“To be safe, you must go out in groups of three or four,” Meng Zizhao said, his voice reaching everyone. He always spoke with a gentle smile, his tone light and pleasant, yet his words were grave.
“…And for the shorter men and women, those under 160 centimeters, you must find taller companions to go with you.”
The reason for the height requirement was simple: the mutated animals had developed a remarkable ability to leap. They had already suffered a horrific incident where a girl was bitten in the throat by a mutated dog.
That tragedy had taught them all that the carotid artery was a critical vulnerability they needed to protect.
Shorter people were more susceptible to these animals attacking their necks.
***
In just over ten days, the survivors in the cafeteria had already identified a few patterns.
When they left the canteen in groups, as long as there were several young, strong adults armed with weapons, the mutated animals seemed to sense their deterrent power and hesitated to attack.
If a group included shorter individuals, it was best to keep them surrounded in the center of the formation to prevent mutated cats and dogs from leaping out and ambushing them from the perimeter.
Meanwhile, as they tentatively ventured out from the canteen to map their surroundings, they gathered a small amount of information about mutations among insects.
“Dou Qing just brought this grasshopper back from outside,” Wen Qing said, adjusting her glasses. She wore thin latex gloves as she poked at the insect frozen in a block of ice on the table.
“It doesn’t look any different from a normal one.”
Their medical training made Wen Qing and her peers more familiar with human and mammalian anatomy than with insects.
As she spoke, Dou Qing walked over and added flatly, “The grasshopper’s mouthparts have mutated.”
“This is just a short-horned grasshopper, an agricultural pest,” the young man said, pulling on a spare pair of rubber gloves and lifting the block of ice.
The insect inside remained frozen in the exact posture it had died in: limbs stiff and straight, its bulging, compound eyes devoid of life.
“The mutation in its mouthparts suggests a high probability that its destructive potential as a pest has increased.”
“Grasshoppers are already a major threat to rice crops,” he added, his brow furrowing as his expression darkened. “With this mutation, all previous locust control measures might be completely useless.”
They continued their low conversation about biological pests while Fang Yangyang gazed at Dou Qing’s back, lost in thought.
She had heard her senior and Dou Qing’s words, and they reminded her of specific details from the apocalyptic novel: the food crises, the pest plagues.
In the novel, it had taken a full decade for human bases to be officially established.
Before that, biological mutations had swept across the globe, rendering the genetic archives of a hundred million years obsolete. The collective experience of human history proved utterly useless.
Humanity had endured countless failures and devoted immeasurable effort to solving these problems before finally achieving its proud accomplishments.
Dou Qing was a key figure in that novel, one of the major contributors who, after repeated experiments, had developed the antidotes and treatments that worked against mutated animals and plants.
It could be said that without him, the development of those treatments would have been delayed by years.
Like Yan Fengji and Meng Zizhao, Dou Qing was a pivotal figure in the novel who had devoted his life to saving humanity and survived to see the story’s conclusion.
Fang Yangyang rested her chin in her palm, stealing a glance at Dou Qing. He’s so brilliant, she thought, a spark of delight warming her chest.
Wen Qing caught the look. She faced the young woman a few paces away, who was smiling softly and sweetly at her boyfriend’s back. Wen Qing raised an elegant eyebrow and thought, Cute Yangyang.
Then her gaze shifted to Dou Qing, and she couldn’t help but envy him for having such a spirited and adorable girlfriend.
“She’s looking at you.”
By the time Dou Qing was wrapping the insect’s frozen corpse in the latex gloves he had just removed, Wen Qing dropped the comment. Her voice was lazy and playful, a casual tease aimed at the young couple.
She had meant it as a throwaway remark, a bit of mischief to stir the pot. Yet the moment the words left her lips, she watched the pale, handsome young man in gold-rimmed glasses flush a faint crimson at his ears. His fingers froze on the latex glove. It took him a long moment to regain control over his private emotions.
“I know,” he murmured.
Her gaze felt like a warm weight on his back. In the slow, deliberate flow of time, a sweet, indulgent emotion flooded his senses, filling his chest with a quiet satisfaction.
Dou Qing gathered the used latex gloves and other waste from the table, preparing to dispose of them.
“Find a friend with fire abilities,” Wen Qing instructed. “Burn it all by the window, and be careful.”
“Wear a mask,” she added, “and disinfect the area afterward.”
After her careful instructions, she watched as Dou Qing found a familiar fire-type ability user to incinerate the trash in a corner, ensuring the canteen remained clean.
It was the eighteenth day since the apocalypse began. The spacious canteen, designed to feed three hundred people, now housed eighty-six. The convenience store had provided mats and blankets, and the group had settled into familiar corners based on gender and friendship, claiming their own spots to rest and sleep.
Fang Yangyang and Dou Qing had claimed a corner against the inner wall.
Yangyang’s baby blue backpack rested there, adorned with a cute, exquisitely crafted plush charm that perfectly matched her temperament.
Her blanket was always folded into a neat, crisp square. Wen Qing had noticed this one early morning, seeing Dou Qing conscientiously tidy it up after waking, leaving it impeccably clean and orderly.
Beside the backpack sat a small ice sculpture that somehow refused to melt. It had evolved from a chubby little dragon to a rose. A fellow ice-type ability user had even approached Dou Qing to ask for his secret to keeping the sculpture from melting.
The others watched as they spoke in low tones for a long moment. Finally, the newcomer returned to his spot, scratching his head with a strange expression.
When asked how the lesson went, he replied, “I learned the technique.”
He looked like he’d just been stuffed full of dog food, his expression one of indigestion.
“…But the real reason Dou Qing mastered this without a teacher is just…”
“Just what?”
“Sigh, my heart’s a little sour,” he muttered, glancing at the couple everyone in the canteen knew. “The power of love is truly great.”
Eighty-six people remained, a mix of men and women, but couples were a rare sight.
Fang Yangyang and Dou Qing were the only pair among them.
Everyone knew the story: the night before the apocalypse, they had eaten together at the Jiangpu Canteen and decided to stay overnight. By a stroke of luck, they were inside when the world ended a few hours later.
Their good fortune allowed them to stay together, supporting each other through the crisis. Their tender, happy reliance on one another was truly enviable.
***
Meng Zizhao emerged from the kitchen. Before he could shake the water from his hands, a sudden flame incinerated the dampness on his fingertips and palm.
The handsome, bright-eyed scion of a wealthy family leaned against the wall. He pulled out an electronic cigarette he had accidentally packed into his bag after a trip to Yinyue Stage with the Second Squad.
He didn’t smoke. He had only bought the device to fend off the rich kids in his circle who were always trying to peer-pressure him into starting. Without any e-liquid, it was merely a prop to save face.
The electronic cigarette was smooth and slender. He spun it between his fingers, its metallic surface gleaming. He leaned against the wall, one long leg braced, looking much like the old men who idly rolled walnuts in their palms.
Yet, with his striking features, languid posture, and downcast lashes, he possessed an indescribable, commanding elegance.
“Yangyang, could you pass me the laundry detergent?”
The canteen was small. The girl’s gentle voice calling out to Fang Yangyang made Meng Zizhao lift his head and glance over.
“Sure thing!” Fang Yangyang replied brightly. She grabbed a bottle of detergent and handed it to the girl.
The girl beamed, her eyes crinkling into crescents. “Thanks, Yangyang. I appreciate it.”
Fang Yangyang shook her head cheerfully. “No problem. Do you need help with anything else?”
“Not really. I just couldn’t stand wearing this jacket for several days in a row, so I decided to wash it. I’ll find a fire-type ability user to dry it later.”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” Fang Yangyang said, crouching beside the girl and helping her move the washbasin. “How convenient.”
The girl blushed and scratched her nose shyly.
Meng Zizhao chuckled. It wasn’t just he who was weak to Fang Yangyang’s sweetness; even her female friends would blush at her sincere compliments.
A small flame flickered on his fingertip.
Power could overflow without anyone noticing. A sliver of crimson flame coiled between his fingers, as delicate as a miniature dragon.
Across the canteen, the girl continued scrubbing her clothes, chatting with Fang Yangyang.
“Yangyang, where’s your boyfriend?” she asked casually.
“He went to the kitchen to deliver some ice,” Fang Yangyang replied. “The canteen auntie said the last few bags of vegetables still needed to be kept fresh.”
“Oh, right,” the girl said, her expression darkening. “Speaking of which, we’re running out of food in the kitchen, aren’t we? There’s hardly anything left in the convenience store either.”
She looked miserable as she scrubbed. Fang Yangyang, who had been keeping her company, reached into the washbasin when she saw the girl’s crestfallen face.
Meng Zizhao couldn’t see what she did beneath the thick layer of soap bubbles.
He vaguely guessed she had squeezed the girl’s hand.
The next moment, the girl looked up, her eyes glistening. She wrinkled her nose and gave a soft huff. “Aren’t you worried at all?”
“We have each other,” Fang Yangyang said. “Just being together is a blessing.”
“Besides,” she added, “I’m sure someone will come to rescue us soon.”
Her voice was incredibly gentle, filled with the same sweet, soothing tone used to comfort a child. The girl’s face instantly broke into a smile.
The conversation shifted quickly. They began discussing their majors from before the apocalypse, chatting about trivial things that had nothing to do with sorrow or anxiety.
In just a few minutes, Meng Zizhao watched from the sidelines as Fang Yangyang’s smile and warmth completely transformed the other girl’s mood.
His fingertips twitched. At the same time, a strange sensation fluttered in his stomach, like a swarm of butterflies.
Meng Zizhao froze for a moment, then silently stuffed his vape into his pocket. He strode forward with newfound resolve, flashing Fang Yangyang a bright, handsome smile.
“Yangyang.”
Fang Yangyang, who had been playing childishly in the soap bubbles with the other girl, looked up. “What is it?” she asked, her expression one of pure confusion.
“…”
As Meng Zizhao reached her, he found himself captivated by her clear, luminous eyes and completely forgot what he was about to say.
After a long pause, he finally managed to stammer out, “Do you need to wash clothes?”
Before she could answer, Meng Zizhao had a sudden idea. Borrowing the other girl’s phrasing, he gave a dashing wink. “I can help you dry them.”
“…”
Fang Yangyang hesitated. She glanced at him, then back at the washbasin, and gently declined. “Not right now, thank you.”
Meng Zizhao couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he kept a cheerful smile on his face as he nodded to her. “If you need anything later, just find me.”
“Okay, thank you,” she replied politely again.
The two girls were alone in their little corner once more. The air smelled faintly of detergent, and the soap bubbles shimmered with a clear, translucent light.
The other girl, seeing everything with perfect clarity, stared at Meng Zizhao’s retreating back. She muttered a few words under her breath: “Copycat.”
“Hmm?” Fang Yangyang hadn’t heard her.
She looked at the girl in confusion, only to be met with a sweet smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Can you help me spread the clothes out in a bit? I’m going to use my fire to dry them.”
“Sure,” Fang Yangyang agreed readily.
“By the way,” the girl added, her tone earnest and kind, “if you need to wash clothes again, it’s better to come to me for the drying.”
As a fire-type ability user, she spoke with a helpful, considerate air.
With just a few casual words, she had completely cut off Meng Zizhao’s attempt to get closer to Fang Yangyang.
“After all, we’re both girls. It’ll be more convenient this way.”
Fang Yangyang nodded, thinking seriously that the girl made a very good point.
And just like that, she completely forgot the offer Meng Zizhao had made so eagerly moments before.