See, even in the heart of the apocalypse, there were still genuinely selfless, good-hearted people. The dishes and food brought out today, the whole carp, the fresh leeks, the carefully prepared pork and eggs, were clearly all of Old Master Yang's best, most carefully husbanded private supplies. Enough to feed more than two hundred people, that amount of high-quality protein and fresh vegetables could have sustained his own family for half a year easily.
By the time guests had arrived earlier, the courtyard pond still had some smaller fish darting beneath the lily pads, but all the mature vegetables in the converted flowerbeds had already been completely harvested, their stumps the only evidence.
Old Master Yang could have simply declared, with great fanfare, that all the monetary gifts received today would be donated to the city's poor, saving himself the cost and immense logistical hassle of this massive banquet, and he would still have won endless public admiration and political capital. But instead, he had first chosen to gather his old friends and treat them to a genuine feast with his very best, sharing the last of his tangible luxuries before converting their goodwill into public charity.
Some cynical voices, both then and later, whispered that the donations weren't really his loss, since the gifts were given to him, yet he still ended up gaining all the prestige. But the truth that Jing Shu saw was simpler: Old Master Yang already commanded immense respect due to his age, his history, and his family's position. He could have earned plaudits for his "generosity" without donating a single grain of his own rice. He chose not to take that easier, more selfish route. Sometimes the act of giving itself, the performance and the sacrifice, carried a meaning that transcended the raw economics.
Over the decades, the gifts he had handed out at countless weddings, funerals, and birthdays would have, in the normal course of social debt, returned to him in some form anyway. In the end, from a purely cyclical view, much of this was still his wealth being redistributed. But he was the one turning the wheel.
Jing Shu suddenly remembered a flicker of memory from her previous life. This very event had made the evening news, a rare feel-good story in a sea of misery. Old Master Yang had "donated a banquet of white rice" that fed tens of thousands in Wu City for days, earning him immense public gratitude. Sadly, in that past life, she hadn't eaten any of that charity rice herself, because by the time the distribution trickled down to the outer districts like Banana Community, the food had run out.
What impressed her most now, seeing the old man's pleased, slightly mischievous expression, was his age. In such cruel, energy-sapping living conditions, where every calorie was fought for, life was exponentially harder for people his age. The fact that he was not just surviving, but thriving and orchestrating this, spoke volumes.
No wonder Yang Yang had been sighing so theatrically all evening. This time, his grandfather's household had truly "lost both money and face" in the personal sense: no gift money retained to replenish their stores, and their own carefully cultivated food supplies wiped out for a single night's spectacle. His grandmother, the keeper of the household accounts, was absolutely going to make the old man kneel on a washboard later. The thought almost made Jing Shu smile.
As exclamations of shock, admiration, and a little opportunistic calculation rippled across the venue, Shen Sanqiao tapped the auctioneer's desk again for order. "At the same time," he announced, his voice cutting through the murmur, "everyone participating in today's charity auction, every donor, will have their name and contribution recorded in the official Wu City News ledger as performing a registered 'good deed.' This event will also be listed permanently in the Big Data Charity Auction historical section as a model of post-crisis civic philanthropy."
In Jing Shu's eyes, celebrities or powerful figures using donations for publicity was nothing worth criticizing. Hypocrisy was a luxury of peaceful times. As long as they donated a significant amount, did real, tangible good deeds, and the common people actually benefited, then both sides got what they wanted. What was morally wrong with that? It was a functional transaction.
The auction began in earnest, proceeding table by table, starting from the top left. An elderly man with a kind face and thick glasses stood up, produced a small, boxy device, and placed it on the auction table. It was a portable, multi-stage water filter, the kind that could turn murky pond water into something drinkable. Old Master Yang, watching from his chair, actually winced, because his own household's drinking water was currently being hauled over daily from his son's military-issue filtration unit.
"Haha, you old geezer," Old Master Yang called out, pointing. "You're donating something this precious? You know I need one! Fine, fine, let's auction it then. Break my heart."
Water filters were functionally priceless now. It sold after a few perfunctory bids for 1,000 virtual coins. The bidding wasn't fierce; everyone in the room was influential and understood this wasn't a real commercial auction but a ceremonial transfer. The exact price didn't truly matter, as the coins would all go to the same pot.
Another man stood, hefting a cloth sack. "Brought you some walnuts from my last pre-collapse stock. Thought I'd help your old brain work a little better."
Five kilograms of precious, nutrient-dense walnuts sold for 600 virtual coins.
A man in what looked like a farmer's practical jacket, but with an officer's bearing, said, "Couldn't get you a prize bull. But I caught you a fine rooster and a plump hen from the Livestock Breeding Center's non-breeding stock. For eggs."
That pair of live, clucking chickens, presented in a woven basket, fetched 1,500 virtual coins after some amused bidding.
Water was no longer acutely scarce for those with access to filtration or rainwater collection, and feed could be scraped together. The government had been heavily promoting small-scale animal husbandry in secure compounds. But when the red nematode eggs had mutated and contaminated water sources, a large portion of early livestock attempts had been poisoned by the polluted water and died, just like unlucky humans. Fortunately, the central sewage treatment plant had been one of the first facilities repaired, allowing water to be filtered at scale again. Both people and the remaining poultry in Wu City now largely relied on government-distributed, treated water.
Another old friend, a boisterous man with a booming voice, stood and declared, "Lao Yang, I won't give you a thing. Don't want you to feel too heartbroken later. Here's 1,000 virtual coins straight from my account. That way you'll really feel the sting when it's gone, hahaha!" He made a show of transferring the funds on his phone to the displayed public account.
Others followed suit, donating coins directly in amounts ranging from 500 to 1,000 each. It was clean, simple, and guaranteed the rice would be bought.
Usually, Old Master Yang's closest, oldest friends gave things that nourished the body, special foods, medicines, health aids. Others who were more recent associates or professional connections tended to donate practical staples like rice or the virtual currency to buy it. Of course, the truly wealthy or those with specific agendas gave more lavishly, their gifts or cash making a statement.
Soon, the auctioneer's gaze reached Jing Shu's table.
Old Master Yang, following his look, waved a hand. "That one's my grandson's table. His friends. Family. Skip this table, skip this table." Since they were considered close, it was socially acceptable to lump them together and excuse them from the public auction, a mark of intimate favor.
Jing Shu originally thought being skipped was perfectly fine. She could always give something privately to Yang Yang later, perhaps some Spirit Spring water or seeds. But unexpectedly, the three older gentlemen who had served with Old Master Yang in America, along with Wang Dazhao, all stood up together. One of them placed a long, slender case of polished rosewood on the auction table. They opened it. Inside, nestled in fitted blue velvet, lay a pistol, but unlike any standard issue. Its surface had a strange, textured, metallic sheen, like captured starlight or molten stone.
Yang Yang leaned close to Jing Shu, his voice a barely audible whisper. "M1911 Meteorite Pistol. The frame and slide are machined from a single nickel-iron meteorite found in the Arctic. Only two were ever made by a custom shop in Texas. This is one of them."
None of the men mentioned the model or the outrageous origin. One simply said, "Old Master, this is the pistol you've admired for thirty years. We prepared it together for your eighty-eighth birthday. Your grandson especially sought it out for you. No need to auction this one, right?" It was a statement, not a question.
Old Master Yang's eyes widened. He got up from his chair, stepped to the table, and picked up the pistol. He caressed its cool, otherworldly surface lovingly. He knew its story. Commissioned at enormous cost by an eccentric billionaire, the pair was unique in the world. Somehow this brat of a grandson had managed to locate and acquire one, probably in the chaotic collapse. Now that the apocalypse had come, America was too busy surviving to worry about a missing fancy pistol.
"Besides," another of the old friends added quietly, but loud enough for the front tables to hear, "no one else here is officially qualified to own a personal firearm of this… specificity. If it went to auction, wouldn't that just cause legal trouble for the winner?"
Seeing Old Master Yang hesitate, clearly torn between his charitable decree and his visceral desire to keep this irreplaceable treasure, Niu Mou, ever the pragmatic bureaucrat, delivered the final, logical push. "Regulations are clear, Old Master. This falls under 'historical artifact' and 'family heirloom.' It would be a bureaucratic nightmare to transfer. Best kept in the family."
The crowd were all shrewd people. No one made a sound. Who would dare to bid, even if they wanted to? It would be a social faux pas and a potential legal hazard. And if someone did bid and the old man, overcome by temptation, failed to sell it, how embarrassing would that be?
"A gift from family," Old Master Yang finally said, closing the case with a decisive click, a look of profound relief on his face. "Doesn't need to be auctioned." He was visibly pleased that at least one present didn't have to immediately slip away from his grasp. His mood improved considerably.
Niu Mou then brought out his own gift, carried in by an attendant: two enormous, multi-tiered "longevity peach" cakes, their surfaces frosted with thick, white cream and adorned with whole, fresh, impossibly red strawberries. "Cake prepared by the family. Everyone gets a share later. This doesn't need to be auctioned either. It's for the celebration."
The crowd chuckled warmly. Of course you needed a cake at a birthday. Thoughtful indeed.
When everyone else at the table had given their gifts or made their symbolic donations, all eyes subtly turned to Jing Shu, the only one who hadn't contributed publicly. She had no choice. She reached into the simple cloth bag at her feet and carefully took out her gift, wrapped in a layer of clean linen. She unfolded the cloth on the auction table.
The moment the object was revealed, a collective, sharp intake of breath swept the hall, followed by a wave of heated whispers. Wasn't this the hottest, most discussed item in all of Wu City right now?
It was a blood mushroom. But not just any blood mushroom. This specimen was colossal, the size of a small plate, its cap a deep, velvety crimson that seemed to drink in the light, its gills a delicate, contrasting pale cream. It was pristine, firm, and vibrantly fresh, as if it had been picked moments ago.
Blood mushrooms had only appeared at three high-level auctions in the entire city since their discovery. Each one, far smaller than this, had fetched no less than 1,500 coins, and they were always in desperately short supply, with prices trending steeply upward. Nobody in the room expected anyone to still have one in their private possessionームー let alone one of this staggering size and quality.
"This… this is the biggest one I've ever seen! And look at that color! So fresh!"
"Where did it even come from?"
Those in the room who had been privileged enough to taste blood mushrooms at previous events began talking over each other, their voices tinged with awe.
"Not only are they delicious, but after eating, you feel it, a warmth, a clarity. Like you're younger, your body full of vitality!"
"Remember Old Man Liu? He looked ten years younger the week after he ate one!"
Even bystanders who hadn't tasted it nodded along, repeating the growing legend. The myth of the blood mushroom only grew larger in that room.
"Our family was lucky enough to get a small piece at the last trade meet. The effects are real. My old backache vanished for a week."
"No wonder your brat looks so much more energetic lately, you old fox! You've been holding out!"
"This isn't something you can buy with just money anymore. It's a treasure. Old Master, you should eat this one yourself. For your health!"
a"Exactly! You won't live much longer anyway, you old geezer," another friend joked, falling back into their familiar, irreverent rhythm. "I'm still waiting for you to repay all the wedding gifts I gave your sons! You need the vitality!"
Old Master Yang didn't recognize this quiet, composed young girl, but seeing her seated at his grandson's table, the place of honor, he thought of something. A slow, wide, almost foolish grin spread across his wrinkled face. He looked from the magnificent mushroom to Jing Shu, then to Yang Yang, and his grin turned knowing. "This," he announced, his voice booming with false sternness that couldn't hide his delight, "is a gift from family. Doesn't count for the auction. Doesn't count at all."
The crowd, picking up on his tone and his obvious joy, let out a long, drawn-out, and thoroughly teasing "Ooooh~" of collective understanding, their eyes flicking between Jing Shu and a suddenly stoic Yang Yang.
Jing Shu, who had been standing calmly, blinked. The social subtext of the room's reaction finally clicked into place. Her own expression shifted from polite neutrality to one of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.
Jing Shu: "???"
She looked at the smirking old man, at the chuckling guests, then at Yang Yang, who was now studying the ceiling beams with intense interest.
"Wait a minute," she thought, the pieces tumbling into a very wrong picture. "Did you all misunderstand something? Seriously?"