Wang Qiqi had steeled himself for this uphill battle long ago. Over the past few days, he had been recruiting people nonstop, moving through the crowded corridors and makeshift shelters of Banana Community like a politician on a final sprint. Besides rallying former residents who remembered his name, he also pulled in many of the newly settled, making who-knows-how-many whispered promises about future rations and favorable placements.
For this sudden, scrappy contender who had somehow managed to register and qualify for the Distribution Director race, no one in the established power circles really favored Wang Qiqi. The contrast was stark. Look at Zhao Shupi, the candidate backed by the Second District. Without actively recruiting at all, he could draw plenty of votes just by having his supporters hand out free cups of fried batter at the community gates, a tangible, edible bribe.
Jing Shu was surprised by Wang Qiqi's reported campaign fund, yet it fit his character. Last year, during the organized recovery runs outside the community walls when things were slightly less desperate, he had been notorious for taking triple shares of any scavenged food and secretly saving some. Borrow a bit more from sympathetic relatives or trade future favors, and he had scraped together five hundred virtual coins. In the eyes of ordinary residents struggling to earn four coins a day, that was a small fortune.
But what could five hundred virtual coins actually do in a vote-buying campaign? It only bought 250 single bowls of plain white rice at the government canteen rate, and Banana Community now housed tens of thousands of people. How could that ever be enough to sway an election?
Well… there was a wrinkle. After the last incident with the corrupt director, Third Aunt Jing had leveraged the chaos and opened a new "big-pot" community kitchen here in Banana Community, successfully lobbying to become one of its supermarket directors, a manager of a food distribution point. Every day, she oversaw the front hall, the kitchen lines, and the serving counters. Of course, the actual distribution of bulk white rice was now under tighter government control, but the prepared food service was her domain.
Jing Lai's director post, two other supermarket directors from flooded downtown stores had been reassigned to Banana Community. Now, the community's kitchens were split into three branded entities: the Ai Jia cafeteria, run by Jing Lai, the Patriotic cafeteria, and the Love-to-Laugh cafeteria. Above them, a single district-appointed manager was installed to loosely supervise all three big-pot canteens in Banana Community. In short, Jing Lai's direct authority was divided and diluted. She handled only ordinary residents now, not civil servants' rations, but with the community's headcount multiplied several times over, she still had significant clout and, crucially, control over a kitchen's output.
If Jing Shu asked for a favor within reasonable limits and costs, it could be done. She blinked, looking at the problem from a new angle, and a plan took full shape in her mind. Most importantly, she knew the three cafeterias were now quietly competing with each other for prestige and, unofficially, for profits. They compared daily revenue tallies and rolled out new "specialty dishes" every few days, each head cook vying to be top dog.
Zhao Shupi, the frontrunner, was doing all his advertising and free batter handouts through the Patriotic cafeteria, which was now packed from open to close with people hoping for a free taste.
So, helping Jing Lai's Ai Jia cafeteria boost foot traffic and reputation sounded like a good idea for multiple reasons.
Back to the core problem. What could five hundred coins do? Someone as flashy and well-backed as Zhao Shupi might throw in several thousand coins worth of food giveaways. That was naked, blatant vote-buying with virtual coins.
Jing Shu narrowed her eyes, her mind clicking through options, and recalled a famous, deceptively simple street-food dish from the old world: Pan-Seared Mushrooms with Eggs.
You take fresh mushrooms, any kind, but oyster or king oyster work best, tear them into thick strips by hand. You beat a few eggs until just combined. You wipe a very thin film of oil on a hot griddle or large pan, dip the mushroom strips into the egg mixture so the raw egg clings to them in ragged strands, then lay them down on the hot surface.
Sear them over medium-low heat, patiently. Once the mushroom's natural moisture cooks out and the egg-coated pieces turn a deep, crispy golden brown, the roasted eggs release a distinctive, addictive meaty aroma that is entirely their own. You finish with a dusting of chili powder and a sprinkle of salt. The fragrance alone makes you swallow your own tongue.
The finished dish offers the mushroom's satisfying, meaty chew and the crispy eggs' delightful popping texture, crisp right to the core. One bite goes crackle-snap. Add a pinch of chili, an apocalypse luxury, to chase the damp chill from your bones on rainy days. Nothing better.
The next day, right at the peak lunch hour, a strange, mouthwatering aroma began wafting from the entrance of the Ai Jia cafeteria.
"Whoa, where is that fried-meat smell coming from? It smells like… roast pork, but different?"
"Go look! The Ai Jia cafeteria has a new dish, Pan-Seared Mushrooms with Eggs! They have got a sample plate by the door. It smells amazing!"
"Must be pricey. I can't afford a specialty dish."
"No, listen! It's free! The Ai Jia cafeteria is giving away a small taste to anyone who asks today. Limited portions!"
Right at mealtime, a long, snaking line formed at the Ai Jia cafeteria's serving window. The irresistible aroma drew them in, and the magic word free sealed the deal.
Wang Qiqi stood on an upturned crate beside the line, a battered loudhailer in his hand, announcing the rules he and Third Aunt had hastily agreed upon. Anyone who cast a vote for him, would receive a full serving of Pan-Seared Mushrooms with Eggs. Since each registered resident only had one ballot, those who had already foolishly voted for Zhao Shupi earlier in the week would have to buy their serving for 0.5 coins. And nearly everyone who tasted one free, crispy, savory portion then went back into the line, coin in hand, to buy another. This, in turn, dramatically boosted the Ai Jia cafeteria's daily sales revenue, making Third Aunt beam behind her counter.
Jing Shu, watching from a discreet distance, scratched her nose. Honestly, she really did want to help Wang Qiqi win the Distribution Director post, and she genuinely wanted to help Third Aunt build momentum and security in her new position. The strategic benefits were clear.
But somehow, through the alchemy of demand and a truly delicious recipe, Jing Shu ended up personally earning a net profit of one thousand virtual coins from the day's mushroom and egg operation, after splitting proceeds with Third Aunt for use of her kitchen and supplies.
Ahem.
That profit more than covered their ingredient costs. Jing Shu had "sold" a few dozen jin (about 15 to 20 kilograms) of last year's home-dried and ground chili powder from her private stash to the kitchen at a fair rate. The cooking oil came from several big, forgotten buckets of rendered lard taking up space in the villa's cold storage. Whenever the family made red-braised pork or trimmed fatty cuts of meat, Grandma Jing would render the fat and save it, so they had accumulated lots. For daily cooking, the family used healthier vegetable oils like peanut oil and rapeseed oil. The lard just sat there, a relic of richer times.
Grandma Jing had been quietly wondering how to use it all up before it could go rancid. Who knew it would turn into a thousand virtual coins?
So for this entire campaign round, aside from Jing Shu's contribution of chili powder, the "found" lard, and a bit of salt from the kitchen's stores, there were essentially no hard costs. Labor did not count, the kitchen staff were already on salary. In truth, brushing on a little lard and shaking on some salt and chili cost far, far less than Zhao Shupi's giveaway of fried batter, which was made from real, precious wheat flour, actual grain.
The key was that Pan-Seared Mushrooms with Eggs tasted genuinely fantastic and won instant, rave reviews. One bite made you desperately crave another. Lately, people also had a little cash on hand from recent salvage work or from the grim but profitable task of collecting maggots from compost heaps outside the walls to exchange for a few coins. In the early salvage phase, you could literally walk out anywhere, pick up a piece of scrap metal or a broken tool, and if it was on the government's list, you could trade it for a coin or two. So folks were willing to spend 0.5 on a memorable, hot, crispy treat.
By the end of that day, Wang Qiqi's name recognition and promised "full serving" had vaulted him into the top three contenders, right behind the still-leading Zhao Shupi, becoming the election's hottest dark horse. Everyone was now curious about this previously unknown Wang Qiqi.
Credit where it was due, Wang Qiqi had done his political homework. He spent the following days spreading a carefully crafted story of his past exploits: a Banana Community native who had once led people on successful salvage runs to earn a huge communal sum in virtual coins, who had helped the community eat and drink well during the lean transition, and who had close, personal ties to a certain "big shot" living in the fortified villas. That big shot, the story went, was supposedly incredibly powerful and well-connected, and this time, that very big shot was Wang Qiqi's silent sponsor.
In short, the image was set: Wang Qiqi looked connected, resourceful, and capable of delivering real, tangible benefits, like delicious fried mushrooms, not just empty promises.
Jing Shu heard the rumors circulating and thought, "Wait, am I the 'big shot' in that story?"
Speaking of big shots and plans, she had new, concrete plans for this second year of the apocalypse.
If the first, frantic year had been about sheer survival and lifting her whole family into a baseline of security and comfort, then this second year, Jing Shu planned, would be about starting serious capital accumulation.
Ahem.
Put plainly: get rich. And simultaneously secure enough personal power and official authority to protect that wealth from predators.
This would be one of the relatively steadier, less chaotically lethal years in the coming ten-year apocalypse cycle. The initial shock was over, some systems were re-forming, and the velocity of money, the rate at which virtual coins changed hands, would be highest now. Later, once the great climate migrations began in earnest and people scattered east and west following rumors of stable land, the economy would seize up, and currency flow would crawl.
Jing Shu had already taken the first step with her Medicinal Herb Association membership. This year, she had to reach at least the vice president level there, wielding enough formal authority that no random "cat or dog", no petty official or local enforcer, could easily step on her family without consequence.
As for her family, they were not drags on her ambitions, they were parallel climbers. If Su Lanzhi could climb another rung from department head to a proper bureau director, that would be best. If Jing An could leverage his practical skills and her backing to become a supervisor at the district Livestock Breeding Center, that would be impressive too, giving them insight into another critical resource stream.
Second step: earn more coins. Many, many more. There were so many places to spend them, on security upgrades, on black-market information, on bribes, on stockpiling non-perishable luxury goods that would hold value.
She had initially hoped to make a big score off cultivating blood mushrooms, but the two leftover root clusters she had planted in the fields of her Cube Space after making the soup were still sitting there, inert. Nothing had sprouted. She felt a twinge of regret and scientific frustration. Could even the miraculous Cube Space fail to propagate blood mushrooms? Or was the method wrong? Did they require some specific, drowned substrate she hadn't replicated?
Then, on the morning of Yang Yang's grandfather's birthday, as she was racking her brain for a suitably impressive yet not-too-revealing gift, inspiration struck her like a bolt of lightning.