Ye Qing brought a machete with her. Worried that the sand layer of the water filter might be blown away by the night wind, she added two more stones on top of the soil pile before crouching low and moving along the shadow of the riverbed toward the village.
The wind swept dust across the ground, slamming into half-open doors and making loud banging sounds that sent chills down one’s spine.
She didn’t dare go too deep inside. Who knew if there might be others hiding there just like her?
Most households in the village might have already taken their clay jars when fleeing. Suddenly, she remembered that next door to the Ye family lived an old man and his sickly son.
The old man’s surname was Chen—an honest, straightforward man. His son had suffered from tuberculosis since childhood and never parted from medicine.
Over the years, the old man had learned quite a bit about medicinal herbs. Whenever someone in the village had a headache or fever, they would often trade food for medicine from him to take home and boil.
In the winter the year Wang Guihua married into the family, the cold was severe. Old Man Chen’s son did not survive that snowfall and passed away.
After that, Old Man Chen lived alone, tending to his house and collecting herbs, rarely interacting with others.
Did he leave with the village evacuation group this time?
But then Ye Qing thought again—he was old, and his legs weren’t strong. He probably couldn’t keep up with the main group.
If he didn’t leave, there should still be many useful items at his home. Clay jars, especially, would definitely be there. If she begged him, maybe she could even get some food to fill her stomach.
Standing outside the Chen family gate for a while, Ye Qing felt uneasy. Over the past few days since arriving in this world, she hadn’t heard any movement from next door.
She listened carefully. Only the rustling of wind through leaves came from the courtyard—nothing else.
Forget it. I’ll go take a look.
She gritted her teeth, pushed the gate. It wasn’t locked.
Somehow, the wind around them had stopped. The creaking of the door echoed sharply in the dead silence of the village.
Her heart instantly leapt to her throat. Gripping her machete tightly, she hid behind the door and waited for a long moment. Still no movement inside.
Only then did she tiptoe in, step by step.
Half of the chicken coop in the corner had collapsed, filled with dust—clearly long without any living creatures.
She took a deep breath and quickly walked toward the kitchen. As expected, several clay jars were stacked in the corner.
In the faint moonlight, she tested them one by one and selected a jar about as tall as her lower leg. Judging by its size, it had likely been used for storing grain. Now it was empty—perfect.
Just as she stepped out of the kitchen with the jar, a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, rattling broken window paper like someone flipping through pages beside her ear.
Her gaze unconsciously drifted to the west wing room.
That was where Old Man Chen’s son had lived before his death. He had loved reading. The original owner had once seen Old Man Chen carry him outside to bask in the sun.
Pale and emaciated.
The windowsill, once lined with dried medicinal residue, was now completely dark—like a sealed, devouring mouth.
The wind howled softly, almost like someone inside was greeting her.
The hair on Ye Qing’s neck stood on end. Cold sweat broke out instantly across her back.
She hurriedly pressed her hands together in a gesture of apology toward the west wing.
“Sorry, sorry… I’m just borrowing a jar. I’ll return it after… maybe I will, I will…”
Without daring to stay another second, she hugged the clay jar and rushed back toward the riverbed with her head down.
Gravel underfoot stabbed painfully into her soles, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to fix the jar at the river setup quickly.
The night in this abandoned village was simply too terrifying.
She didn’t even pause to catch her breath before immediately adjusting the device.
She moved the smaller jar aside and placed the larger clay jar firmly in the center of the pit.
She adjusted the angle of the leaf funnel again to ensure each drop would fall precisely into the jar.
She tore off another sleeve from her clothing and laid it over the sand layer. Then she added two large handfuls of wet soil, pressing it down even thicker so that moisture could continuously seep through during the night.
Even after that, she still felt uneasy. At night, wild animals might be drawn by the moisture. If they knocked over the soil pile, all her efforts would be wasted.
Her eyes scanned the surroundings and landed on a patch of thorny bushes.
Enduring the pain, she pulled out several handfuls of thorn branches and arranged them in a circle around the filtration pit, spikes facing outward like a defensive barrier.
Only then did she finally collapse from exhaustion. She didn’t dare sleep inside the abandoned house anymore and curled up in her previous spot, planning to check the Chen household again at dawn.
The night was deep, the Milky Way hanging low.
Unknown beasts howled in the distance, and the wind passing through the dry riverbed sounded like mournful whispers.
But Ye Qing was no longer afraid.
She listened to the steady “drip… drip…” sound, like the most beautiful lullaby in this barren world.
Water slowly accumulated in the clay jar.
And her life, inch by inch, was being pulled back from the hands of death.
The night was still long.
But morning would come.
She slept surprisingly well. The riverbed was even cooler than the wood shed, and in the second half of the night she even pulled her ragged clothes tighter around herself, feeling a bit cold.
The moment she opened her eyes, she rushed to the clay jar. When she saw what was inside, she nearly laughed out loud—it was half filled with clear water, gently rippling in the morning light.
This time, she didn’t hold back. She lifted the jar and drank a large mouthful.
The cool water slid down her throat, nourishing her all the way to her heart. She couldn’t help but sigh in comfort.
“Ah… that’s so good.”
She poured some into a smaller jar to carry with her and left the large jar in place to continue collecting water.
When she pushed open the Ye family door, she saw the strand of hair still in place at the entrance, and her tense heart finally relaxed.
She immediately headed to the Chen household.
The sun was high overhead, bathing the courtyard in bright light—far less eerie than the night before.
This time, she went straight to the main house. Standing at the doorway, she softly called out, “Is anyone here?”
No response.
She gently pushed the door open.
Inside was dim, with a faint herbal smell lingering in the air.
On the opposite wall hung a bow and arrows, seemingly made for a teenage boy—though no arrowheads were found.
Against the wall sat a mortar and pestle for grinding medicine. Inside the mortar were traces of brown residue, and beside it lay a yellowed medical book.
Her gaze drifted to the corner, where several paper packets were stacked. She opened one carefully—inside were dried Bupleurum, platycodon root, and other herbs she couldn’t identify.
Her eyes lit up. In this situation, these herbs were more valuable than grain.
Just as she was about to take them, she suddenly heard a faint sound from the west wing—like wood being brushed by a mouse.
Her body froze.
That fear from last night surged back again. Could there really be ghosts in this world?
She held her breath and slowly turned toward the west wing.
The door was slightly ajar, revealing a dark gap inside.
She pressed her ear against the door and listened for a long while.
Nothing—only her own heartbeat.