When Jing Shu first met Wang Dazhao, the man wore side swept bangs, a sunny big boy through and through, all easy smiles and relaxed posture. Now Wang Dazhao had a buzz cut, his face weathered to the texture of old leather, but his will was firm, a hardness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. This was someone baptized by the apocalypse, with nothing left to bind him, no softness remaining.
"I want you to be my informant, infiltrate the Zhetian Gang, and gather intel for me," Jing Shu said slowly, each word measured. In her previous life, Jing Shu had questions she never figured out, puzzles that had gnawed at her in the dark.
She also feared that once the Zhetian Gang heard that Bi Ri had been wiped out, they would storm this community, a tide of violence seeking retribution. Jing Shu had to prepare in advance, to see the threat coming before it arrived.
The Zhetian Gang was a pack of lawless people whose only joy was revenge on society, a twisted satisfaction in the chaos. Their fun was killing and torture, simple and brutal.
Some bastard had posted about the brother in misery duo of Zhetian and Bi Ri: one failed to steal guns from a police station, the other was annihilated in a remote community. Wu City's hottest gossip was now these stories, which shoved their community right into the spotlight, a target painted on its back.
Wang Dazhao agreed without a word, just a single, sharp nod. Jing Shu then laid out several critical rules, leaning forward: "Use a fake name whenever possible. Never get caught on camera. Never allow your info to be scanned. Never leave any records." And more along those lines, each prohibition a thread in a safety net.
Because Jing Shu knew that whether the police were truly too busy to act or, as Wu You'ai's mentor predicted, were deliberately letting more people die, it would only be a few months, a brief window of lawless entropy. Once the government had free hands and the cake had been sliced, a blood soaked reform would begin, swift and merciless.
Anyone caught committing robbery or rape would face a single verdict, death. Anyone with a recorded criminal history for robbery would also be executed. The judgments would be public, final.
You could run for a while, but it wouldn't matter. By then everyone would be eating from communal kitchens, authenticating with facial scans to receive meals. If your name was on the blacklist, the moment you came for food you'd be arrested. If you didn't claim food, you'd be left to fend for yourself, a slow death sentence.
In her previous life, Jing Shu had believed the world was done for, a sinking ship. But China clawed back a win by controlling the lifeline of grain, seizing the one thing everyone needed to survive.
Wang Dazhao went to register with the Zhetian Gang, carrying the blood dripping head of his enemy as an initiation gift, the gruesome offering held loosely in one hand. Word spread, and it caused a stir within their little circle that very day, whispers moving through the community like a cold wind.
…
The coconuts Jing Shu had been longing for finally ripened, their heavy, green brown husks dangling like clusters of oversized grapes. Six coconut palms nearly thirty meters tall (roughly 30 stories high) stood in the Cube Space, their crowns thick with huge coconuts. Jing Shu used her will to harvest them all, the fruits thudding softly onto the space's floor, planning to wait for the next few rounds. The pace should pick up from here, she thought, surveying the yield.
After all, just cultivating the palms had taken Jing Shu over three months of patient, invisible tending. She couldn't cut them down after one harvest to grow something else, the investment was too great.
At the same time, fruits that normally needed years to bear, like apples, apricots, or even lychees, had taken only a single month inside the space, a miraculous acceleration.
This led Jing Shu to a bold hypothesis, the taller the fruit tree, the weaker the time compression effect the Cube Space's fields exerted on it, so the longer it took to mature, as if the magic had to work its way up a greater height.
This discovery thrilled Jing Shu, a spark of understanding in the mystery. If so, what about things grown directly in the soil, would they mature faster, unburdened by height?
Would that mean medicinal herbs that required decades might ripen in only two or three months inside the Cube Space? Jing Shu wanted to test it next time, the idea taking root.
Coconut water, mild in flavor, was good as drinking water, clear and slightly sweet. But Jing Shu liked coconut milk better, the rich, creamy liquid. Following the cookbook compendium, she blended coconut flesh with coconut water into a gritty paste, heated it until thick and fragrant, then mixed the pressed liquid with milk and sugar in careful proportion. Delicious coconut milk was done, pale and inviting.
The leftover pulp wasn't wasted, a coarse, fibrous mass. It was perfect for feeding fish and pigs, tossed into their enclosures.
Jing Shu cleared out 2 cubic meters in the space and filled them all with coconut milk, the containers lining up. She gulped it down in big swigs, the cool sweetness spreading on her tongue, both blissful and a little pained. Pity she had to keep it to herself, because even with Jing Shu's award worthy acting, there was no way to explain where coconut milk came from in a city without coconuts.
At worst, she would conserve water for the next six months, not drink water at all, and just drink fruit juices. A different flavor each day didn't sound bad, a private luxury.
Ever since natural gas shut off, Jing Shu's family had been cooking with coal, the chunks glowing orange in the stove. It wasn't convenient, and the heat was hard to control, often flaring too high or dying too low.
A few days ago, when Jing Shu brought back corn, Grandma Jing complained it was too much to finish, the golden ears piled high. Part of it was boiled, and Jing Shu alone ate dozens of ears, kernels sweet and bursting. Another portion, given the cooking inconvenience, was turned into corn cakes, the batter sizzling on the griddle.
Each cake was griddled to a golden hue, puffy and fragrant, edges crisp. One bite was crisp, chewy, and wonderfully tasty. Even cold, they were delicious, practically snackable, a solid satisfaction.
Jing Shu's favorite was Golden Corn Fritter. That dish never got old. Kernels mixed with starch into a sticky mass, spread thin in a pan with oil, fried until the corn turned golden and crisp, sprinkled with coarse sugar that melted on contact, then lifted by hand straight from the pan, steaming hot. Crispy, sweet, tender, the corn aroma exploded and filled every craving, a perfect bite.
High end ingredients often needed only the simplest methods to become delicious food, their own quality shining through.
She secretly made a lot and stored them in the space, a hidden stash of golden discs. Now every extra meal needed a few pieces, or her whole body felt out of sorts, a craving unfulfilled.
While she spent two idle days at home cooking, the smell of coal and corn hanging in the air, much happened outside.
[Wang Luobin, No. 15]:"@Everyone, anyone have a little food to sell me?"
[Luo Zhu, No. 9]:"@Wang Qiqi, everyone's grain is almost gone. Think of something fast. We don't even have enough water now."
Wang Qiqi replied, the words appearing after a pause, "Internal news. The first batch of government vegetables is about to arrive. Hold on a few more days and wait for the announcement." A promise, thin as paper.
On May 19, there was still a robbery and murder in the community, violence breaking through the tense quiet.
A couple from Building No. 1, with no grain left, their cabinets bare, went to Building No. 2 to "borrow" food from Wang Xuemei, knocking on her door with empty bags.
Everyone in the group chat knew she had at least ten sacks of rice. They assumed that after what happened to Wang Xuemei, she would be timid and could be frightened into handing over the food, an easy mark.
No one expected Wang Xuemei's reaction to be so extreme. She picked up a cleaver without a word, the metal catching the light, and hacked away, a whirlwind of silent violence. By the time Wang Qiqi arrived, the two intruders had been chopped over a hundred times, the room a scene of carnage. You couldn't even tell their sex, just ruined meat.
With her phone back in hand, Wang Xuemei posted in the group, the text stark: "Anyone who tries to borrow grain from me, except those who helped me, will end up like this." She attached a photo of the scene, a blur of red and dark, and the whole group practically wet themselves, the image burning into their screens. From then on, the nickname Crazy Wang followed Wang Xuemei everywhere, a name spoken in hushed tones.
But even that couldn't stop those who had run out of everything, the hunger a sharper prod than fear. Anything edible in their homes had already been eaten, licked clean. With no one selling, and nowhere to get more, robbery was all that remained, the last option.
On May 20, on the road where Jing An was driving Su Lanzhi to work, the car moving through hazy air, they were robbed three times.
The first time was inside the community. As Jing An drove to the gate, a barricade of broken furniture blocked their way. Five knife wielding men rushed out from behind it, blades glinting. Jing An stomped the reverse, tires screeching, ran over two of them with a sickening thud, then floored it forward and hit two more, the bumper connecting. The last one tried to run, legs pumping. Jing An chased him, ramming both man and car into the barricade. With a boom, the car stopped, and the man was pinned in the middle, crushed between metal and wood.
When Jing Shu arrived after getting the call, running to the scene, three were still gasping on the ground, wet sounds in their throats. The one wedged in the middle stared wide eyed at the sky, blood bubbling from his mouth with each shallow breath. He wasn't dead yet, but if the car reversed and removed the pressure, he'd die instantly, his body finally giving way.
Jing Shu drew a knife from her belt and handed it to Jing An, the handle cool. "Since they are from the community, let's kill them all." Her voice was flat, a statement of fact.