June 25, 2027
10:00 AM.
Yu Molan stood on the balcony, holding an empty mineral water bottle crushed out of shape. The plastic crackled faintly, but he didn't notice, his grip purely reflexive.
The sky was dead.
It wasn't the roiling, leaden gray of an impending storm, but a solid, dead weight of color pressing down, like a filthy rag soaked in motor oil, smothering the mouth and nose of Linjiang City. The clouds hung terrifyingly low, almost snagging on the roof of the thirty-story office building across the street.
The rain had stopped for twelve hours, the first respite of this length since the disaster began. But the air hadn't improved; it had become even more oppressive. The humidity clung to the skin, and each breath met with noticeable resistance, carrying a persistent, lingering stench of rot. It was the smell of sodden earth and decaying flesh mixed together, slowly fermenting in the darkness.
In the open space downstairs, a broken plastic bucket had appeared next to the steps where Aunt Wang had sat the day before yesterday. The bucket was nearly full, and a dead sparrow floated on the surface, its wings spread as if it had been held down and drowned, then forgotten.
Yu Molan’s gaze lifted high, searching the sky.
He had been repeating this same ritual for three days now.
The helicopters, rescue teams, and airdropped supplies mentioned on the residential community’s broadcast—the story had been changing constantly since June 21st—
"The first batch of supplies has been loaded and will arrive by tomorrow at the latest."
"Due to air currents, the airdrop has been postponed until noon the day after tomorrow."
"Residents, please wait patiently. Do not go outside unnecessarily."
Then, the broadcast fell silent.
The residential community management’s only shortwave radio had completely run out of power yesterday afternoon. Several strong men had taken turns cranking the hand-powered generator until their fingers were numb and they were drenched in sweat, rewarded only with a few intermittent crackles of static, like someone gasping their last breaths in the distance.
There were no helicopters.
There was no roar of propellers slicing through the air, no white silhouette of a parachute unfurling against the sky, no amplified, echoing reassurances from a military loudspeaker—"Citizens, please remain orderly."
There was nothing.
Only the dead wind and a growing stench of something burnt.
Yu Molan placed the crushed bottle back inside the room, tossing it into a garbage bag in the corner.
Lin Zhixi was squatting on the kitchen floor in front of a bucket of rainwater that had been settling for two days. She held a small stainless steel ladle, carefully scooping the clearer liquid from the top layer into a pot. She moved slowly, pausing with each scoop, as if panning for gold in a desert.
The blue flame of the portable stove licked the bottom of the pot. Only half a canister of gas remained.
Xiaoyu sat on the living room floor, drawing on the back of a workbook with a nearly used-up black crayon.
She wasn't drawing a house or the sun anymore. She was drawing a bridge. It was broken, with a large section missing from the middle. Three tiny stick figures stood on the broken bridge. Below them were black waves, and the water was filled with countless little dots.
"What's this?" Yu Molan asked, crouching down.
"It's us," Xiaoyu said. "We're waiting for a boat."
Yu Molan's heart sank.
She was completely focused as she drew, a fine sheen of sweat on the tip of her nose, the tip of her tongue unconsciously sticking out to touch the corner of her mouth.
He swallowed but said nothing. He reached out and stroked his daughter's hair. It was dry and coarse, tangled in little knots, and smelled of sweat.
"Daddy, when are the helicopters coming? Didn't the broadcast say they would airdrop candy?" Xiaoyu suddenly looked up, her eyes filled with a child's unique innocence.
Yu Molan’s hand froze for a moment.
"Oh," Xiaoyu said, lowering her head to continue drawing. She forcefully colored one of the figure's hair black, then went over it again and again until she tore through the paper.
Lin Zhixi came out of the kitchen carrying three bowls and set them on the coffee table.
There was a pitiful amount of noodles. Only a few finely shredded slivers of pickled vegetables floated in the broth, looking like dead earthworms.
"Eat up," she said, her voice calm. "It's the last packet of pickled mustard greens."
The three of them sat around the coffee table. No one spoke, only the sound of slurping noodles.
The noodles were soft and bloated. The broth, boiled from rainwater, had an inescapable earthy, astringent taste. No one mentioned it.
Yu Molan ate quickly, finishing in a few bites. He even drank the lukewarm broth at the bottom of the bowl in one go. With something in his stomach, the burning sensation of hunger eased slightly. He put down his bowl and watched his wife and daughter across from him, chewing slowly, chopstickful by chopstickful.
Lin Zhixi cleared the dishes. The clatter of porcelain was jarring in the quiet room.
Yu Molan went to the balcony and pulled an old newspaper from a hidden compartment in his backpack. He had salvaged it two days ago from a pile of wastepaper by the pharmacy’s cash register. It was stained with mud and blood. The paper was damp and soft, its corners curled, but the date was still barely legible—June 19th.
The black headline on the front page was staggering:
"Near-Earth Asteroid 2026-HY7 Disintegrates, Debris Stream Enters Atmosphere."
"Multiple Nations Worldwide Declare State of Emergency. Northern Hemisphere Temperatures Drop Abnormally. Experts State 'Dust Veil Effect' May Persist for Over Two Years."
He stared at the words "Over Two Years" as if reading a death sentence.
The sub-headline was smaller, but even colder:
"United Nations Urges Nations to Prioritize Supply to Core Zones. Rescue Efforts in Remote and Heavily Affected Areas Face Increased Difficulty. Residents Advised to Practice Self-Rescue."
Yu Molan turned the page. The international news section was filled with shocking place names—gray snow falling in parts of Europe, vast swathes of farmland frozen over in the American Midwest, India's grain reserves critically low.
In a corner of an inner page, he found a piece of local news. It was a notice, sandwiched between various so-called "expert debunkings":
"Due to shockwaves from falling objects from high altitude, structural resonance has been detected in Linjiang City's First and Second Trans-River Bridges. Temporary traffic control will be implemented effective immediately. A preventative flood discharge will be conducted upstream. Residents in low-lying areas along the river are advised to take caution…"
He folded the newspaper again and stuffed it back into the deepest part of his bag.
Knowing this didn't open up any new paths; it only made it clearer that there were no paths left.
A little after two in the afternoon.
BOOM—
A muffled explosion, like a blast wrapped in a thick quilt, rolled in from the distance. It was a heavy, powerful sound that passed through several buildings, making even the windowpanes hum.
Yu Molan rushed to the balcony.
A huge plume of black smoke rose from the direction of the city center, like a malevolent mushroom cloud. The column of smoke was quickly flattened by the low clouds, diluting and spreading into a vast, filthy gray smog that hung over the city.
Lin Zhixi ran out, holding Xiaoyu. The three of them stood on the balcony, staring in that direction without a word.
"Daddy, is that thunder?" Xiaoyu asked in a small voice, shrinking into Lin Zhixi's arms.
"No," Yu Molan said.
He knew what it was.
It was fire.
Although the words "end of the world" had never been officially spoken, the asteroid impact was real, the coastal tsunamis were real, and the loss of power, internet, and gas was all too real.
Someone might be burning trash to drive away the stench, someone might be trying to stay warm, or it could have been an accident. Or maybe someone had simply gone mad, desperate to see a little light and heat. Get faster updates on NovelPing.
Evening never truly arrived. The sky just grew a shade darker, like a layer of black gauze being draped over a wound.
Suddenly, a soft shuffling of footsteps came from the hallway. They were light, like a cat's, but heavier.
Yu Molan’s nerves tensed instantly. He pressed himself against the door and looked through the peephole.
It was Old Zhang. The retired warehouse manager who was usually all smiles.
But now, Old Zhang was holding a rusty kitchen knife, his face pressed to the crack of Yu Molan’s door, sniffing forcefully like a dog.
He was smelling for food.
After a moment, having apparently smelled nothing, Old Zhang slowly straightened up. His murky face was expressionless, holding only a numb emptiness. He turned without a sound and trudged slowly upstairs.
Yu Molan backed away into the living room, his palms slick with cold sweat.
The order in this building was rotting from the inside out.
They were lighting the candles earlier and earlier. When the fourth candle was lit, its light was dim and flickering.
"Molan," Lin Zhixi said suddenly, her voice clear. "There are no rescue teams."
Yu Molan was silent for a long time, watching the dancing flame. "Mm," he finally grunted.
Lin Zhixi sat on the sofa, hugging her knees, her body curled into a ball. "I heard the family upstairs arguing when I was pouring out water in the hallway today. The man said if they don't find any more food, he's going to kill the cat."
She paused. "Their daughter has had that cat for five years."
Yu Molan didn't reply.
After the cat, what would be next?
"We have to leave," Lin Zhixi continued, her voice still so calm it was heartbreaking. "The food won't last ten days. The water, even less. There's only half a canister of gas left for the stove. Most importantly, if Xiaoyu gets sick, we have no medicine."
She stopped, leaving the rest unsaid.
If she got a fever again, if there were no antibiotics, if this place became a dead city where people ate people…
Yu Molan understood.
If they stayed, they would either disappear silently in this moldy apartment or have their door broken down during the final descent into madness.
He looked up at Lin Zhixi’s pale, gaunt face, then glanced down at his daughter. Xiaoyu had fallen asleep, her head resting on her mother's lap, still clutching a broken piece of crayon in her hand.
"Alright," he said. "We'll start packing tomorrow. Take everything we can carry. The morning after, we leave."
Lin Zhixi nodded, her expression unchanging. She just held her child a little tighter, resting her chin on the top of her daughter's head.
The candle burned halfway down. The wick crusted over with carbon, and the flame suddenly shrank, almost extinguishing.
Yu Molan cupped his hand around it to shield it from the draft.
The flame steadied behind his palm and brightened again, illuminating three faces—pale, exhausted, but still alive.
The helicopters weren't coming.
The rescue wasn't coming.
The promised candy and hope—none of it was coming.
Proofreader: Peter Pan