Author Archives: sandy

Shi Guangyao, the boy who, during the entrance assessment, had fled for his own safety and locked Song Rushuang and the others outside, was later expelled by the principal.

What Shi Guangyao did had indeed been excessive, and his character despicable. But being expelled by Fu Qing was already an enormous punishment for students who had studied diligently for twelve years. After venting their anger, the three girls had simply put him out of their minds.

Too many things had happened over the past year. Song Rushuang and Zhang Han had almost forgotten he even existed.

Seeing him again so suddenly, they only felt the face looked vaguely familiar. It took nearly half a minute of thinking before they remembered his name.

Clearly, however, Shi Guangyao had not forgotten them.

The moment he saw them, his expression turned venomous as he strode toward them.

After being expelled, Shi Guangyao had not dared hide the news and immediately told his parents.

The entire Shi family had been stunned.

When his college entrance exam results were released, they had even hosted a celebratory banquet for relatives to honor his excellent performance.

Yet in the blink of an eye, he was expelled on the very first day of school. For the entire family, it was a humiliation.

Restricted by the system, Shi Guangyao tried several times but could not fully explain what had happened to his parents. In the end, he could only vaguely summarize it as the principal believing he had behaved inappropriately toward classmates.

And more than twenty others had been expelled alongside him.

The parents joined together and caused a huge commotion at Fangzhou, but they were unable even to step through the school gates.

They tried calling the police and hiring lawyers, but for unknown reasons, whenever calls connected, their minds went blank and they could not clearly describe their complaints. Attempts to post online disappeared without a trace, their views forever stuck at zero.

As days passed and their efforts failed, they had no choice but to send Shi Guangyao back to repeat his final school year.

Afraid of running into acquaintances and losing face, Shi Guangyao, despite being local to S City, enrolled instead in an out of town program, fleeing there in embarrassment.

That year of repeating studies was hellish for someone who had always excelled academically, been carefully protected by his parents, and never lived away from home.

The institution enforced strict boarding rules. Parents were not allowed weekday visits. No one washed his clothes or cooked for him. Shi Guangyao nearly lost his mind.

At first, he had nightmares every night, dreaming of zombies lunging at him, classmates’ mutilated faces, and Fu Qing’s cold voice announcing the expulsion list.

The last image lingering in his memory was the moment he left the lecture hall in disgrace, passing by Song Rushuang and the others.

It was clearly their fault… yet in that moment, it felt as though their lives had split onto completely different paths.

Why?

The parents of Shi Guangyao and the others cried, protested, and even organized demonstrations with banners outside the school gates, yet none of it ever reached the ears of people like Song Rushhuang.

Seeing their confused expressions now, as if they had nearly forgotten him, stirred deep hatred in his heart.

But beneath the hatred lay a fear he could never voice.

He remembered the principal’s speech that day, claiming the apocalypse would arrive one year later.

Even Fangzhou students had taken a long time to accept that truth, let alone Shi Guangyao, who had never gained access to the forum. During the speech, he had been consumed by fear of expulsion, barely paying attention. Later, many details became blurred in his memory.

Even the fragments he remembered could not be verified or discussed with anyone.

Those fears sank deep inside him, turning into midnight nightmares. Under the pressure of repeating school, he sometimes wondered whether he had hallucinated the entire thing.

Stores operated normally, office workers commuted with bags slung over their shoulders, students studied tirelessly for their futures. Outside Fangzhou, the world functioned as usual. How could that woman possibly make such a mad prophecy about the end of the world?

Shi Guangyao could neither believe nor fully dismiss it.

Still, over the year he quietly purchased survival gear, hiding it beneath his dorm bed and inside his wardrobe.

After returning home following the exams, he secretly stockpiled supplies there as well.

As the predicted date approached, his anxiety worsened. He even dragged his parents to supermarkets multiple times, bringing home increasing amounts of food and bottled water.

His parents, thinking he was simply stressed from repeating the year, indulged his every request. Their visit to the mall today was meant to buy him new clothes to relieve stress.

And yet here he was, running into the very people he believed responsible for everything: Song Rushuang and Zhang Han.

The store was crowded. Watching Shi Guangyao walk straight toward them, Zhang Han whispered softly, “What’s he trying to do? There are so many people around. He wouldn’t actually start something, would he?”

Song Rushhuang gave a tight smile. “Wouldn’t that be perfect?”

Zhang Han grinned. “True.”

She casually picked up a decorative item nearby and showed it to Song Rushhuang. “This one’s pretty cute. Should we buy it for the dorm?”

Her deliberately indifferent tone twisted Shi Guangyao’s expression.

“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Zhang Han deliberately provoked him. “You’ve been gone a whole year. Even mourning doesn’t last that long.”

Shi Guangyao’s parents stood nearby, confused, assuming their son had encountered acquaintances, watching curiously from a distance.

Song Rushhuang tilted her head and glanced at the shopping basket hanging from his parents’ arms. Inside were items like toothbrushes and pillowcases. Understanding dawned immediately.

“Buying things for school registration? That’s odd,” she said.

She leaned closer to Shi Guangyao, whose face had turned pale with anger, lowering her voice with a teasing smile. “…Didn’t you still have a batch left unused from last year?”

The remark struck directly at his sore spot. Rage surged to his head, and he suddenly shoved Song Rushhuang hard.

“Damn you!”

Song Rushhuang stepped back lightly, dispersing the force without concern. Zhang Han, however, grew angry and grabbed Shi Guangyao’s forearm.

“What are you doing? Trying to hit someone in broad daylight?”

Shi Guangyao’s face flushed red as he shouted, “She’s asking for it…”

He tried to wrench his arm free to continue attacking Song Rushhuang, but to his surprise, he could not break loose.

Startled, he glanced sideways. The girl gripping his arm looked furious, yet her round eyes curved ever so slightly, a flicker of mischief passing through them.

The next second, Zhang Han cried out dramatically, “Someone help! This guy is attacking people!”

At the same time, she twisted her grip. A sharp pain shot through Shi Guangyao’s shoulder and arm as it was forced behind his back.

The pressure on his arm only increased. His joints cracked loudly, and the pain made Shi Guangyao scream.

“Let go! Ah… let go!”

His parents finally realized something was wrong and hurried forward, trying to pull Zhang Han away.

One person struggled desperately while two others pulled outward with all their strength, yet Zhang Han, standing in the middle, remained as steady as a mountain. Even with all three working together, they could not budge her.

After all, when it came to raw strength, even Xiaoshuang and Qingqing could not match her.

Despite how effortless it actually was, Zhang Han deliberately put on a strained expression and shouted loudly, “I won’t let go! What if you hit my friend again after I release you?”

Her voice even trembled as if she were about to cry.

Song Rushuang: “……”

Zhang Han truly was the acting genius of their dorm.

Not only had she fooled the entire family with her performance, she had now learned how to stage a full on public victim act.

Song Rushuang almost wanted to record the scene and send it to the group chat for Weiwei and Qingqing to see.

The commotion drew attention throughout the store. People turned to look and saw what appeared to be a family of three ganging up on a young girl. Several bystanders immediately grew indignant.

“What are you doing? Bullying a young girl in public? Have you no shame?”

“Why are two adults grabbing at a kid like that?”

A young woman pulled out her phone and said angrily, “I saw everything. That guy pushed her friend first. This girl stepped in to protect her friend, and then his parents came over to help him.”

Shi Guangyao was tall and heavily built, clearly well fed by his parents. After tanning over the summer, he looked darker and bulkier, nothing like someone the same age as Zhang Han and Song Rushuang.

Meanwhile, even though the two girls had grown stronger from training over the past year, their youthful features still made them look like newly grown adults.

To the onlookers, it appeared that a grown man had failed to bully a girl and then called his parents to help.

Outrageous.

Absolutely shameless.

Someone shouted, “This family has no decency. Has anyone called the police?”

The moment the word police was mentioned, Shi Guangyao’s father immediately hesitated.

Shi Guangyao had already been expelled once. They could not risk anything that might further damage his record.

Besides, there were surveillance cameras everywhere, and even they had seen their son shove someone first.

Seeing righteous bystanders stepping forward, Zhang Han finally released Shi Guangyao, though reluctantly, as if still unsatisfied. By now he was screaming without any dignity left.

The searing pain in his arm joint left half his body numb. For a moment he had genuinely believed his arm would be torn off.

The instant she let go, he scrambled behind his parents, staring at Zhang Han in shock.

How could she be this strong? What kind of monster was she?

If she was this capable, why had she been locked outside during last year’s assessment?

Was it luck… or had Zhang Han simply not been this strong back then?

Shi Guangyao’s thoughts spiraled into chaos. He remembered running into the three of them on the way to the auditorium after the assessment ended.

Back then, their expressions toward him had been angry yet powerless. They were furious but had no means to retaliate. Realizing that had filled him with smug confidence, certain he would face no consequences.

But only one year later, both Zhang Han and Song Rushhuang now looked at him differently.

Their gaze was calm and effortless, the kind reserved for something too insignificant to matter.

What had they experienced over this past year?

The prophecy of the apocalypse resurfaced in his mind, clearer than ever before.

“The virus… possesses extremely high lethality and transmissibility…”

“…one month after outbreak, the global population decreases by ninety percent…”

“…five years later… the last human dies…”

Reflected in his trembling pupils were the figures of Song Rushhuang and Zhang Han.

Their backs were straight, their skin sun bronzed, their bodies carrying the posture of disciplined training even at rest.

From spirit to flesh, they looked prepared to face something.

Prepared for what?

His calves began trembling uncontrollably. Fear of death overwhelmed everything else. His parents’ concern and the surrounding whispers faded into insignificance.

Suddenly, clutching his face, he gasped in terror. Then, unable to control himself any longer, he turned and bolted out of the store.

His parents, who had been ready to argue on his behalf, were startled. With no time to say anything, they shot Zhang Han a glare before chasing after their fleeing son.

The crowd was left murmuring.

“He must’ve gotten scared when someone mentioned calling the police.”

“What kind of people are they? Their son started it, and they still glare at others.”

“Whole family’s unhinged.”

Others comforted Zhang Han and Song Rushhuang. “Don’t worry, it’s over now.”

The two thanked the bystanders who had spoken up for them, but their mood for shopping was gone. They quickly picked a few items, checked out, and left the mall.

Before parting ways, they confirmed the meeting time for the next day.

The apocalypse would arrive at 2:30 p.m., the exact time given by the system.

The students did not know the system existed, but since the principal had stated the time with certainty, they trusted it and prepared accordingly.

It took about an hour and fifteen minutes to drive from Song Rushuang’s home to the school. Considering possible weekend traffic, the two decided to leave two and a half hours early. Zhang Han’s family would arrive at Song Rushhuang’s home at noon.

After confirming everything, they prepared to return separately, one home and the other to the hotel.

They said goodbye, yet neither moved first.

Song Rushhuang spoke solemnly first. “Go to bed early tonight. Rest well and save your energy.”

Zhang Han nodded, unusually quiet.

She looked up at the countless lights glowing around them. When she spoke again, her voice caught in her throat.

“I still hope all of this is fake.” This time, Zhang Han truly sounded like she might cry. “I’d rather we just wasted a whole year for nothing, and tomorrow turns out to be an ordinary summer afternoon. After two thirty passes, the apocalypse doesn’t come, nobody turns into zombies, and no one dies…”

“I hope so too,” Song Rushhuang said softly.

They stood together for a moment longer. Finally, Song Rushhuang reached out first and pulled Zhang Han into a hug.

“Go back,” she said, suppressing the surge of emotion inside her. “See you tomorrow.”

Zhang Han buried her face in her shoulder and muttered, “Mm. See you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was destined to be a long day.

And they had spent an entire year preparing for it.

*

Elsewhere, Shi Guangyao ran home like a madman.

His parents struggled to keep up, finally arriving breathless behind him. The moment they entered, they saw him rummaging frantically through cabinets and under the bed, dragging out boxes upon boxes of instant noodles, canned food, and bottled water.

Some of it even they had no idea he had ever bought.

The couple stared in shock, calling his name, but Shi Guangyao ignored them. He yanked open a drawer and, right in front of them, pulled out a gleaming dagger he had hidden away.

His mother let out a frightened cry. His father panicked. “Son, what are you doing? Don’t act rashly!”

“What happened with those girls? How did they provoke you? Tell Dad, I’ll go talk to them.”

“Yes!” his mother sobbed, dropping to her knees and grabbing his arm. “Don’t ruin your life over them! You’ve already lost a whole year! Think about how hard this year has been. It breaks my heart just watching you.”

They assumed he intended to seek revenge with the knife.

But those words seemed to snap something inside him. He turned around, eyes bloodshot, frightening his mother into instant silence.

“It was them!” he shouted. “They’re the reason I got expelled!”

“What?” The words hit like thunder. His father’s face flushed red with anger as he moved toward the door. “I’ll go find them and demand an explanation!”

“You didn’t even do anything wrong! Even if you did, expulsion was too much!”

Back then, Fu Qing’s decision had left the parents no room for negotiation. They had never even met the supposed victims, let alone discussed reconciliation.

This was their first time seeing Song Rushhuang and Zhang Han.

“It’s useless,” Shi Guangyao said, wiping his face. “It’s useless. And that’s not the important part now.”

He turned back and began nervously counting supplies again. Suddenly remembering something, he staggered toward the kitchen.

“How much food do we still have? And flashlights. What if the power goes out…”

He wanted to prepare, but less than a day remained before the apocalypse. Many things were already too late.

Worse, he had never systematically learned what preparations were actually necessary. His earlier stockpiling had simply been impulsive purchases made whenever anxiety overwhelmed him.

He did not know zombies’ weaknesses. He did not know when electricity or water would fail. He did not know what essential yet easily overlooked items were needed for long term survival indoors.

Now he searched blindly through the house, then rushed off to check whether doors and windows were secure, darting about like a headless fly. His frantic behavior frightened his parents so much they dared not approach.

At last, he collapsed onto the floor with a thud, completely crushed by fear and confusion.

His parents rushed forward, hugging him as they cried.

“Guangyao, what’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t scare us like this!”

“I…” He tried to speak about the apocalypse, but the familiar sticky resistance rose in his throat, preventing the words from coming out.

Helplessness overwhelmed him, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.

After a long while, he finally steadied himself and struggled to his feet.

“Dad… start the car. Let’s go to the nearest supermarket again.”

His parents did not dare ask questions and simply followed him out.

It was just past nine. Many neighbors were still strolling downstairs. Quite a few had seen the Shi family rushing home earlier, and now noticed them leaving again.

Someone they knew called out, “You just got back. Heading out again?”

They glanced curiously at Shi Guangyao, whose mood was clearly abnormal.

The family had tried to hide the fact that he was repeating a year, but secrets never stayed hidden long. Someone had seen protest banners they made during their earlier dispute, and news of his expulsion had spread. Combined with the grand celebration banquet they had once held, many neighbors were quietly amused at the reversal.

Knowing this, Shi Guangyao’s parents shot the person a vicious glare and hurried to the car.

The neighbor, baffled, muttered complaints to others nearby before continuing their walk.

More than an hour later, the family returned again, this time with a car packed full of goods.

As Shi Guangyao got out, he deliberately blocked others’ view, nervously carrying items inside. When his parents failed to conceal the supplies, he angrily scolded them, unintentionally drawing even more attention.

Sharp eyed onlookers noticed box after box of instant noodles.

Why would a perfectly normal family stockpile so many instant noodles?

They could not understand. Shaking their heads, they dismissed it as just another strange thing about the Shi family and added it mentally to the growing list of their odd behavior.

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Taking advantage of her own parents was only natural. If she did not take the opportunity, it would be wasted.

Sun Wei felt completely justified.

She firmly insisted that she had already conducted market research and needed exactly that amount. Anything that could not be consumed would be her responsibility.

Liao Yahui and Sun Miao clearly did not believe her, but perhaps wanting her to learn a lesson, they said nothing more and agreed.

Sun Wei had thought everything through. Once the meat arrived, she would first fill the cold storage shared by herself and her roommates. The rest would be distributed directly to classmates. The school had cold storage facilities anyway, and divided among more than two thousand students, this amount of meat would barely amount to a mouthful each.

If not for fear of arousing her parents’ suspicion, she would have asked for even more.

She worried that requesting too much would make her parents think she was unreliable and refuse cooperation altogether.

In truth, during this period the entire student body had been finding ways to move supplies into the school. Sun Wei’s pretend restaurant plan was not even the most outrageous method.

At first, students simply shopped online or organized group purchases through the forum to buy wholesale directly from manufacturers. Whenever someone found cheap deals, they shared them on the forum.

With more than two thousand students searching the internet simultaneously for bargains, overlaps were inevitable, especially since they shared information with one another. Sometimes several Fangzhou students placed orders at the same shop on the very same day.

Gradually, some vendors began noticing something strange.

Why were so many buyers using the same delivery address, and ordering such large quantities? Translated on hololo novels. The destination was clearly a school, yet the purchases were generators, matches, compressed rations, and other items that students would never normally need.

Even if someone truly wanted to eat compressed biscuits in a dorm, who would buy entire cases?

Did their school not have a cafeteria?

Eventually, after placing orders, some students received private messages from sellers.

One vendor politely and cautiously asked whether the school lacked financial aid policies for poor students, since so many people seemed forced to survive on compressed rations.

“Compressed biscuits are so unhealthy! Tell me honestly, has the subsidy money been embezzled by school administrators? Do you need me to help report it?” the well meaning and righteous seller asked.

The student was so frightened that they hurriedly invented an excuse, claiming they had spent their living expenses on video games and could only afford cheap food at the end of the month, finally dispelling suspicion.

But that was not even the worst incident.

Several students once noticed discounted charcoal being cleared out and jointly ordered an entire truckload, along with several charcoal braziers. The purchase happened near finals week. The moment they placed the order, they received a call from cyber police.

The students were terrified. After some explanation, they learned the seller had reported them because the quantity was so large that it looked like a group suicide attempt using charcoal burning.

The students: “…”

“You’re all so young. Don’t do anything rash. Do you want me to contact your school administration?” the concerned voice asked from the other end of the line.

Buying charcoal alone might not have raised suspicion, but the problem was that the person placing the order had noticed a discounted add on item during checkout and, tempted by the price, added several rolls of wide adhesive tape.

Even they felt the order history looked extremely suspicious when reviewing it later.

Afraid the matter might reach the school administration, they had no choice but to claim they had entered the wrong quantity, finally resolving the issue.

Incident after incident piled up. Even Fu Qing herself would never know how many problems she had unknowingly taken the blame for while students frantically stockpiled supplies.

Group deliveries directly to the school became too conspicuous, so some students suggested jointly renting warehouses on the outskirts of S City and having orders shipped there instead.

Students who owned cars then transported the goods back to campus in batches.

Others, whose family situations resembled Sun Wei’s, began finding solutions through their households. After all, most university students were not wealthy and typically had only a little over a thousand yuan per month for living expenses. Obtaining supplies through family businesses could at least save money for classmates.

One student whose family owned a clothing factory claimed they planned to livestream product sales, took a batch of down jackets to school, and sold them on the forum at cost price. The recovered funds were returned to the family, while the supposed “profit” was claimed personally, though in reality not a single cent was earned.

The price they paid was having to livestream for an entire semester and begging classmates who bought jackets to visit the stream and create traffic so their family would not grow suspicious.

It was mortifying.

Throughout the entire summer, students racked their brains stockpiling supplies and persuading parents and relatives to accompany them to S City.

Those whose families lived farther away became increasingly anxious as the apocalypse approached, checking their supplies and weapons countless times every day.

Song Rushuang pulled the weapons case from beneath her bed more than a dozen times daily just to check whether the blades had rusted. A hiking backpack filled with survival gear already sat in the corner of her room. She had even sewn thick padded neck guards for Xu Mingyu and Song Jianguo, lining them heavily so that even a knife strike would struggle to cut through in one blow.

Even during meals she could not relax, nervously biting her chopsticks while staring at the news playing on television.

“Good evening, viewers. Today is Friday, August 23rd, lunar calendar…”

At exactly eight o’clock, the familiar male and female news anchors appeared on screen as usual. Their steady voices and calm smiles made it impossible to imagine that this was the day before the virus outbreak.

Aside from the more than two thousand teachers and students of Fangzhou and the hidden instigator behind everything, no one else knew that tomorrow a catastrophe would descend, one capable of overturning the fate of humanity itself.

Her parents sat at the table with her, quietly chatting about trivial matters from work. On television, the anchors spoke in calm, measured tones. Children on summer vacation ran noisily downstairs, while farther away in the community square, the first song for evening group dancing had already begun to play loudly.

All these sounds blended together, entering Song Rushuang’s ears before gradually fading into a blur.

Suddenly, her mouth felt dry, and the food in front of her lost all flavor.

The virus would erupt on August 24.

Only one day remained.

What had she not yet done? What else could she still do?

Panic rose within her. For a moment, she even felt that the entire past year had been an unreal dream. Now the dream was ending, yet she did not know what kind of reality awaited when she opened her eyes.

“…Xiaoshuang… Xiaoshuang… Xiaoshuang?!”

Someone gave Song Rushuang’s shoulder a hard shove, jolting her out of her daze.

She felt like a drowning person suddenly dragged to the surface. Her forehead was damp with sweat, her chest rising and falling as she looked at Xu Mingyu in front of her. “…Huh?”

“What’s wrong with you? Heatstroke?” Xu Mingyu, dressed in sportswear, reached out and touched her cool forehead. “Your dad and I are going for a run in the park. Want to come? If not, wash the dishes later.”

After an entire summer of persuasion from Song Rushuang, the two had finally begun developing a habit of exercising. Translated on hololo novels. Xu Mingyu had just pushed past the painful early stage of working out and had started experiencing the pleasure brought by dopamine and endorphins.

She was now completely hooked on running, had even bought new running shoes, and insisted on jogging a couple of laps in the park every evening once the heat subsided after dinner.

“Oh, you guys go ahead. Be careful,” Song Rushuang said, steadying her breathing, feeling slightly ashamed.

A year had passed. In some ways she had changed drastically, yet in others she seemed exactly the same.

She was still that child who grew nervous and fearful before every important moment, wishing she could simply turn around and run away.

In this regard, Shen Qingqing was far better than her.

No matter how difficult the challenge or how powerful the enemy, Shen Qingqing could always adjust herself quickly, as if driven forward by some immense force behind her, never shrinking back, never turning around.

Song Rushuang admired and envied that version of Shen Qingqing.

But she could not become her. All she could do was try her best to be this imperfect version of “Song Rushuang.”

From the hallway, Xu Mingyu, already ready to leave, poked her head back in. “Oh, right. Your phone’s been ringing nonstop. Remember to answer it!”

Song Rushuang got up and picked up her phone.

Opening the messaging app, she saw the dorm group chat was indeed active.

The four of them were all talkative. If she ignored her phone for even a short while, hundreds of unread messages would pile up.

Zhang Han: [Report! Entire family successfully arrived in S City.]

Zhang Han: [Location shared]

Zhang Han: [Look at all the delicious food I ate along the way!]

Zhang Han: [Photo][Photo][Photo]…

Zhang Han had spent the entire summer running around nonstop.

Her family was large. Both sets of grandparents were still alive, and her parents each had many siblings. The relatives were extremely close. She could not possibly bring everyone into the shelter, and this had troubled her for most of the semester. The only comfort was that each elderly relative had children nearby to care for them.

Then, shortly before vacation, Sun Wei shared her plan of pretending to start a business. Zhang Han suddenly had an inspired idea.

If Sun Wei could pretend to start a business, she could pretend to fail one.

Given her usual personality, the story would be highly believable.

Her parents doted on her, giving her several thousand yuan in living expenses each month. During holidays, relatives also gave extra pocket money. She rarely spent it all at school and saved most of it, something her family already knew.

Using this, Zhang Han returned home for vacation and tearfully told her parents she had tried starting a business with online friends, bought large quantities of goods, and failed to sell them, leaving her stuck with unsold inventory.

“I even wanted to buy health supplements for Grandpa and Grandma, but the products they sent me turned out to just be common medicines you can buy at any pharmacy, not expensive at all!” Zhang Han sobbed while showing a huge box of medicine over video call to her grandparents. She cried so miserably that both sets of elders’ hearts broke. Calling her their precious darling, they immediately divided up the medicine and promised to keep it for themselves rather than giving it away.

Zhang Han sniffled and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I also bought a lot of food…”

“I wanted to earn more money to buy gifts for everyone, but I got scammed and lost everything. I’m so stupid… I don’t even want to live anymore. I’ve let you all down…”

Her uncles, aunts, and extended relatives responded immediately: “It’s okay, we’ll buy it! We love food!”

“But then there won’t be any gifts…”

The relatives answered firmly, “This is the best and most practical gift possible!”

So the very next day, relatives came over and carried away an entire truckload of rice, flour, cooking oil, and other supplies Zhang Han had “stocked.”

Because they were gifts, and worried she might feel upset if they gave them away, everyone promised not to pass them on to others. A week later, Zhang Han visited their homes and confirmed the food was indeed still stored properly, which satisfied her.

The other three dormmates watched the entire process unfold and were utterly amazed.

It was truly a very “Zhang Han” solution.

To comfort their distressed daughter, when Zhang Han suggested her parents accompany her back to school, they agreed without hesitation.

The three set off two weeks early, traveling around the country before finally arriving in S City on the very last day.

Zhang Han had asked for Song Rushuang’s home address in advance and booked a hotel nearby. Since weapons could not pass security checks and she feared being unable to bring them back later, she had already stored a duplicate of her well used weapon case at Song Rushuang’s home before vacation.

When the time came, the two planned to drive their parents to the school together.

Zhang Han shared a flood of food photos, making Song Rushuang, who had barely felt like eating dinner, suddenly hungry again.

Sun Wei: [I’m so jealous. I’ve been so anxious lately I can barely eat. I’ve just been forcing food down.]

With the apocalypse approaching, only someone as carefree as Zhang Han could still go traveling for half a month.

Zhang Han: [Hehe, I figured that if something really happened, I should at least see all the beautiful landscapes of our country before dying, right? The first eighteen years of my life were already mostly spent studying!]

Zhang Han: [Besides, once we enter the shelter, we’ll probably still be okay, but my parents might not get another chance to come out before the apocalypse ends. I think when they learn the truth later, they’ll be happy they got to travel beforehand.]

Zhang Han: [I’m not as capable as you guys. The only thing I can do for them is give them good memories.]

Song Rushuang fell silent reading this. Zhang Han was not wrong. Of course, she did not regret skipping travel herself.

These past two months she had been busy with other preparations and helping her parents train. She simply did not have that kind of free time.

Everyone faced the coming apocalypse differently. There was no right or wrong way.

Shen Qingqing appeared in the chat and replied to Zhang Han’s earlier message.

Shen Qingqing: [What do you mean “if”? Knock on wood, spit spit spit.]

Zhang Han: [Qingqing… I didn’t know you were superstitious.]

Shen Qingqing: [I just firmly believe the apocalypse will pass and we’ll all survive.]

Zhang Han obediently replied: [Alright, spit spit spit.]

Then she asked how everyone’s preparations were going.

Sun Wei: [Just finished checking and loading the supplies today. I’ll drive myself and leave early tomorrow morning. I don’t trust hired drivers with this.]

She had considered leaving a day earlier, but the drive from City A to S City normally took only four hours. Once they reached campus, even if the principal helped cover for her lie and allowed her and her parents inside, Sun Miao and Liao Yahui would not see any prepared barbecue stall.

Liao Yahui had a fiery temper. Sun Wei worried that if she could not explain things clearly, her mother would think she had lied. What if she got angry and immediately booked tickets back to City A?

At that point the apocalypse would not yet have begun, restrictions would still exist, and Sun Wei would have no way to reveal the truth.

So despite the risk of cutting it close, Sun Wei decided to depart on the morning of the apocalypse itself.

Fortunately, her C1 license allowed her to drive a small refrigerated truck. Otherwise she would have had to follow behind a hired driver in another car, increasing the risk of being stranded if anything went wrong.

Shen Qingqing replied to her: [Drive safely.]

Sun Wei: [What about you? Didn’t you say you were booking tickets for today? Haven’t seen you mention leaving.]

Shen Qingqing: […Something unexpected came up here, so I’m still at home. But it’s nothing serious. I’ll head back early.]

Song Rushhuang frowned at the message and was about to type a careful follow up when someone suddenly knocked on her door.

She opened it. In the dim hallway, a blurry figure lunged forward and wrapped her in a tight hug.

“Surprise!” Zhang Han spread her arms wide and shouted loudly. “Hehe, I came to hang out with you!”

After receiving the address from Song Rushuang, Zhang Han had asked around and found her way over, clinging to her without letting go.

With a proud grin, she asked, “Surprised?”

“Very,” Song Rushuang said, unable to stop smiling.

Even though they had only been apart for one summer, roommates who lived together every day still felt the separation deeply.

The anxiety that had weighed on Song Rushuang lately eased considerably with Zhang Han’s sudden appearance.

“It’s the last day. Don’t stay cooped up at home. Let’s go out. I saw there’s a mall nearby,” Zhang Han said, pulling her toward the door. “I’ve been suffocating these past few days, pretending to look miserable so my parents wouldn’t notice anything…”

Song Rushuang checked the time. The mall was close by and would not close for another two hours. They could indeed walk around a bit.

“Alright, let me tell my parents first,” she said, taking out her phone.

They arrived at the mall shortly after eight thirty. As soon as they entered, Song Rushuang’s attention instinctively drifted toward a small goods shop. “Hanhan, is there anything small you forgot to buy?”

Things like cotton swabs or toothpicks, items you could live without but whose absence made daily life inconvenient.

She had stocked up on such items several times before, but her main focus had been food, medicine, and other necessities.

Passing a ten yuan shop reminded her again.

Zhang Han hesitated. “Maybe we should take a look?”

Like before a long trip, no matter how well you prepared, you always remembered something forgotten at the last minute. Shops in malls were more expensive, but they carried a wide variety of small essentials. Online shopping was already too late now, so this could serve as a final supplement.

The two entered the store. After browsing for a while without finding what they wanted, they unexpectedly noticed a somewhat familiar figure.

At that very moment, the person turned around. Their gaze met Song Rushuang’s and Zhang Han’s. The person froze briefly, and a flash of hostility suddenly appeared in their eyes.

Zhang Han hesitated, searching her memory for a name.

“…Shi Guangyao?”

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Previous

Outside the door stood two men.

One was very thin, his face pale, the kind of person people instinctively step away from in a crowd, afraid he might collapse in the next second and frame them for compensation.

The other was of medium build, neither fat nor thin, his looks plain and ordinary, the sort of face that would disappear in a crowd without anyone taking a second glance.

The thin man asked in a low voice, “Here?”

“Yeah. We’ve been watching for a few days. He’s been sick lately. Aside from food deliveries and that coworker of his, no one’s visited, and he hasn’t gone out either.”

There was a faint noise from the living room door, and it opened.

The two of them headed straight toward the bedroom.

The bedroom door wasn’t even shut, just loosely closed.

With a creak, the door was pushed open. The bed was messy, still warm, clearly slept in just moments before.

At first, they didn’t think Mu Xing wasn’t home, just assumed he was in the bathroom, or hiding somewhere.

But after a quick search around the place, they confirmed he was gone.

Where did he go?

Went downstairs for a walk?

Nobody would think an ordinary office worker could have known about their plan in advance.

Reluctant, the two searched again, then left.

Next door.

Mu Xing sat slumped against the wall in the neighbor’s living room, stars swimming in his vision.

At the very last second, he remembered his ability—it seemed like he could move through space.

The moment those two men opened the door, he had forced himself to jump into the neighbor’s living room.

But he was completely drained. He couldn’t even stand up to leave.

Mu Xing sat on the floor, trying to recover, listening to the two men ride the elevator down and sit in the parking lot below.

They hadn’t left.

It was clear they hadn’t given up. If Mu Xing showed himself, he would very likely be taken away, just like in the original plot.

He thought in silence for a moment, then called the police.

“Hello, I’d like to report something. I’m a resident of Jiangwan Apartments. I’ve seen some suspicious people hanging around. I think they might be scouting the area for a robbery.”

At first, the police weren’t overly concerned, preparing to just send a few officers to check. But then Mu Xing added, “It looks like they might be carrying guns.”

The operator froze, then asked urgently, “Are you sure?”

Mu Xing thought for a moment. “I don’t think I saw wrong.”

He actually hadn’t seen them—but in the original plot’s memory, when the tall, thin man injected him with a sedative, his eyes had glimpsed something under the other man’s trench coat.

The dispatcher repeatedly told him to stay safe, assuring him they’d send people right away.

Mu Xing added, “Wait, could you also send someone to Building 7, Apartment 702? I need help here.”

*

While waiting for the police, Mu Xing quietly rested, trying to regain some strength while observing the changes in his body.

He could sense a white energy inside him. That was what he had used to teleport just now.

It must be the source of his ability.

But it clearly had limits. He had thought about just teleporting straight to the police station, but it wasn’t possible.

Even moving just across two walls into the neighbor’s living room had drained more than half of it. Still, the energy seemed to be renewable—he could feel it recovering, very slowly, while he rested.

Just as he was about to withdraw his focus, he noticed something odd.

Next to the white cluster of energy, there was a faint, almost invisible green glow.

It was so small and dim compared to the dazzling white that he almost missed it.

In the original plot, the first Mu Xing had been taken away before fully awakening—he never even figured out his own ability.

Mu Xing had guessed it was space-related. But this green light? The story hadn’t mentioned him having a second ability.

Perhaps his arrival had altered the plot a little, causing this change?

From what he knew, green energy usually related to plants.

His eyes drifted around the neighbor’s living room until they landed on a glass vase on the table, holding a small hydroponic pothos plant.

He tried to guide that tiny green speck into the plant.

Before he could observe what happened, a knock sounded at the door.

“I just got your call. Can you open the door?” The policeman outside was clearly cautious, not revealing too much in case the person inside was in danger.

Mu Xing answered, “It’s me. I fell down and can’t get up. Officer, I might need you to force the door open.”

“…”

No one knew exactly how they managed it, but seconds later the living room door was opened.

Two young officers came in and immediately saw the pale young man slumped on the floor, hair plastered to his face with sweat.

They assumed he had fallen and the sweat was from pain, and hurried over, one asking what had happened, the other reaching for his phone to call an ambulance.

Mu Xing quickly said, “Wait. Actually, I didn’t fall.”

The two looked down at him.

And saw the weak young man grin, showing a set of white teeth, his dark eyes sparkling as he said, perfectly serious, “I’m the one who called the police. This isn’t my home. I’m reporting myself for illegally trespassing. Please arrest me.”

The two men: “…”

Actually, before they came, they already knew Mu Xing wasn’t the owner of this apartment.

When Mu Xing gave the address, they had contacted the real owner of unit 702—a young married couple with no children, who happened to be on vacation these few days.

The apartment should have been empty.

In all their years on the job, the two officers had never heard such a bizarre request.

Of course, they were still going to comply with Mu Xing.

But before that, they carefully asked him, “What’s your physical condition? Can you move? Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?”

Only after Mu Xing repeatedly insisted that he didn’t need to go to the hospital, that he was fine, did they help him up.

Then they realized he couldn’t even stand on his own.

The older of the two insisted he had to be taken to the hospital. Mu Xing gritted his teeth and said, “I’m not going to the hospital. I’ll tell you the truth—someone’s trying to kill me. The hospital isn’t safe.”

The two policemen froze.

Mu Xing continued, “Did you find the two men in the parking garage? Did they have guns? I lied. They weren’t thieves. They came here to kill me. I ran into the neighbor’s apartment to save my life.”

The officers exchanged a glance. They didn’t ask further questions. One bent down and carried Mu Xing on his back, and together they left quickly.

As one of them shut the door, his eyes casually landed on the table—where a pothos plant filled nearly the entire dining table. He clicked his tongue in admiration: the neighbors sure knew how to grow a pothos.

*

At the police station, Mu Xing looked so unwell that they gave him a cushion to lean against.

Someone began questioning him about what he had said earlier.

Mu Xing thought for a moment, then said, “I have something very important to report. Can you help me contact a Major Gu Zhao?”

He remembered that, when those people broke into the experimental base, one of them had muttered, “Hurry and report to Major Gu Zhao.”

The police exchanged baffled looks.

One said, “If you have something to say, you can tell us directly.”

Mu Xing closed his eyes briefly, suppressing the waves of dizziness. “It’s urgent. I trust you, but this isn’t a decision you can make.”

Even if they interrogated him here for days, in the end it would still have to be reported upward.

He noticed one officer step out, then return after a while, looking at him oddly.

There really was a Major Gu Zhao—a member of the Imperial Capital’s special forces.

Meanwhile, Mu Xing’s file had already been pulled in full detail—even down to his online shopping history.

He was nothing but an ordinary man. An orphan, went through school, graduated, got a regular job. Aside from being handsome, he was no different from any of the billions of ordinary citizens in Huaguo.

He shouldn’t have known of Major Gu Zhao’s existence, let alone his name and rank.

Yet he had said it so clearly.

Mu Xing was moved into a separate room, with someone assigned to watch him.

Mu Xing asked the guard, “Will Major Gu Zhao come?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Mu Xing replied, then lifted his head again. “Could I have a blanket? And a glass of water, that would be even better.”

The officer: “…”

The blanket and water were delivered.

Mu Xing drained the cup with effort, his throat finally soothed, then wrapped himself in the blanket, leaned back in the wide chair, and promptly fell asleep.

The officer on watch: “…”

He just fell asleep like that?

*

Mu Xing was woken later.

It was the same guard—Zhang Yucheng—who roused him. Mu Xing caught a whiff of food and saw a lunchbox on the table.

After some rest, his head still swam, but he’d regained a little strength.

He knew it wouldn’t last. In another hour or two, he would likely start burning with fever again, and then collapse.

He was used to it.

“Thank you,” he said politely, picking up chopsticks. But when his hand trembled too much, he switched to a spoon.

Zhang Yucheng, watching, couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sick? How can someone so young be this weak?”

Mu Xing answered, “Something like that. But I’ll be fine soon.”

Zhang pressed on, “Who are you really? What are you trying to do? Those two people you reported—we didn’t catch them. The IDs we pulled from the cameras were fake.”

They suspected foreign spies.

“You said they want to kill you—why?”

Mu Xing kept his head down, eating, and replied only when he had a free moment: “Because they’re crazy.”

Zhang Yucheng: “…”

After eating, Mu Xing politely asked if he could shower, but was refused. At least there was a simple bed in the holding room. He climbed up and soon fell asleep again.

Zhang had never seen anyone this comfortable inside a police station.

The next morning, Mu Xing was pushed awake, groggy.

He was feverish again.

Someone said beside his ear, “The person you wanted to see is here. Wake up.”

Mu Xing’s mind was clear, but his eyelids were too heavy to lift.

Footsteps came in. A flustered voice cried, “Major, he’s burning up—his whole body is hot like fire!”

Then he was lifted up, seemingly carried into a vehicle.

Being taken away again—but this time, Mu Xing felt much more at ease.

He let his consciousness sink lazily into sleep.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

ARC 11: The First Superhuman

Mu Xing woke up drenched in sweat.

His whole body felt as if it had just been pulled out of water, weak and limp, to the point where even moving a finger was difficult.

He slowly opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the simple ceiling light above him. Beneath him was the soft sensation of a mattress — he must be in a bedroom.

He turned his head slightly to look around, and even such a simple motion sent his mind spinning, nearly making him faint again.

Suddenly, a flood of story memories surged into his head.

The original Mu Xing had been an orphan, raised by an old Taoist priest. When Mu Xing was eighteen, the priest passed away. After graduating college, Mu Xing stayed in the provincial capital of his hometown and became just an ordinary office worker.

That quiet life was broken a month ago.

That day, after work, he returned to his rented apartment building. While waiting for the elevator on the first floor, he inexplicably heard a quarrel between a couple on the seventh floor.

That made no sense. Mu Xing lived on the seventh floor himself, and the apartments there had good soundproofing. Normally, even if the neighbors argued behind closed doors, he shouldn’t be able to hear it from inside his own unit — let alone from seven floors below.

From that day onward, he began to run a fever.

At first, it went down with some over-the-counter medicine, but soon it came back. Fearing something serious, he took leave from work and went to the hospital. Yet the doctors found nothing abnormal.

Still, everything felt wrong.

His hearing became unusually sharp. His slightly myopic eyes not only recovered, but became so sharp that he could clearly see people a hundred meters away.

If that were all, maybe it could be explained. But one morning, he woke up needing the bathroom. With just a single thought, he suddenly appeared not in his own bedroom, but in the neighbor’s bathroom.

It was like seeing a ghost.

He went back to the hospital for a full-body checkup, but the results showed his health indicators were better than perfect. The doctor almost pulled him aside to ask: Young man, what kind of health regimen do you follow?

He left the hospital in a daze.

Afraid of what was happening to him, he confided in his close colleague Xu Hui.

Xu Hui was his senior, a few years ahead of him, and had guided him since he joined the company. Honest and dependable. Naturally, Xu Hui didn’t believe his story — until Mu Xing phased through the living room wall into the bedroom right before his eyes.

Xu Hui was stunned, even joked: “Is this what movies call superpowers?”

But the original Mu Xing, still feverish and weak, sighed: “I feel like I’m dying. What’s the point of a superpower if I can’t even live?”

In that state, he couldn’t keep working. The company, worried something might happen on site, gave him extended leave until he got better.

Xu Hui would occasionally visit, bringing small gifts.

Then, one day, when Mu Xing was burning with fever and delirious, he woke barely able to move, bitterly wondering if he was about to die.

That was when his door opened.

Two men in black entered, injected something into his arm, and his consciousness slipped away.

From then on, his nightmare began.

He awoke on a white bed, surrounded by people in white coats, countless machines and experimental devices all around.

For a long time after, he never left that bed.

They injected him with things he couldn’t name. His body wouldn’t move, his mind was often foggy, but he felt everything — every invasive test, every extraction of blood, spinal fluid, tissue samples.

Eventually, they even cut away flesh to analyze, strapped strange instruments onto his head. It felt like countless tendrils drilling into his brain — the pain so vivid that even Mu Xing, merely recalling it, trembled in reflex.

Later, they transferred him to a different place — a giant tank, filled with a thick blue liquid of unknown nature.

From overhearing them, he realized his body was collapsing. They didn’t want him to die, so they kept him alive by force to continue their so-called research.

He lost all sense of time.

His only wish became simple: to die quickly, to escape the torment.

Then one day, he dimly sensed chaos erupting around him — gunfire, rushing wind, panicked footsteps everywhere.

At last, silence.

A few soldiers in uniform broke into the room. Mu Xing struggled to open his eyes and met their shocked, furious gazes.

Kill me.

He prayed wordlessly.

—

Mu Xing exhaled deeply, pulling himself out of the nightmarish memories.

After that point, the perspective was no longer the original’s.

It turned out, everything had started with Xu Hui.

One evening, Xu Hui went to a bar to unwind. After a few drinks, feeling tipsy, he mentioned Mu Xing’s strange situation to the people around him.

Of course, nobody believed him.

Xu Hui, indignant, doubled down — describing in detail everything Mu Xing had told him, and even what he had witnessed with his own eyes.

Some listened half-doubtfully. Then, someone behind them suddenly asked:

“What’s your friend’s name? Where does he live?”

Xu Hui’s eyes were half-lidded, and he didn’t even know exactly what he had said.

Later, he passed out drunk.

Two days later, when he went to Mu Xing’s apartment to check on him, he knocked and called for a long time but got no answer. Afraid something might have happened inside, he called the police.

But there was no one left inside.

Mu Xing had disappeared.

Xu Hui was taken to the police station for questioning. He only told them that Mu Xing had been unwell lately, often sick, and that Mu Xing kept saying he had awakened some kind of superpower.

He didn’t tell the police about Mu Xing’s strange ability to walk through walls.

The police couldn’t get any useful information out of him, so they let him go, reminding him that if he remembered anything important, he must tell them immediately.

A day after returning home, Xu Hui woke from sleep in a cold sweat, suddenly recalling the stranger he’d met at the bar that night.

The man’s accent had been odd, clearly not someone from China, and he had asked many questions about Mu Xing.

Cold sweat broke out again. Could Mu Xing’s disappearance be connected to that man?

But in the end, Xu Hui still didn’t say a word.

At that moment, a dark thought sprouted in his heart: perhaps it was better if Mu Xing never came back.

As a senior at the company, both colleague and former upperclassman, Xu Hui had initially been happy to guide this junior.

But the junior was too exceptional. Soon after joining the company, Mu Xing had landed a major project, earning the admiration of leadership.

By the year’s end, a project manager was set to transfer to headquarters. By seniority, Xu Hui should have been the natural candidate for promotion.

But that manager liked Mu Xing very much, and might have recommended him to leadership before leaving.

Xu Hui chose silence.

The original Mu Xing lost his only chance of being saved.

*

Mu Xing quietly watched the missing pieces of the story unfold.

In recent years, ancient ruins had been unearthed around the world. Humanity discovered relics of long-forgotten cultures never recorded in history.

Experts gradually proposed that human history might be far older than what was known. In distant ages, perhaps humankind once possessed glorious civilizations.

Mu Xing’s mutation was only the beginning.

Three months after his transformation, others across China began showing the same symptoms. Soon, similar cases appeared in other countries as well.

After a month or more of lingering fevers and malaise, their senses sharpened, their strength grew, and some awakened supernatural powers—like characters from a science fiction film.

No one was prepared for this upheaval.

As more and more awakened individuals appeared, governments lagged behind, and chaos spread worldwide.

Some awakened saw themselves as chosen beings, superior to ordinary humans. They banded together, forming organizations, ignoring laws and rules, seizing whatever they wanted through violence.

They called themselves superhumans.

A few extremists went further, claiming that ordinary humans were “inferior genes” that should be eliminated. They carried out terrorist attacks, openly declaring their intent to wipe out humanity.

For a long time, human society was thrown into disorder. Ordinary people were afraid to even leave their homes, lest they be robbed—or killed.

Among the nations, China was the fastest to respond, and the quickest to stabilize.

With overwhelming force, the government recruited and organized the awakened, forming a new army to restore order.

While many foreign governments were still battling superhuman uprisings, China had already returned to relative peace.

The original Mu Xing had been the very first awakened in the world. He was three full months ahead of the second person to awaken.

The people who kidnapped him came from a foreign group known as “Zero.”

Its members were all fanatics and outcasts—psychopathic killers, ruthless biologists, rabid racists… there was no one normal among them.

From the moment ancient ruins began to appear, they sensed something unusual and scoured the world for anomalies.

They targeted Mu Xing during his awakening and abducted him.

Using him as a test subject, they gained an early understanding of the superhuman phenomenon. When the global awakening began, they seized the advantage, recruiting a large number of ability users.

Worse still, with the knowledge extracted from Mu Xing, they created artificial “sub-humans.”

These man-made powers were weaker than natural awakened, but still stronger than ordinary people. The price was steep: their powers were fueled by forcibly burning their life force, giving them short, doomed lifespans.

The Zero organization became the world’s greatest tumor when the chaos era began.

*

After seeing the complete story, Mu Xing suddenly realized something.

In the original timeline, the old Mu Xing had been abducted by Zero during one of his fever spells, too weak to resist.

But now…

He held his breath.

He heard footsteps.

On the first floor.

Two men stood silently at the elevator.

Their target… was him.

Cold sweat slid down Mu Xing’s back.

He “watched” as they entered the elevator.

The elevator rose.

It stopped at the seventh floor.

They stepped out, glanced at the apartment numbers, and then… stopped right at his door.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

As a xianxia drama, Seeking Immortality followed the typical pattern where every character and subplot served as the male lead’s invisible buff.

The male lead was even supposed to be taught by the little junior uncle for a while.

In the original script, these parts were brushed over—and Director Zhou had also planned to brush them over—but after seeing Mu Xing’s look in costume, he felt it was a waste. He filmed all of those scenes in full.

The junior uncle playing the qin.
The junior uncle practicing sword forms.
The junior uncle debating the Dao with the male lead.

Scenes Jiang Shengyu thought he could avoid sharing a frame in ended up unavoidable after all.

All of Mu Xing’s appearances, when cut together, amounted to nearly half an hour of screen time—not that little anymore compared to before.

With Mu Xing’s appearance, Seeking Immortality’s popularity suddenly skyrocketed.

But this wasn’t the kind of popularity Jiang Shengyu wanted.

Because all the news, all the video platform edits, were about Mu Xing—about Zhuo Qingbi.

Click on any site, and the home page was full of fan edits and “face-licking” compilations of the junior uncle, plus endless promo cuts recommending Seeking Immortality.

Many viewers who hadn’t watched the drama started tuning in just because of those videos—only to discover Zhuo Qingbi wasn’t even the male lead.

And that his screen time was very little!

They waited for days without seeing a single glimpse of him!

But even with so few scenes, his popularity kept climbing.

The key issue was this: the male lead’s storyline was mostly romance. While cultivating, he paused for romance. While on his revenge path, he paused for romance.

If Zhuo Qingbi hadn’t existed, it might have been fine.

But with a junior uncle wholly devoted to the Great Dao as contrast, the more viewers watched, the less they liked the male lead:

【Isn’t this drama called Seeking Immortality? Why does the male lead seem stuck in melodrama the whole time?】

【Can’t modern dramas just do a proper xianxia without stuffing romance into everything?】

【Seriously, now it’s campus dramas with romance, wuxia with romance, xianxia with romance. All the genres are just shells—it’s romance underneath.】

【Then this drama should be called Seeking Love, not Seeking Immortality.】

【The junior uncle is the only one worthy of the words ‘seeking immortality.’ He’s the firmest Dao-heart I’ve seen in the whole show.】

Jiang Shengyu saw the comments online and was furious: So you’re saying if there’s no romance, you’d still watch? Isn’t it just because Mu Xing looks good that you’re obsessed? If it were someone uglier, would you even remember the junior uncle’s name?

But the audience didn’t know what was coming.

They waited ten-plus episodes, finally to see Zhuo Qingbi again.

The male lead, in a secret realm, obtained an ancient inheritance. An ancient divine weapon sealed in Qingyue Sect’s Sword Tomb was awakened, drawing demonic sects from all sides to attack.

With no reinforcements coming, Qingyue Sect disciples were slaughtered in droves.

In that desperate moment, Zhuo Qingbi emerged, sacrificing his soul to activate the sect’s protective formation and save the disciples.

And that was the end of his role.

The very night this episode aired, Jiang Shengyu shot to the top of the trending list—for being cursed out.

Jiang Shengyu: ?????

What’s it got to do with me!

The script was written this way!

Besides, if the junior uncle didn’t die, the plot couldn’t move forward!

But the audience didn’t care.

They only knew their favorite character died—and died indirectly because of the male lead.

Plenty of viewers even dropped the drama then and there.

Jiang Shengyu had nowhere to vent his anger, while the production team was overjoyed.

The popularity wasn’t what they originally expected, but so what? High heat meant profit.

So, the crew began releasing behind-the-scenes footage.

All sorts of bloopers and fun clips during filming: the other leads laughing, breaking character, hyping up CPs—then Mu Xing’s clips appeared, completely different in style.

Playing the guqin, performing his own music.
Doing fight scenes, no stunt double.
Swordplay, more beautiful than the professionals.

Unless a scene partner made mistakes, his takes were almost always done in one shot.

Viewers were stunned.

【Multi-talented junior uncle, I’m in love】

【From now on, every xianxia novel’s male lead/master I read has a face: Mu Xing’s】

【Please, Mu Xing, act in more xianxia dramas! As the actual male lead, in every episode!】

【By the way, it feels like it’s been forever since we last heard anything about Mu Xing.】

Mu Xing’s fans: You’re just realizing this? We’ve already grown mushrooms waiting!

His Weibo—the last post was back when he was publicly fighting with that scumbag Qin Song.

There hadn’t been a single update since.

Fans, unable to get news from Mu Xing himself, flooded his old company’s account with questions.

After days of urging, only when Seeking Immortality finished airing did Changxin Entertainment finally post: they had already terminated their contract with Mu Xing last October.

Fans: ???

And then?

What company did he sign with?

They tried to dig, but even the most well-informed insiders came up empty.

In truth, deep down, everyone already suspected: once his identity was revealed, no one really believed Mu Xing would stay in showbiz for long.

Sure enough, his former manager Zhong Ling posted on Weibo, saying he had talked to Mu Xing before the termination, and that Mu Xing most likely left the entertainment industry entirely.

Fans: ?!

I just became a fan, and you quit right away?

This is cruel! I don’t believe it!

On every old post of his, fans squatted, waiting for his return.

By the time Mu Xing learned of all this, a long time had already passed.

Zhong Ling said: “There are so many people who like you now. If you make a comeback, your popularity will definitely be high.”

Mu Xing answered directly: “What they like isn’t me. It’s Zhuo Qingbi, the perfect character from the drama. If someone else had my face and aura, they would like that person instead.

“I am not Zhuo Qingbi, and I will never play a second Zhuo Qingbi.”

Looking at the new tea set he had just fired, he nodded in satisfaction: “Not bad, my skills are getting smoother. Acting is nowhere near as joyful as working with ceramics.”

He went on Weibo and posted a set of photos.

Mu Xing V: Recently I’ve picked up a new hobby. I’m not acting anymore. I won’t be using this account either. Wishing everyone well. 【pic】【pic】【pic】

After he said he wouldn’t use the account, he really never logged in again. After saying he was leaving the industry, fans never saw him on any screen or variety show again.

Not even paparazzi could catch a trace of him.

This man had suddenly appeared in the entertainment circle the previous year, had a flash marriage with a film emperor, got exposed online, then divorced swiftly, joined a variety show, and filmed one drama.

All told, his time in the circle added up to barely a year.

Yet he left behind an indelible impression.

Years later, whenever viewers spoke of xianxia dramas, they could never forget that ethereal junior uncle.

Some sighed: He only filmed a drama on a whim, to experience life, and yet he stunned you all for so many years.

Later, someone posted on Weibo.

It was from an international ceramics exhibition. Among all the works, one collection stood out, completely different in style.

All kinds of little animals, anthropomorphized plants. With their round faces and plump bellies, just looking at them made people feel involuntarily happy.

The name on the works was Mu Xing.

Later, some said they encountered a group of Kunqu opera enthusiasts at a theater in a southern riverside town, and among them was a person who looked very much like Mu Xing.

*

When Mu Xing first started learning ceramics, Mu Jiangtao didn’t take it seriously. He thought it was just a passing fancy, that once the novelty faded, he’d drop it.

He waited a year, two years, then ten, then eight more.

Only then did Mu Jiangtao suddenly realize: he might never see the day his son lost interest.

But it didn’t matter. Mu Lin was capable enough; Mu Xing didn’t need to shoulder the family’s burdens. He could do as he pleased.

Anyway, between the shares of the Mu family and the assets left by his maternal grandfather, Mu Xing could easily live well even if he “burned money” on his refined hobbies.

So Mu Jiangtao began to worry about his son’s personal life instead.

Every time he brought it up, Mu Xing would say: if you have energy to worry about that, better spend it on your own health.

Mu Jiangtao’s temper was bad, his taste heavy. Even though he’d tried to live healthier in recent years, he still had a pile of cardiovascular problems.

Later, when Mu Lin had twins—a boy and a girl—Mu Jiangtao stopped bothering with his son. Compared to his son, weren’t adorable, chubby grandchildren far more fun?

*

As Mu Xing achieved small success in ceramics, he grew interested in opera. Every so often, he followed a group of enthusiasts to watch and learn, and could even sing a short passage himself.

The orb held it in for a long time, but finally one day asked: “Do you still remember Qin Song and Jiang Shengyu?”

By then, it had already been thirteen or fourteen years since Mu Xing left the entertainment circle.

He had a good memory, but it was mostly used for what he cared about, what he found meaningful.

The names sounded familiar, but it still took Mu Xing nearly a minute to recall who they were.

“Mm, I remember. What about them?”

The orb knew Mu Xing well. One look and he could tell Mu Xing had long since forgotten them to the ends of the earth.

“They’re not doing very well,” The orb said.

Mu Xing only gave an “oh,” uninterested, and continued what he was doing.

Recently, besides Kunqu, he had developed an interest in jade carving. He was practicing with a small carving knife in his hand.

There were so many interesting things in this world—why waste effort remembering two irrelevant people?

But the or insisted on telling him.

He said Qin Song’s reputation had been destroyed after that incident.

Audiences disliked him, and the quality of resources he could reach plummeted.

The good ones were out of reach, the bad ones he didn’t want.

But the industry was cruel. If you disappeared for a while, audiences forgot you.

By the time he realized, the resources he could get had dropped another level.

Now, the once-glorious film emperor could only play elders in low-quality web dramas.

Jiang Shengyu hadn’t fared much better. Qin Song at least had some professional skill, but Jiang Shengyu had little.

When young, he relied on good looks to get famous for a while. But the entertainment circle never lacked good-looking newcomers.

As he got older, he couldn’t land serious dramas. His idol dramas got criticized. Naturally, his career kept going downhill.

He even broke up with Qin Song.

Everyone had seen how much Qin Song loved him back then.

Yet less than three years after Qin Song’s decline, Jiang Shengyu left him for someone new when he saw there was no hope of revival.

Unfortunately, his eye for people wasn’t good. The new lover only liked his fresh looks. Once bored, he was dumped.

That incident lost him a wave of fans, and what remained of Qin Song’s hardcore fans, plus their CP shippers, all scolded him as heartless. His reputation was ruined completely.

Now, he was half-retired from the circle. Occasionally there was gossip news—him doing cheap appearances in backwater towns. He had aged badly, grown fat, no longer resembling the once-praised moonlike beauty.

The orb rambled on for a long while.

Then he looked up to check Mu Xing’s reaction—only to find the man had already set aside the carving knife, tilted his head on a soft pillow, and fallen asleep.

The orb: “…”

Hmph!

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

Half a month later, Mu Xing left the Seeking Immortality crew.

He hadn’t had many scenes to begin with—if filmed seriously, he could have finished in two days.

But after Director Zhou saw him in costume, his expectations doubled from five to ten. He even had the scriptwriter change the script on the spot.

Additional scenes were written for Zhuo Qingbi. Originally, these had only been fleeting mentions in the male lead’s memories, but now Mu Xing was asked to act them out.

During filming, Director Zhou realized Mu Xing actually knew so much: playing instruments like guqin and jade flute was one thing, but he could even perform sword-flower routines!

His fight scenes were sharp and elegant—the action choreographer had nothing left to do.

With Mu Xing setting the bar so high, Director Zhou became more and more dissatisfied with the other leads, raising his standards by several notches.

The cameraman followed Mu Xing happily every day, shooting loads of behind-the-scenes clips.

When Mu Xing left, Director Zhou even handed him a business card, speaking with reluctance, saying he hoped they could work together again someday.

Mu Xing accepted it with thanks.

But deep down, he knew clearly: the reason this role suited him wasn’t because of acting skill, but simply because he had seen real cultivators before, and was only recreating what he’d witnessed.

He feared he would have to let down Director Zhou’s goodwill.

Back home, Mu Xing terminated his contract with the company, just as planned.

When Old Master Mu heard he didn’t want to be a celebrity anymore, he was so delighted he immediately gave him two villas.

Mu Xing: “…”

Alright, I get it. You’re all making fun of me.

When Mu Lin learned he’d quit the entertainment circle, she again asked if he wanted to work in the family company. Mu Xing quickly refused.

He stayed home with Mu Jiangtao for over half a year, and sought out a pottery master in Nan Province.

With enough time and money, he preferred to spend his energy exploring new and interesting fields rather than working hard to earn more wealth.

All those skills he had—guqin, flute, painting—were things he had mastered over long stretches of past lives.

No matter how much money one earned, it couldn’t be taken through reincarnation. But learning such crafts gave him joy, and even in another world, those skills would remain.

The Mu family’s young master pulled his suitcase quietly to an old courtyard more than a hundred years old, visited the master, and became an ordinary apprentice.

Half a year later, he sent his first finished product back home.

A chubby little rabbit—very rough.

He even sent a video to Mu Jiangtao: “Well? Am I amazing? Master Zhang praised me for having talent.”

Mu Jiangtao snorted in disdain: “Please. No one would want this even for free.”

Yet when Mu Lin came home and saw it sitting on the multi-treasure cabinet in her father’s study, she laughed: “Dad, where did you pick up this thing off a rug? It looks out of place here.”

That cabinet was filled with antiques and precious artifacts. Among them, the fat rabbit was utterly out of place.

Mu Jiangtao glanced at his eldest daughter, gave a soft hum, and with a hint of pride in his voice said: “Your brother made it himself. I dislike it, but he insisted it was his first piece and made me keep it safe.”

Mu Lin: “…”

After a moment’s silence, she said: “Actually, the rabbit… isn’t that bad.”

That very night, Mu Xing received a call from his sister.

Mu Lin said her desk looked a bit empty and asked if there was something she could place on it to make it less plain.

At first, Mu Xing didn’t get her meaning, and excitedly suggested she keep fresh flowers on her desk—it would brighten her mood every day.

Until Mu Lin “casually” mentioned: “Dad said you’ve been able to make some simple little things lately?”

Mu Xing finally understood what she meant.

If you want something, just say so—why go in circles?

He held back a laugh and said: “Yes, though I’m still not skilled. Out of my first batch, only that rabbit looked passable. Now I’m making a second batch. If something good turns out, I’ll send one to you.”

Mu Lin answered with a reserved “mm” and added: “Nothing too fancy.”

“Got it.”

A month later, a package arrived at the front desk of Mu Corporation headquarters.

Seeing the recipient’s name, the staff immediately called the CEO’s office.

Five minutes later, Mu Lin opened the box and stared at a white, round-bellied maneki-neko.

It wore a red cord with a little bell around its neck, smiled with crescent eyes, and raised a paw as if waving to her.

Just then, Mu Xing called.

“Sis, did you get what I sent you?”

Mu Lin looked at the chubby cat and asked slowly: “That cat?”

“Mm!” Mu Xing asked her, “Isn’t it cute? Compared to Dad’s rabbit, isn’t it a big improvement? The surface is smooth, the color even. Master said I could set up a street stall and make a living now.”

Mu Lin was silent for a moment, then said: “…Cute.”

She struggled for over half an hour before finally placing the cat-sized ceramic on her desk.

When her assistant came in with documents, the little thing was the first thing that caught her eye.

She looked at Mu Lin in surprise. The CEO was always serious at work, and her office style was simple and efficient. But this cat—

It was very abrupt.

Mu Lin noticed her assistant standing there for a long time, eyes fixed on the cat on the desk.

The corners of her lips curved into a smile, and she said softly: “My brother gave it to me.”

Then she emphasized: “He made it himself.”

Seeing the assistant still not reacting, she took the initiative to ask: “Isn’t it cute?”

The assistant tilted her head and met Mu Lin’s eyes directly.

The CEO was staring at her straight on, clearly waiting for an answer.

She immediately said: “Cute! Super cute! Young Master Mu is truly multi-talented! President, you and your brother have such a good relationship!”

“Mm.” Mu Lin made a sound, then added with disdain: “Already such a grown man, yet still like a child, liking these flashy little things.”

The assistant shivered, quickly placed the documents on the desk, and left.

Outside the office, she recalled the smile on the CEO’s face and thought to herself—who would have guessed, the CEO is actually a brother-con.

*

Seeking Immortality finally aired.

This lavishly produced xianxia drama, with a powerful cast, was one of the most anticipated TV series of the year.

With its tight plot, intense conflicts, top trending stars, and well-done promotion, its popularity kept climbing from the very start. Even if it wasn’t a mega-hit, its ratings were already secured.

The popularity of the main actors rose sharply, and their fan counts soared.

Then came episode thirteen, when the male lead mistakenly entered the forbidden ground, and Mu Xing’s little junior uncle appeared for the first time.

In the silent realm, he was the guardian of Qingyue Sect’s most mysterious and dangerous Sword Tomb.

Carrying a long zither on his back, as radiant as the bright moon, his gaze calm and detached as he looked at the male lead: “Disciple of Qingyue Sect? Do you know this is the sect’s forbidden ground? Intruders must be punished.”

The male lead, stunned by his bearing, was momentarily speechless. The next instant, a fierce gust struck him, and he fell unconscious.

One line of dialogue, less than half a minute of screen time.

The audience went wild.

#LittleUncle, an exiled immortal from the heavens#

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

When Mu Xing entered the crew of Seeking Immortality, he quickly discovered that everyone there treated him with unusual friendliness.

His assistant had been reassigned by the company—young, capable, soft-spoken, and able to arrange everything just right.

Even though Mu Xing had already told the company through Zhong Ling that he planned to terminate his contract after finishing this drama, the company still sent their most versatile assistant to take care of him without complaint.

This drama was also the original body’s obsession. It was in this production that, because he cared too much about Jiang Shengyu and wanted to prove himself, he overexerted and failed.

The junior disciple he played had been completely overshadowed by the protagonist played by Jiang Shengyu.

Mu Xing decided that finishing this drama properly and clearing away the original body’s obsession would be repaying the karmic debt of using his body.

Whenever he was reminded that he carried some responsibility, he was not as carefree as usual.

Even though he didn’t like repeatedly performing as someone else in front of the camera, Mu Xing still decided to act seriously and finish this xianxia drama.

As soon as he joined the crew, he earnestly sought out Director Zhou Huai and told him that he had never acted before, so if he did poorly, he hoped the director wouldn’t hesitate to scold him strictly.

Zhou Huai was surprised by the little master standing before him.

Who in the industry didn’t know about the recent explosive scandal?

He knew he had a “big Buddha” in his crew, and rather than being excited to cling to him, he felt troubled: such a person would be hard to manage. If the performance was poor, it would be hard to criticize.

These past days, he had been consoling himself that fortunately, Mu Xing was only playing the protagonist’s junior disciple, a fourth- or fifth-ranked supporting male. Even if his performance was bad, it wouldn’t ruin the whole drama.

But unexpectedly, Mu Xing approached him first, with such humility.

Seeing the seriousness on his face, Zhou Huai knew he genuinely wanted to act well.

He felt relieved, and smiled: “Then be prepared. If you perform poorly, I will scold you.”

Mu Xing frowned bitterly: “Okay, I’ll try to get scolded less.”

Zhou Huai found this young man interesting, with a good temper—completely different from what he had imagined.

When Jiang Shengyu entered the set, the first thing he saw was Mu Xing chatting with the director, Zhou Huai, who actually had a smile on his face.

He sneered inwardly at such sycophancy, but outwardly he smiled and went over to greet them: “Director Zhou, Mu Xing.”

Zhou Huai glanced at him, his smile unchanged, and nodded.

He was fairly satisfied with Jiang Shengyu as the lead actor.

But Mu Xing’s humble expression from a moment ago instantly turned cold.

Jiang Shengyu pretended not to notice Mu Xing’s indifference and said apologetically: “I still owe you an apology, Mu Xing.”

Mu Xing said with great disdain: “No need. To me, this matter is already in the past.”

Jiang Shengyu looked at him expectantly: “So you’ve forgiven me? I do have some acting experience—if you have any questions, you can always come ask me.”

Mu Xing stepped back: “No. Just because it’s in the past doesn’t mean it never happened. You and Qin Song—I don’t want to deal with either of you again.”

When Jiang Shengyu tried to speak further, Mu Xing glared fiercely: “The only reason I’m not bothering with you is because I have a good temper. That doesn’t mean what you did is forgivable.”

He threatened: “If you keep getting in my way, watch out. I really might blacklist you like those domineering CEOs on TV!”

Jiang Shengyu: “…”

He paused, unable to tell if Mu Xing was joking or serious, and didn’t dare go closer.

Zhou Huai, seeing that the key cast members had arrived, called them to change clothes, get styled, and shoot the costume photos.

Mu Xing’s outfit was a pale-blue disciple robe with a white base—the uniform of Qingyue Sect, the sect the male lead belonged to in Seeking Immortality.

Jiang Shengyu also had this outfit, but his photoshoot involved not just this costume, but two others as well.

Costumes weren’t new to Mu Xing. In fact, because he had once practiced cultivation, when he put on this sect disciple outfit, his posture and demeanor instinctively carried an understanding of what it meant to be a cultivator.

After the stylist finished dressing him up and looked at Mu Xing standing there, she clutched her chest and gasped, face flushed, and quietly asked if she could take a photo with him.

Mu Xing agreed, took the picture, then stepped out—just as Jiang Shengyu came out of the opposite dressing room.

Jiang Shengyu was wearing the exact same disciple outfit.

At a glance, his pupils shrank.

He stared at Mu Xing for a long moment, before barely forcing out a smile: “Mu Xing, you look good in that.”

Mu Xing agreed wholeheartedly: “Thanks, I think so too.”

Jiang Shengyu said nothing more, turning toward the set with slightly hurried steps.

Mu Xing followed, the two arriving one after another at the photoshoot site.

Several other leads were also wearing disciple robes. But as they saw the pair approach, they couldn’t help but glance over, their expressions complicated.

Everyone knew something of the online scandal involving Qin Song, Jiang Shengyu, and Mu Xing.

Some said Qin Song had treated Mu Xing as a substitute for Jiang Shengyu, since the two looked somewhat alike.

In modern clothes, the resemblance wasn’t so obvious. But now in ancient costumes, wearing identical disciple robes, that faint similarity became far more noticeable.

They really did look a bit alike.

A slight resemblance wasn’t what Jiang Shengyu minded. What he minded was that, at the very first glance of Mu Xing just now, the first thought that flashed in his heart was—stunning.

He was the male lead.

But in costume, he was outshone by Mu Xing.

Not just in looks, but in aura and bearing.

His role, the male lead Xiao Chengyu, had plenty of scenes together with Mu Xing’s role, the junior disciple Yuan Zhen. When the time came, how would the audience see him?

Zhou Huai had clearly noticed the two of them as well.

He frowned as he sized them up for a while, then suddenly called out loudly: “Mu Xing, come over here.”

Mu Xing walked over unhurriedly, his whole person like a clear breeze and bright moon. The onlookers even felt a strange illusion—that the person before them wasn’t the Mu Xing they knew, but a true cultivator.

Zhou Huai realized it too.

He looked at Mu Xing and said: “You really suit this costume. You look very much like a cultivator.”

Mu Xing smiled, brimming with spirit: “Thank you, Director, for the praise.”

Zhou Huai rubbed his temples: “That wasn’t a compliment. Do you think you look like an average-talent junior disciple who only cares about food, drink, and fun?”

Mu Xing thought about it. He could do food, drink, and fun—but average talent… what exactly did that look like?

He looked at the director, a little lost.

Zhou Huai glanced at Jiang Shengyu in the distance and shook his head: “And besides, in the same costume, you’re more eye-catching than the male lead. That doesn’t work. It doesn’t match your character.”

Jiang Shengyu: “…”

He felt all the eyes around him land on him, and it was humiliating.

Zhou Huai actually meant nothing else. He was always blunt, never very good with words. In his early years he had offended people, and had been obscure for years before clawing his way back with pure skill and reputation.

He studied Mu Xing for a long moment before saying: “I’ll give you two suggestions.”

“First, I’ll have the stylist make you look plainer. You’ll also need to learn to hold back, restrain your aura.”

“Second, for example with Yuan Zhen, I have another role that would suit you better.”

He hesitated, then admitted his bias: “I personally think the second suggestion is better.”

Mu Xing was curious: “What role?”

In fact, the very first moment Zhou Huai saw Mu Xing in costume, he thought of that character.

The Sword Tomb Guardian of Qingyue Sect, the former sect leader’s last disciple, the male lead’s junior uncle—Zhuo Qingbi. A character who appeared late, with few scenes, but a role like a white moonlight.

Mu Xing knew this figure. In a story where the male lead and female lead loved but could not be together, and with the second female lead he bore the tragic fate of destined ill-fated lovers—though named Seeking Immortality, most of the plot revolved around the male lead’s revenge and tangled romances—Zhuo Qingbi was a different kind of flower altogether.

The former sect leader’s last disciple, born with a sword bone, an extraordinary talent, living alone in the Sword Tomb since childhood, cut off from the world, wholly devoted to pursuing immortality.

In the end, to protect the Sword Tomb, he sacrificed himself, becoming the great formation, his body turning to dust.

He had no secret lineage, no emotional entanglements. From his first appearance, he was a high-realm cultivator, a True Lord of Divine Transformation, immersed in cultivation, who ultimately fell for his conviction.

Zhou Huai hesitated only on one point: “This is the role. It has fewer scenes than Yuan Zhen. But I can guarantee, if you can capture that feeling, the impact will be far greater than Yuan Zhen’s.”

Yuan Zhen in the script was basically the male lead’s “follower,” with nothing remarkable in the character design.

But Zhuo Qingbi was different. With this role, as long as it was played well, it would definitely be the white moonlight.

Mu Xing reviewed the script in his mind and nodded: “Alright, I’ll play this one.”

His straightforwardness left Zhou Huai’s prepared persuasion caught in his throat.

He asked: “So quick to decide?”

Mu Xing said: “I just want to play a role to prove myself. Between Zhuo Qingbi and Yuan Zhen, I think the former is better.”

Zhou Huai was overjoyed: “Then it’s settled!”

He told the stylist to redo Mu Xing’s look, while calling the assistant director to find another actor for Yuan Zhen.

The onlookers had listened to the entire exchange.

They watched Mu Xing, without hesitation or even discussing with his agent, casually give up a fairly significant fourth male lead role for a minor background character with less than ten minutes of total screen time.

They could only call it the willfulness of a young master.

Jiang Shengyu let out a breath of relief: the male lead and junior uncle had only two scenes together, and almost no overlap in the frame. His worries were gone.

❣╰(⸝⸝⸝꒳⸝⸝⸝)╯❣

“Xiao Gan, why are you out so early?”

In North Central Street of Lonewind Island, a woman dressed in black stepped out of a narrow, damp, and decaying alleyway.

At the mouth of the lane, she quickly sidestepped a splash of filthy black water thrown out from a bucket nearby.

The old woman who’d thrown it looked slightly embarrassed, but couldn’t bring herself to apologize. She settled for a casual greeting instead.

Du Xiaogan gave a slight nod.

The old woman added, “You really shouldn’t be going out these days. What if they mistake you for one of those riot troublemakers and haul you off? Ah, and who knows if Ah Cai and the others will ever come back alive. You can’t even blame them—who would cause trouble if life weren’t already unbearable?”

Du Xiaogan clearly had no time for her chatter. Without replying, she left coldly, walking several streets away until she entered a shabby private clinic with a broken lightbox sign.

Seeing the silhouette behind the frosted window, she rasped, “Dr. Chu, any news about the medicine?”

Dr. Chu looked up. Instead of answering, he asked, “Did you hear the explosions last night?”

Du Xiaogan froze for a moment, then nodded.

“That was the sound of the Li family’s escort ships going down,” Dr. Chu said. “Three of them. Each one cost the Lis billions before the apocalypse. All gone overnight. The situation’s gotten tense—within a hundred nautical miles around Lonewind, no ship dares to sail now.”

“Even fishing boats?”

“Even fishing boats,” Dr. Chu confirmed. “So, when your medicine will arrive—I really don’t know.”

The words hit Du Xiaogan like ice water. After a long silence, she said softly, “If you hear anything, please let me know immediately.”

“I will,” said Dr. Chu.

Du Xiaogan hesitated a moment, then finally turned and left.

A patient in the clinic asked, “What medicine is she looking for? Why not just go to the hospital?”

“Something special,” Dr. Chu replied. “The hospitals don’t have it.”

The patient understood right away.

The official smuggling channels were tightly watched by the Li family. Any attempt to move contraband always drew attention, so the larger, government-run hospitals were ironically the ones with the fewest supplies.

Small private clinics like Dr. Chu’s, which relied on covert trade with passing fishing boats, actually had more access to black-market medicines.

That was why such little clinics still existed, even when the hospitals offered free treatment.

Everyone in the apocalypse had their own struggles, and no one paid much mind to Du Xiaogan’s situation. The patients soon changed the subject, whispering about whether last night’s explosions were connected to the riots in North Street two days prior.

The riots had been suppressed, but the air over the island remained heavy.

The calm was only surface-deep—underneath, dark currents were already stirring.

The Li family’s planted agents were secretly conspiring to spark another riot.

Suppress it once, twice—by the third time, backlash would be inevitable.

As noon approached, the island’s broadcast system crackled to life. Loudspeakers at every street corner played the voice of the island’s secretary.

“Good afternoon, everyone. This is Xu Ouge, secretary to the island master. On behalf of the island master, I have several announcements to share…”

Xu Jiayi’s orders had been brief, but as secretary, Xu Ouge couldn’t just repeat them word for word.

The island master’s intent was clear to her—but ordinary citizens might not understand unless it was spelled out.

So, she prepared a full “policy explanation” announcement.

In just an hour, she finished the statement.

First, she provided a detailed account of how the North Street riots had been handled and assured the people the unrest wouldn’t spread further, calming public fear.

Next, she shifted the blame toward the Li family—making it clear who was truly behind Lonewind Island’s suffering.

Then, she tied in the Li family’s conflict from the night before and introduced Newborn Island—telling everyone that Newborn Island was now offering trade channels for much-needed goods, and that Commander Xu Jiayi was personally negotiating to secure more supplies.

Finally, once public sentiment had been guided to optimism and hope, she announced the new Coral Harvest Decree—encouraging the citizens to collect coral in exchange for money to buy the incoming goods.

By the time the announcement ended, there was no anger left in the streets—only excitement.

“You can trade coral for money?”
“How much is coral worth?”

Every alley and street corner buzzed with discussion.

Xu Ouge, having received more detailed guidance from Xu Jiayi, told everyone that the better the coral’s condition and shape, the higher its value.

The island’s main office would purchase coral directly from the people, and once supplies arrived, those who sold coral would have priority access to buy food and necessities.

…

In a small house on North Central Street, Du Xiaogan returned home carrying a dead bird. She shut the door and turned—just in time to see her grandmother pushing out a wheelchair.

Seated in it was her younger sister—so thin she looked like a skeleton with a head, like a broken porcelain doll from some horror story. Her limp body slumped sideways against the cushion, head tilted, motionless. The only sign she was alive was the faint, restless flicker of her eyes.

Grandmother asked, “Did you get the medicine?”

After a pause, Du Xiaogan said quietly, “No.”

Grandmother’s eyes dimmed with disappointment, while the lashes of the girl in the wheelchair trembled slightly. Her gaze was filled with pain and hopelessness.

If she could speak, she would have begged them to give up—to stop clinging to that endless, futile treatment.

Du Xiaogan bent down to meet her sister’s eyes. “Don’t give up. You’ll get better. I’ll find a way.”

Grandmother hesitated, lips parting but no words coming out.

Then Du Xiaogan said, “Grandma, did you hear the broadcast? There’s a new artificial island near Lonewind’s waters. Anyone who can build something like that must be powerful—and you must have heard, they have plenty of supplies. I think… they must have medicine too.”

Grandmother asked quietly, “You’re going to harvest coral?”

“Yeah.”

Du Xiaogan didn’t tell the whole truth.

Her sister hadn’t taken her medication for five days now. The illness that had once been held at bay by the drugs was worsening, harder to control each hour.

She knew her sister was suffering—trapped in a motionless body, unable even to cry out from the pain.

If this continued, her condition would only deteriorate.

Du Xiaogan wasn’t sure whether Newborn Island even had the medicine her sister needed. Even if they did, she would have to collect coral, sell it to the authorities, then wait for them to import supplies from Newborn Island—at least three to five days.

Her sister didn’t have that long.

So she decided to harvest coral and sneak onto Newborn Island herself.

She didn’t want her family to worry.

“The sea’s dangerous, isn’t it? What about the drowned corpses?” Grandmother fretted.

“They’re easier to deal with than zombies,” Du Xiaogan said.

Knowing her granddaughter often went out fishing, Grandmother believed her experience would keep her safe.

After plucking and cleaning the dead bird she’d brought home, Du Xiaogan used it to make soup.

Her sister could only swallow liquids. Grandmother would handle the feeding. Once the soup was done, Du Xiaogan set out again.

*

Newborn Island.

Xu Jiayi and her subordinates were having lunch.

The supermarket offered fresh produce and frozen meat.

Xu Jiayi had bought vegetables and meat, thawed them in the shop’s microwave, and cooked a hearty meal using her field cookware.

“I almost forgot what real tomatoes taste like.”

“And these eggs—they don’t smell at all!”

“Of course not. They’re clean eggs, no contamination.”

“Clean eggs… huh. On the island, one of these would cost at least a silver coin.”

“How much is that compared to two membership points for a tea egg? Damn, it’s hard to convert.”

Just then, a scout slipped quietly up to Xu Jiayi’s side.

“Commander, we found the Li family’s fifty soldiers on the west coast.”

Xu Jiayi glanced toward the distant supermarket. “Dead or alive?”

“Alive—but they’re not right.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve lost all motor function.”

Before Xu Jiayi could respond, Qi Jiayu came walking toward her.

“Deputy Qi,” Xu Jiayi greeted. “Had lunch yet?”

“Already, thank you,” Qi Jiayu said with a smile. “I actually came to ask whether you’re interested in those fifty uninvited guests.”

Xu Jiayi raised a brow. “They’re from the Dusa Archipelago’s forces—not ours.”

Qi Jiayu waved a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. We know who they are, and we know their attack on Newborn Island has nothing to do with you. But since they came uninvited, we can’t exactly feed and house them. Throwing them into the sea seems too heartless, though, so I thought I’d ask if you’d like to take them.”

Xu Jiayi: …

You killed over five hundred people when you sank three escort ships, and that didn’t seem too heartless to you?

Qi Jiayu seemed to sense her thoughts. “Oh, I forgot to mention—those three escort ships weren’t sunk by us. They destroyed themselves. We only defended ourselves.”

Xu Jiayi froze.

That truth was even more terrifying than if Newborn Island had sunk them.

The Lis weren’t stupid enough to turn their own guns on themselves—meaning their systems must have been hacked.

If Newborn Island could infiltrate the Li family’s ships, could they also hack Lonewind’s systems?

Qi Jiayu said gently, “No need to worry, Major Xu. Newborn Island values peace. We never provoke others.”

Xu Jiayi steadied herself. “Understood. If you don’t want to keep the captives, we’ll take them back and handle it.”

Relieved to unload the burden, Qi Jiayu nodded.

Xu Jiayi had spent half a day on the island already. She still had duties waiting on Lonewind, so she prepared to depart.

Before leaving, she gave Zhou Li her contact information and arranged to bring coral tomorrow for the first trade. She also promised to help connect her with the Su family—owners of oil fields and the easiest path to acquiring heavy fuel.

Zhou Li, in turn, offered her a 10% discount once the deal went through.

Xu Jiayi left two soldiers behind as liaison officers.

Zhou Li didn’t mind them staying.

She uploaded Xu Jiayi’s purchase list to the auction house. As soon as sellers saw it, they began preparing shipments for bidding.

Night fell.

An Fengxuan came to Zhou Li with news: Xu Jiayi’s two liaison soldiers had caught a stowaway sneaking onto the island and had reported it to her, asking what to do.

Zhou Li: …

She immediately told them to release the person.

“There’s no such thing as illegal entry on Newborn Island. As long as someone’s a customer, they’re welcome here.”

The two liaison officers were mortified.

They’d only acted out of habit… had they just ruined their commander’s plans?

“We’re so sorry!” they blurted out.

Zhou Li waved a hand. “It’s fine, I know you meant well—but you should apologize to her.”

By her, she meant the stowaway.

The two soldiers turned and apologized.

The woman ignored them completely.

Her gaze had locked onto the supermarket sign from the moment she saw it—and up close, her eyes were shining with awe.

But she hadn’t forgotten her reason for coming.

“Excuse me,” she asked, voice hoarse from exhaustion, “do you sell medicine here?”

☢️☢️☢️

Qi Jiayu knew Xu Jiayi’s true purpose was to gauge Newborn Island’s strength—but time was short. The little boss would be leaving in just a few days, and Qi Jiayu had to help boost sales while she still could.

So she didn’t waste time. She led Xu Jiayi and her group straight to the small supermarket by the beach.

Xu Jiayi assumed the choice of location was deliberate caution—that they didn’t want outsiders near the main complex in the island’s center, and so had brought them to this small lookout building instead.

But when she saw the sign above the door, she froze. “Good Life Supermarket?”

Qi Jiayu said, “That’s right. You can browse for whatever supplies you want here. If you’re ordering in bulk, you can place your order first—our little boss will handle the restocking.”

Xu Jiayi swallowed her many questions about the island and decided to focus on the supply situation instead.

“How much can you provide at most?”

“As much as you can pay for,” Zhou Li answered with a smile as she stepped out of the shop.

Originally, she wouldn’t have had that kind of confidence—but ever since the auction house began accepting trade-in goods, her supply channels had widened considerably.

The voice sounded familiar to Xu Jiayi. Then it clicked. “You’re the little boss of Newborn Island?”

Zhou Li nodded. “That’s me.”

Xu Jiayi wondered—why “little boss”? Did that mean someone else, a parent or superior, was the real decision-maker behind the island?

“Are you authorized to make trade deals yourself?” she asked carefully.

“I am.”

Xu Jiayi thought about it. The island had the power to instantly sink three escort ships. Whoever truly controlled it was clearly someone powerful operating behind the scenes. The so-called “little boss” and Qi Jiayu were probably just the emissaries handling day-to-day dealings for the real master.

Since the true authority didn’t want to show themselves, pressing further would only risk offense.

Instead, she pulled out a list of urgently needed supplies and handed it over. “I need these.”

Zhou Li glanced through it. There were over a hundred items—mostly food, water, and everyday goods, but also a section of seeds.

Apparently, since Zhou Li had said no weapons were for sale, several weapon types had been crossed out.

“You’re buying seeds?” Zhou Li asked. “That means you have a cultivation area. If that’s the case, you must’ve already stocked up on seeds. Why buy more?”

Xu Jiayi explained, “The cultivation zone was planned a year ago, but since then Lonewind Island has been under constant pressure. We’ve gone through our reserves and need to replenish. If your island doesn’t have any, then—”

“Who said we don’t?” Zhou Li interrupted, seeing through Xu Jiayi’s tactic but not minding it.

Even the clearly nonessential items on the list didn’t bother her. She knew what Xu Jiayi was doing—padding the list to test the other party’s inventory and pricing power.

If the supermarket couldn’t produce everything, they’d look weaker in negotiations. And if Zhou Li was the type to be easily flustered, Xu Jiayi could then bargain her way into getting more for less.

“These items are all available,” Zhou Li said, “but I’m not sure you can afford them.”

“How much?” Xu Jiayi asked.

Zhou Li asked the system to calculate.

A moment later, the result came back: “Rounding down the small change, it totals 7.837 billion membership points.”

Xu Jiayi didn’t know what prices were like on Newborn Island, but in the inflation-ridden apocalypse, 7.8 billion units for a year’s worth of supplies for over 8,000 people was an incredible bargain.

Still… “Membership points?”

Qi Jiayu had prepared for this. She took out a membership card and explained that standard currency wasn’t accepted—only valuable goods could be exchanged for points.

Xu Jiayi found it reasonable.

After the archipelagos split apart, each island had formed its own economy, and the old monetary system had collapsed.

Many islands had invented their own currencies. Lonewind Island hadn’t, but it used the common metal coins circulated throughout the Anhai Archipelago—gold, silver, and copper.

The Anhai seas were rich in natural resources—gold, silver, copper, iron, oil, and gas.

The Dusa Archipelago, ruled by the Li family, held most of the gold and silver mines.

The Su family’s Anxi Archipelago had oil, natural gas, nickel, and asphalt deposits.

A third major archipelago mined copper and iron.

Even before the apocalypse, barter with gold and silver had been common.

After the fall, General De’an’s Li family monopolized the precious metal mines and began minting coins—gold, silver, and copper—and the other islands followed suit.

Fortunately for Lonewind, De’an’s youngest son had built a treasury there, hoarding coins, gemstones, and antiques.

Xu Jiayi produced one gold, one silver, and one copper coin. “How many points for each of these?”

Zhou Li couldn’t be bothered checking purity by hand—she just tossed them into the auction system.

The readout: gold coin 78% purity, silver coin higher, copper coin mixed with aluminum and low-grade metals.

At the current rate, 24k gold was worth 771 yuan per gram, 18k about 578 yuan. The 78% pure coin was priced at 75% of 24k gold’s value. Silver was 9 yuan per gram; copper barely worth mentioning.

“This gold coin weighs 3.11 grams—worth 1,797.58 points.”

After a quick calculation, Xu Jiayi realized that silver and copper coins weren’t worth trading—they’d barely fetch anything.

But Lonewind’s treasury didn’t have many gold coins left, maybe a hundred thousand. Even if she exchanged them all, it wouldn’t reach 7.8 billion points.

Her thumb and forefinger rubbed together unconsciously—a telltale habit.

Her subordinates knew that gesture well. Their commander was thinking about raiding the Lis again.

Li De’an’s son had hoarded massive wealth, but Xu Jiayi couldn’t rely solely on plundered reserves forever.

Whenever she found the chance, she sent teams to intercept the Li family’s treasure ships carrying mined gold.

“You like blockading Lonewind?” she’d once said. “Then don’t blame us for robbing your gold shipments.”

To maintain control and prevent others from rebelling like Xu Jiayi had, the Li family kept a tight grip on every mining island.

Gold and silver were shipped back to the main island immediately after extraction.

One of the gold-producing islands had a transport route passing within fifty nautical miles of Lonewind.

That was where Xu Jiayi struck, three successful raids before the Li family finally rerouted the convoys—an expensive adjustment.

In retaliation, they’d strengthened ties with other archipelagos, pressuring ports to seize any cargo ships linked to Lonewind.

Most regional powers gave the Lis face, leaving Xu Jiayi no choice but to buy through intermediaries and smuggle goods in.

Qi Jiayu, unaware of what Xu Jiayi was plotting, suggested helpfully, “Valuables aren’t limited to coins. Corals and gemstones work too.”

Xu Jiayi blinked. “Corals?”

This planet had no shortage of coral or mineral resources.

Islands with advanced technology had long since made deep-sea mining routine.

Coral, the product of massive reefs of coral polyps that grew around nearly every island, was especially abundant. Its growth rate rivaled that of trees on Earth—if one mined away a centimeter today, two days later it would grow back.

Zhou Li didn’t know coral on this planet grew so fast. Out of environmental concern, she said, “You still need to be careful about the ecosystem. Overharvesting could cause coral extinction, couldn’t it?”

Both Qi Jiayu and Xu Jiayi were startled.

Xu Jiayi turned to one of her officers. “Can coral go extinct?”

The officer replied, “The zombie virus can pollute the oceans. If the ocean ever lost its self-purifying capacity, then yes—after hundreds or thousands of years, coral could die out. But that’s only if the seas lose that ability.”

What she didn’t add aloud was that even if every human on the planet turned into a zombie, the oceans’ self-cleansing system would still remain intact. Unless the entire planet suffered an extinction-level event, coral extinction was practically impossible.

When Qi Jiayu explained the coral’s growth rate to Zhou Li, the latter was stunned.

Qi Jiayu said, “Before the apocalypse, the island-states would send people each year to harvest coral. But some didn’t—so coral accumulated, forming reefs, and after about a decade or two, those reefs would become new islands.”

Zhou Li: …

She didn’t know whether to be relieved that coral on this world wasn’t facing extinction, or to complain that the auction house had been pointlessly undervaluing it.

Still, overexploitation was never good. Even trees on Earth grew fast, but not fast enough to keep up with human logging.

“When there’s too much of something,” Zhou Li said, “its value drops. I hope you understand that.”

She was giving them a warning in advance.

Knowing how the auction house worked, if she dumped several tons of coral on the market at once, the price would plummet.

Xu Jiayi nodded. “Understood. Rarity is what gives something worth.”

The thought that she could solve Lonewind Island’s supply crisis not through raids but simply by harvesting coral lifted her mood considerably.

She didn’t believe coral mining would harm the environment—after all, what truly affected coral growth was zombie-virus pollution. Even if she didn’t order the mining, many coral colonies would die anyway.

In fact, by encouraging her people to fish and thus reducing the number of floating corpses near the island, she had improved the local environment, allowing coral polyps to thrive again.

Thinking of other tradeable goods, Xu Jiayi pulled out a crystal that shimmered in shifting rainbow colors. “Would you accept this kind of sea fluorite?”

Zhou Li recognized the term “fluorite,” but she’d never heard of sea fluorite before.

It certainly looked similar, though. Unsure, she submitted it to the auction system for appraisal.

The results appeared instantly:

【Sea Fluorite, 403g】
Year: —
Date of Extraction: —
Current Owner: Xu Jiayi
Starting Price: 1,500 yuan (suggested)
Buyout Price: 3,000 yuan (suggested)
Note: Formed in deep sea; may shine even brighter in a world of magic.

Zhou Li was surprised—it was actually quite valuable, more than fluorite on Earth.

On Earth, fluorite cost only about 3,100 yuan per ton—roughly 3 yuan per kilogram.

But what caught her eye was the note.

Could it mean that sea fluorite was worth more in a world where magic existed?

That gave Zhou Li an idea—she recalled one of her system’s selectable “science-and-magic hybrid” planes.

Maybe she could stockpile some of this and sell it there.

Her mind made up, Zhou Li asked, “Is sea fluorite difficult to mine?”

Xu Jiayi instinctively calculated her answer.

Could it be that the little boss was especially interested in sea fluorite?

If so, maybe she could inflate the price by claiming it was hard to extract.

But she quickly quashed the thought.

If the little boss asked an expert and learned the truth, lying would destroy the fragile goodwill she’d just built.

“Mining difficulty isn’t high,” Xu Jiayi replied honestly. “Before the apocalypse, Lonewind Island already had a mature extraction line.”

“Before the apocalypse?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, the mining site is about sixty nautical miles from the island. Due to the blockade, we can’t reach it anymore.”

In truth, deep-sea mining mainly focused on rare metals, oil, and gas—sea fluorite was just a byproduct.

“Oh,” Zhou Li said mildly. She had no interest in the blockade, nor did she offer to help Lonewind break through the Li family’s naval cordon just to collect fluorite.

Seeing she wasn’t going to press further, Xu Jiayi decided to treat sea fluorite as an optional trade item.

She ordered her men to return and start collecting coral, then announced a coral-harvesting decree to the island’s people.

She also recorded a short video in the small supermarket to reassure the citizens—telling them that she’d secured a way to solve Lonewind’s supply shortages, but that unity was essential.

Zhou Li didn’t mind her shop being filmed.

She knew the news would quickly reach the Li family—and soon spread across all the Anhai Archipelagos.

Free publicity, essentially.

And as for being targeted?

Well, the fate of the Li family’s escort ships spoke for itself.

☢️☢️☢️

Dusa Archipelago, Vila Island.

When word came that three escort ships had been sunk, Li Zairen’s vision went dark—then he collapsed flat onto the floor.

His subordinates panicked, shouting for a doctor while slapping and pinching him in desperation.

A few moments later, Li Zairen came to.

“My escort ships…” he croaked, eyes wide and hopeful—perhaps this was all just a bad dream.

Yes, it had to be a dream. Just earlier, he’d gone to bed in high spirits after hearing about Xu Jiayi’s recent setback. From that moment onward, everything—being shaken awake in the middle of the night, hearing about his ships being destroyed by a defenseless artificial island—all of it had to be part of that same dream!

His men dared not answer, terrified of setting him off again.

But one look at their faces told him the truth.

Fury surged through him as he reached for the phone on his desk—the one directly connected to the Dusa Archipelago’s Defense Department. One call would mean an all-out war.

“Major General,” one aide warned quickly, “if you report this, the General will find out.”

Li Zairen froze. Then he withdrew his hand.

Of course—the old man would hear of this soon enough, but not yet. Not until he had things under control.

He knew well that his uncles and brothers were circling like sharks, waiting for a misstep. If word reached the patriarch and he couldn’t give a proper explanation, the old man would strip him of his command immediately.

“What we need to do now,” his aide suggested, “is find out exactly what happened—then shift the blame onto Lonewind Island. Or, better yet, drag the others into it too.”

Li Zairen’s eyes brightened. “Yes. If they’re all implicated, Father won’t single me out.”

As for whether that might weaken the Dusa Archipelago’s overall power? He couldn’t care less—what good was strength if he lost his authority anyway?

Still, the thought of those three sunken escort ships made his heart ache.

Since the apocalypse, the Li family hadn’t been able to build a single new vessel.

Two years ago, after an internal feud, Li Zairen had claimed one destroyer and five escort ships as his share.

Among the three that were now gone, one was a stealth missile frigate—his pride and joy.

He never imagined it would end up on the ocean floor because of this foolish operation.

If he had known, he would have sent a few patrol boats to scout instead of risking his fleet.

*

Xu Jiayi, meanwhile, had no idea Li Zairen had fainted—but she could easily picture him fuming and sleepless, pacing in rage.

The thought alone made her laugh out loud.

After all, he’d sent those ships just to strut and intimidate Lonewind Island, only to end up humiliated and stripped bare.

The officers gathered in her office were in good spirits too.

The gloom brought on by the Sulawesi cargo seizure and the North Street riot finally began to lift.

Still, one cautious officer voiced concern. “Won’t the Li family send reinforcements? They’ve dominated the Dusa Archipelago for years—they won’t just take this loss quietly.”

They remembered too well how, after Xu Jiayi had killed General De’an’s youngest son in self-defense, the Li family had retaliated with three medium warships and seven escort vessels.

Thankfully, Lonewind Island’s anti-air defenses had intercepted most of the missiles.

Xu Jiayi’s counterattack had sunk an escort ship and several speedboats.

Then, as luck—or fate—would have it, an outbreak of the zombie virus had spread aboard the Li fleet, forcing them to retreat before Xu Jiayi could capture their ships.

When brute force failed, the Li family resorted to blockades, hoping to choke the island from within.

Now that Newborn Island had sunk Li Zairen’s three escort ships, it was as though someone had slapped General De’an across the face. There was no way the Li family would let that stand.

Everyone on Lonewind Island knew what kind of people the Lis were.

They couldn’t touch the mysterious, dangerous Newborn Island—so they’d surely turn their wrath toward Lonewind instead.

Xu Jiayi snorted. “So what? Barefoot people aren’t afraid of those wearing shoes.”

She turned to her secretary. “Are the personnel for tomorrow’s landing ready?”

Ever since seeing Newborn Island’s offer of trade, she had decided to send a small team to investigate.

If they could buy supplies, all the better. If not, it was still a legitimate reason to observe the island up close.

The secretary nodded. “Eight have been selected. Here are their files.”

They were all elite soldiers with excellent physical conditioning.

Since firearms were prohibited on Newborn Island, they prioritized those capable of defending themselves barehanded if necessary.

After reviewing the files, Xu Jiayi nodded. “I’ll go too.”

The room erupted in protest.

She was the heart of Lonewind Island—if something happened to her, what would they do?

Xu Jiayi said calmly, “The Li family won’t move again right away after such a loss. You’re enough to keep order here. As for North Street, the riot may be suppressed, but mishandling it will only plant future trouble. I’ll go to Newborn Island myself—give our people something to believe in.”

Xu Jiayi’s word was law. Once she decided, no one could dissuade her.

By dawn, she was already on a boat, leading eight soldiers toward Newborn Island.

*

7:00 a.m.

Zhou Li yawned as she pushed open the supermarket doors.

Gazing at the sunrise, Zhou Li said to the system, “Good thing we didn’t move locations—otherwise we wouldn’t have such a beautiful view.”

Ever since the system had taken over management of the artificial island, Zhou Li had unlocked the entire island map.

The system had suggested, “You could move the supermarket to the B1 floor of the shelter. That way, when you leave, you can simply lock the shop doors, and no one will know where you went. It’ll make others less likely to target Newborn Island.”

Zhou Li had countered, “That makes sense, but putting the shop inside the shelter means anyone wanting to buy something would have to enter it. Wouldn’t that expose the shelter’s internal layout? Even if I close the shop afterward, won’t they still suspect the supermarket and the island’s defense system are connected?”

Smart people, she thought, would guess it anyway—even if she moved the shop all the way down into the engine room.

So she decided it was better to keep the supermarket on the surface and create a sort of “illusion array” inside the shelter to mislead people.

The plan was simple: make everyone believe the little supermarket was just a regular store that restocked from within the shelter, and that the real bulk of the supplies was stored in the shelter’s warehouse.

Zhou Li explained all this to Qi Jiayu and her companions.

She trusted that, now that they had found peace and stability, they wouldn’t betray her or abandon the island.

Maybe once they’d dreamed of living on Lonewind Island—but after witnessing Newborn Island sink three escort ships without breaking a sweat, they knew exactly where the safest place in the world was.

And even if they did betray her, Zhou Li wouldn’t lose much—Newborn Island had been a free bonus.

If this island ever became inhospitable for her supermarket, she could just move elsewhere. Somewhere out there, another island would surely welcome her with open arms.

Then Zhou Li said to the trio, “Starting today, Qi Jiayu will serve as acting island master. Fang Qin and Lin Le will be deputy island masters.”

Qi Jiayu: …

No wonder the little boss had introduced herself to Xu Jiayi yesterday as the owner of a supermarket, not the island master. So this was what she had in mind.

An Fengxuan explained, “The little boss leaves the island for a few days at a time, so it’s necessary to have an acting island master. There’s no one better suited than you three.”

The women accepted the responsibility with enthusiasm.

They also took on the task of drafting basic governance rules for the island. An Fengxuan, drawing from her corporate experience, occasionally offered suggestions based on her company’s management structure.

But before that, they had to deal with the aftermath of the fifty “uninvited guests.”

After the defense system upgrade, its enforcement methods had evolved too.

Before, it simply created a vacuum zone to suffocate intruders briefly before expelling them.

Now, it used their own earpieces to unleash sonic attacks.

This new measure was far from merciful—fainting was the mildest consequence. Most victims would suffer permanent deafness, brain injury, or partial paralysis.

Qi Jiayu and the others had tied the men up overnight.

At first, they’d worried about them escaping—but by morning, though the men were awake, they sat motionless, eyes dull and vacant like broken puppets.

Startled, Lin Xiaole had run to Zhou Li first thing to report the “abnormality.”

Zhou Li hadn’t witnessed the punishment herself, but the system had told her what happened.

She said, “That’s normal. Sonic attacks do cause neurological abnormalities.”

She knew that in this world, sonic weapons existed only as theory—but even theoretical ones could kill.

The defense system wouldn’t go that far—it avoided fatalities—but disabilities were another matter.

“Sonic attacks?!” Qi Jiayu was dumbfounded.

The little boss actually had that kind of advanced weapon?

Here, sonic weapons were still a speculative concept, not an existing reality.

Zhou Li didn’t want to linger on weapons talk. “Anyway, what are you all doing here so early?”

Qi Jiayu remembered the real reason. “Uh—just received a wireless transmission. Lonewind Island is requesting permission to land.”

Zhou Li sighed. “Next time, just use the radio to contact me. No need to run all the way here in person.”

Doing so only made it obvious that she was the one in charge of Newborn Island.

Qi Jiayu explained, “We were worried the lines might be tapped.”

They hadn’t worried about such things before, but after last night’s events, their sense of caution was sharper than ever.

Zhou Li thought for a moment and asked the system, “Can the defense system prevent eavesdropping?”

The small supermarket used to block all external signals—so if that protection now covered the entire island, maybe it could block interception too.

The system replied, “All island communications are now encrypted.”

Relieved, Zhou Li told Qi Jiayu, “It’s fine. Everything on the island is fully encrypted.”

Finally, she instructed Qi Jiayu and An Fengxuan to handle the reception of Lonewind’s delegation.

*

Newborn Island had a modest dock, just large enough for a 20-meter yacht.

Xu Jiayi, having come in peace, arrived through the “front door.”

Once the yacht was secured, she disembarked first.

At the far end of the dock stood two figures—one relaxed, the other carrying the unmistakable air of a soldier.

Xu Jiayi approached and greeted the woman in front. “Hello, I’m Xu Jiayi.”

Qi Jiayu hadn’t expected the famous island leader to come in person.

Seeing her idol up close, she couldn’t help but grin.

“Hello! Welcome to Newborn Island.”

After a pause, she remembered to introduce herself. “I’m Qi Jiayu, in charge of coordinating trade between the island and the outside.”

Xu Jiayi: …

Since the apocalypse began, she’d never met anyone so eager to sell supplies.

Her gaze shifted to the other woman. “And you are?”

“My name’s Fengxuan. I’m a security guard,” An Fengxuan said.

Xu Jiayi: ?

A security guard? Sure, that was a common enough job—but somehow, it felt completely out of place on this island.

☢️☢️☢️