By the dim light of the kerosene lamp, their mother looked at the pile of supplies that Mercy had “unearthed,” the very things keeping the family alive.
Her brow was furrowed, her eyes flickering with inner conflict.
Outside, the night was a wasteland of silence punctuated by sporadic gunfire and explosions.
But faintly, from nearby households, the sound of humming drifted through the walls.
People were singing the Harmony hymn.
Though weak, the voices flickered like candles in the darkness, carrying a slowly rekindling vitality.
“Children,” their mother finally spoke, her voice soft but carrying a resolve that had already been made.
“I…
want to discuss something with all of you.” Mercy, who had been wiping down the crank of their human-powered generator, looked up.
Robin, nestled beside her mother, opened her eyes wide.
Even Sunday, who had been scribbling on paper, stopped writing.
“Mom, what is it?” Mercy asked.
Their mother took a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over her three children.
“I want to share some of our food and water with the neighbors.
Especially Grandma Hansen next door.
She’s old and alone, and it’s hard for her to get by.
And the Thompsons at the corner have two young sons.
I saw them digging for roots yesterday…” Before she could finish, Sunday raised the first objection, based on pure rational analysis.
“Mother, I understand your kindness.
But based on current data projections, our existing supplies, under extreme rationing for four people, can sustain us for only forty-seven point three days.
If we give some away, our survival period will be significantly shortened, and the risk coefficient will rise exponentially.
It’s not logical.” Though Robin did not fully understand the numbers her brother was citing, she instinctively felt worried.
“Mom…
then won’t we run out of food again and be hungry…” Their mother’s eyes flickered with pain.
Of course she knew the risk.
But she stroked Robin’s hair, her voice firm yet gentle.
“I know it’s risky, Sunday.
But can you hear it?
The singing outside.
Xipe teaches us that all things have their place, that all beings should exist in harmony.
When one string breaks, the entire symphony falls out of tune.
If we only focus on the food in our own bowls and ignore the cries of our neighbors, how are we any different from those who hurt each other over supplies?
Where is the ‘harmony’ we believe in?” She turned to Mercy.
“Mercy, what do you think?” Mercy did not answer immediately.
It was true that she did not worship Xipe.
To her, the Aeon’s so-called “harmony” seemed more like a forced resonance, a grand narrative that erased individuality.
But at this moment, looking at her mother’s eyes, which shone not with blind faith but with empathy and a willingness to act, Mercy found herself smiling.
It was not her usual mischievous or sly grin.
It was a smile of understanding, touched with a trace of wry amusement.
“So this is what ‘Harmony’ means,” Mercy said softly, as if asking herself as much as confirming.
“Not waiting for a god to show mercy, but becoming the foundation of harmony yourself.
All things in harmony, united as one…
It sounds beautiful.
And also…
naive.” She shifted her tone, becoming lighter and more forceful.
“But Mom, I think you’re right!” She walked over to the pile of supplies and patted a box of canned goods.
“If we hoard this, we might survive a few more dozen days.
But if the whole community descends into despair and chaos, how long can we really hold on?
Rather than slowly dying in suspicion and isolation, why not take a gamble?
Use these cans to buy a ‘future’ we might actually survive in.” She looked at Sunday, her gaze sharp.
“Sunday, calculate this.
While ensuring our family’s basic survival threshold, what is the maximum surplus we can give away?
What amount would most effectively unlock the community’s cooperative potential without causing more chaos?” Sunday froze.
He had not expected his sister to support what seemed like such an “irrational” decision, let alone propose a quantifiable new angle.
Data streamed rapidly through his amethyst-like eyes.
Soon, he reported a number and a distribution plan.
Their mother looked at Mercy with tearful gratitude.
“Thank you, Mercy…” Mercy waved her hand dismissively, her roguish grin returning.
“Don’t mention it, Mom.
I just think that sometimes, the banner of ‘Harmony’ can be pretty useful.” The next day, when their mother and Mercy distributed portions of their compressed biscuits, canned goods, and drinking water to the neediest neighbors, the impact was far greater than either had anticipated.
Old Grandma Hansen wept as she held their mother’s hands, unable to speak.
The Thompsons, with their two gaunt sons, bowed repeatedly in gratitude.
The other neighbors who witnessed this scene began to thaw, their wary and numb expressions softening.
Sharing was the first domino to fall.
The hesitant, timid hymn-singing grew clearer, louder, and began to converge.
More and more people opened their doors and stepped out of their small fortresses.
They began to exchange information, share whatever skills remained among them.
One knew a little medicine.
Another could repair simple tools.
Another knew how to identify edible wild plants.
The voices singing praises to Xipe grew louder over the community.
They were no longer just prayers for protection.
They were declarations, oaths to rebuild order and hope upon the ruins.
An invisible force called “unity” began to coalesce in this small patch of wasteland.
Mercy stood at her doorstep, watching the community slowly come back to life, feeling the atmosphere so different from the deathly stillness before.
A smile tugged at her lips.
She turned to Sunday, who was standing beside her, observing the same scene.
“Brother,” she said, “do you know how far ahead someone can prepare?” Sunday withdrew his gaze and looked at her with confusion.
“What do you mean, Sister?” He could sense that she was implying something.
Mercy did not answer directly.
Instead, she walked toward the center of the community, to the patch of open land that had once been a public green space but was now barren and overgrown.
She stopped in the middle, drawing the attention of the growing number of residents gathering around.
“Everyone!” Mercy cleared her throat.
Her voice was not particularly loud, but it carried a strange penetrating quality and authority, thanks to a subtle channeling of her [Martial Artist] presence.
“Trust in the guidance of Xipe!
The Aeon has shown me in a dream that beneath this very ground lies a gift, ‘seeds’ to help us survive this crisis!” A stir rippled through the crowd.
Murmurs of doubt, anticipation, and fervent hope arose.
Their mother and Robin looked at Mercy in surprise, unsure of what she was about to do.
Only Sunday felt the knot of suspicion about his sister’s secrets tighten.
He watched her intently.
“Let us give thanks and dig up this hope!” Mercy declared, pointing to several specific spots.
They were places she had noted during her earlier “strolls.” Unremarkable corners of the community, even beneath abandoned flower beds.
She had already used her nights, with strength and agility far beyond the ordinary, to bury large quantities of basic survival supplies from her system storage in these locations.
The items were nothing fancy, but they were varied and comprehensive, exactly what the community needed most.
Under Mercy’s direction, the skeptical residents picked up tools and began to dig.
First shovel.
Second shovel.
Clang!
A metallic sound.
“Look!
A box!” A sealed metal box was unearthed.
Inside, packed in waterproof bags, were all kinds of vegetable seeds!
Tomatoes, lettuce, carrots…
common varieties, but well-preserved.
“There’s more here!” came a shout from another direction.
A small medical kit had been found, containing basic disinfectant, bandages, painkillers, and antibiotics.
Cheap, basic versions, but enough to treat common injuries.
More caches were uncovered.
Boxes of cheap but sealed compressed rations and canned meat.
Barrels labeled “Emergency Drinking Water.” Several small, manually operated water filtration units.
Cheers erupted one after another.
The people looked at these suddenly appearing supplies, like a miracle, and wept with joy.
When they looked at Mercy’s family, their eyes were filled with gratitude and near-devout reverence.
“It was the Aeon’s guidance!” “Xipe has not abandoned us!” “Thank you, guides!” The hymns to the Aeon reached a new peak, loud and powerful, as if they might pierce the heavens and reach the ears of the Harmony itself.
Sunday walked over to Mercy, surrounded by neighbors swept up in joy and hope, watching the supplies being unearthed.
He said to her quietly, his tone complex, “Impressive.” Mercy turned to him, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and whispered so only he could hear, “The downside is, to get as much variety and quantity as I could with my limited allowance, most of this stuff…
is close to or past its expiration date.
Cheap clearance items.
Make sure everyone checks before eating.” Sunday: “…” He was silent for two seconds, staring at his sister’s “praise me for being clever” expression.
“…Six.” “How did you…” Sunday started to ask about the true origin of these supplies.
Mercy cut him off, pointing to the sky, then to her head.
She whispered mysteriously, “I told you, ‘preparing ahead.’ I just liked to use my allowance to stock up on random things back then.
Thought it was better to have and not need.
Found a few hiding spots and stashed them away.
Who knew they’d actually come in handy?” She cleverly explained away the system with the excuse of “hoarding” and “pre-hiding.” Sunday looked at his sister.
He knew she was not telling the whole truth.
But he wisely did not press further.
Whatever their true source, these supplies had, at a critical moment, turned the tide.
From that day on, Mercy’s family was revered in the community as “Guides of the Aeon.” Mercy, especially, was seen as one blessed with revelation from Xipe.
And the hymns to the Aeon grew ever louder and more devout.
A miracle seemed to have truly occurred.
After the community, with immense gratitude and hope, planted the unearthed seeds in the cultivated soil, in just a few days, amid the ceaseless hymns, those seeds sprouted and broke through the earth at a visible speed, displaying vitality far beyond the ordinary.
It was as if the gathered faith and singing had transformed into nourishment for life itself.
In the wasteland, on that once-barren land now watered by hope and song, the first pale green shoot stubbornly pushed through the soil.
Then a second.
A third.
Though the threat of the Antimatter Legion remained, though the sky was still overcast, in this small community, because of faith, because of unity, because of a “preparing” sister and her seemingly absurd but effective actions, a flower of life and renewal had quietly bloomed in the heart of despair.
And the singing continued, like the most moving poem of the wasteland.
“Aeon of Harmony, we sing praises to you…” “Among the ruins, we rebuild our home…” “In your light, we shall not be divided…”