The moon was a thin crescent, barely enough to see by.
Wei slipped out of the house at midnight, moving like a shadow through the courtyard. The wooden floorboards of his room had creaked when he stood up from the kang. He had frozen, listening. His mother's breathing from the next room had not changed. His father's snoring continued uninterrupted.
He had dressed in the dark—dark pants, a dark shirt, shoes that tied tight. He had strapped the scythe across his back, the blade wrapped in cloth to keep it from catching the light.
The dogs were the problem.
Hei slept near the gate, as always. The pups were tangled together by the well. Da and Er lay on the porch, their heads on their paws.
Wei stepped outside. The air was cold. His breath fogged.
Hei lifted his head. His ears pricked forward. His nose twitched.
Wei pressed a finger to his lips and crouched down. He scratched Hei behind the ears, the way the dog liked. "Stay," he whispered. "I'll be back."
Hei watched him for a long moment. Then he laid his head back down.
The gate opened without a sound. Wei had oiled the hinges himself, three days ago, just in case. He slipped through and pulled it closed behind him.
The latch clicked softly.
He stood on the outside, his back against the stone wall, and looked at the world.
The Lin property was a black smudge in the distance. No lights. No movement. The fields between were empty, the grass dry and brittle under his feet. The road stretched out before him, pale in the moonlight, disappearing into the darkness.
He checked his status.
```
Strength: 7.2
Agility: 7.2
Physical Resilience: 7.2
Intelligence: 7.2
Stamina: 7.2
Mana: 468
Credits: 60
Experience: 122/1000 toward Tier 3
```
Sixty credits is nowhere enough. The wall upgrade alone cost five hundred. The orchard costs four hundred. Even the watchtower cost one hundred. He could afford the small building upgrades, but those would barely make a dent.
He needed more. The tree gave him twenty credits a day from absorbing ambient mana. Harvesting gave him a few more. But at this rate, it would take weeks to afford anything significant. And the goblins would come back before then. Or something worse.
He started running.
His feet pounded the dirt road. The air rushed past his face. His body moved faster than it ever had before—smoother, lighter, more powerful. The Tier 2 advancement had changed him. His legs pumped, his lungs burned, but the burn was distant, manageable.
He covered one li in about two minutes. The another li in two more.
He slowed as he approached the edge of the forest. The trees here were old, their branches tangled overhead, blocking the moonlight. The road turned to dirt, then to grass, then to nothing.
He moved quietly now, each step deliberate, each breath controlled.
He smelled smoke. Woodsmoke, but it was thicker, greasier, mixed with the smell of cooking meat and something else—something sour and animal, like a pigsty that hadn't been cleaned in months.
He crouched behind a fallen log and peered through the trees.
Fire. Controlled flames, torches mounted on wooden poles. A clearing. And in the clearing, shapes.
Huts. Crude huts made of logs and mud, with sloping roofs of thatch. A barricade of sharpened stakes surrounded the settlement. Inside the barricade, figures moved.
They were large. Twice the size of a man. Broad shoulders, thick arms, heads that seemed too small for their bodies. Their skin was greyish-green, mottled like old moss. They carried axes and clubs. Some wore crude armor—leather and bone stitched together.
Orcs.
Wei had never seen one before. He had only heard stories, and those stories had seemed like fairy tales. Monsters in the dark. Things that didn't exist.
They existed.
One of them hefted a bundle of logs onto its shoulder and carried them to a growing pile. Another was sharpening a stake with a stone knife. A third stood guard at the gate, its yellow eyes scanning the darkness.
Wei counted. Twelve. Maybe more.
He crept closer. The ground was soft here, carpeted with pine needles that muffled his footsteps. He moved from tree to tree, keeping low, keeping quiet.
The guard turned its head.
Wei froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. The orc's yellow eyes swept the treeline, unblinking.
Then it grunted and looked away.
Wei let out a silent breath.
He focused on the guard. A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ ORC GUARD (Tier 2) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Strength: 15.2 │
│ Agility: 7.1 │
│ Physical Resilience: 12.4 │
│ Intelligence: 1.2 │
│ │
│ Threat: High │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei's stomach dropped. That thing was way stronger than him. And almost as fast. If it caught him, he was dead.
He backed away slowly, carefully, placing each foot where it wouldn't make a sound. The orcs continued their work, unaware. The fire crackled. The smoke rose.
He reached the treeline and turned to run.
He made it about fifty yards. Maybe sixty.
Then he heard it.
A sharp whistle. The sound of something cutting through the air.
He didn't think. He dropped.
The spear passed so close to his ear that he felt the wind of it, the whisper of its passage. It embedded itself in a tree trunk ahead of him, the shaft quivering, inches from his face. Wood splintered. The sound was loud in the silence—a sharp crack that echoed through the forest.
Wei scrambled to his feet and spun around.
His heart stopped.
An orc stood twenty meters behind him. It was enormous—bigger than the guard. Wider in the shoulders, thicker in the chest, its arms like tree trunks. Its skin was darker, almost black in the moonlight, crisscrossed with old scars. Its jaw was broader, its tusks longer. It held a massive club in one hand, studded with sharpened stones. A quiver of spears hung across its back.
This one hadn't been at the camp. It had been in the trees. Waiting.
Wei's blood ran cold. His hands started shaking.
He focused on the orc. A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ ORC BRUTE (Tier 2) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Strength: 17.3 │
│ Agility: 6.5 │
│ Physical Resilience: 14.1 │
│ Intelligence: 0.8 │
│ │
│ Threat: Very High │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei didn't need to read the numbers. One look at that thing told him everything. It was even stronger than the guard. His brain was screaming at him to run.
He turned to flee—and saw the path behind him was blocked. Fallen trees, thick undergrowth. The orc had chosen this spot well. There was no clear way out except straight past it.
"Shit," Wei whispered. "Shit, shit, shit."
The orc grunted and took a step forward. The ground shook.
Wei bolted.
He ran toward the dense thicket, weaving between trees, ducking under branches. Behind him, the orc crashed through the forest, snapping saplings, tearing through undergrowth. Its breathing was loud, ragged.
Wei's lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he was pulling away. Just a little. Just enough.
He risked a glance back. The orc was slower. Not by much—but enough. The gap between them was growing.
I'm faster, Wei realized. I'm actually faster.
He pushed harder, ignoring the burning in his thighs. Branches whipped past his face. Thorns tore at his sleeves. He didn't care.
He reached the edge of the dense brush and dove into it. Branches clawed at him, but he pushed through, ignoring the pain.
Behind him, the orc roared. It couldn't follow. Its massive body was too wide for the narrow gaps between the trees.
Wei kept running. He burst into a small clearing and stopped, gasping for breath. His heart pounded. His hands were shaking.
He leaned against a tree, trying to calm down. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay. You're alive. You're still alive."
Then he heard it.
Not footsteps. Something else. A low, guttural chanting. The orc's voice, but not speaking—calling. A hunting call.
Wei's blood froze. It was summoning others.
He had to kill it. Now. Before the rest of the pack arrived.
"Fuck," he whispered. "I don't wanna die here."
He reached into his inventory and pulled out three fruits—a peach, a pear, and a persimmon, all glowing gold. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped them. He shoved them into his mouth, one after another, chewing frantically, the juice running down his chin.
The warmth spread through him. His muscles tightened. His vision sharpened.
Not enough. But something.
He crept back toward the orc.
It was standing at the edge of the thicket, trying to force its way through. Branches snapped under its weight. It was making progress—slowly, but surely.
Wei circled around, staying in the shadows. He needed to attack from behind. Surprise was his only advantage.
He moved quietly, each step deliberate. The orc was focused on pushing through the brush. It didn't see him.
Wei took a deep breath. Then he charged.
He swung the scythe at the back of the orc's knee.
The blade bit deep. Black blood sprayed. The orc roared—a sound so loud it hurt Wei's ears. It spun around, swinging its club blindly.
Wei ducked under the swing and ran to the side, putting a tree between them.
His chest heaved. His hands were slick with sweat—and blood. The orc's blood.
The orc turned slowly, favoring its injured leg. Its yellow eyes were wild. It opened its mouth and bellowed—a wordless cry of rage.
Wei didn't wait. He charged again.
He feinted left, then dodged right. The orc's club slammed into the ground where he had been standing, leaving a crater. Soil exploded upward.
Wei swung the scythe at its side. The blade caught flesh, bit deep, dragged across ribs. Black blood poured down the orc's flank.
The orc howled and backhanded him across the head.
Wei's vision exploded with light. He hit the ground hard, his cheek split open, blood pouring down his neck. The world tilted. He tasted copper.
He rolled, dodged, came up swinging. The scythe bit into the orc's thigh. The blade stuck. He pulled it free. More blood.
The orc was slowing. Its movements were heavier now, clumsier. The wounds were adding up. The leg was dragging. The arm was hanging.
But so were Wei's. His face was bleeding. His ribs ached. His arms felt like lead.
He couldn't keep this up forever.
He ate another peach. Another. Another. The warmth flooded through him, pushing back the fatigue, sharpening his senses.
He charged.
The orc swung its club. Wei ducked under it and drove the scythe into its stomach.
The blade sank deep. The orc's eyes went wide. Its mouth opened. No sound came out.
Wei didn't stop. He swung again, again, again—each strike faster than the last, each cut deeper. The scythe was a blur in the moonlight. The orc's roars turned to grunts, then to wet gurgles, then to nothing.
It fell to its knees.
Wei raised the scythe and brought it down on the back of its neck.
The blade cut through flesh and bone. The orc's head hung at a terrible angle. Its body swayed for a moment, then collapsed.
The ground shook when it hit.
Wei stood over it, gasping for breath. His cheek was split. His ribs ached. His hands were covered in blood—some his, most the orc's.
He stared at the body.
It was still. The yellow eyes were open, but empty. The chest no longer rose.
He had killed it.
He had killed something that was twice his size, three times his strength, something that could have crushed him with one hand.
He felt sick.
```
Credits earned: 50
Experience gained: 40
Total credits: 110
Experience: 162/1000 toward Tier 3
```
Fifty credits. Forty experience.
He looked at the orc's body. The crude armor. The stone-studded club. He couldn't carry any of it. His inventory was almost full.
He left the body where it lay.
---
The walk back was long.
Every step sent a spike of pain through his ribs. His cheek throbbed. His hands were stiff with drying blood.
The moon had moved. He had been gone too long.
He reached the wall at three in the morning.
The gate opened. He closed it behind him. The latch clicked. The dogs didn't bark—they recognized his scent, even through the blood.
He staggered to the Tree of Life and collapsed at its base.
The leaves rustled. Gold light pulsed. A thread of coolness touched his forehead.
His cheek knitted itself together. The split skin closed, leaving a thin pink line. The bruises on his ribs faded from purple to yellow to nothing. The exhaustion in his bones remained, but the wounds closed.
He lay there, staring up at the leaves, until the sky began to lighten.
Then he went inside.
---
His mother was in the kitchen, making congee. The fire crackled. The pot bubbled. She didn't look up when he walked in.
"You're up early," she said.
"Yeah. Couldn't sleep." He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.
She glanced at him then, her eyes moving over his face, his shirt, his hands. "You look like hell."
"I feel like hell."
She ladled congee into a bowl and pushed it across the table. "Sit down and eat before you fall down."
He sat. The wooden chair creaked under him. He picked up the spoon. His hand was steady now, but he remembered how it had shaken in the forest.
She didn't ask about the blood on his shirt. He had washed his face at the well, but there was still a smear of red on his collar. She must have seen it. But she didn't ask. That was her way.
As he ate, she came and stood behind him. He felt her hand on his shoulder—a brief touch, light, almost hesitant. Then she squeezed once and walked away.
"Be careful," she said from the stove. "Whatever you're doing out there at night. Be careful."
"I will."
He finished his congee and went outside.
---
After breakfast, Wei walked to the Tree of Life to check his status. Something had felt different after the fight. Stronger.
He opened his panel.
```
Strength: 7.5
Agility: 7.3
Physical Resilience: 7.4
Intelligence: 7.3
Stamina: 7.4
Mana: 468
Credits: 110
Experience: 162/1000 toward Tier 3
```
He blinked. His stats had gone up. Not a lot—but enough to notice. Strength had jumped by three tenths. Agility by one tenth. Resilience by two tenths. Stamina by two tenths. Intelligence by one tenth.
He stared at the numbers, confused. Then he understood.
The fight. The orc. The desperate struggle, the running, the dodging, the swinging of the scythe until his arms felt like they would fall off. His body had been pushed to its limit, and it had adapted.
He could grow stronger. Not just from the tree's gifts, but from his own effort.
He smiled. It was a small thing, but it felt good.
---
The morning passed slowly.
Wei spent it under the tree, recovering. The sun was warm on his face. The dogs lay around him, sleeping. The leaves rustled above.
He opened the store.
```
┌─────────────────────────────┐
│ SYSTEM STORE │
├─────────────────────────────┤
│ SEEDS: │
│ Blessed Wheat (Common) - 5 credits │
│ Blessed Potato (Common) - 3 credits │
│ Blessed Herb Mix (Common) - 8 credits │
│ Blessed Fruit Sapling (Uncommon) - 20 │
│ │
│ TOOLS: │
│ Iron Hoe (Common) - 10 credits │
│ Reinforced Bucket (Common) - 5 │
│ Grain Mill Upgrade (Uncommon) - 20 │
│ │
│ BUILDINGS: │
│ Beehive - 10 credits │
│ Chicken Coop Upgrade - 10 credits │
│ Rabbit Den Upgrade - 10 credits │
│ Sheep Yard Upgrade - 10 credits │
│ Cow Shed Upgrade - 15 credits │
│ │
│ MAJOR UPGRADES: │
│ Orchard Upgrade - 400 credits │
│ Wall Upgrade - 500 credits │
│ Watchtower - 100 credits │
│ Reinforced Gate - 80 credits
│ Fish Pond Upgrade - 200 credits │
│ Warehouse Upgrade - 300 credits │
└───────────────────────────┘
```
One hundred ten credits. He could buy the cheap upgrades now. All of them.
He started with the beehive.
He found a sunny spot near the orchard, away from the house. The grass was green here, thick, untouched. He placed the hive from the store—a wooden box with gold runes carved into its sides—on a flat stone.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the ground began to hum. Not shake—hum, like a deep cello note played underground. The grass around the hive rippled outward in a slow wave, turning a deeper, richer green. Small flowers pushed up through the soil—yellow and white, their petals glowing faintly, as if lit from within.
The hive itself seemed to breathe. The wood darkened, then lightened, then settled into a warm honey-gold. The runes along its sides pulsed once, twice, then faded into the grain.
A single bee emerged from the entrance. Its body was not yellow and black but gold and amber, its wings catching the light like stained glass. It circled the hive once, then twice, then disappeared back inside.
A moment later, the rest of the swarm followed—hundreds of them, pouring out of the hive in a shimmering cloud. They spiraled upward, catching the sunlight, and for a few seconds the air around Wei was filled with gold.
Then they settled, and the hum faded.
```
Beehive constructed.
Credit cost: 10
Credits remaining: 100
```
His grandfather appeared beside him, leaning on his cane. The old man stared at the hive, his mouth slightly open.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "I've never seen bees like that. They look like they're made of liquid gold."
"They're blessed," Wei said. "The tree's magic. They'll make honey that can heal wounds and fight off sickness."
His grandfather nodded slowly. "Pretty things. Almost makes you forget they can sting. How much honey are we talking about?"
"Enough to matter. A few jars a week, maybe more once the hive gets established."
"Hmph. That'll come in handy." The old man reached out and touched the hive gently. The wood was warm under his fingers. "Feels alive."
Wei smiled. "It kind of is."
---
He moved to the chicken coop.
The coop was old—built by his grandfather decades ago, repaired a dozen times. The wood was grey and weathered. The roof leaked in three places. The nesting boxes were cracked, and the chickens had taken to laying eggs in the corners of the yard instead.
Wei placed his hand on the wooden wall and focused.
Gold light bled from his palm, spreading across the wood like water finding cracks in stone. Where it touched, the grey weathered boards darkened to a rich, warm brown. The grain tightened, the wood growing denser, harder, stronger. The roof patched itself—holes filling, thatch thickening, as if time were running backward.
The nesting boxes expanded, their interiors smoothing, filling with soft golden straw that hadn't been there a moment ago.
Then the chickens began to change.
Not all of them. But the oldest hen—the speckled grey with a missing toe—suddenly fluffed her feathers and let out a loud cluck. Her comb grew larger, redder. Her feathers took on a bronze sheen. Her eyes, which had been dull with age, brightened to a sharp, intelligent gold.
She hopped up onto the new nesting box and settled in, clucking softly.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ BLESSED CHICKEN (Tier 1, Uncommon) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Evolution in progress. │
│ │
│ Egg production: +100% │
│ Egg effect: Minor health regeneration │
│ for 2 hours. │
│ Meat effect: Minor strength boost │
│ when consumed. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. The chickens were evolving. Not just the coop—the chickens themselves.
The light faded. The coop stood transformed—not new, but renewed. Stronger. Alive.
```
Chicken Coop upgraded.
Credits remaining: 90
```
His mother came out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was. She stood with her arms crossed, watching the chickens strut around their new home.
"That's the same coop?" she asked, her voice skeptical.
"The same coop," Wei said.
She shook her head slowly. "Wei, I don't understand any of this. Not the tree, not the magic, not the way you can just... wave your hand and fix things."
"Neither do I, Mom. But the chickens seem happy, don't they?"
She looked at the speckled hen, now gleaming bronze in the morning light. "That one looks different. Bigger. Shinier."
"She's evolving. The tree's blessing is changing her."
"Changing her into what?"
"I don't know yet. Something better, I think."
His mother was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You've got blood on your collar."
"I know."
She hesitated, then stepped closer and touched the edge of the collar. "Is it yours?"
"It's nothing. It's already healed."
She looked at his face, at the thin pink line on his cheek where the split had closed. "You've been out at night, haven't you?"
Wei didn't answer.
She sighed. "I'm not going to ask. I don't think I want to know. Just... be careful, okay?"
"I will."
She went back inside, but Wei heard her mutter under her breath as she passed the window: "And those neighbors... the nerve of them."
---
The rabbit den. The sheep yard. The cow shed.
One by one, Wei upgraded them. Each time, the ground hummed. Each time, gold light pulsed. Each time, the animals grew calmer, their eyes brighter, their coats shinier.
The rabbit den expanded downward, warren tunnels deepening, lining themselves with soft moss that glowed faintly in the dark. The rabbits emerged from their hiding places, sniffing the air, then dove into the new tunnels with happy little kicks of their hind legs. One of them—a large grey buck—sprouted a small gold mark on its forehead. A panel appeared: Blessed Rabbit (Tier 1, Common). Breeding rate increased. Fur provides minor warmth bonus.
The sheep yard's fence posts grew thicker, taller, woven through with vines that bore small white flowers. The sheep—usually skittish—walked right up to the new fence and rubbed their wool against it, eyes half-closed. The oldest ewe, a matron with a crooked ear, suddenly grew a second layer of wool—soft, golden, shimmering. A panel appeared: Blessed Sheep (Tier 1, Uncommon). Wool provides minor health regeneration when worn.
The cow shed's roof rose half a meter, the stalls widening, the floor softening with fresh straw that smelled of wildflowers. The cows lowed softly, pressing their warm muzzles against Wei's hands as he passed.
And then he saw her.
The heifer with the gold mark on her forehead—the one his father had been milking—was changing.
She was larger now. Not dramatically, but noticeably. Her shoulders had broadened. Her neck had thickened. Coarse brown fur grew along her spine, bristling in the morning light. Her eyes were the same—warm, brown, intelligent—but there was something else there now. A wildness. A strength. She looked less like a farm cow and more like something from the old stories—a beast of the ancient forests, half-tamed but still dangerous.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ BLESSED COW (Tier 2, Uncommon) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Evolution in progress. │
│ │
│ Milk production: +150% │
│ Milk effect: Major health regeneration │
│ for 6 hours. │
│ Special: May evolve further with │
│ continued blessing. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei's father came out of the tool shed, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped when he saw the heifer.
"What the hell happened to her?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and concern.
"She's evolving," Wei said. "The tree's blessing is making her stronger. Look at her."
The heifer turned her head and looked at them. Her eyes were calm, but her body was tense, alert. She took a step forward, and the ground seemed to shake slightly under her hooves.
"Can we still milk her?" his father asked.
"I think so. The panel says her milk will be even better now. Stronger healing."
His father walked up to the heifer slowly, his hand extended. She sniffed his palm, then lowed softly and leaned into him.
"Still the same girl," his father said quietly. "Just... more."
Wei nodded. "That's what the blessing does. It doesn't change who they are. It just makes them more of what they already were."
```
Rabbit Den upgraded. Credits: 80
Sheep Yard upgraded. Credits: 70
Cow Shed upgraded. Credits: 55
```
Wei stood in the courtyard, looking at his work. The farm felt different now—more solid, more alive. The buildings hummed with a low energy he could feel in his chest. The animals moved differently, with more confidence, more purpose.
His father came and stood beside him.
"You've been busy," he said.
"Someone has to be."
His father nodded slowly. "The cows do seem calmer. Your mother said the chickens laid twice their usual number this morning. And that heifer..." He shook his head. "I've never seen anything like her."
"The upgrades make them healthier. Stronger. They'll keep producing more."
His father was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "We need to talk about the neighbors."
Wei's stomach tightened. "What about them?"
"I saw them this morning. The Lins, the Wangs, the Lius, the Chens. All of them, gathered at the town hall." His father's face was grim. "They're desperate, Wei. Desperate people do desperate things."
"What do you want to do?"
His father looked out at the wall. "We feed them. We give them enough to survive. But we don't let them in."
"They won't like that."
"They don't have to like it. They just have to live." He turned to face Wei. "And no one mentions anything about the farm. No magic, no blessings. As far as they know, we have a cellar full of preserved food that didn't rot. That's all."
"They won't believe that."
"They don't have to believe it. They just have to accept it."
---
After his father walked away, Wei looked down at Hei. The old dog was lying near the well, his head on his paws. He wasn't sleeping. His eyes were open, watching Wei.
Wei walked over and crouched down. He reached out to touch Hei's leg—the one that had been broken years ago, the one that had never healed right.
Hei flinched. He stood up, his tail tucked, and limped away.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ HEI (BLESSED DOG, Tier 1, Common) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ The blessing flows through him, but │
│ his old injury resists the change. │
│ │
│ Status: Resisting natural evolution. │
│ Recommendation: Patience. Forced │
│ healing may cause rejection. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. Hei was blessed, but the old wound—the one the Lins had given him—was preventing him from evolving. The dog's body remembered the pain. It didn't trust the healing.
The Lins did that, Wei thought. And now they're coming to us for help.
He watched Hei disappear around the corner of the house, limping. He didn't follow. The panel said patience. He would wait.
---
While Wei worked on the farm, the world outside continued to burn.
The Lin family had survived the apocalypse. Not gracefully. Not nobly. But they had survived.
When the shimmer came, Old Lin had been in the fields, checking his vegetable patch, pulling weeds, muttering to himself about the Zhangs and their good fortune, their wall that had appeared from nowhere.
He saw the green light spreading across the sky. He felt the pressure in his chest, like someone was sitting on his ribs. And he ran.
He didn't run toward his house. He ran away from it.
His wife was in the kitchen, preparing lunch. His son was in the yard, fixing a fence. His daughter-in-law was hanging laundry on the line. His grandchildren were playing in the dirt, chasing a grasshopper.
He didn't think about them. He just ran.
The shimmer caught him at the edge of the property. He fell to his knees. His body convulsed. His bones cracked. His skin turned grey.
Then it stopped.
He was still human. Barely.
He crawled back to the house.
His wife was dead. Her body lay on the kitchen floor, her eyes open, her mouth frozen in a scream. The stove had tipped over. Oil had spilled across the tiles.
His daughter-in-law was dead. The laundry line had snapped. The clothes lay in the mud.
His grandchildren were dead. They lay in the dirt, their small bodies still, their faces peaceful, as if they were sleeping.
His son was alive. But changed. His son's eyes were white. His teeth were sharp. His mind was gone. He stood in the yard, swaying, staring at nothing.
Old Lin took the kitchen knife and did what had to be done.
He never talked about it. Not to anyone.
The days that followed were hunger and fear. The goblins came. The jiangshi came. The Lin property was small—a few mu of vegetables, a chicken coop with six birds, a pig pen with one pig that had died in the shimmer.
No wall. No protection. No miracle.
They ate the chickens first. Then the pig. Then the vegetables. Then the rats that crawled through the walls at night.
By the sixth day, they were starving.
Old Lin sat in the dark of his kitchen, listening to his son cry in the next room. His son had stopped speaking after the shimmer. He just cried. All day. All night.
"We need to do something," his son said one evening. His voice was raw from crying.
"What do you want me to do?" Old Lin asked. He sounded tired. He was tired.
"There has to be food somewhere. The Zhangs—"
"What about the Zhangs?"
"They have a wall. They have food. They have to have food." His son's voice cracked. "While we're out here eating rats and scraping bark off trees, they're sitting behind their wall with full bellies. Every night I see the smoke from their chimney. Every night I smell their cooking. It makes my blood boil, Father. It really does."
Old Lin was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "They have a wall because they had the money. They have food because they hoarded it. That doesn't make them better than us."
"So what? We just starve? We just watch our children die while they eat?"
"No." Old Lin stood up. His legs were weak, but they held. "We go to them. We tell them we need shelter. They have plenty of room."
"You think they'll just let us in?"
"They have to. We're neighbors. We've lived next to them for decades. They can't turn us away."
His son laughed bitterly. "After everything? After the fire? After the dog?"
Old Lin's face hardened. "That was years ago. And there's no proof it was us. They can't hold that against us forever."
"They will."
"Then we make them." Old Lin picked up his coat. "We have children. They have space. They owe us."
---
The Lins were not the only ones.
The Wang family from the next farm had lost everything. Their house had burned during the goblin attack. They had been living in their root cellar for a week, eating pickled vegetables and drinking rainwater. The children were thin. The mother had stopped speaking entirely.
The Liu family had survived by hiding in their attic. They had three children. The youngest was sick—a fever that wouldn't break, a cough that rattled in his chest like stones in a can.
The Chen family had locked themselves in their basement. They had heard the scratching above them. They had heard the screaming. They had stayed quiet. They had run out of food two days ago.
Four families. Twelve adults. Seven children.
Old Lin gathered them in the ruins of the town hall. The building was half-collapsed, the roof open to the sky. Rats scurried in the corners. The wind blew through the broken windows, carrying the smell of smoke.
"I've been thinking," Old Lin said. He stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets. He looked smaller than he used to, but his voice was hard. "The Zhangs have a wall. They have food. They have space."
Wang looked up from where he was sitting on a pile of rubble. His face was hollow, his eyes dark. "They're not going to share. Not after everything."
"They don't have a choice." Old Lin's voice was flat. "We're neighbors. We've lived here all our lives. They can't turn us away."
"They can do whatever they want. It's their wall."
"Then we make them see reason." Old Lin looked at each of them. "We go to the gate. We tell them we need shelter. We don't ask. We tell."
Liu shifted his sick son in his arms. "And if they say no?"
"Then we don't leave." Old Lin's eyes were hard. "They can't throw us all out. There are too many of us. And we have children."
Chen shook his head. He was a quiet man, had always been quiet. "This isn't right."
"Right doesn't matter anymore." Old Lin's voice rose. "Survival matters. Our children matter. The Zhangs have been hoarding food behind that wall for years. It's time they shared."
---
The Zhang family knew nothing of this.
Wei spent the afternoon in the orchard. The orchard was vast—three li long and two li wide, over two thousand mu of fruit trees. Hundreds upon hundreds of trees, heavy with fruit. There was no way he could harvest everything in one afternoon. But he could make a start.
He took a deep breath and walked to the first tree—an old peach tree, its branches bent low with fruit. The peaches were warm from the sun, their skins blushing pink and gold. He reached up and twisted one gently until the stem snapped. The fruit came away easily, and he placed it in his inventory.
The work was slow and meditative. The sun moved across the sky. Sweat dripped down his back. His fingers grew sticky with juice.
He worked tree by tree, row by row. The peach trees first. He picked dozens, then hundreds. The leaves rustled overhead. Bees buzzed lazily around the ripest fruit. A bird sang somewhere in the distance.
The common peaches were of medium quality. Each gave him 5 credits and 2 experience. He picked until his arms ached, and the notifications piled up in the corner of his vision:
```
Credits: 55 → 60 → 65 → 70 → 75 → 80 → 85 → 90 → 95 → 100
Experience: 162 → 164 → 166 → 168 → 170 → 172 → 174 → 176 → 178 → 180
```
Then he moved to the pear trees. The pears were firm and sweet, their skins blushing gold. He climbed into the branches to reach the highest fruit, balancing carefully, the scythe strapped to his back. The branches creaked under his weight, but held.
Halfway through the pear trees, he found something different.
A cluster of fruit glowing with a soft amber light. Not the pale gold of the common peaches—a deeper, richer glow, like honey held up to the sun. He picked one and held it in his palm. The skin was warm, almost hot. The fruit pulsed faintly.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ AMBER PEAR (Tier 2, Uncommon Low) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Effect: Temporary stamina boost │
│ (+0.15 for 2 hours) │
│ Harvest credit: 10 │
│ Harvest experience: +4 │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
He smiled. Tier 2. The tree's blessing was spreading.
He picked the rest of the cluster—six of them—and added them to his inventory. The credits and experience ticked upward.
```
Credits: 100 → 110 → 120 → 130 → 140 → 150 → 160
Experience: 180 → 184 → 188 → 192 → 196 → 200 → 204
```
He moved to the persimmon trees. The fruit hung like orange lanterns, soft and heavy. He reached up and plucked them one by one, filling a separate section of his inventory. The leaves were broad and dark green, and the fruit came away with a gentle twist.
Then he saw it.
A single fruit, glowing with a brilliant gold light, hanging from the highest branch of the oldest persimmon tree. It was larger than the others—almost the size of his fist—and its skin shimmered like molten metal. The branch swayed in the breeze, and the fruit seemed to pulse in rhythm with the tree.
He climbed carefully, testing each branch before putting his weight on it. The tree groaned under him. He reached up, his fingers brushing the fruit's warm skin, and plucked it.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ SUNSTONE PERSIMMON (Common High) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Effect: Temporary strength boost │
│ (+0.2 for 2 hours) │
│ Harvest credit: 8 │
│ Harvest experience: +3 │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Eight credits. He tucked it carefully into his inventory.
```
Credits: 160 → 168
Experience: 204 → 207
```
He worked through the rest of the orchard, moving from tree to tree. The pomegranates came next, their skins leathery and dark, cracking open to reveal ruby seeds. Then the figs, soft and sweet, their flesh bursting with honeyed juice. Then the plums, dark-skinned and yellow-fleshed, hanging in clusters like jewels.
Each tree had its own rhythm, its own way of releasing the fruit. The pomegranates needed a sharp twist. The figs came away at the lightest touch. The plums required a gentle pull, and they dropped into his palm.
In a grove of apple trees near the southern wall, he found something extraordinary.
The tree was old—one of the oldest in the orchard, planted by his grandfather decades ago. Its bark was dark and gnarled, its branches twisted. Moss grew on the north side of the trunk. The apples on its lower branches were ordinary—small and green, not yet ripe.
But at the very top, nearly lost in the leaves, hung a single fruit.
It was an apple. But unlike any apple he had ever seen.
Its skin was deep crimson, almost black, shot through with veins of gold that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. It glowed from within, casting a soft red light on the leaves around it. The air around it seemed warmer.
Wei climbed slowly, carefully. The branches creaked under his weight. He tested each one before moving higher. The tree was old, but it held.
He reached up, his fingers trembling, and touched the fruit.
The moment his skin made contact, warmth flooded through him—not the familiar warmth of the tree's blessing, but something deeper. Something permanent. It spread from his fingertips to his palm, up his arm, into his chest. His heart beat faster. His breath caught.
He plucked the apple and held it in both hands. It was heavy—heavier than it should have been. The gold veins pulsed against his palms.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ HEARTSTONE APPLE (Tier 2, Uncommon High)│
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Effect: Permanently increases │
│ Strength by 0.1 │
│ Harvest credit: 50 │
│ Harvest experience: +15 │
│ │
│ ⚠ This fruit's blessing is permanent. │
│ Consume with care. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. Permanent. He had never seen anything like it. The other fruits gave temporary boosts—an hour, two hours, maybe three. But this one would change him forever.
He held it gently, almost reverently, and added it to his inventory.
```
Credits: 168 → 218
Experience: 207 → 222
```
He continued harvesting until the sun began to set, moving through the remaining trees. Most of the remaining fruit was common medium—peaches, pears, and plums—each giving 5 credits and 2 experience.
```
Credits: 218 → 223 → 228 → 233 → 238 → 243 → 248 → 253 → 258 → 263
Experience: 222 → 224 → 226 → 228 → 230 → 232 → 234 → 236 → 238 → 240
```
He found one last cluster of common high persimmons—three of them, each giving 8 credits and 3 experience.
```
Credits: 263 → 271 → 279 → 287
Experience: 240 → 243 → 246 → 249
```
By the time he finished, he had two hundred eighty-seven credits and two hundred forty-nine experience. The orchard was only partially harvested—there was still more fruit hanging from the branches, waiting for tomorrow. But it was a good start.
He sat down at the base of the oldest apple tree, exhausted but satisfied. The fruit hung heavy on the branches around him, waiting for tomorrow's harvest.
---
The survivors arrived at dusk.
Wei was on the wall, watching the sun set. The sky was orange and red, streaked with smoke from the town. The fields below were empty, the grass brown and dry.
Then he saw them.
Figures. Moving slowly, stumbling, coming up the road from the east. There were many of them—twenty, maybe more. Adults, children. They carried nothing. No bags, no supplies. Just the clothes on their backs.
Wei's father climbed up beside him.
"Here they come," his father said.
Wei didn't answer.
The survivors reached the gate. Old Lin stood at the front, his face grey, his eyes sunken. He looked older than Wei remembered—much older. His hands were shaking, but his jaw was set.
Beside him, his son , Lin Tao stood with his arms crossed, glaring at the wall. His face was twisted with resentment.
Old Lin spoke first. His voice was hoarse, but there was no pleading in it. "Open the gate."
Wei's father stood on the other side. He didn't move.
"What do you want?"
"What do you think?" Lin Tao spat. "Food. Shelter. You are enjoying both like a selfish lot. We have nothing."
Wei's father looked at them calmly. "You burned our field. You hurt our dog. And now you come here demanding help?"
Old Lin's face didn't change. "That was years ago. And you have no proof it was us. We're neighbors. We've lived next to you for decades. You can't just leave us to die."
"We can," Wei's father said quietly. "But we won't. We have some preserved food. Canned vegetables, dried rice. We can share enough to last a few days."
Lin Tao took a step forward, his face red. "A few days? You're giving us a few days of scraps after we've lost everything? Our houses are gone. Our fields are ash. Our children haven't eaten meat in a week."
Wei's father didn't flinch. "I don't have unlimited food, we also need something to eat, I'm offering you food. Take it or leave it."
Lin Tao's hands clenched into fists. "You think you're so righteous. Sitting behind your wall, judging us. You don't know what we've been through."
Lin Tao's eyes flickered. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Old Lin put a hand on his arm.
"We need shelter," Old Lin said. "Our children are sick. The youngest has a fever. You have a barn, can't you let us stay there?"
Wei's father was silent for a long moment. "One night. You can stay one night in the barn. In the morning, you leave."
Tao clenched his fists. "One night? That's it?"
"That's it."
"You're sending us back out there to die."
"I'm giving you a night's rest and food. What you do after that is up to you."
He looked like he wanted to say more, but Old Lin tightened his grip on his arm.
"Fine," Old Lin said. "One night. We'll take it."
Tao pulled his arm free. "This isn't over."
"It is for tonight." Wei's father opened the gate. "Come on. Before I change my mind."
The gate opened.
The survivors filed in—hungry, frightened, but some of them glaring. Old Lin's son walked with his head high, refusing to look at Wei or his father. The other families followed, whispering among themselves.
Wei's mother came out of the kitchen with a basket of bread. Not the good bread—the old bread, the day-old loaves they had stored in the cellar. She handed them to the women, one by one.
"Eat slowly," she said. "Your stomachs aren't used to food."
The children grabbed the bread and tore into it. Their mothers tried to slow them down, but the children wouldn't stop.
One of the Wang children—a little girl, no more than five—looked up at Wei's mother with wide eyes. "I don't want to eat this, give me meat !"
"Not tonight, sweetheart. Just bread and congee."
The little girl glared and went back to her bread.
Wei's mother turned and walked back to the house, muttering under her breath. Wei caught a few words: "...nerve... after everything... no gratitude..."
Old Lin's son sat apart from the others, staring at the ground. He didn't touch the bread.
Wei walked over to him. "You should eat."
The son looked up. "I'm not hungry."
"Do whatever you want, we can't give anything else than this."
"That's none of your business."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then the son picked up a piece of bread and bit into it. Chewed. Swallowed.
"You're not going to get an apology from me," he said. "We did what we wished, it's your fault for living so lavishly"
"At least we don't get jealous looking at other farms. "
Tao laughed bitterly. "Fuck off ."
He turned away and didn't speak again.
That night, Wei sat under the tree and watched the stars.
The survivors slept in the barn. The children cried softly. The adults whispered among themselves—low, urgent voices. Old Lin's son was doing most of the talking.
Wei's mother sat beside him.
"You did the right thing," she said.
"Did I?"
"They're people. They haven't eaten for a while. We couldn't turn them away."
"We could have."
"But we didn't." She put her hand on his. Her fingers were warm. "Tomorrow, they will leave."
"And if they don't?"
She didn't answer.
From the barn, Wei heard the Tao's voice, sharp and clear: "They think they can give us bread and send us away. We'll see about that."
Wei filed it away.
The tree's leaves rustled. The gold light pulsed.
Wei closed his eyes and listened to the night.
The dogs were quiet. The animals were calm. The survivors plotted in the barn.
The world outside was still burning.
But here, inside the wall, there was peace.
For now.