The supplies unearthed from the yard were like a spring of water poured into the well of despair, temporarily dispelling the shadow of death that hung over their small home.
But Mercy knew very well that those canned goods and compressed biscuits would eventually run out.
And outside, the world remained a wasteland, ravaged by the Antimatter Legion, its order shattered.
Power and water cuts had become routine.
At night, the city no longer glowed with neon lights, only sporadic fires and the occasional energy beam streaking across the sky, casting the ruins in the shape of savage beasts.
The batteries they had stored were long exhausted.
At night, they relied on a few old kerosene lamps, their light dim and flickering.
“We can’t just wait passively forever,” Mercy said, watching their mother mend their worn clothes by the dim lamplight.
Robin nestled beside her mother, her small face pale in the wavering shadows.
Sunday stared blankly at his data pad, which could barely be turned on.
A sense of helplessness weighed on her heart, not just because of the dwindling supplies, but because of the suffocating feeling of being cut off from civilization without modern energy.
“Energy…” Sunday looked up, his gaze sweeping over the appliances in the room that had long become useless decorations.
A broken refrigerator, an air purifier that would not start, floating lamps that had become ornaments.
“If we could generate even a little electricity, even the tiniest amount, we could do so much.
Charge emergency communication devices.
Or light a more stable lamp.” Their mother stopped her sewing and sighed.
“But where is there electricity now?
The energy network is completely down.
All our portable power packs are gone too.” Mercy’s mind stirred.
She remembered that the system shop occasionally offered strange tools and components.
Most seemed useless, but perhaps…
She looked at Sunday.
“Sunday, what if we generated our own power?” “Generate our own power?” A glint of calculation flickered in Sunday’s blue eyes.
“Theoretically, it’s possible.
The simplest method is a human-powered generator.
Using gear trains and transmission mechanisms to convert mechanical energy into electrical energy.
The efficiency would be low, but it could meet minimum lighting or communication needs.” Without further delay, they set to work.
With Mercy’s proposal and Sunday’s technical guidance, their mother joined in.
They began carefully dismantling the useless appliances around the house.
Sunday acted like a little engineer, meticulously identifying each component.
Motors, which could be reversed to function as generators.
Wires.
Gears.
Bearings.
Mercy, with her [Martial Artist]-enhanced control over her strength and gradually increasing physical power, handled the heavy dismantling work.
Their mother, with her nimble fingers, helped sort and clean the salvaged parts.
“Sister, this voltage regulator board should still work.
Be careful not to damage the components on it.” “Mom, could you pass me that roll of red wire?” “Mercy, this casing is too sturdy.
It’ll need more force to pry open.” The small living room became a temporary workshop.
The clatter of tools and low discussions replaced the silence of recent days, bringing a strange, defiant vitality.
Though Robin could not do much to help, she sat quietly nearby, holding Bella, her big eyes following her siblings and mother with curiosity, occasionally handing them a small screwdriver.
After several days of effort, a crude but structurally ingenious prototype of a human-powered generator stood in the center of the living room.
It mainly consisted of a hub motor salvaged from an old hoverboard, modified and connected to a speed-increasing gear train assembled from various discarded gears, finally extending to a hand-cranked lever.
“In theory, as long as you turn this crank, the gear train will accelerate the rotation, causing the motor rotor to cut through magnetic field lines and generate current.” Sunday pointed at his “masterpiece,” a hint of excitement and pride in his voice that he could not quite suppress.
This was the first time he had applied knowledge from books to such a critical real-world task.
He rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward, ready to test it himself.
But a small hand pressed down on his shoulder.
“Wait, Sunday.” Mercy’s voice cut through.
Sunday turned back, confused.
Mercy looked at his still slender frame and shook her head.
“The output power this generator is designed for, to produce usable current, requires sustained, steady, and considerable force.
You’re still young.
You don’t have enough stamina.
Cranking it for long periods could damage your muscles and bones.
It might even affect your growth.” Sunday opened his mouth to argue, but seeing his sister’s unwavering gaze and looking at the crank that required a certain amount of strength to turn steadily, he swallowed his words.
He knew she was right.
Logical analysis told him this was indeed beyond his current physical capacity.
A wave of frustration and disappointment washed over him.
Mercy saw his feelings and softened her tone.
She gave him a gentle nudge.
“Go over there and see if you can improve the circuit or come up with a way to store the power.
You’re better at the thinking part.
As for the heavy lifting…” She walked over to the generator, rolled up her own sleeves, revealing arms that were slender but held a hint of hidden strength.
She gripped the crank easily, a roguish grin spreading across her face.
“…leave that to your big sister.” With that, she began turning the crank at a steady, even pace.
The gear train whirred softly, a reassuring sound.
A small bulb salvaged from a toy, connected to the output, flickered a few times before emitting a steady, warm, bright glow.
“It’s on!
It’s on!” Robin was the first to cheer.
In the dim, flickering light of the kerosene lamp, the steady glow of that little bulb seemed almost sacred.
Their mother covered her mouth, tears shimmering in her eyes.
This was not just a lamp.
It was a spark of rebirth and hope, ignited by their own hands in the boundless darkness.
Sunday stared at the steadily glowing bulb, then at his sister, who was cranking effortlessly without even breaking a sweat.
The frustration in his heart was replaced by something more complex.
Relief.
Dependence.
And a deeper curiosity about his sister’s extraordinary strength.
He silently walked to the side, picked up paper and pen, and began sketching ideas for optimizing the circuit and building a simple energy storage device using discarded batteries.
With a stable source of light, though human-powered, the nights became less unbearable.
But life in the wasteland wore down more than just material resources.
It wore down the spirit.
The constant explosions, the scarcity of supplies, and the uncertainty of the future pressed down like heavy chains, making it hard to breathe.
In the community, neighbors who had once been cordial had grown distant and wary, driven by fear and the competition for scarce resources.
One evening, the setting sun was stained blood-red, casting long shadows over the ruins.
In the distance, another violent explosion shook the air, as if the war were drawing nearer.
Robin flinched and asked in a small voice, “Mom…
are we going to die?” Their mother’s heart ached.
She held her youngest daughter close but did not know how to answer.
Just then, a faint, ethereal humming began.
It was their mother.
She was not singing intentionally, but rather letting out an unconscious, soothing murmur, seeking inner comfort.
The melody was an ancient, beautiful hymn, praising Xipe, the Aeon of Harmony, praying for unity and harmonious coexistence.
Her voice was gentle and penetrating, carrying a strange, calming power.
The humming drifted through the thin walls and into the twilight air.
Robin, who had been growing restless, gradually calmed down, listening wide-eyed to her mother’s humming.
Even Mercy, who was cranking the generator, and Sunday, who was buried in his calculations, subconsciously slowed their movements, drawn into the sudden, soul-cleansing song.
Their mother finished a short passage and stopped, looking a little embarrassed.
“It’s…
an old hymn I learned at the church.” “Mom, that was beautiful,” Robin said, looking up at her.
“Sing it again, please?
Teach me.” Seeing the longing in her daughter’s eyes, their mother nodded.
She cleared her throat and, this time, sang with more clarity and feeling: “…From the sea of discord, a harmony rises, A thousand strings interwoven, soothing wounds and loneliness…
In Xipe’s name, we are guided, Shattered mirrors shall at last be made whole…
A million hearts, a single song, In your light, we shall not be divided…” The lyrics carried the teachings of Harmony, calling for unity and resonance.
Their mother’s voice was not professionally trained, but the devotion, the hope, and the deep love of a mother protecting her children gave the song a power that moved the heart.
Miraculously, as the song rose again, the sounds of argument from the neighboring houses seemed to quiet.
Some windows that had been tightly shut were cracked open just a little.
Their mother sang on, and Robin joined in with her young, pure voice, learning piece by piece.
Their voices intertwined, flowing like a warm stream through the ruins shrouded in destruction.
Mercy stopped cranking the generator and listened quietly with Sunday.
The steady glow of the bulb and the soothing song created a strange and moving picture.
In the silence and despair of the wasteland, human resilience, wisdom, and the longing for beauty stubbornly glowed and sang.
The next day, something unexpected happened.
An elderly neighbor, a grandmother who rarely interacted with them, knocked on their door, leaning on her cane.
She held a few shriveled apples she had saved.
“I heard you singing last night,” the old woman said, her voice hoarse, but her eyes no longer as numb as before.
“Thank you…
it reminded me of better days.” She pressed the apples into their mother’s hands.
“It’s not much.
Just a small token.” Soon, several other neighbors came by tentatively.
They no longer sized each other up with wary looks, but began to discuss cooperation.
Taking turns keeping watch.
Sharing repair tools.
Someone even suggested pooling the remaining edible plant seeds from each household to try growing food in the relatively safe courtyards.
Their mother’s song was like a pebble dropped into still water, sending out ripples.
That ancient hymn to Harmony reminded these people, who had nearly forgotten their faith in the midst of disaster, that the Aeon was not demanding they wait idly for salvation.
It was calling them to remain connected even in the depths of despair, to protect the weak with strength, and to compose, with a million hearts, a poem of survival.
The glimmer of hope no longer came only from the canned goods in Mercy’s system storage, or from the small bulb lit by their human-powered generator.
It came from neighbors reconnecting.
From eyes that offered encouragement.
From the hymn that echoed over the ruins, growing clearer and more resolute.
Mercy watched her mother and Robin teaching the hymn to several neighbor children.
She watched Sunday discussing improvements to the generator with a mechanically inclined uncle, even trying to connect multiple devices.
She knew they were writing a poem of their own, stubbornly growing amid the wasteland.
And this little Robin, who was just beginning to find her voice, might one day possess a power far greater, a voice that could truly soothe the stars and resonate across the universe.
In the wasteland, poetry and song were weapons more enduring, more supple, than fists and canned goods.