The true problem with all of this was its inherent difficulty to explain and its sheer impossibility to cover up cleanly. For now, Jing Shu still needed to think of a way to have her father and Grandpa Jing set up some traps around the villa. They couldn't be obvious, of course, not crude pits lined with sharpened stakes that a casual glance might reveal. They needed to be integrated, part of the landscape until the moment they weren't.
Ideally, they would be live traps. Mechanisms of wood and stone and clever weight distribution, normally closed and invisible, only to be triggered into lethal action when needed. This was something she would have to ask Grandpa Jing, whose hands were permanently etched with the fine sawdust and deep knowledge of carpentry, and Baozi's father, a man who understood the practical physics of heavy things, to help with.
She would sketch in the dirt with a stick, her diagrams crude but the principle clear: a heavy log suspended, a platform that gave way, a counterweight that released. They should understand what she meant. Their kind of hands on wisdom, earned through a lifetime of making and fixing tangible things, often grasped the essence of a problem faster than any theoretical explanation.
Although people who had Cube Space throughout history those enigmatic, shadowy predecessors she could only speculate about would probably never use such a clumsy, almost medieval method, Jing Shu still felt a deep, warm sense of satisfaction uncoil in her chest as she imagined it. There was a brutal elegance in its simplicity.
Life should be simple, and so should killing. No need for flashy tricks or intricate, energy draining schemes. If you have a method that can directly, decisively smash a threat to death, why bother thinking about anything else? The cube's power was vast, but its use required mental focus and a privacy she couldn't always guarantee. A falling weight was final, reliable, and asked no questions.
Jing Shu also had a bit of her own selfishness in this. During the later stages of the apocalypse, migration would become necessary. The wind would be strong enough to flay skin, the snow heavy enough to bury roads, and the cold bitter enough to freeze hope solid. When no better option came to mind, she could only resort to such crude measures.
But crude did not mean ineffective. When migrating and needing to camp on some exposed, snow scoured hillside, she could secretly put up a stone barrier, a sudden outcrop of granite that hadn't been there a moment before, to block the worst of the wind and snow, then set a tent inside its lee.
That way, her family could sleep more comfortably, sheltered from the elements by a wall that seemed a gift of fortune. After all, with darkness everywhere, a moonless night thick with falling snow, no one would notice or question if she quietly placed a granite wall around their small, struggling camp.
March 2, 2023. More than a week had passed since the black beetle outbreak. The apocalypse had now entered its third month. At this stage, people were no longer in the initial shock of survival but mired in a stagnant, grinding panic, anxiously waiting in a fog of fear and uncertainty for Earth's Dark Days to end, for the sun to return as if it were merely a delayed train and not a possibly extinct celestial event.
All schools in Wu City remained suspended, their gates chained, playgrounds silent. Pharmacies had long been shut down, their once glowing red crosses dark. Electronics and digital stores were all closed except for a few desperate stalls in the cavernous, half dark halls of the largest malls. Every snack shop, restaurant, and all you can eat buffet had stopped operating, their chairs upturned on tables layered in dust.
Clothing malls had only a handful left trying to stay open, mannequins still posed in summer dresses behind grimy glass. The wholesale markets, once piled high with colorful goods in chaotic, vibrant stacks, had emptied out without anyone knowing where all that stock had gone, leaving behind only torn plastic sheets and pallets. Wu City now felt like a dead city, its pulse fading.
To save resources, all government and business offices that still operated had been compressed, crammed together into the few skyscrapers in the city center where backup generators chugged tirelessly. Only there, in those isolated towers, were the lights still shining in defiant, wasteful squares against the oppressive gloom.
But on the streets below those towers, there were more people handing out flyers to sell houses, shops, and cars than actual pedestrians. Their faces were pinched with hunger and hope. If you walked by without a firm refusal, you might find your sleeve seized by a thin, desperate hand, pulling you away by someone insisting you look, their voice a rushed monotone listing square footage and unbeatable prices.
Prices for houses and cars fell lower and lower, a sickening plunge. Even the once coveted school district apartments in the city center, the subject of so many family arguments and lifelong savings, had dropped from 15,000 yuan to 5,000 yuan per square meter and still couldn't find a buyer.
A car, any car, had become worthless, selling at prices equivalent to scrap iron, a few hundred yuan for a vehicle that once represented status, yet still no one would buy. Who needed a car when fuel was a ghost and destinations had ceased to exist?
In times of prosperity, antiques thrive. In times of chaos, gold is king. The old saying proved brutally true. With houses and cars plummeting into worthlessness, gold prices soared higher and higher, traded in back rooms and whispered conversations. Everything pointed to the world sliding deeper into an irreversible turmoil, shedding the trappings of modern civilization like a snake sheds its skin.
As for daily life, only a few dozen large supermarkets, sanctioned and supplied by a struggling system, still opened for two strictly enforced hours a day. Yet inside, the reality was stark. Shelves for canned goods and processed foods were bare, picked clean. Seasoning shelves stood empty, gaps where soy sauce, vinegar, and spice jars once crowded.
The fresh food section was a barren, cleaned expanse. Snacks were gone, not even a forgotten bag of chips wedged behind a rack. Even the ridiculously expensive imported goods, the French cookies and Italian pasta that once gathered dust, were gone. Cigarettes and alcohol had vanished without anyone noticing when, leaving behind a specific kind of yearning.
Daily necessities like toilet paper were dwindling at a visibly alarming rate, the remaining packages looking lonely and exposed, but supermarkets never restocked these non essentials. The only thing piled high in stable, bland mountains was rice and flour, the government's final line of defense to comfort the public, as though reassuring them that the bedrock of sustenance remained. But the truth was, each person was allowed to buy only a pitifully small amount per day, weighed out on old fashioned scales behind the counter.
At this moment, countless people regretted one thing with a gnawing ache: why hadn't they gone to collect the free rice the government distributed last December? They had been too busy, too skeptical, or simply too accustomed to plenty.
Even so, the news of empty shelves spread through the queues like wildfire, sending more people rushing to supermarkets every day, their eyes scanning for the next vanishing act. Everyone realized with a slow dawning horror that today lighters were gone, tomorrow it would be seasonings, and the day after that, fire starters. It was only when the small, daily conveniences disappeared the matches, the salt, the needle and thread that people realized just how troublesome, how endlessly complicated and effort filled, simple life could become.
Grandma Jing felt this acutely, in her bones and her routines. During the time she had stayed at her daughter's place, she faced countless inconveniences that chipped away at her spirit. Forgetting to boil water during the two hour power window meant she went without hot water for a whole day, drinking tepid water that did nothing to warm her insides.
She had to cook all meals for the following day in the afternoon because once the power went out, even the gas stove can't be lit without a spark, and supermarkets no longer sold lighters.
The rhythm of life was dictated by the hum of generators.
She hadn't bathed properly for a month, her body reeking under layers of clothing, the smell a constant, intimate shame. The diet was monotonous and lacking fresh vegetables, causing both her and Grandpa Jing to suffer from constant constipation, a low grade physical misery.
Although her son occasionally brought things over, without scallions and ginger, every dish, no matter how carefully prepared, tasted flat and bland, missing the aromatic soul of cooking.
The list of problems went on and on, a cascade of minor agonies. In short, life in such an environment was unbearably troublesome, a daily battle against lack.
Fortunately, the hardship didn't last long. Jing Shu and Jing An soon came to fetch Grandma Jing, Grandpa Jing, Third Aunt Jing Lai, and cousin Wu You'ai, saying they were going to stay for a while at a new place.
In reality, they had them bring all their food supplies, every last bag of rice and jar of pickles, and took them to the new house, even showing the property certificate with its official seal to the elderly couple to make it real.
"You are out of your minds. How much did this house cost?" Grandpa Jing pointed a work roughened finger at Jing An, his body tensing as he nearly raised his foot to kick him, a gesture of shock, not real anger.
"Grandpa, Grandma, this house cost only 100,000 yuan, including all the furniture and appliances. If you don't like it, I will just sell it and use the money to pay back the 200,000 yuan we owe you," Jing Shu deliberately understated the price, her voice calm and convincing.
When Grandpa Jing heard it cost just 100,000 yuan, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, the number so absurdly low for a solid, furnished home in this era.
Grandma Jing quickly cut in, her voice firm, "No need to rush paying back that 200,000. I think this house is good." The key was being with her son and granddaughter, and also bringing along her divorced daughter where she could keep an eye on her. Practicality and family trumped debt.
"I was thinking that since you're not used to living in the villa every day, you could stay here instead. When First Aunt or Second Aunt visit, they can also stay here without feeling constrained. And my livestreaming will last at least a few more years, so I will need your support. I can't bear to see you return to the countryside. Why not live here for now?" Jing Shu's reasoning was seamless, layering practical excuses.
At this moment, Jing An quickly added, sensing the moment, "Mom, I want to take care of you in your old age. Let's all live together. I know Third Sister wouldn't feel comfortable living with me, since she's used to staying with you. So you can live together, and you'll have both houses to choose from." It was an offer of care, not confinement.
"Good, good. Living here is nice. Fewer people, better environment," Grandma Jing accepted right away, her eyes already appraising the space as her own, and told Third Aunt Jing Lai to move her things in as well.
"Wu You'ai is done with her busy work, so she should stay here and relax. From now on, this will be our home!" Her declaration settled the matter, filling the empty rooms with the promise of family life.
Third Aunt Jing Lai teased with a relieved laugh, "Looks like you've long wanted to leave the old place. After the power outages, running up and down six flights of stairs every day really was exhausting. Here on the first floor, it's so much more convenient." She rubbed her knee unconsciously.
Jing Shu then introduced the house to the family, walking them through it. For toilets, they would use a composting bucket lined with cat litter, which she demonstrated, showing how the lid sealed tightly. For drinking water, she had installed a small 5L water tank, a compact blue barrel with a tap, which Jing An would refill from their reserves when empty. As for water for daily use, washing and cleaning, they would still need to get it in jerrycans from the villa, a daily chore but a secure one. She went over all the other features one by one, the hidden storage, the reinforced door, the placement of the wood burning stove. The more Grandma Jing heard, the more satisfied she became, her nods growing firmer.
"Tonight, let your grandma cook our first meal here. That way, we can officially move in," Grandpa Jing said, still particular about ceremony, about marking a new beginning with shared food. With that, the matter was settled, the new chapter begun.
At such a time when resources were scarce, when an apple was a luxury, Jing Shu's eldest aunt, Jing Pan, spent several hundred yuan, a significant sum, to get a seat on a rickety, overcrowded bus, bringing a large box of apples, each one precious, for Grandma Jing, Jing An, and Jing Lai's families. It was an act of profound generosity.
Dragging a cart with three heavy boxes, the wheels squeaking in protest, she walked four or five kilometers through near deserted streets to reach Jing Lai's place, her back aching with the effort, only to find no one home, the door locked and silent. She then made a call on her dying phone, and Grandma Jing, alarmed, told Jing An to pick her up quickly, her voice tight with worry.
"Can you believe this child. Coming all the way here without saying a word. Now she's standing alone in front of your door with so much fruit. In times like this, isn't she afraid someone will rob her. Hurry and fetch her. And Old Third, while you're at it, bring over the rest of the luggage." Grandma Jing's worry was a mother's fear, seeing danger in every shadow.
As if cursed by Grandma Jing's crow's mouth, when Jing An brought Eldest Aunt Jing Pan back to the new house, her clothes disheveled and her face pale, they learned she had indeed been robbed in the dark stairwell,