Wasteland

A thick blanket of radioactive clouds completely obscured the sky, pressing down with a suffocating weight. Even moonlight could not penetrate these clouds, leaving the ruined earth below drenched in darkness. It was precisely this darkness that fostered a sense of intense confinement, as if this vast wasteland were nothing more than a slightly larger prison.

Radioactive clouds veiling the night sky were considered a blessing—it meant tomorrow would surely be overcast, and overcast days were always preferred. If the sun were to shine directly, the ultraviolet rays would be unbearable for most. Yet even this brought a measure of unease, for should tomorrow bring rain, it would be disastrous. The refugees dreaded this most—the acid-laden rain was far more terrifying than sunlight.

The night was always desolate. The wind, sharp as knives, stung the face. The difference between day and night temperatures was extreme; daytime highs reached forty-five degrees, while at night, it could drop to minus ten, even minus twenty. In the north, it was rumored that nighttime temperatures could plummet to minus fifty or sixty. Such harsh conditions kept most from venturing out after dark.

It had been twenty years since the new humans emerged from their subterranean bases to inhabit the surface, and one hundred and twenty years since the global nuclear detonation. Though so much time had passed, humanity merely adapted to the punishing environment, learning to scavenge for food, seeds, and weapons amidst the ruins. Civilization remained broken, survival remained arduous.

In the boundless darkness, one could not see a hand before their face; only the wind’s howl filled the ears. Insects made no sound—for sound meant movement, and movement meant danger. The insects that survived the radioactive environment had grown cunning, never betraying their presence with a single noise.

Amidst this night, someone walked alone. Aside from pitiful refugees and those separated from their tribes, waiting for death as they wandered, there could be no other identity for such a figure. Anyone who saw this would surely think so.

“Damn, it’s freezing,” the young man muttered, stamping his feet. No matter how tightly he wrapped himself, the hateful cold wind still found its way in, biting at his skin. He had the illusion that the chill pierced through flesh and muscle, chilling him to the bone. His head was swathed in tattered cotton cloth, leaving only his eyes exposed. He wore layers of clothing; his modest frame now resembled a rounded ball.

“There should be a kilometer left to the Frontier State,” he grumbled, clutching his warmed automatic rifle to his chest, sharing what little body heat he had with the weapon. He felt his warmth ebbing away—a dreadful sensation he despised.

He climbed to a vantage point, narrowing his exposed eyes as if he could discern the landscape in this pitch-black night—a foolish notion, perhaps, but his earnest expression was no fantasy. After a moment, he truly saw the distant outlines.

“Damn it. That bastard map merchant marked it wrong. The Frontier State is at least seven or eight kilometers away. Next time I see him, I’ll cut off his balls and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine—”

He spat out a low curse, his features twisted with violence, though soon replaced by an icy indifference, tinged with greed.

The so-called Frontier State was merely a tribe with some semblance of order, numbering around a thousand souls—barely qualifying as a city. Yet to dare call itself a city meant it had some strength. Of those thousand, three hundred formed its army—a substantial force for the region known as Upper Zhejiang, one of the Three Zhejiang territories. Such a force could, with difficulty, shield the tribe from large-scale radioactive monsters and mutated insects.

With weapons, vehicles, and three hundred soldiers, the Frontier State dominated the surrounding hundreds of kilometers with impunity. Even refugee tribes numbering over a thousand could only bow their heads, lacking food and weapons. Those who wandered too long in high-radiation zones were no match for this “regular” army; twenty soldiers could rout a thousand refugees.

Such a state possessed considerable wealth, but to seize it required a price far too steep—wars between these small states occurred only once or twice a year.

The young man smiled faintly—a confident smile. Stepping with resolve, he moved slowly across the ruins toward the Frontier State. His purpose was to attack it and claim its weapons, vehicles, and food. Only with these could he maintain his war of vengeance for his subordinates.

He had ten men, nine counting actual combat strength, all formidable. Yet no matter how skilled, they could not confront a fully armed force of three hundred. He needed to infiltrate the state, set his plan in motion—

A daunting task indeed, he grumbled inwardly, but it was one he must undertake, and he must do it flawlessly.

On the wasteland, failure meant death; only the victorious could survive. If his plan failed, even if he escaped with his men, without ammunition, their guns would be but scrap iron, and survival would become exceedingly hard—a hardship beyond words.

Bearing such a burden, the young man felt nothing amiss. Anxiety was unnecessary; if nerves disrupted his plan, disaster would follow. It wasn’t indifference—life and death mattered to everyone—but rather a state of mind. Long accustomed to setting an example for his men, he molded himself into a model of perfection. Over time, he truly became almost flawless.

Flawless, perhaps, to the point of cruelty.

He had lost his innate nature, becoming someone else entirely. Yet compared to the wasteland’s brutality, such things were trivial. Daily survival left no room for subtle emotions.

He walked for a long time, stopping only when a faint pale light appeared on the horizon and the biting wind seemed to abate.

He had to stop now—any further, and the alert sentry ahead would not hesitate to send a bullet into his skull.

The sentry stared coldly at the figure approaching from afar, at first thinking it a hallucination, then realizing it was indeed a person. To survive the freezing night, one had to be remarkable. He glanced at his fellow sentry, who also raised his rifle. Their eyes met, and an unspoken agreement passed between them.

Click. The rifle’s bolt was drawn back, a bullet chambered. The gloved hand remained dexterous enough to flick off the safety, then lower the head to aim at the distant figure.

At that moment, the man stopped walking.

A clever one, both sentries thought. Had he advanced a few more steps, they would have shot him without hesitation. Now, with his halt, they held their fire—bullets were precious, after all.

The left sentry waved his hand and called out coldly, “Hey! Outsider! What are you here for?”

The young man feigned panic, fear evident in his eyes—fear of the guns. His knees trembled, and he hurriedly tugged at the cloth around his head, blurting out nervously, “I—I want to join! Join you! I want to join!” He waved his hands, “I’m strong! Look! I’m strong!”

He played the role of a common refugee flawlessly, betraying not a hint of his true self.

“Shut up! You!” snapped the sentry, “Get lost! We don’t need new members. Food is precious, not worth wasting on the likes of you! If you want to join, bring a gun!”

It was a casual remark; the sentry never expected the young man to have a weapon. Yet when he heard this, the young man was overjoyed, his face lighting up. He took a few steps forward, excitedly saying, “I have one! I have a gun! Please let me join!”

“Come any closer and I’ll shoot you!” the sentry shouted, ignoring his words.

The young man recoiled, legs buckling as he collapsed to the ground, pleading, “Please! Please! I mean no harm, I just want to join you. Don’t shoot, I beg you—”

“What did you just say?”

“I mean no harm, I want to join!”

“No, the sentence before!”

“Ah… I said—I have a gun! You said I could join if I had a gun, so I have one! Can I join?”

He showed a pleading look.

“What nonsense! How could a refugee like you have a gun?”

“I really do—just like the one you’re holding!”

The left sentry eyed him suspiciously, speaking in a low voice, “You keep aiming; if anything’s off, be ready to shoot. I’ll go take a look.”

“Alright.”

The sentry approached, asking coldly, “Where’s the gun?”

The young man, flustered, drew the weapon from his chest. His nervous fumbling cost him time, and only when the sentry’s brow furrowed impatiently did he finally produce it.

“Let me see!”

“Ah?”

“Hurry up!”

“Yes…”

The sentry took the gun, inspecting it. It looked freshly unearthed, with traces of rust. Where had it come from? If he could find the source, he’d make a fortune. He quickly asked, “Where did this gun come from?”

“Our tribe discovered ruins with firearms. The chief wanted to claim it all, but we resisted and fought. I managed to grab a gun and fled, and now, out of options, I want to join you!”

The prepared story rolled easily off his tongue.

The sentry nodded, then asked, “Do you know where the tribe and the ruins are?”

“I do,” the young man replied, nodding vigorously.

“Good,” the sentry said, satisfied. “You can join us.”

“Great!”

“But I don’t make the decisions. Come with me.” Suddenly recalling something, the sentry asked, “You don’t have radiation sickness, do you? If you do, you’ll be shot. If so, leave now—this is your warning.”

Such groups refused refugees precisely because they were prone to radiation sickness.

“No!”

“By the way, what's your name?”

“Ah, I—I’m… Qi Xi.”