Anyone who had survived into the third year of the apocalypse had already been through hell. Some of them had been billionaires before the end; when doomsday hit, everyone knew just how much the government had seized. The ledger of the old world had been burned, and a new, harsher accounting had taken its place.
Some of the biggest tycoons had vanished overnight, like they had been wiped off the map. Others had disappeared for a while, only to come back into the circle stronger than ever. But nobody ever talked about what happened during that time or about the "missing" friends. It was like they had all silently agreed to keep their mouths shut, their eyes fixed on the floor whenever a name from the past was mentioned.
And those who had climbed higher than ever—well, it was all thanks to clutching the government's thigh for dear life.
Still, anyone with half a brain could see the truth. If you had too much food, supplies, or anything scarce, chances were, the government would come and "requisition" it. Don't be fooled by Wu City's richest energy barons being in step with the authorities; those guys had been forced into it too. This was why no one dared to show off their wealth anymore. They dressed in muted colors and kept their heads down, hiding their surplus behind reinforced walls.
The man in the suit slowly wiped his pen and placard with a crisp, white handkerchief. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes tracking the dust motes dancing in the dim light of the prefab hall.
Captain Yan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He patted the dazed old man's shoulder in the first row and bellowed while pointing at the empty placard, "Write down how much you can donate!"
"Write what?" the old man blinked, his milky eyes clouded with confusion.
"Write down how much money you have!" Captain Yan shouted, his round face turning a deeper shade of red.
"What money?"
"Write!" This time, Captain Yan leaned right into the old man's ear and yelled, his breath hot in the chilly room.
"Write what?" The old man opened his eyes wide, lifted the pen, and waved it around in the air.
"How much you have!"
"Oh… how much I have, right?"
Everyone: "…"
Captain Yan's face turned crimson. In front of everyone, he just grabbed the pen from the old man's shaking fingers, scribbled "3 million" on the placard, and set it down with a heavy thud.
The moment everyone saw the number, they sucked in a sharp breath. The sound hissed through the room like a collective gasp.
Three million. That wasn't the old world's three million yuan. In the apocalypse, that amount could buy mountains of food and supplies, thousands of guns, even cannons and rocket launchers. Hell, even military helicopters that used to cost tens of millions were now about that price. It was a king's ransom in a world of starvation.
Someone raised the earlier question again, their voice barely a whisper. "You said what happens to the one who spends the least?"
Captain Yan nudged Captain Wang, who had been dozing off with his chin on his chest. The thin officer startled awake, adjusted his sunglasses, and mumbled, "Oh, to encourage enthusiasm and contribution to the people, the last place gets a special honor."
Everyone exhaled in relief. For a second, they thought not spending today meant they would be leaving their lives here.
But Jing Shu held her breath, her fingers tightening around her heat pack. Those two old foxes—one played good cop, the other bad. If they didn't dig a fat profit out of today's crowd, she would rename herself Shu Jing!
Captain Yan leaned back in his chair, his legs spread wide, a predatory grin on his face. "That honor is the honorary president of Wu City's Donation Association. It will go in the records. You will become a government civil servant, with a nice salary and benefits. Plenty of people would kill to get in, and look at you, lucky enough to win it."
Jing Shu raised a brow. Such a good thing, and they were giving it to last place? The trap was obvious, even if the bait looked sweet.
The room stirred, whispers and doubts flying like shadows against the walls.
Captain Yan laid it on thick, praising the post until some actually thought being last wasn't too bad. But then Captain Wang added, "The responsibility is simple. You will need to bring in one million worth of donations every month. If you fall short, you will have to make up the difference yourself. And if you can't—well, there's nothing we can do. We can't exactly force donations, right?"
People tensed up again, their spines straightening against their chairs. But when Captain Yan added, "If you don't meet the quota, we won't push too hard, don't worry," they relaxed a little.
Then Captain Wang dropped the real bomb. "We will just deduct your credit score, blacklist you in the big data system, erase your ID and phone number, and block you from all communication. From then on, the system won't recognize you. You won't be able to trade, chat, buy anything, or receive legal protection."
In this era, where even money was all digital, that was a living death sentence. Without an account, you would need to drag your own kid everywhere just to buy anything. And without the ability to even chat, if you got killed on the road, nobody would even know. You would vanish from the world while still breathing.
For business people, it was basically career suicide.
Jing Shu's face darkened too. Losing trading functions wasn't the end of the world for her, but losing access to everything else? She would suffocate. Every little thing, from charging her phone to passing a checkpoint, would become a nightmare.
"Officer, we don't want to be dishonest, but we don't want to be that so-called honorary president either."
Captain Yan smiled kindly, his eyes disappearing into slits. "Then just don't be last."
"Captain Yan, you see, I'm the management director of Lingshan District. Shouldn't this be handled by you? Don't drag me into it; I have got more important things to do."
Captain Yan waved him back down with a fleshy hand. "Sit, sit. Don't worry. Every district is having the same donation meeting. No one is left out, no one is running away. Whatever business you have got can wait until after."
The Lingshan director sat back down, looking miserable as he stared at the blank placard in front of him.
Then a fur-draped noblewoman stood up and strode toward the exit, the mothball scent of her coat trailing behind her. "Donations should be voluntary, shouldn't they? Didn't you say this was a survey? Since when did a survey turn into forced donations?"
"I have got video proof, and I will make sure this goes public. Let's see what others think. Why should we, the consumers, be forced to give?"
Captain Yan laughed, the sound jiggling his belly. "Go ahead, ask them. See whether the straight-talking netizens support us or you. They will see if they would rather take the supplies we have collected from you, or let you keep everything for yourself. Sit down, madam. Aren't we fair? You give us supplies, we give you guns and bullets. And it's still a survey. We're just checking what resources you have got left, so the higher-ups can adjust prices. We're civilized people, aren't we? We can't just rob you, right? What is there to worry about?"
Right now, the government still played at being reasonable, always coming up with excuses. They would let you donate "willingly," even throw in a few guns in exchange. Later, when things got worse—when tens of thousands starved to death every day—there would be no excuses left. There would be no trades, no benefits. Whoever had supplies would hand them over, plain and simple.
And this so-called "honor" for last place? It wasn't an honor at all. It was a punishment with teeth. You couldn't refuse it, and once it was on record, you were trapped. Fail the quota, and the system would erase you. You would be alive, but good as dead.