But a lack of understanding did not mean he could not feel it.

From Or, and from the Naya people who offered devotion to him, Mu Xing clearly felt the surging, sincere emotions.

And these emotions, falling upon him, transformed into threads of golden light, nourishing his divine power.

This was the power of faith.

He looked at the flowers in the temple.

Each of them had been picked at the height of their beauty, carefully taken down to be offered to their god.

It was their way of expressing reverence and love.

Mu Xing sighed softly. “I already know your hearts. But these flowers, if left on their branches, still had days of beauty ahead. Once picked, their time is short.”

He had only spoken in regret.

But as his gaze fell on the flowers, the blossoms sprouted fresh leaves and roots before Or’s eyes—his expression shifting from shock to ecstatic joy.

The flowers had regained life.

If not for the thick stone slabs covering the temple floor, they might have immediately planted themselves back into the earth.

Witnessing this, Or fell to his knees again, loudly proclaiming a miracle.

Meanwhile, a knight who had been crawling atop the high dome to dismantle a skylight happened to see everything.

Stunned, he nearly dropped to his knees then and there, forgetting he was still clinging to the window ledge. His hand slipped, and he tumbled down—only saved because his comrade caught him in time.

But he paid no mind to the near fall. Wide-eyed with awe, he shouted, “A miracle! I saw a miracle!”

He eagerly retold what he had just witnessed.

At that very moment, High Priest Or emerged from the temple, instructing the faithful to enter and carry out the flowers.

They replanted the blossoms around the temple, while the falling petals were carefully collected and treasured. Each one was tucked into pockets close to the body.

After all, these petals had been touched by their god’s grace.

Brought home, surely they would bring blessings.

The commotion in the Naya Kingdom could not be hidden.

Soon, word spread that the Naya god seemed to be awakening.

The first to receive the news was the Nato Kingdom.

Its common people cheered—though they had seceded, they were still Naya by blood.

They would never forget the glory of the once-great empire that ruled the continent, nor the god who had sheltered the land for countless millennia.

But the royal house of Nato fell briefly into panic.

They did not much believe the rumors, and even less did they wish them true.

The Nato royal family had once been nobles of the Naya Empire. After the empire fractured, they took their soldiers and retainers to found the Nato Kingdom.

Later, with the support of the Tianhai Empire, they stood as rivals against the Naya Kingdom.

In the long years since, the Nato royals had already changed their faith.

And they knew well: should the god awaken, without even a word, the people of Nato would abandon them.

The Vista Empire and the Tianhai Empire soon heard the news as well.

The war temple’s wizard and the high archbishop of the temple of light hastened into their respective sanctuaries.

*

War Temple.

An aged, white-haired wizard bowed within the temple and reported the news from the Naya Kingdom to his god.

After a long wait, a thunderous voice boomed from the sanctuary:

“The god awakening? Galia died long ago, not even ashes remain. How could there be resurrection? Nonsense!”

The wizard asked cautiously, “Then, my god, should we take any measures?”

The thunderous voice echoed from all directions: “Why bother? Let the Naya deal with their own affairs.”

“…Yes, my god,” the wizard murmured.

*

Temple of Light.

The archbishop’s rites were far more elaborate.

He bathed and robed himself in holy water infused with light’s power, then carefully washed his hands in a basin filled with flower petals.

Only when he was certain he was elegant, refined, clean, and fragrant did he enter the temple’s inner sanctum—where only those of archbishop rank or higher could step.

He knelt before a golden basin brimming with clear water.

His voice flowed like music as he prayed:

“Almighty God, your servant brings word: the god of the Naya Kingdom is said to be awakening. We cannot know whether the news is true, nor dare we rashly peer into a god’s domain. Thus we seek your will—how shall we act?”

Ripples spread across the water in the basin, widening in concentric circles.

The archbishop held his breath, waiting.

But no answer came.

At last he exhaled softly. It seemed the god was not present—or simply had no concern for such a trivial matter.

Exiting the sanctum, he spoke quietly to his attendants. “Continue to observe the Naya. Do not act.”

Even if there was only the slimmest chance the rumor was true, they dared not move rashly.

To pry into the secrets of a god was a price none of them could afford.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

Amos walked through Baling City.

Baling was the capital of the Naya Kingdom, one of the two nations formed after the old Naya Empire split apart.

Located in the south, the Naya Kingdom had stood for a thousand years with the support of the Vista Empire, locked in a stalemate against the Nato Kingdom, which was secretly backed by the Tianhai Empire.

Unlike Nato, whose upper class worshiped Tianhai’s God of Light, Naya stubbornly claimed to be the true heir of the fallen Naya Empire. They held fast to their faith in their own god—though that god had long since perished.

The Vista Empire was far less greedy than Tianhai. All they wanted from Naya was a steady stream of grain and goods. They didn’t care about its faith—Vista’s Beast God knew full well that Naya’s deity had fallen a millennium ago, and no amount of worship could bring him back.

But Tianhai was different.

The Tianhai royal family had long schemed to annex Nato. If not for Vista’s interference, Nato would have been absorbed into Tianhai’s territory already.

Since they could not conquer openly, Tianhai turned to subtle methods: they sought to harvest Nato’s faith, to rule the kingdom bloodlessly.

Amos despised these tactics, thinking them hypocritical—just like Tianhai’s people, who always flaunted themselves as refined aristocrats, while sneering at Vista’s “brainless barbarians.”

Normally, Amos would never have come to Baling at this time.

It was winter, and Vista’s people disliked going out in the cold. They preferred to light roaring fires at home, warming their houses until they were cozy, then shifting into beast form and sleeping for days.

When hunger stirred, they would lazily rise, set a great iron pot over the hearth, and cook fragrant meat broth—perhaps tossing in a handful of unpalatable vegetables.

The thought alone made Amos’ stomach growl.

He rubbed his belly and looked up at the sky in mild annoyance.

It was a fine sunny day. Naya’s climate was much milder than Vista’s, so the northern wind wasn’t unbearable. Yet under the winter sun’s warmth, he felt all the more drowsy.

If not for that cursed dream… Amos narrowed his eyes at the temple looming not far ahead.

Once, this temple had been grand. But after Naya’s god had fallen, its doors were shut. War and turmoil followed, the faithful stopped coming, and it had long since decayed.

Now, only the occasional vagrant tried to slip inside for shelter. To everyone else, the place was a forbidden ground.

Two nights ago, while trying to settle into hibernation at home, Amos had dreamed.

In the dream, months later when spring arrived, he came to visit Baling—famous for its blossoms and foods unseen in Vista.

But in that dream, this very abandoned temple was used to summon a monster through a wicked ritual.

The black-robed sorcerer even called it a god.

Amos thought him mad. In truth, he believed most Naya people were mad—still clinging to the delusion of a long-dead god even after a thousand years.

The monster devoured many innocents. Amos saw it clutching a little girl of five or six, ready to stuff her into its maw while her mother wept and begged at its feet.

And they dared call it a god. Fools.

Amos charged in and saved the child.

Here, he couldn’t help praising himself with pride: in that dream, he was brave beyond compare.

Though gravely wounded, he slew the monster. He expected to be hailed as a hero, but instead many glared at him with anger.

Fortunately, not all were blind; some carried him to a healer.

Only then did he learn that the monster had been summoned by Naya’s High Priest after eighty-one days of sacrifice—meant to be their god.

God, my ass.

The Naya had lost their minds.

Amos cursed in the dream, only for the healer to press “carelessly” on his wound, jolting him awake in pain.

When he opened his eyes, he was back on a warm fur rug, the fire in the hearth blazing.

Just a strange dream.

But Amos couldn’t sleep again.

The dream’s details were too vivid. He kept wondering: was it truly just fantasy, or a divine omen?

He rose from the blankets and went to the War Temple’s high priest.

He didn’t describe the dream outright—only that he was trapped in something so real he could not shake it.

Following the priest’s guidance, he had come here.

Now, Amos walked the narrow streets of the lower city. People stopped to stare: the son of a Vista duke, a proud scion of the Silver Lion bloodline, tall and imposing in human form. His short silver hair was neatly combed back, his features sharp and noble, and his golden eyes gleamed coldly in the sunlight.

Without question, he was a man of striking beauty.

By the time he reached the temple gates, his arms were already filled with red blossoms thrust upon him by passing young women. They called the flowers plum blossoms—blooms that thrived even in the heart of winter.

Amos stopped in his tracks.

He stared in confusion at the scene before him.

Knights dressed in the royal guard uniforms of the Naya Kingdom had completely surrounded the abandoned temple. They moved with agility, climbing the high walls and tearing down the decaying wooden boards that had long sealed the windows.

The temple doors, sealed in dust for centuries, had been flung open. Inside, the place was already swept clean, spotless.

When Amos tried to go closer, the guards blocked his way.

One of them, noticing the flowers in his arms, chuckled and pointed to the left. “If you’re here to offer flowers to the god, the line starts over there.”

Amos: ???

He turned his head and indeed saw a long queue to the left. In line stood nobles in splendid clothing alongside commoners whose cloaks were patched and worn. Every one of them wore bright, excited smiles, clutching either a single blossom or an entire bouquet.

Amos’s mind felt a little muddled.

He thought: This isn’t quite how it was in the dream.

He remembered that in the dream, even three months later, the temple had remained dark and foreboding.

Curious, he decided to see for himself, and so he joined the queue.

In front of him stood a Naya noble who looked at him with suspicion and some wariness. “A beastkin from Vista? Why aren’t you hibernating at home, and what business have you offering tribute to our god?”

“Offering tribute to the god?” Amos frowned. “Is today some special festival? I was just visiting Baling, saw everyone carrying flowers here, and thought it was some event. I figured I’d join in.”

Relations between the Vista Empire and the Naya Kingdom were fairly good; they were one another’s largest trade partners.

The Naya noble, puffing with pride, told him, “Our god has awakened. Yesterday, the god sent down an oracle, commanding us to offer flowers to Him.”

The noble held a large bouquet in his arms, filled with blooms Amos didn’t recognize. It was obvious many weren’t even in season—likely cultivated through great effort by the gardeners of noble estates. Such flowers were rare and costly in winter, yet here they were, carried by faithful hands to honor their god.

But…

The god of Naya?

Awakened?

Even sending down an oracle?

Impossible.

In the dream, that creature had known only blood and slaughter. There had been no awareness in it at all.

Amos thought grimly: These foolish Nayans must have been tricked again.

He decided to wait and see inside the temple.

After all, Nayans might not be very bright, but their food was undeniably delicious, and their flowers were famously popular in Vista.

Yes—Naya’s fur groomers and chefs had ranked among Vista’s top three most sought-after professions for years.

The line inched forward until finally it was Amos’s turn.

By then, he had already pieced together what had happened.

It was an order from the royal palace.

Apparently, the high priest—said to be the most loyal servant of the god—had heard the divine voice yesterday.

The god declared that He was awakening, and that He desired offerings of flowers and sunlight.

Flowers and sunlight?

Amos hesitated. He had assumed it was some fraud. But if it were a fraud, surely they would be demanding gold and treasures.

What use were flowers and sunlight?

And if both the high priest and the palace had issued this command…

For all his foolishness, the high priest’s devotion to the god had never been in doubt.

Amos entered the temple.

He had been here in the dream, but it hadn’t left much impression—only darkness and a suffocating gloom.

Now, however, the great doors stood wide, every skylight unbarred. Winter sunlight streamed through, forming golden beams across the space.

The temple had been scrubbed spotless. The faded reliefs and murals radiated a solemn weight of age.

There was no statue within. It was said that when the god had fallen, every idol of Him across Naya had shattered simultaneously into dust.

Instead, at the intersection of light stood a high platform. Upon it rested only a single amethyst crystal orb.

Flowers crowded around the base of the platform, lending the old temple a vivid splash of color.

Kneeling before the platform was a man, praying softly.

It was Or.

He had shed the black cloak he once wore, now clad in a deep green high priest’s robe. His long black hair spilled loose, with only a green jewel at his brow. It gleamed as brilliantly as his emerald eyes.

From the moment he heard the god’s words, all the shadows and pallor that once clung to him had vanished.

Now he waited in rapture and hope, ready to receive the god’s will at any moment.

Amos glanced at the crystal orb, doubtful.

He didn’t believe for a second that it held some resurrected deity. Turning, he studied Or instead.

He remembered this one. In the dream, the Nayans had wept, saying the monster had devoured their loyal high priest.

“Hey!” Amos called out. “You really heard the god speak to you? I’m telling you, there are a lot of frauds in this world. You Nayans can be clever about other things, but when it comes to your so-called god—”

A fireball hurtled toward him. Amos dodged just in time.

Or had risen, glaring icily at him. “Blasphemy against the god.”

You die.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

ARC 12: Suddenly, I Became a God

“Almighty God, please hear the prayer of your most devout believer. The faithful of Naya have longed for you for a thousand years…”

In a haze between dream and waking, Mu Xing heard endless whispers by his ear.

His consciousness felt as though it were being dragged down by some heavy, sticky presence, slipping toward a bottomless abyss of darkness. Only the whisper pierced through the void, reaching his ears.

…What is going on?

The voice paused, then continued: “Barton said perhaps the blood of virgins can awaken Your will. I have already sent people to Bailing City to seek out handsome boys and beautiful girls.”

Mu Xing: ???

Wait a minute.

I don’t know exactly what you’re planning, but no matter how I hear it, it doesn’t sound like anything good!

But the voice faded away, as if the person praying had already left.

Mu Xing sensed something was very wrong. He tried to call out, to stop him, but could not make a sound.

Annoyed, he furrowed his brows—and in the next instant, his immobile consciousness entered a white space.

This was his own sea of consciousness.

The orb floated there, unmoving. From experience, Mu Xing knew this guy was asleep.

Mu Xing: “…”

This ball of who-knows-what was growing more and more unmotivated.

He still didn’t know its true purpose. Aside from a few early attempts to incite him—half-hearted and ineffective—it had simply become a salted fish, lazing around.

It squatted in his consciousness sea day after day, doing nothing but sleep, living even more leisurely than Mu Xing himself.

Mu Xing moved closer and poked it with his finger.

The light-ball shuddered twice and blurted out in confusion, “Who—who ambushed me?”

Mu Xing: “…”

He was just about to reply when his consciousness was forcibly dragged back into that earlier darkness.

At the same time, a flood of memories surged into his mind.

This body belonged to a god.

More accurately, a god who had long since fallen.

On this continent, humanity once established three great empires:

The Vista Empire upon the northern ice plains.
The Tianhai Empire in the east.
And the most fertile southern lands, once home to the mighty and beautiful Naya Empire.

Each empire had its patron deity, and the gods sheltered their people.

But a thousand years ago, Naya’s god perished. Without divine protection, the vast empire tore itself apart through civil strife and invasion by its neighbors, collapsing into two kingdoms and several principalities.

Without their powerful god and empire, the people of Naya suffered endlessly.

The original body Mu Xing now inhabited was but a fragment of that fallen god’s soul, painstakingly preserved by his most loyal high priest, Or, awaiting the day of revival.

The one who had whispered to Mu Xing earlier was the descendant of that high priest—a mage who even bore the same name, Or.

For countless generations, the Or lineage had struggled to bring their god back.

But Mu Xing, having glimpsed the original story, knew the truth: Naya’s god had perished completely. That fragment of soul had long since lost its memories and sentience. Revival was impossible.

Yet Or had believed the words of a traveling merchant named Barton. Barton had given him a sheepskin scroll, inscribed with a method for reviving a god: each day, sacrifice a pair of pure, beautiful virgins, channel their blood into a ritual array, nourish the god’s soul for eighty-one days, and then the god would rise again.

Mu Xing thought they must have gone mad.

In a way, they succeeded.

But what they summoned was not their god.

The divine fragment had no consciousness left. The sinister ritual, with its blood sacrifices, only drew in countless malicious beings from hell and the dark night. These merged with that faint remnant of divinity, producing an abominable monster.

The god’s soul had no will of its own. All the array and those fiends instilled into it was corruption and malice.

From the moment of its rebirth, Naya’s “god” was nothing more than a mindless abomination that devoured human flesh and blood.

And at that time, a hero named Amos happened to arrive in the Naya lands.

He was the son of a duke from the Vista Empire. Vista worshipped a mighty god of war and beasts. Their warriors could transform into beasts in battle, sweeping all before them.

Before the Naya people could decide whether to rejoice in their god’s “revival” or lament having summoned a monster, the newborn abomination was… slaughtered.

Naya became a laughingstock once more.

Not only Naya—the very faith they once held sacred, the almighty god they once worshipped—was reduced to ridicule.

No one remembered that their great god had once protected them for millennia. All they saw was the hideous, evil, and weak creature, and equated it with their god.

Now, Mu Xing had become that god.

Or rather, his consciousness and soul had devoured and replaced the fragment of divinity preserved in the crystal Or had worshipped.

When he was forced to consume that fragment, he faintly heard a sigh in his mind.

It was the fallen god’s whisper.

The god “saw” the future.

He foresaw that his worshippers, in their zeal to revive him, would commit folly—and pay the price. The very first sacrifice consumed by the false revival would be his most loyal high priest.

He foresaw blood soaking the ground. Before the hero from Vista arrived, the abomination would already claim countless Naya lives.

He left his remaining soul fragment and all his divine power to Mu Xing, entrusting him with the task of watching over his followers.

Mu Xing thought to himself, Brother, I’m in a tough spot too.

Your followers are about to drag in people for a live sacrifice.

That ritual array is clearly no good. In the original storyline, most of the reason Or summoned that monster was because the ritual array brought in too much corrupt energy, corroding what was left of the god’s mind.

Strictly speaking, the god of the Nayans was already gone. Whatever they summoned would never be their god again.

What they managed to summon would depend entirely on the will of the thing they called forth.

Mu Xing worriedly “looked” at himself.

He couldn’t actually see anything. He only felt as though he were submerged in infinite darkness. No body, no sight, just endless black where his consciousness reached.

It felt like he was sealed.

Then he remembered. In the story, to prevent the god’s soul fragment from dissipating, the great priest had burned his own soul and life essence to forge a magical crystal orb to lock the remnant inside.

So right now, he was inside that crystal orb?

Was the ritual really the only way to revive him?

No. Mu Xing refused to accept revival bought with the blood and lives of innocents.

He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the dark void.

Very soon, he realized something was off.

He wasn’t the original fragment. His divine soul was whole, powerful. That remnant only gave him a scrap of divine energy, some information about the gods, and most importantly, passed on its identity to him.

Finally, he understood: he now carried the identity of a god.

The fragment had perished, but he was intact.

He could completely rebuild himself, cultivate anew, and use divine power to shape a new body—revive openly and legitimately.

With a god’s soul and status, his cultivation speed was beyond doubt.

Time flowed differently in the sea of consciousness. By the time he next heard movement outside, Mu Xing had already pushed his awareness past the crystal orb’s seal and could “see” what lay beyond.

It was a vast, sinister temple. The towering walls once had many skylights, all sealed for unknown reasons.

Brilliant reliefs and murals, eroded by time, now appeared scarred and ghastly. In the dim hall lit only by candles, the atmosphere was eerie.

Mu Xing really didn’t get why a god’s temple had to be this creepy.

The whole place radiated evil.

His sight moved forward. At the very center of the temple stood a high platform, as tall as a man. Atop it rested a white jade vessel, within which sat a purple crystal orb.

That should be the magic crystal that sealed him.

A man in a black cloak entered, tall, holding a wand.

When he spoke, Mu Xing immediately knew who he was.

The one who had prayed into his ears before—his most devout follower, the mage Or.

Or knelt at the high platform holding the crystal orb and began the usual pious prayer.

Then he said, “I have found a pair of beautiful virgins, and the ritual array is nearly complete. My God, just a little longer—two days from now, Your will shall descend upon Naya again, and Your radiance will once more shine upon this land…”

After a long stream of praises, he added in pain, “I know I will commit a great sin. I am willing to bear it alone, even if my soul falls into hell without release.”

Mu Xing: “…”

“No need,” he said aloud.

The kneeling figure stiffened.

…What did he just hear?

He lifted his head blankly. Mu Xing saw his face—and to his surprise, this fanatical devotee was very young.

Not only young, but uncommonly handsome. A pale, finely sculpted face, beautiful enough to drive women mad.

And he was said to be a high-level mage, proof of rare talent in the arcane.

Unfortunately, this person had never lived for himself.

His whole life was spent serving a god long since dead, even to the point of committing terrible mistakes. In the end, he died miserably in a monster’s jaws.

Blind faith truly led nowhere.

Mu Xing spoke again: “I said, it is not necessary.”

The voice fell into Or’s mind, ethereal and indistinct, impossible to tell whether it was male or female.

His eyes went wide. He stared dumbly up at the crystal orb, tears slipping uncontrollably from his green eyes as he wept: “Is it truly You answering me, my God?”

Mu Xing, inexplicably softened, sighed inwardly.

He couldn’t stand people crying.

Especially not good-looking ones.

He answered, “It is I.”

“No ritual, no sacrifice,” he emphasized. “Blood cannot bring me back—only add to my chains. Release them.”

“I have heard your prayers. After eighty-one days, I shall return. My radiance will be reborn upon this land.” He calculated that with cultivation, he should be able to reshape a divine body by then.

Or needed time to process what he had just heard.

Then he burst into joy. “I am not dreaming? My God, I am luckier than all my forebears, to live and see Your glorious form return to us—”

“Stop.” Mu Xing cut him off, already with a headache from the endless flattery.

Even a single word from him struck Or’s ears like heavenly music.

So the man fell silent obediently. “My God, what are Your commands?”

Mu Xing thought. If Or really needed to do something…

“Offer me some flowers. And open the skylights.”

This sinister atmosphere was enough to make even a god uncomfortable.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

Mu Xing saw Xu Hui in the hospital.

After five years, he looked more worn than before.

Of course—Xu Hui had always been a few years older than Mu Xing, busy day and night in the workplace, his fatigue obvious to the naked eye.

By contrast, Mu Xing looked almost no different from five years ago.
Maybe it was because his life was peaceful, his mindset steady. Or maybe it was thanks to his plant-based ability. Xu Hui even thought he looked in better shape than when they’d worked together.

“Mu Xing.” Xu Hui lay on the hospital bed, surprised that Mu Xing had really come—and so quickly at that.

Half-joking, half-complaining, he said, “You heartless brat. Back then you just left like that, and you didn’t even tell me about awakening an ability—such a huge deal! You just ran off to the capital and never came back.”

Mu Xing set the fruit basket he was carrying aside, sat down, and said, “I thought, senior, that you’d be glad I left.”

Xu Hui’s heart gave a little jolt, but he forced a smile. “How could I be?”

Mu Xing gave a faint smile and asked, “Senior, I heard after you woke up you kept asking for me. What is it?”

Xu Hui coughed, his gaze intent on Mu Xing. “You’re working at the Agricultural Institute now, right? I saw the government announcement about your research results. Forget the rest—just that potato-wheat hybrid alone is enough to win you the highest prize. You know, back when we worked together, I looked after you a lot. Don’t you think you could use your connections to give me a hand?”

So that was it.

Mu Xing instantly lost interest. He had wondered what Xu Hui was plotting. But really, wasn’t this how people were? Everything came back to profit and gain.

He refused: “No. Do you know what kind of place the Agricultural Institute is? It’s full of real experts. Senior, what do you think you could actually do there?”

Xu Hui was unwilling: “Then what about the Base? I saw online that you call the shots there. They all call you Instructor Mu. You could just find me some easy job—something steady, a guaranteed paycheck. The salary doesn’t even have to be high…”

Mu Xing: “…”

He thought the man must have lost his mind.

He stood up, rummaged through the fruit basket, and pulled out a peach, handing it to Xu Hui.

Xu Hui’s face darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mu Xing said, “Senior, it’s better to be straightforward. To be honest, I didn’t come here to repay you for anything. I only wanted to ask you one question.”

“Five years ago, at the bar—did you tell two foreigners about the abnormalities in me?”

So much time had passed that Xu Hui should have forgotten. But back then, Mu Xing had left only a couple of days later, and Xu Hui had been thrilled to lose a powerful rival. He remembered it very clearly.

“Why are you asking that?” he asked warily.

Mu Xing told him: “Those two were members of Zero Organization, infamous internationally. You might not have known, but they had countless murders on their hands and carried out human experiments. The night after you told them, they came for me.”

Xu Hui’s eyes widened.

Mu Xing calmly met his gaze. “If I hadn’t realized in time and called the police, they would have taken me. I might never have had the chance to stand here again.”

For some reason, even though Mu Xing’s expression was calm, Xu Hui felt an overwhelming pressure.

He swallowed hard and tried to argue: “But nothing happened, right? Just a false alarm.”

Mu Xing looked at him with an unreadable expression. “It was only by the smallest margin. That night, I was lying in bed. They were outside my door, prying it open. They had already stepped into my room.”

“Senior, if I had been taken, if I had died—would you have felt guilty?”

In broad daylight, Xu Hui felt a chill down his back.

He shifted uncomfortably. The anesthesia from surgery was wearing off, and sharp pain broke into sweat on his forehead.

He forced a laugh. “If you don’t want to help me, then fine, but why bring up these old things?”

Mu Xing rose to his feet. “You may call them old things. But to me, they are unforgettable for life.”

“I remember you once looked after me. I also remember you secretly throwing away my important materials out of jealousy. And I remember your ‘careless mistake’…”—the one that, in the original story, condemned this body to endless suffering.

Xu Hui’s face went pale. He had been careful. How could Mu Xing know?

“So, senior, don’t come looking for me again. Don’t think of getting anything from me. The fact that I haven’t taken revenge is already the last bit of mercy I’ll show you.”

Xu Hui collapsed weakly against the bed, staring blankly as Mu Xing left.

*

Later, Xu Hui quit his job, moved to another city, married, and had children.

With his degree and credentials, he found decent work, though it was exhausting.

Under pressure, he would drown himself in bars, and once drunk, he lost control. He paid the price more than once, and only grew more restrained as he aged.

Every so often he would see livestream videos from the Agricultural Institute. Sometimes Mu Xing appeared in them, wearing a straw hat, smiling in the sunlight as he introduced a new product he had developed.

Mu Xing was farther and farther beyond his reach.

One day, he overheard his wife and daughter talking about Mu Xing, praising how amazing he was.

He couldn’t help but say: “Mu Xing? I know him. He was my direct junior. When he’d just graduated and joined my company, I even looked after him back then.”

His wife just rolled her eyes at him. “You don’t have much ability yourself, but you sure know how to brag!”

*

Nearly twenty years after the Great Awakening, it seemed that only then did foreign ability-users and ordinary people reach a brief consensus: to stop trying to annihilate each other and begin coexisting peacefully.

Some foreign experts grumbled bitterly: “China found the correct path twenty years ago, yet never once shared it with their neighbors.”

Netizens mocked them: “Take the same beast-type abilities as an example. In our country, ability-users work in amusement parks, spreading their wings and letting children experience the joy of real flight. Yours stand in churches pretending to be angels, deceiving believers. We never hid anything from you—you just didn’t want to learn.”

Mu Xing was no longer an instructor, because by then, awakening abilities had become ordinary, everyday occurrences. When an awakening happened, one simply went to the relevant department to register and then waited safely at home for it to settle.

Afterward, a more detailed record would be made at the bureau.

This marked the complete integration of ability-users into ordinary society—no different from any other citizen.

Mu Xing spent his whole life happily nestled in the agricultural institute, researching and producing countless new varieties: flowers, vegetables, staple crops.

He was honored online as the “Shennong of the Modern Age.”

He lived more than a hundred years, and even in his later days, his spirit remained sharp and youthful, his demeanor more vigorous than his true age.

On the afternoon of his passing, he had a faint premonition but told no one. He brewed himself a pot of tea as usual, reclined on the balcony chair, and leisurely basked in the sunlight.

The old man lying there with his eyes closed seemed only to have dozed off.

When his caretaker came over with afternoon tea and called to him, he did not respond. Alarmed, she hurried closer—and saw that on the elder’s chest, a flower had begun to grow.

More precisely, a plant, slender and graceful in form, its branches and leaves unfolding elegantly. At its tip was a jade-white bud, half open, half closed.

Before her astonished eyes, Mu Xing’s body gradually became translucent and then vanished, leaving only the flower behind.

The bud slowly blossomed, falling lightly onto the empty lounge chair.

The caretaker instinctively bent to pick it up. When her fingers touched it, it felt like ice. A moment later, the ice melted—

Turning into drifting stardust, scattering into the golden sunlight of the afternoon.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

When Fu Qing finished speaking, the other two in the room, Xue Ran and Zhao Yunxiao, both turned to watch Officer Chen’s reaction. Though neither of them had participated directly in the conversation, their tension was no less intense.

They noticed that after Fu Qing’s final words, “more people will die,” Officer Chen’s entire presence changed. The approachable demeanor he used when dealing with ordinary civilians vanished, replaced by the quiet pressure forged through years of investigating major criminal cases.

His expression barely shifted, but Xue Ran could tell from subtle changes in his posture that his whole body had tightened. Even his right arm, the one closest to his holster, moved slightly, by perhaps two centimeters. Translated on Hololo novels.

He was weighing things carefully, which was why he remained silent for a long moment.

Clearly, Officer Chen did not fully trust what Fu Qing had said.

Xue Ran grew alert. Even the less perceptive Zhao Yunxiao sensed that the atmosphere had turned tense.

Fu Qing, however, acted as if she noticed nothing. Fixing her gaze on Officer Chen, she asked her final question:

“Officer Chen, are you willing to trust me?”

Zhao Yunxiao’s expression shifted subtly as he glanced at her without drawing attention.

On the way here, the three of them had already discussed a basic plan for what to do after arriving at the station. Zhao Yunxiao had shared his own experience of turning in information about the system before. He knew that news of this magnitude could never be concealed by Officer Chen alone.

Once reported upward, higher authorities would inevitably take over. In truth, Fu Qing did not need to lower her stance or ask for his “trust.”

Yet that single, softer question changed the mood entirely.

Officer Chen seemed momentarily stunned. The gentler tone loosened something in him, prompting memories of their previous encounters.

He remembered how Fu Qing had risked herself to rescue a student trapped in a tree, how she had subdued a suspect who drove recklessly through a crowded street.

He also recalled rumors circulating within the station recently.

After everything that had happened… she should be someone worth trusting.

His eyes flickered. At last, he made his decision and stood up.

“Please wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.”

The door closed behind him. Soon afterward, faint footsteps approached and stopped outside.

Probably someone assigned to watch them, Xue Ran thought. But the next moment the door opened, and a young officer entered carrying paper cups, pouring water for the three of them.

“Please sit for a bit. The captain will be back soon.”

He hurried out again.

Xue Ran stared at the cup of cooled boiled water, incredulous. “They actually believe us?”

It had gone far more smoothly than she expected. She hadn’t even revealed her status as a hero’s family member.

“Probably thanks to the goodwill from that pedestrian street case,” Zhao Yunxiao said after thinking for a moment.

“Not just that.” Leaning back in her chair, Fu Qing glanced at Xue Ran’s puzzled face, clearly in a good mood. “We should also thank those students who couldn’t sit still during summer break and kept doing good deeds everywhere.”

“As far as I know, during the two months of summer vacation, there were four news reports in S City about university students acting bravely to help others. All four were Fangzhou students.”

Because those stories had appeared in local news, the system had informed her.

Of the four incidents, one involved rescuing a drowning child; the other three were criminal cases. Officer Chen, as captain of the Criminal Investigation Division, would certainly have known about them.

Even Fu Qing hadn’t expected the students’ actions to help her in such an indirect way.

With Officer Chen willing to trust her, everything became much easier. As captain of the municipal criminal investigation team, his position was neither low nor especially high. Compared with the officials she would soon face, it might not carry overwhelming authority, but his words still held weight.

With him vouching for her, matters would proceed far more smoothly.

…

The bureau chief was in a meeting. Officer Chen rushed straight to the deputy chief’s office, delivered a rapid report, and after a flurry of confusion was sent back with instructions to “keep them there for now.” He immediately turned and ran toward the meeting room again.

Halfway there, something suddenly occurred to him. He stopped abruptly and ordered an officer beside him:

“Tell everyone outside to cover their entire bodies. No exposed skin except the eyes. Not a single gap. They absolutely must not get bitten!”

His voice turned grave.

“And earlier some civilians came here for shelter, right? I saw injuries on some of them. Have officers wrap themselves up and ask how those wounds happened. Separate anyone with injuries and keep them isolated from others.”

Before Fu Qing arrived, they had already watched some videos and roughly understood that people bitten sometimes began behaving abnormally.

But in those videos, victims lost rationality immediately after being bitten. Those who were bitten yet still appeared normal, able to talk and move and even come to the station for help, naturally aroused no suspicion among the officers.

They had been placed together with other civilians for protection.

Yet according to Fu Qing, any bite, regardless of location, could cause infection. Officer Chen did not understand why some people had not transformed immediately, but caution now overrode doubt.

The officer beside him did not question the order and hurried off to carry it out.

Before Officer Chen could return to the meeting room, he heard a commotion echoing down the hallway.

After a brief hesitation, he changed direction and headed toward the noise, only to find a group of people shoving one another.

One of them was the officer he had just dispatched. The young policeman was gripping a middle-aged man’s arm. Blood stained the man’s short-sleeved shirt, and upon closer inspection, a ring of bite marks could be seen beneath the fabric.

The wound was not deep, but blood continued to seep steadily outward.

When the young officer said he needed to take the man away for isolation, a family member flew into a rage. Face flushed, he clutched the man’s other arm and repeatedly shoved the officer trying to approach.

“What are you doing? The outside is chaos and you ignore that, but you lock up people who came here to survive? Are you police or bandits?!”

“We’re not arresting him,” the officer explained quickly, thinking on his feet. “We just want injured people to stay in a separate room. The conditions are better, he can rest, and we can help treat the wound.”

But the man refused to listen, shouting angrily, “Bullshit! You’re just making excuses to lock people up and never let them out!”

His agitation made Officer Chen frown instinctively. Something about it suggested the man was hiding something. Before he could intervene, however, the middle-aged man being held between them suddenly went limp and collapsed.

His eyes rolled upward, showing only the whites, while incoherent muttering slipped from his mouth. The relative exploded in anger.

“My brother’s been out in the sun too long already! He wasn’t feeling well, and now you pushed him. Look what you’ve done!”

The last word died in his throat.

He looked down in horror and saw his brother’s mouth opening wide, snapping blindly toward him.

Though his eyes were still rolled back, instinct seemed to guide him. Unable to see, he bit hard onto the leg of his brother’s jeans.

Realizing he had not bitten flesh, he turned his head again and lunged toward the arm supporting him.

The young officer finally reacted, shouting a warning as he pulled the two apart, but he himself let out a startled cry.

Officer Chen’s heart lurched. He sprinted down half the corridor, quickly dislocated the man’s jaw in a practiced motion, then spun toward his subordinate, eyes blazing.

“Did he bite you?!”

Looking down, he saw thick gloves covering the officer’s hands.

Startled by his superior’s reaction, the young policeman reflexively wiped saliva from the gloves onto his pants. “N-no, sir. He bit the gloves…” He had shouted earlier simply because the man’s behavior looked disgusting.

“You told us to cover ourselves up,” he added cautiously. “So I grabbed a pair of gloves too. Is something wrong?”

Only then did Officer Chen’s racing heart finally begin to settle. Still shaken, he turned to look at the middle-aged man, whose jaw hung dislocated yet who continued trying to bite relentlessly.

A small puddle of drool had already formed on the tiled floor.

The man claiming to be his brother now stood silently to the side, eyes fixed on him while subtly keeping his distance.

He really had been hiding something.

Officer Chen snorted coldly. The man had likely seen someone mutate after being bitten while fleeing and concealed the truth out of fear his relative would be taken away. Now that the situation had been exposed, he had caused a scene. Yet once he realized his brother truly posed a danger, he retreated and waited for the police to deal with it instead.

Officer Chen ordered his subordinates to cuff the infected man. Before the brother could protest, he ordered that he be handcuffed as well.

“Didn’t you say you didn’t want to be separated? Then lock the two of them together.”

The man’s face twisted instantly.

Even restrained, being confined with someone who had lost all reason was psychological torture. But Officer Chen gave him no chance to argue further. With a wave of his hand, he had both men taken away, then glanced once more at the transforming middle-aged man.

Color was rapidly draining from his skin. Blue veins began bulging along his neck, swelling grotesquely beneath the surface.

Skin turning bluish… veins protruding along the face and neck… loss of speech…

As long as zombies create a wound, contact with saliva or blood causes infection…

Everything she said was true.

Officer Chen pressed a hand to his chest. Even with his strong mental discipline, dizziness crept over him.

An extremely simple method of infection. Near-certain transmission. Overwhelming aggression and bodies with almost no weaknesses.

It felt like a bucket of ice water poured over him in the dead of winter. A bone-deep chill spread through him.

He had a sudden realization.

The apocalypse had truly begun.

At that moment, his phone rang. Grabbing it like a lifeline, he shouted into it:

“What she said is true! Just now, a civilian who had been attacked at least fifteen minutes earlier, with no abnormal symptoms during that time, suddenly mutated! No matter what it takes, this must be reported upward immediately—”

When he had reported earlier to the deputy director, he believed he had already described Fu Qing’s past actions and reliability thoroughly enough. Now he regretted not emphasizing it even more, wishing he had made her sound even more credible to ensure those above would believe her.

The person on the other end spoke.

Officer Chen’s excited voice stopped abruptly. He held his breath, listening for several seconds. His eyes widened suddenly, and he strode quickly back to the meeting room, pushing the door open with force.

The three inside turned toward him simultaneously.

His face flushed as he said, “There’s an emergency meeting in three minutes. Please cooperate and attend with me.”

Thinking of the other participants mentioned on the call, he instinctively glanced over the clothing of all four of them, including himself. In twenty years of service, he had never felt this nervous.

But within two seconds, he forced the feeling away.

At a time like this, who cared about appearances?

Steadying himself, Officer Chen turned around.

“Please follow me.”

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Next

Fu Qing’s video of killing a zombie triggered fierce debate inside the department.

It had been nearly an hour since unexplained violent attacks broke out across the country. Everyone in every unit was already anxious to the point of frenzy. Ordinary people were terrified for themselves and their loved ones, but these staff members carried the responsibility of protecting the entire population. And no one understood better than they did what was happening nationwide at that very moment.

In the half hour from 2:30 to 3:00 alone, the death toll reported from various regions had surged past ten thousand, and that was only the portion that had been filed and preliminarily verified. Translated on Hololo novels. It was the number of “abnormal deaths” confirmed by frontline institutions like hospitals, local police stations, and neighborhood committees, then escalated level by level and finally consolidated.

Many more had died in the streets with no one to collect their bodies, or had turned into similar attackers and started roaming. There was no time to wait for professionals to arrive and conduct formal death certifications.

The figure lagged badly, with a huge margin of error.

What was the real death toll? Double? Triple?

Or ten times that…?

They did not dare imagine it.

After 3:00, the number of reported deaths actually began to drop further, but that only meant the situation had become even more chaotic. Police capacity was consumed, hospitals were overflowing, and many frontline workers themselves had been attacked and transformed into those monsters.

They were utterly unprepared for an incident like this. The number of outbreaks and the scale of them were unprecedented.

At first, they thought it was a terror operation by some extremist organization. But any group capable of causing chaos on this scale could not possibly have grown secretly on China soil without anyone knowing. Later, after they captured a living “attacker,” they judged from the person’s physiological abnormalities that this was likely an infectious disease.

But what kind of infectious disease could appear simultaneously, without warning, across multiple regions around the world? It completely upended epidemiological understanding.

Even if someone had poisoned something, no organization on earth could pull off synchronized poisoning on this scale, in so many places at once.

Everyone felt despair.

When science cannot explain something, people cannot help but turn their hope elsewhere, longing, even begging for someone to step forward and give them answers.

What kind of virus was it? How did it spread? How high was the fatality rate? Could the mutated, infected people ever return to normal?

The mutants were ordinary citizens. If they could not be killed outright, it took more time to subdue and detain them. Yet in that time, more and more mutants would appear without end.

There were too many unknowns, severely hindering the creation of countermeasures. Lives were at stake. They could not make conclusions lightly, and yet time did not wait.

Every second, someone was dying.

The later they found answers, the more would die.

How could anyone not be frantic?

Higher authorities had temporarily issued a notice urging everyone to stay home and avoid crowded places. At the same time, police, special forces, and armed units began operations to control infected individuals on the streets. To avoid igniting public panic, the focus was on suppression, and unless absolutely necessary, they were not to harm lives.

But everyone could see this was not a long-term solution. Medical experts convened emergency meetings. Other departments mobilized as well. It was at this moment that Fu Qing’s video surfaced in the public-opinion monitoring system.

She was the first person they had found who clearly identified a weak point in the mutants.

Of course, nearly an hour in, the military and many netizens across the country had already discovered through survival attempts that attacking the head could kill these “zombies” quickly. But few stated it as clearly and decisively as she did.

After all, in ordinary common sense, destroying the head causes death, so it did not automatically connect to the mutants’ special traits.

That made people suspect the young woman in the video might know more.

A one-minute clip was replayed again and again in the conference room. Some, like the netizens, worried they were reading too much into it, that Fu Qing was merely teaching a useful self-defense method, and that in a crisis they should not waste time on an ordinary civilian. Others insisted there was more hidden in her words and argued they had to find her immediately.

They argued without end, until the person at the head of the table finally raised a hand and made the call. “Report the video’s content up the chain. Immediately locate the original uploader’s IP, and contact local police to conduct an in-person verification.”

Even if it turned out to be a dead end, they had to try to seize that one-in-ten-thousand chance.

*

The meeting broke quickly as everyone moved to carry out orders. But the system protected Fu Qing’s and the Fangzhou students’ online traces extremely well. Just as the police had once tried to investigate the mysterious group connected to Liu Yong and found nothing, it was difficult to find them on the internet.

In the face of two higher-dimensional constructs, the system and the Zombie King, human power was simply too weak and too small.

When they searched the web and still could not locate Fu Qing, Fu Qing, instead, delivered herself right to their doorstep.

At 3:30 p.m., Fu Qing appeared at the entrance of a police station with Zhao Yunxiao and Xue Ran.

She had called Officer Chen in advance, saying there was something important she needed to discuss, then set the meeting location at his station without room for argument. The car had not even reached the entrance yet when the three of them saw Officer Chen standing outside from a distance.

He wore a ballistic vest and was fully armed, frowning as he kept scanning outward. Once he confirmed it was Fu Qing in the vehicle, he quickly waved for the guard to open the electric gate.

Fu Qing drove straight into a parking spot. After she stopped, the three of them jumped out. Officer Chen was already waiting in front of the car and launched into them. “Didn’t you see what’s online? It’s this dangerous out there right now. What could possibly be so important it can’t be said on the phone!”

He caught sight of Xue Ran behind her and jolted again. “You even brought students out?!”

Just looking at them made Officer Chen feel chilled with fear. Thank goodness nothing had happened on the way.

He guessed Fu Qing didn’t yet understand what was going on and was about to pull her inside to explain properly, but Fu Qing moved first, striding toward the entrance.

She had come here once before to give a statement, so she knew the place well. Fu Qing walked straight inside with familiarity, Zhao Yunxiao and Xue Ran following closely behind her. Instead, Officer Chen ended up trailing at the rear.

Officer Chen: “……”

Fu Qing stepped onto the stairs, then turned back slightly and tilted her head politely, signaling for him to follow. “What I’m about to say is very important. I assume you wouldn’t want to waste time lecturing me.”

With the outside world already in chaos, what could possibly be more important than the bodies lying everywhere?

Officer Chen muttered inwardly. Honestly, if the caller hadn’t been Fu Qing, he would never have come out personally to meet her.

Nearly eighty percent of the station’s manpower was already deployed outside. Thinking about the many people still waiting for help made every second spent inside feel unbearable to him.

He shook his head and hurried after her.

He wanted to hear exactly what Fu Qing had come to say.

*

Inside the station, staffing had dropped by more than half compared to normal. Officers moving through the halls were all armed, their expressions tense. When the chaos began outside, many civilians handling paperwork and suspects brought in for questioning had been trapped inside the station. Some officers stayed behind to guard and protect them, while the rest had all been dispatched.

Fu Qing glanced at Officer Chen’s gear. Although he wore a ballistic vest, it was summer, and the protection wasn’t thorough. Underneath, he was still wearing short sleeves.

That offered no protection against zombies.

“You can contact the officers outside, right? Tell them to cover all exposed skin,” Fu Qing suddenly said, gesturing toward her own forearm. His was completely exposed. “Wear gloves that don’t leave fingers uncovered. Cover the head, face, and neck as much as possible. As long as zombies create even a small wound, contact with saliva or blood can cause infection. Protecting only vital organs is useless.”

Officer Chen stopped mid-step and turned back in surprise. “What?”

He hadn’t processed it yet.

Fu Qing glanced ahead. An empty meeting room stood before them, clearly their destination. She walked in first and took out a tablet, pulling up a video. “Watch this first.”

The footage was none other than the livestream replay from earlier.

She hadn’t bothered searching for the original and simply saved the clip uploaded by a netizen.

Fortunately, she had downloaded it quickly. Not long afterward, the post disappeared and the trending topic was removed.

Fu Qing had expected the takedown. So far, every official response matched exactly what had happened in her previous life.

Coming to find Officer Chen had always been part of her plan. She never intended to face the apocalypse alone with only Fangzhou’s two thousand residents. Translated on Hololo novels. The system’s rule forbidding disclosure of apocalypse-related information expired at 2:30 p.m., the moment the disaster began.

She was always going to come, and the sooner she did, the more people could be saved.

But she hadn’t come immediately at 2:30 because she still had concerns.

First, once she revealed information about zombies, she would inevitably face intense scrutiny and possibly movement restrictions. She might not be able to return to the school for some time. Before that, she had needed to settle matters at Fangzhou.

Second, she needed time to observe.

Strictly speaking, this world was only a parallel version of her previous one. In this timeline, there was no Fu Qing of the past, no teachers who had died before, and because the Zombie King had also been reborn and organized the believers ahead of time, even zombie evolution had changed drastically.

Her knowledge was no longer perfectly accurate.

If she intended to trade intelligence for official trust, inaccuracies could be fatal.

For example, the news anchor who died at the beginning of the apocalypse had changed from a female host in her previous life to a male host here. That detail alone had put her on guard. This “second-round world” clearly differed in many small ways.

She had needed confirmation that no larger deviations existed. So she forced herself to wait and observe until the trending topics were removed and the stay-at-home notice issued.

She could not wait any longer.

If she delayed further, authorities would repeat earlier strategic missteps. Strictly speaking, they weren’t mistakes but caution.

Unfortunately, caution was the worst mindset when racing against zombies. Infection spread too fast. One slow step would become many.

Until everything became irreversible.

Fu Qing sat calmly across from Officer Chen, watching his expression change repeatedly as he watched the video, as if she could hear his brain spinning faster and faster before finally crashing with a silent boom.

When the video ended, he remained silent for several seconds. His lips moved as if searching for words. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained with shock.

“You… why are you showing me this video?”

That being his first question surprised Zhao Yunxiao slightly.

But Fu Qing was satisfied. Officer Chen was shocked, yet he had followed her reasoning.

She herself was sitting right here. She could have simply explained everything verbally. Showing the video meant two things: first, she needed visual evidence to help him confirm something. Second, the video served another purpose.

The first reason was obvious, to let him observe the zombies’ reactions.

Fu Qing opened another clip from her gallery. “I downloaded this online. A passerby filmed someone fighting back with a kitchen cleaver during an attack. The person struck the zombie more than a dozen times. Two blows landed on the neck, and one was extremely deep.”

She dragged the timeline frame by frame, paused, and zoomed in.

The footage was blurry, but through the pixels one could still see that more than half the cleaver blade had sunk into the attacker’s neck.

A normal person would have collapsed instantly. Translated on Hololo novels. But when the video resumed, the attacker barely reacted, didn’t even clutch their neck, and continued walking forward.

The person wielding the cleaver screamed and cried for help in mental collapse, swinging wildly. Some strikes hit the face but weren’t deep enough to stop movement.

While being hacked into a bloody mess, the zombie finally bit the attacker.

The victim convulsed briefly and went still.

After some time, he slowly rose back to his feet.

The video ended there.

“Notice anything?” Fu Qing asked.

Officer Chen stared blankly. “Even with their neck nearly severed, they can still move… Is something like that even human?”

His thoughts immediately jumped to the officers already deployed outside.

Their orders were to suppress and arrest attackers. If this were terrorism, those people would face trial later. If it were disease, they would be treated once a cure was found.

But if these things were no longer human, did those actions still make sense?

A chill ran through him as realization struck. “When you said in the video that the attackers, no, the zombies, have a weakness in the brain… do you mean only attacking the brain can kill them?”

He stressed the word “only.”

A nearly severed neck still wasn’t fatal. As he grasped the monsters’ resilience, he also realized how explosive the information Fu Qing brought truly was.

“How did you know that?!” he blurted.

“I’ll explain everything,” Fu Qing said, glancing at her watch. “But before that, to avoid wasting time, could you help report this upward?”

“This video has already been deleted. If we’re lucky, it might still be flagged by the monitoring system as sensitive information. But too many zombie videos were uploaded at the same time. I’m not sure it’ll receive enough attention, so I need your help.”

She watched his pupils contract.

“You can tell them that I, and the person beside me, possess over ninety-five percent of the available intelligence about these creatures. This video is proof. Less than half an hour after the outbreak began, I already knew their weakness and how to kill them.”

“Every second from now on, tens of thousands of people will die. The sooner they come to me, the more lives can be saved.”

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Trending searches?

Fu Qing lifted an eyebrow, closed the system interface, and opened an app on her phone.

The trending list was now filled with virus-related topics. The number one entry was only two characters, #Zombies#, followed by a dark red tag reading “Exploding.”

Close behind came a string of hot topics: #Biting incidents erupt simultaneously across multiple regions worldwide# (Exploding), #Has the zombie virus really appeared?# (Exploding), #New virus suspected to spread through biting#, #News anchor attacked during live broadcast, feared dead on the spot#, #Foreign influencer opens fire into crowd to protect themselves#, and so on. Every entertainment and ordinary social-news item had been pushed down.

Fu Qing scrolled, and at the very bottom finally saw an entry: #Survival streamer live-broadcasts killing a zombie#.

The video was clipped from the stream and uploaded by a passerby account with almost no followers. The cover was heavily mosaicked, yet a swath of vivid red could still be seen.

On a normal day, posting something so grotesque and bloody would have detonated the comments section, but today, compared with the other trending items, this image almost didn’t stand out anymore.

Only two points truly drew attention. First, Fu Qing had done it during a “livestream,” which in itself was sensational.

Second, and more importantly, her purpose differed from other creators filming zombie attacks. From her wording, she wasn’t spreading panic or simply recording events. She was teaching people how to kill the mysterious “monster” that had suddenly appeared.

The clip wasn’t long, with just over a minute of Fu Qing on screen, yet it contained an enormous amount of information.

First: while the public still hadn’t reached consensus on what these mutants were, and were using all kinds of labels like “monster,” “biter,” and “attacker,” she was the first creator so far to explicitly call the infected who attacked after mutating “zombies.”

Second: she identified a zombie’s weak points and a method of killing it. She even demonstrated it live and proved the method worked.

Compared with those two points, the third was more negative.

Just like the concerns raised in the livestream chat, some commenters expressed doubt, saying Fu Qing moved far too cleanly and decisively: “It’s like she’s killed thousands of zombies before.”

After all, this thing had appeared less than half an hour ago. And given that many people who were bitten later lost their minds in the same way, the earliest zombies likely had been human.

Even if they weren’t, Fu Qing’s ability to strike down a humanoid creature so crisply, and to maintain a calm, detached observer’s posture through the entire process of its struggle and death, as if watching an object rather than a being, still made viewers feel an instinctive chill at her elevated, predatory demeanor.

Some argued the information she provided was extremely valuable and deserved a much higher trending position than other clips.

Others believed the present chaos was fertile ground for crime: “Who knows what she practiced on to become that skilled,” they said, insisting nothing she claimed should be trusted.

The two sides fought viciously in the comments, driving the video’s popularity higher and higher.

Most of the marketing accounts that normally chased traffic had already stopped operating. This clip was spreading mainly through ordinary users sharing it on their own.

True or not, she was at least the only person teaching “how to fight back against zombies” and “where a zombie’s weak point is.” And judging from how quickly the zombie died in the footage, what she said carried a certain credibility.

So people forwarded it to relatives and friends.

Better safe than sorry. If they ran into an attacker, at least they would have a method to try.

The reports circulating online were too horrific, scenes no ordinary person raised in peacetime had ever witnessed or knew how to handle. In panic, the information Fu Qing offered became the only lifeline they could cling to.

The clip’s momentum kept building.

Gradually, it drew in viewers who recognized the account @Dorm Escape Royale, and they began commenting beneath it.

People were shocked to discover the clip came from a one-year anniversary livestream by an apocalypse survival creator, someone who had predicted a year earlier that an apocalypse would break out roughly one year later.

And the chosen livestream date had collided exactly with the day the zombies appeared.

Was it coincidence, or something intentional?

How much did the five people behind @Dorm Escape Royale know, and what about this mysterious sixth guest who finally showed her face?

Yet this fan’s comment also eased some of the public’s suspicions about Fu Qing.

She said Fu Qing had appeared in the account’s early video, and even then had displayed combat ability well beyond normal.

“She probably has training. Her skills are really good. A trained person, in an apocalypse, kills a zombie in self-defense by accident and figures out its weak point, then uses the livestream to tell everyone. Isn’t that normal?”

“As for calling them zombies, put aside the fact their behavior matches zombies in movies. Anyone who’s watched even a little of Country A’s zombie films would call them that. And Taotao is literally an apocalypse blogger, saying it out of habit is completely normal.”

“She said the weak point is the brain, but she didn’t say it’s only the brain. ‘The weakness is in the brain’ might just be what we know so far. Why nitpick? If it works, it works.”

Just like the students back then, unable to accept the idea of rebirth and inventing explanations for Fu Qing, the audience of @Dorm Escape Royale did the same now.

They quickly found a plausible rationale for her actions.

It was also worth noting that over the past year, in order to maximize how many people would believe them when the crucial moment came, Su Huaijin, Sun Wei, and the others had managed the account extremely well.

The fanbase was loyal, their general reputation strong, and they had never been involved in scandal.

So when one person spoke up, many more followed, defending Fu Qing.

The trending rank kept climbing. More people reposted and debated, and the commotion grew louder.

Before long, the clip caught the attention of people with ulterior motives.

When the related topic rose into the top ten, and time reached 3:30, nearly an hour after the virus outbreak, every zombie-related topic was abruptly removed in unison and traffic-limited.

A new pinned top item replaced them. Translated on Hololo novels. Unlike the intense wording and bloody footage in user uploads, this was an official-media bulletin from the relevant authorities. It addressed the unexplained violent incidents across multiple locations, urging citizens to shelter at home and avoid crowded public places.

Beyond that, it offered no further information.

Fu Qing stared at the bulletin, thoughtful.

She brought up the system panel again, edited and sent two messages. Then she paused, switched into the marketplace, and made a purchase.

The sudden 200 teaching points solved an urgent shortage, just enough to buy what she needed.

【Cost: 300 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Wristband (Standard) ×10,000】

Unlike the wristbands used by students and staff, this standard wristband had none of the extra features like maps, forums, or privacy shielding. It was closer to an ordinary electronic watch. The face displayed time, date, and a compass. Beyond that, it had built-in location tracking and an emergency alarm button on the side.

Press and hold for two seconds, wait for the vibration, then press once more, and an SOS signal would automatically be sent to all nearby wristband holders, including both this model and the student and staff versions, and it would also sync to Fu Qing.

After the vibration, pressing twice would broadcast the wearer’s location to all radio receivers within five kilometers.

It also had a simplified 3D projection panel like the student wristbands, but only for registration and check-in.

That was why it was so cheap.

Fu Qing bought the wristbands and pulled out about three thousand from the warehouse. A huge box appeared in front of her at once. She summoned a robot to take the box downstairs, and at the same time issued a campus-wide notice ordering all students to bring any parents, friends, or other visitors they had brought onto campus to the athletic field to collect wristbands.

If they noticed any visitors temporarily on their own nearby, they could help by passing along the message as well.

The pickup window was six hours after entering the campus. If someone failed to obtain a wristband within six hours, they would be temporarily expelled from the school. Afterward, a person who had exchanged shelter slots could collect a wristband on their behalf and deliver it to them. Only after receiving a wristband would they be allowed back onto campus.

But they needed to note that upon re-entry they would face quarantine of varying length.

After the outbreak, access through the gates would be placed under strict control. Translated on Hololo novels. Near the east gate, at the far eastern edge of the residential zone, an isolation area had already been designated far from all living quarters. The wristbands would further help Fu Qing monitor every unfamiliar visitor’s status.

Because visitors were not students, they did not have a system-imposed strong binding to Fu Qing. Their movements were not inherently under her control. Only while they were inside Fangzhou could she indirectly influence them through her control over the campus and the students.

But once someone left the gate, she would not even know where they were.

That was, in fact, dangerous. If ill-intentioned people slipped in among them, she would have no way to distinguish them.

Fu Qing trusted the students, but this concerned the safety of the entire shelter. She had to add another layer of protection. That was why she bought the wristbands.

Ten thousand wristbands would be enough for now, even if the shelter expanded later.

*

Song Rushuang and the others received the notice and immediately brought their families to the athletic field.

Several teachers who were free at the moment were helping distribute wristbands.

Bai Tang and Xu Mingyue were maintaining order. Under their arrangements, the group lined up at the end. There weren’t many arrivals on campus yet, so the line was short. They soon received six wristbands from Hao Zhenye.

After thanking him, Xu Mingyu and the others even stole a couple more glances at the frightening scar on “Teacher Hao’s” face, before Song Rushuang half-pushed, half-dragged them over to an open patch of ground nearby.

Once worn on the wrist, a ring of silvery light spun around the face, and a crisp “ding” sounded.

【Matching shelter slots detected. Registered.】
【Biometric data input complete.】
【Wristband binding complete. Do not remove at will or exchange wristbands with others, or both the wristband and the associated slots will become invalid!】

The parents jumped at the sudden voice, shaking their wrists and staring at the device that looked no different from an ordinary digital watch. “This is so advanced!”

Song Rushuang and the other two were long used to such things. They did notice the wristband lacked a shielding feature and offered weaker privacy protection, since everyone nearby could hear the registration prompts.

Compared with student wristbands, it clearly wasn’t on the same technological level, and that realization oddly made them a little happy.

They didn’t leave right away. They stayed put to figure out how the wristbands worked, each helping their own parents navigate the interface.

The moment they lit up the face, another alert popped up.

【Warning: This wristband is not yet bound to a corresponding student wristband. Functions are temporarily locked. Please bind with a student wristband within 48 hours, or you will be classified as an unregistered person and expelled from campus.】

【Note: You do not need to bind to the person who exchanged shelter slots. You may freely choose any student to bind with. Once executed, neither party may cancel unilaterally. Cancellation requires an application to the principal. Choose carefully. After binding, if one party violates shelter rules, the other party bears joint responsibility.】

【Tap to view binding instructions…】

This time, even the three girls froze for a moment.

But after thinking it through, they understood why binding was necessary.

It forced them to take responsibility for anyone they brought into the school.

If a visitor proved unreliable, the student who brought them in could be implicated. That, in turn, compelled everyone to choose carefully.

Even now, many people in Fangzhou still hadn’t exchanged all the shelter slots they held. Song Rushuang, for example, had enough points for four slots but had only used two so far.

Shelter slots were precious, but not easy to give away.

First, the recipient had to be trustworthy. Second, even if you wanted to give a slot, you still needed the other person to be willing to accept it.

That was why the overwhelming majority of those entering were students’ parents. More distant relatives and friends usually had closer family of their own and couldn’t abandon them to follow a student to Fangzhou.

Fu Qing had given them a full month to exchange slots, so many people, Song Rushuang included, were still waiting and holding onto their remaining slots.

With wristband binding added, they would be even more serious when selecting future candidates. Someone like Song Jianguo, now realizing that if a person he brought in caused trouble Song Rushuang would share responsibility, no longer dared entertain the idea of bringing in the Song Aiguo family if an opportunity arose.

Who knew how severe the joint punishment might be? If Song Aiguo’s family caused a violation and got Xiaoshuang expelled, what then?

At that moment, countless parents likely abandoned similar thoughts.

Binding was simple. They only had to press two wristband faces together, which would prompt a confirmation request. Both parties tapped to confirm.

At the same time, the student wristband issued another responsibility warning.

The binding process was quick. Feeling the vibration where the wristbands pressed against their skin, Xu Mingyu looked up at Song Rushuang’s serious face and found it oddly unfamiliar. “So from now on… in this school, I’m under your responsibility?”

It sounded a little absurd, and yet oddly moving.

She wasn’t used to relying on her daughter, but it seemed she would have to get used to it, slowly.

And that feeling… might not be so bad.

Without meaning to, Xu Mingyu’s lips quietly curved upward.

After binding came learning the functions. The girls were already practiced with their own wristbands, so this stripped-down version was easy. They quickly found the main features and explained them to their parents one by one.

The functions weren’t complicated, which incidentally helped older parents who weren’t comfortable with electronics. The long-press plus short-press alarm method was fast and easy to remember. Repeat it twice and it stuck.

Checking time and date hardly needed explanation. Song Rushuang soon realized the most important feature was the registration and check-in system.

It existed to organize people into manageable volunteer work. Anyone could pick up assigned tasks, and upon completion earn volunteer points.

According to the wristband’s instructions, these “volunteer points” would become the shelter’s future currency.

Cash, precious metals, all of it would lose value in the apocalypse. Fu Qing wouldn’t allow people to buy food with money. Everyone living in Fangzhou could receive enough food to survive each day and a place to stay. If they wanted anything beyond that, they would need to exchange points.

Volunteer points could be traded for benefits inside the shelter, such as extra food and additional bathing time, larger living space, and, if you accumulated enough, even additional shelter slots.

Students had their own reserves and weren’t short on food for now, but water was scarce, and water use and bathing were strictly controlled. Extra bathing time was therefore extremely tempting.

And extra shelter slots could save lives. If someone still had two unused slots but their childhood friend refused to come without their parents, then with enough points they could bring in the whole family.

Everyone had someone they wanted to save.

Fangzhou needed manpower everywhere. There were many point-earning tasks, with shared rules: the harder the task, the more points; the more technical the task, the more points, though the latter required qualification checks to see if applicants were capable.

Besides these voluntary tasks, everyone also had mandatory tasks. They weren’t difficult, usually three to four per week, such as standing watch, patrolling campus, cleaning, tending vegetable plots, or helping transport supplies and bodies brought back from outside. You could choose what you were capable of doing.

Of course, it was easy to predict that the simple tasks would be snatched up the instant they appeared. If you didn’t watch the list closely, you might be left with jobs like moving corpses. Students already understood that lesson well.

Their fingers had been trained long ago, back when they competed for simulation-chamber time.

There were already tasks posted on the list. Song Rushuang and the others hurriedly urged their parents to grab easy ones like cleaning first.

Smelling garbage was better than smelling a corpse.

Song Rushuang scanned the list of supplies exchangeable for volunteer points and, to her surprise, saw time slots for borrowing the simulation chambers and realistic zombie props.

It made sense. Now that the students had “graduated,” those training tools were sitting idle, but they were perfect for parents who had no experience fighting zombies. Especially early on, realistic zombies were the best way to overcome fear.

Once she understood, Song Rushuang swiftly selected three or four tasks and signed her parents up. “That’s enough. Start with these.”

Sun Wei and Zhang Han did exactly the same.

The parents hadn’t even processed what was happening when they realized their schedules were packed full. “???”

That many tasks. Were they not sleeping?

Song Jianguo scrolled, eyes bulging. “Kid, did you leave me time to eat?”

Song Rushuang checked and, sure enough, she hadn’t. She fell silent for two seconds. “…Meals are something you squeeze in wherever you can. Your foundation is so weak, if you don’t work harder, what are you going to do?”

Sun Wei nodded along. “The early stage is when you lay the groundwork. You can’t slack off.”

Zhang Han cheered her parents on too. “Come on, I believe you can do it! In your forties, you’re in your prime for charging ahead.”

The parents: “……”

Why did that sound so familiar, and yet somehow so irritating?

*

Capital City, China, in a department related to cybersecurity.

A post flagged by the automated system appeared on a staffer’s computer. The man, already overwhelmed and run ragged, clicked the video. He skimmed it, and his eyes widened despite himself.

He paused it, then watched it twice more, closely observing the zombie’s reactions on screen. Frowning, he thought for a moment, then gritted his teeth, stood up, strode a few steps, and knocked on the door of the office next door.

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Inside Fangzhou, Song Rushuang and the others were leading their parents on a tour of Fangzhou’s hidden facilities.

Before the apocalypse arrived, they had feared raising suspicion, so when they showed the parents around at noon they hadn’t even entered the teaching buildings. Now that the parents knew the truth, the three girls could finally present the campus they were so proud of without holding anything back.

To the parents, it felt like unlocking a secret map.

They explained things as they walked. Near the east gate, Sun Wei spotted the familiar small truck.

Fu Qing sat in the driver’s seat and greeted them, then looked at Sun Wei. “Once everything inside is unloaded, I’ll have a robot return the car key to your dorm.”

“No rush, no rush,” Sun Wei said quickly. “Thank you, Principal.”

The parents realized what was happening and offered their thanks as well.

Not for retrieving the truck, but for the entire shelter Fu Qing had built, and for the survival skills she had taught the students.

Fu Qing waved it off casually, rolled up the window, and drove toward the cold storage area to unload the cargo while everyone watched her leave.

Vehicles rarely entered the campus. Students and parents along the road stopped and moved aside to let her pass first. Few parents recognized Fu Qing, giving students the perfect opportunity to introduce her.

After hearing who she was, some parents’ expressions changed, clearly having heard rumors already.

Others simply praised her as a young and accomplished principal, unaware of the full truth and therefore missing the complicated looks on their children’s faces.

“Young and accomplished,” indeed.

Near the storage area, unloading the frozen meat required almost no effort from Fu Qing. Robots handled everything.

She opened her account and checked her teaching points balance.

After the livestream earlier, the system had once again notified her that her influence on the world had increased, awarding 300 teaching points.

Her current balance stood at 812 points.

The uneven total reflected expenses such as paying teacher salaries.

After a year of operation, the principal was still far from wealthy, but Fu Qing felt no anxiety. Translated on Hololo novels. Most of the teaching points she earned had been invested in transforming the campus.

Developing the western plain alone had cost nearly three thousand points, but in return it provided farmland several times larger than the campus itself.

Purchasing agricultural tools and professional equipment had also consumed significant resources.

Over the past year of quiet construction, Fangzhou’s outward appearance remained unchanged to avoid suspicion from passersby, yet internally it had undergone earthshaking transformation.

The campus was now roughly divided into three major zones:
a residential area,
a public facilities area including the athletic field, simulation training chambers, and medical center,
and an agricultural zone, partly inside campus walls and partly on the external plains.

The campus was surrounded by high walls equipped with watchtowers and guard posts. Security was tight. Vulnerable sections had traps installed in advance, and shards of glass lined the tops of the walls as additional protection.

All rooftops were fitted with solar panels capable of supplying basic electricity needs. Fu Qing had already purchased wind turbines for the plains, but since those lay outside Fangzhou’s protection, installing such large structures early would attract attention. They remained stored in the system warehouse, waiting until chaos fully erupted in a couple of weeks before deployment.

By then, no one would have the energy to interfere.

Fangzhou was designed to support roughly 8,000 to 10,000 refugees at maximum capacity. Electricity demands for living needs, livestock operations, medical facilities, and water treatment were enormous.

To ensure redundancy, besides solar and wind power, Fu Qing had constructed an underground biogas facility near the agricultural zone, along with systems for biological power generation and heat supply.

Combined with emergency diesel generators and large diesel reserves, the energy infrastructure was temporarily complete.

Beneath the residential and public facility areas stretched an expansive underground complex.

It included storage rooms, cold storage, underground shelter modules, activity areas, a morgue, and an incinerator. The escape tunnels dug by the infrastructure class as extracurricular work had officially been completed in early August.

During the final month, while students were home for vacation, campus robots handled the finishing work.

Some local students returned during their free time to help, rushing to complete the project.

Originally, the tunnel had been planned at about one kilometer in length. After surveying nearby terrain and buildings, however, the exit was relocated inside an abandoned factory, forcing the tunnel to extend further.

The final underground escape passage measured 1.3 kilometers and had been reinforced structurally. In emergencies, it could evacuate 8,000 people within ten minutes.

The exit location had been chosen with extreme care. Xu Mingyue and a group of students investigated countless sites before settling on this one.

The exit needed to meet several strict conditions:
it had to be concealed,
unlikely to attract zombies or refugee crowds,
and spacious enough to hold evacuees temporarily after emergence so they wouldn’t immediately draw attention or face combat upon exit.

Ironically, places difficult for zombies to enter were exactly where fleeing civilians tended to gather. Many abandoned buildings were eliminated for this reason. Dense forests avoided crowds but lacked sufficient cover. By the time a full evacuation became necessary, Fangzhou’s surroundings would likely already have fallen, and thousands gathered outdoors even a kilometer away would easily attract zombies.

After extensive searching, an abandoned factory entered Xu Mingyue’s consideration.

It was a chemical plant.

Shut down years earlier for failing environmental standards, it had been abandoned ever since. Fortunately, it had produced food additives, meaning most materials were biodegradable. Years later, contamination had dissipated. Using teaching points approved by Fu Qing, Xu Mingyue personally brought testing equipment to confirm the site’s safety.

The plan was finalized. One group immediately began digging the tunnel, while another undertook a special mission: transforming the factory itself.

To ordinary people unfamiliar with the details, a chemical plant, especially an abandoned one, seemed extremely dangerous.

Even though national policies governed proper disposal, enforcement was never perfect. Fear of lingering toxic pollution discouraged most explorers.

Compared to abandoned food factories or warehouses, chemical plants offered little reward for scavenging, and anything valuable had likely already been removed long ago. This deterred even more people.

Those who might still enter would likely be desperate individuals fleeing zombies with nowhere else to go. The factory’s redesign was meant specifically for them.

The students selected for the task were all former art majors.

After days of brainstorming, they carried their painting supplies to the site.

The first thing they did was paint a massive red skull onto an old sign they found.

Streaks of dried paint trailed downward like blood washed by rain and then congealed again, creating a chilling, bone-deep sense of dread.

Beside the skull, the same red paint spelled out the concise warning “Danger!”, styled like a local caution meant to warn children and passersby.

Next to it they erected a large signboard written in more formal, official language, stating that hazardous chemicals were present inside and that entry was strictly forbidden due to extreme toxicity.

Afterward, they deliberately weathered and distressed the signs so that the finished product looked as though it had stood there for years, worn and damaged by sun and wind.

Combined with the rusted wire fencing nearby and the eerie, abandoned factory buildings in the distance, the entire place resembled the kind of deserted industrial site no one dared approach in films, easily frightening ordinary people unaware of the truth.

The tunnel exit was set inside one of the warehouses. Numerous empty storage tanks left behind were stacked together; several formed a recessed U-shaped arrangement, with the escape tunnel opening hidden in the center. Translated on Hololo novels. From the warehouse entrance, other tanks blocked the view completely. Unless someone walked deep inside and searched carefully, the exit was impossible to discover.

At the warehouse entrance, the art students installed another warning board about dangerous chemicals.

With that, the escape tunnel’s exit could be considered almost completely secure.

Of course, about once a week a student team would still walk the tunnel route, both to check for structural risks and to inspect the factory and warehouse for signs of human activity, ensuring no surprises when the passage was eventually used.

…

Construction of the residential and public zones was nearly complete. The agricultural area, however, was only about seventy percent finished and still short of Fu Qing’s original plan.

This was mainly because the parents had arrived earlier than expected.

If parents had discovered anything unusual before the apocalypse and left the campus during the final hour, Fu Qing and the students would have had nowhere to cry about it.

So features like the artificial lake and the small woodland remained untouched for now.

Her goal today was to complete as much of the remaining construction as possible, or at least store unfinished components in system space.

Fu Qing glanced again at the newly increased balance in her account, silently calculating costs before opening the system marketplace.

【Cost: 300 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Recirculating Aquaculture System ×1】

【Cost: 100 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Selectable Fish Fry ×2】

【Please select two species (automatically deployed after system construction or manually released): grass carp, common carp, crucian carp, black carp, sardine, salmon, catfish…】

Fu Qing had researched fish farming beforehand.

Previously, however, her points were almost always spent immediately upon earning them, so the fish farm planned after dismantling the artificial lake had never been prioritized.

Spending points on fish fry pained her slightly. In the outside world they could be bought with money, and teaching points were far more valuable than cash.

After the first year’s construction missions, earning points would only become harder.

Still, without a suitable environment to raise fish immediately, she ultimately chose to purchase them through the system.

Aside from high-tech items like simulation chambers and realistic zombies, nearly everything in Fangzhou could theoretically be built or purchased normally. But system purchases had two advantages: secrecy and speed. Many times she had no choice but to grit her teeth and spend points.

With the newly earned 300 points, her budget felt slightly less tight. After scanning the options, she quickly selected two species:

Tilapia and catfish.

Though less common on dining tables than traditional carp species, their meat was tender and nutritious. Their poor reputations came not from the fish themselves but from their resilience. They could survive in polluted waters, accumulating heavy metals while appearing perfectly healthy, making consumers wary.

But that resilience was exactly what Fu Qing valued.

Both species grew quickly. Carp required about a year, while tilapia matured in four to six months and channel catfish in as little as three to four months, allowing up to three harvests per year.

They also tolerated crowding well. The same-sized pool could hold nearly twice as many catfish as carp and at least one and a half times as many tilapia.

Inside Fangzhou’s walls, space was precious. Producing double the yield from the same area made the choice obvious.

They also consumed less water and electricity.

Both fish were omnivorous and undemanding about feed, unlike delicate species that died easily if water quality fluctuated.

Combined with their strong reproductive ability, a single batch of fry could sustain long-term breeding without future restocking.

The greater concern might eventually be overpopulation.

The 300-point recirculating aquaculture system was likewise chosen to conserve space and water. A standard pond cost only 100 points but required far more land for equivalent output.

Every part of Fangzhou, surface, rooftops, and underground, was already fully utilized. Expanding further would mean extending the walls themselves, no simple matter. After careful consideration, Fu Qing chose the advanced system.

Fangzhou already raised chickens and ducks. During summer she added rabbits, and now fish joined the ecosystem. Fresh protein supplies were essentially secured.

Human food was solved. Animal feed, however, still needed planning.

Animal feed sources boiled down to several categories: insects, grains, processed kitchen waste, and forage grass.

Kitchen waste was already abundant, divided between composting, biogas production, and feed processing.

Forage grass had been prepared earlier. Granny Liu had planted alfalfa when the plains were first reclaimed. Rabbits ate it primarily, while chickens, ducks, and even humans could consume the tender leaves.

Grains could simply be allocated from harvested crops.

For insects, Fu Qing selected black soldier flies, rich in protein and fat and favored by poultry and fish alike.

Larvae could be dried into meal for long-term storage, and since they fed on kitchen waste, feed production required no additional input.

【Cost: 100 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Vertical Insect Farming Unit ×1】

【Cost: 50 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Black Soldier Fly Larvae (3-day stage)】

The system produced extremely high yields and required only a small room.

In moments, 550 points vanished. With a resigned “might as well” mindset, Fu Qing purchased one final item.

【Cost: 100 Teaching Points】
【Obtained: Spirulina Cultivation Pool ×1】

Algae would supplement nutrition for animals, especially fish. With this, the feed ecosystem was complete. All installations would wait until the artificial lake was dismantled.

Demolishing the lake would be too conspicuous right now. Many students still hadn’t explained everything to their parents, so Fu Qing decided to wait.

Fangzhou currently had sufficient food supplies anyway. Over the past year they had harvested potatoes, wheat, carrots, onions, and dried beans, all carefully stored.

Most daily meals still relied on food purchased externally, both to build reserves and avoid suspicion.

After storing everything in the system’s magical backpack, Fu Qing checked her balance again.

Only 162 teaching points remained.

The next item she wanted cost 300.

Fu Qing sighed silently.

Teaching points were never enough.

Most point-generating tasks had already been completed. Her popularity rating had stalled at 83%, far from the next milestone of 100%.

Where else could she earn points?

As she pondered, a notification suddenly appeared, almost as if responding to her thoughts.

【Your influence on this world has deepened again!】
【Reward: 200 Teaching Points】
【Please continue your efforts!】

Fu Qing blinked.

…What?

Did rewards really just fall from the sky?

And why did it say “again”? Why was the reward 100 points less than usual?

Confused, she asked the system.

The system replied: 【This reward is an additional bonus triggered by new developments in a prior event, therefore the amount is smaller.】

Her confusion only deepened. Just as she was about to ask what development it meant, another notification appeared.

A private message from Su Huaijin.

“Principal, I think we just made the trending charts.”

A short, straightforward sentence, followed by an innocent blinking emoji.

₊˚.🎧📓✩

After calling several times, Zhao Liang finally picked up, though the signal kept cutting in and out.

Every couple of words, the image froze.

From the background, it was clear he was in a dim basement with no windows.

“What’s going on over there?” Zhao Ya asked, quickly scanning him. Seeing that he looked unharmed and not covered in blood, half her worry eased.

Calculating the time difference, it should already be the middle of the night where Zhao Liang was.

The basement contained a washing machine and dryer, a shelving unit stacked with toolboxes, and a mountain bike that took up most of the space. Zhao Liang crouched in a corner, repeatedly glancing warily offscreen.

At her question, he shook his head in near collapse. “I don’t know. On my way home tonight, I suddenly heard gunshots. A bunch of people covered in blood were running around everywhere. A few even followed me back to my house. I locked them outside.”

Unfortunately, Zhao Liang lived in a detached house with a yard. Laws against trespassing meant nothing to zombies.

At first, he had assumed it was just drunk young people or someone high on something, which wasn’t uncommon where he lived.

That belief shattered when he saw his neighbor shouting and firing a gun. One shot blasted apart the lower leg of someone who had broken into the house. At close range, a rifle’s power was terrifying. Half of the man’s calf was blown away, flesh torn open, bone protruding through the skin.

Zhao Liang had never witnessed anything like it. Terrified, he hid behind some bushes, only to see something even more horrifying.

The intruder, missing half a leg, continued crawling forward as if nothing had happened, stubbornly dragging himself toward the neighbor.

After repeated warnings failed, the neighbor kept firing. Only when the fourth shot pierced the man’s head did he finally stop moving.

Every bullet before that had merely slowed the intruder but never stopped his advance.

He was like a machine without pain, fearless and relentless, driven by a single purpose: to attack the person in front of him.

What kind of drug could cause something like that?

Zhao Liang fled back into his own house in sheer panic. Locking the front door wasn’t enough. He hid in the basement storage room and locked that door too before finally feeling a bit safer.

Even now, through the door, he could hear loud banging against the large floor-to-ceiling window connecting the living room to the outside. Whoever was out there kept striking it relentlessly. The sound alone was enough to make his heart race. At this rate, the glass wouldn’t last long.

Zhao Liang did have a firearm license and owned a gun, but aside from visiting a shooting range two or three times, he had never actually fired it in real danger. Now he clutched the gun with trembling hands as he described everything to his sister and mother, none of his usual arrogance remaining.

Zhao Ya sighed inwardly, guessing he still didn’t know the same monsters had appeared worldwide. She briefly explained the situation back home.

Zhao Liang listened in stunned silence. The shock only deepened his fear.

Experiencing a zombie apocalypse in Country A felt completely different from being in China. Back home, people lived close together. In an emergency, neighbors could at least help one another. But alone in his detached house, he felt stranded on an isolated island, completely cut off.

Zhao Ya could still hope for government rescue.

As for Zhao Liang…

He felt that hope was unrealistic.

Looking down at the handgun in his arms, he gritted his teeth.

“If they really break in,” he said, “I’ll shoot.”

After all, this counted as self-defense. Once he overcame the psychological barrier, a gun was ten thousand times more effective than a knife.

But Zhao Ya remembered some of the creatures she had seen on the way, ones noticeably faster than the others, and she felt uneasy.

With that kind of speed, once they closed the distance, someone inexperienced with firearms might not be able to land a hit.

She had also seen online that injuries to the limbs didn’t seem to reduce the creatures’ aggression. If Zhao Liang failed to kill one with a single shot, he might end up in even greater danger.

One side only needed a single bite to infect someone, while the other had just one vulnerable point on the entire body. It was completely unfair.

Zhao Ya warned Zhao Liang not to act recklessly. Then, glancing at the shelves behind him, she hesitated before asking, “By the way… do you have any food there?”

Zhao Liang suddenly stiffened.

He had only recently declared that canned food was unhealthy, so naturally he had none at home.

There were some fresh fruits, vegetables, and beef in the refrigerator, but those wouldn’t last long.

Since he was devoted to fitness and body sculpting, he didn’t eat snacks either. Living alone meant his food reserves were pitifully small.

Cold sweat slid down Zhao Liang’s back.

He hurriedly turned to rummage through the shelves. After a long search, he finally found a box of energy bars.

They were high in protein, excellent emergency supplies for replenishing calories. Translated on Hololo novels. There were dozens in the box. If rationed carefully, they could last quite a while.

But they contained very little dietary fiber or vitamins. Living on energy bars alone would inevitably lead to nutritional imbalance.

Most importantly…

They didn’t taste good.

At least, Zhao Liang didn’t think so.

Imagining himself surviving the next ten or more days on nothing but those bars made his expression darken instantly.

He began wondering whether he could go outside to find food.

But although Country A had vast land and a sparse population, public transportation was underdeveloped. People relied heavily on cars, which meant major roads easily became congested. If he got stuck in traffic, he would be finished.

Traveling late at night might avoid traffic, but honestly, even on normal days Zhao Liang wouldn’t dare go out alone at night.

Even without monsters, there were long stretches of unlit roads in the suburbs, homeless people wandering neighborhoods, drug-addled teenagers, gangs, and dealers. Any of those were frightening enough.

The possibility of going out to search for food was essentially eliminated.

Zhao Ya could tell what he was thinking and comforted him. “Focus on surviving first. Watch how things develop. At least you still have food. Oh, and remember to store water.”

Zhao Liang usually drank bottled water anyway, and he had several cases. He nodded. His expression still looked grim, but at least he had the presence of mind to ask about them.

“What about you? Do you have enough food?” The moment he finished speaking, something occurred to him, and his expression turned strange.

Sure enough, Zhao Ya on the other end let out an awkward “uh,” while Grandma Zhang took the phone and once again showed off the household’s supplies.

At the end she added cheerfully, “Don’t worry! We’re doing great. Just take care of yourself.”

Zhao Liang’s mouth slowly fell open wider and wider.

Was this supposed to reassure him?

It felt more like emotional damage.

Not only that, it was a slap in the face.

The supplies his mother had stocked, which he had recently mocked both openly and indirectly, had now transformed into the best survival guarantee possible.

They might not be living luxuriously, but if they were truly trapped, Grandma Zhang’s household would unquestionably fare better than most people.

Besides staple foods and canned fruit and luncheon meat, they even had bean sprouts, along with chives and scallions Grandma Zhang grew on the balcony. Their seasonings were fully stocked as well.

Zhao Liang technically had condiments too, but his cooking skills were mediocre. Having adapted to local habits and frequently eating out, most meals he cooked were simple, minimal “white-people meals.”

Which made things awkward.

His mother and sister could mix bean sprouts and luncheon meat with Lao Gan Ma chili sauce or mushroom beef sauce and turn it into a full meal. Switching sauces meant a completely different flavor.

What was he supposed to do?

Dip energy bars in peanut butter, salad dressing, and ketchup?

“….”

Zhao Liang fell silent.

Seeing those familiar items again through the screen, things he had once dismissed, left him dazed.

He remembered Grandma Zhang’s delighted expression when she had shown him the pile of online purchases, saying she could never have carried so much back from the supermarket herself and was grateful Xiaoshuang had helped.

…Putting everything else aside, if Song Rushuang hadn’t helped stock those supplies, if his sister hadn’t happened to visit their mother, how would she, living alone, have survived this apocalypse?

Thinking back to the things he had said before, Zhao Liang felt as if those words were slapping him across the face, burning with shame.

The regret came late, but it hit hard.

Thank goodness Xiaoshuang had helped. Thank goodness for Xiaoshuang.

In the cramped, dim basement, the only light came from the glow of the phone screen.

Holding the box of energy bars in his arms, Zhao Liang felt, for the first time since moving abroad, a quiet longing for home.

₊˚.🎧📓✩

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