Passing through the relatively “looser” corridors of Zone B and crossing the boundary guarded by soldiers—a line that invisibly divided people into different classes—one entered the true core of the safe zone: the area where ordinary survivors were concentrated.
This place occupied most of the air-raid shelter and formed the largest, most silent foundation of this isolated island in the apocalypse.
The moment one stepped inside, a heavy, almost suffocating blend of odors rushed at the senses.
Sweat, urine, the stench of rotting wounds, the sour smell of unwashed bodies, and the intangible scent of despair… all of it mixed together into an oppressive atmosphere so dense it felt capable of bending one’s spine.
The sounds here were no longer the restrained murmurs and orderly footsteps of Zone B. Instead, it was a chaotic amalgam of noise: the heart-rending cries of infants—few of whom would survive—elderly people suppressing coughs, patients groaning in pain, low, bitter arguments over scraps of space or food, and more often than anything else—deathlike silence.
Thousands upon thousands of people were packed together, yet it was as if they had lost the ability to speak, left only with numb, mechanical breathing.
To call this place “living” was a luxury.
There were no partitions, no sleeping mats, not even a single intact, dry patch of ground.
People sat directly on the floor, packed together like sardines, or curled up in the tattered bedding they had managed to bring. An entire family might share just one piece of warm clothing, taking turns wearing it.
The corridors were so narrow that only one person could pass sideways. The ground was perpetually damp and sticky, impossible to tell whether it was seeping moisture or something far filthier. Under the dim lights, faces looked like dust-covered plaster statues—eyes hollow, unfocused, existing only out of instinct.
The once-daily food distribution was the only moment that stirred even a trace of “vitality” here.
The line snaked endlessly from the distribution point, stretching beyond sight. Each person received only a finger-sized piece of compressed biscuit, or half a bowl of thin porridge so watery one could see their reflection in it.
Water was even more strictly rationed—just a single small sip per person per day. Cracked, peeling lips were the norm. For a few crumbs of food or an extra mouthful of water, people who had once lived with dignity might abandon all pride, begging desperately, or even fighting in secret.
Ruan Ning had once seen a frail man accidentally knock over his wife’s portion of porridge. The woman beat him with all her remaining strength, crying and cursing, while the man merely covered his head and endured it in silence. In the end, the couple clung to each other and wept soundlessly amid the numb gazes around them.
Not everyone had completely given up hope. Some ordinary people who were still physically strong, or who possessed a useful skill, tried every possible way to find “work.”
They helped the logistics department move supplies or clean up trash—one of the most dangerous jobs, as it often involved contact with contaminated waste—or took part in constructing the outermost, lowest-risk defensive works. All this, just to earn even half a contribution point more, to exchange for a little extra food or a piece of clean cloth.
There were also mothers who saved their pitiful rations to feed their children, surviving themselves on cold water alone; young lovers who clung to each other in despair, drawing warmth from body heat and faint memories of the past.
Disease was the most terrifying reaper here. A minor cold, a trivial scratch, could rapidly turn into a fatal infection due to the lack of medicine and the harsh environment.
The medical area was always overcrowded, and priority treatment was invariably given to soldiers and ability users. Every morning, suppressed crying could be heard—signaling that someone else had failed to see another sunrise.
Bodies were removed and disposed of as quickly as possible. People had long grown accustomed to it, watching silently, the fear in their eyes almost completely worn away, leaving only a bottomless exhaustion.
Occasionally, they would see ability users or important technical personnel from Zone B pass by—people who were better dressed and far healthier in appearance. Complex emotions would flicker through their eyes: envy, awe, and sometimes a faint, barely perceptible resentment.
That boundary divided more than just living areas—it divided chances of survival and the possibilities of the future.
These ordinary people were the largest group in the apocalypse, and also the most silent backdrop.
They struggled to survive with the most tenacious biological instincts, forming the fragile foundation of the safe zone while bearing the greatest suffering.
Every time Ruan Ning passed through this area, she felt the cruelty of the apocalypse more deeply, and became more aware of how precious her space and abilities truly were.
It only strengthened her resolve—she had to keep growing stronger, to avoid falling back into that abyss of despair, to take control of her own fate.
Days passed one by one in the oppressive air of the air-raid shelter.
Every day, new survivors trickled in like thin streams, carrying exhaustion and injuries as they flowed into this increasingly crowded “safe” harbor.
The registration office always had long lines. On the faces of the newcomers were mingled relief at having survived and a confused, fearful uncertainty about the future.
On the surface, Ruan Ning lived a routine life—going to the logistics department to condense purified water, exchanging contribution points for necessities, occasionally joining Zhao Cheng’s squad on missions to hunt crystal cores, and returning to her cubicle to maintain superficial peace and cautious transactions with her fellow ability-user roommates.
But inwardly, she was always taut like a drawn string. Her gaze was as precise as a scanner, sweeping over every new face, catching every name that came from the registration desk.
Yet there was no Lin Jiaojiao, no Lin Wanyun, and no Ruan Chenyang.
The air-raid shelter was already overcrowded. Corridors that once had space were now packed with newcomers. The mixed stench in the air grew even more nauseating. Friction over space and resources became more frequent, and the soldiers’ voices as they maintained order grew hoarser and harsher by the day.
This underground space was approaching the limits of what it could bear.
Hope, battered again and again by disappointment, was gradually worn down, like stone pierced by dripping water.
Ruan Ning leaned against the cold rock wall of the Zone B corridor, listening to the constant low hum drifting in from the ordinary survivors’ area. Her gaze was calm as still water, though a trace of barely perceptible restlessness flickered deep within.
“Still looking for your family?” Zhou Min appeared beside her at some point, adjusting her glasses, her tone carrying that habitual sharpness that seemed to see straight through people. She had clearly noticed Ruan Ning’s continued attention.
Ruan Ning didn’t deny it, merely giving a quiet “Mm.”
“Names? Distinguishing features? Maybe I’ve heard something,” Zhou Min offered proactively—whether out of her habit of information exchange or the faint bond built by recent “water trades.”
Ruan Ning gave the names Lin Jiaojiao and Lin Wanyun, leaving out Ruan Chenyang.
Zhou Min thought carefully, then shook her head. “No impression. Among the people who’ve come in these past few days, there’s definitely no one with those names. And…” She paused, lowering her voice. “As far as I know, Jiangzhou City is huge. The military didn’t set up just this one temporary safe zone.”
Ruan Ning’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. She had suspected this long ago, but now Zhou Min had confirmed it.
“There are other safe zones?” she asked, looking at Zhou Min.
“Yeah.” Zhou Min nodded. “I heard there’s one in the north, built around a large logistics center—possibly even bigger than ours. There also seems to be a smaller outpost to the east, but the situation there isn’t clear. Information is tightly controlled; I don’t know the exact locations or conditions.”
The news was like a stone thrown into stagnant water, stirring ripples in Ruan Ning’s heart.
She had limited her search to this air-raid shelter only because, in her previous life, they had come here.
But the trajectory of her previous life had already changed. The chance for Lin Jiaojiao to steal the bracelet early had vanished due to Ruan Ning’s rebirth. From the moment the apocalypse descended, her family’s fate had veered onto an unknown fork in the road.
Had Lin Jiaojiao and the others failed to escape at all, already buried in a sea of corpses? Or had they been lucky enough to find another survivor group, or even… gone to a different safe zone?
“Dead, or gone elsewhere…” Ruan Ning murmured the two possibilities. Either one meant that her strategy of waiting here, like a farmer guarding a stump for a rabbit, might need to change.
Staying here would indeed allow her to grow stronger in relative safety—but her targets for revenge might forever remain out of reach.
“Thank you,” Ruan Ning said to Zhou Min, her tone revealing nothing.
Zhou Min looked at her, as if she wanted to say something more, but in the end merely patted her shoulder. “Staying alive is what matters. Try to think it through.” Then she turned and left.
Ruan Ning stood there alone, the dim lights casting shifting shadows across her face.
She needed to reassess. She needed more information—about the exact locations, scale, and entry requirements of other safe zones. Perhaps she should find a way to contact higher-ranking military personnel, or use the opportunity of an outing mission to explore farther regions.
Waiting was no longer the only option.
If the prey did not appear near this trap, then the hunter should take the initiative and seek out a new hunting ground.
Jiangzhou City was vast, the apocalypse chaotic—but as long as those people were still alive, she would find them one day.