At that moment, Chu Yian had already pedaled her little tricycle away.
She raced back to her small shop, parked, and reached for her key—just then, a woman stumbled nearby.
After her recent encounter, Chu Yian was instantly on guard.
She turned and recognized the woman—a few days ago's "thriving shop rental" landlady, the same one who had cursed her outside the shop.
Chu Yian never forgot kindness—or enmity.
She pulled her hand back from the key, eyes cold.
"What do you want?"
"Hey… what did you buy today?"
The woman's gaze fixated on Chu Yian's bags, as if she could peer inside.
"Mind your own business."
Chu Yian frowned, slipping her hand into her pocket where the utility knife was hidden.
"Don't get me wrong—I'm just asking."
The woman smiled awkwardly.
"Well... I see you bringing all these bags into your store every day. You can't possibly eat it all alone, right? Maybe you can spare a bit? I'll pay double what you paid for it."
Double the purchase price—not the current inflated market rate. If a pack had cost 3.5 yuan originally, she'd offer 7 yuan—while the market now had them at 60. Her calculation echoed to the moon.
"Keep it for yourself."
Chu Yian despised opportunists.
"If you want to beg, go get a bowl and curl up outside. I'm not running a charity here."
Her words struck the woman like a slap.
"Oh, so you want punishment instead of wine, is that it?"
The woman shouted into her shop. Two burly men—a younger one and an older one—emerged. Apparently family. It was three against one, and two were men.
Chu Yian realized the danger—this street was deserted and isolated. No witnesses. No help.
Weighing the risk in a flash, she tossed her keys to the ground.
"You want the key? Here."
The woman leisurely bent to pick it up while the men blocked Chu Yian.
"You were so brazen just now?"
The woman smirked, then addressed the men,
"Dad, husband—this girl bullied me. Teach her a lesson!"
"How dare you mess with my woman? Let me show you!"
The two men advanced toward Chu Yian as the woman grabbed the keys and entered the shop.
Chu Yian stepped back, eyes sweeping the empty street. She had to fend for herself.
She flipped her palm, summoning her treasure box in midair.
Before the men fully realized, she hurled the box at the older man's legs. It expanded mid-flight, striking with force. He crumpled, howling, covering his crotch.
The younger man lunged at Chu Yian, slapping her hard—her pale face flushed red with swelling and ringing ears. A grown man's strength is not trivial.
He then choked her around the neck. The choking sensation hit hard—her vision went white, her body light, poison coursing through her veins.
In that critical moment, she remembered her weapon. She pulled out the utility knife and plunged it into his side—two deep stabs. The blade snapped off inside him. She released the treasure box trapping the older man and smashed the younger into immobility.
"There's nothing in the shop."
The woman rushed in, expecting a hidden stash. But the room was empty—just plastic bags and dust. Realizing she'd been fooled, she ran out to see her father on the ground and her husband bleeding profusely.
"I'll kill you!"
She lunged at Chu Yian—but another box-hurl sent her sprawling. All three lay writhing in pain.
Breathing hard, Chu Yian staggered to her feet.
She got into her tricycle and pedaled a short distance… then stopped. Locked in hesitation, contemplating whether to leave or return.
Finally, she went back.
Though nearly collapsing mentally and physically, her will to survive overrode all else.
Her treasure box was her trump card—no one must ever discover it.
They tried to kill her. So she killed them.
Chu Yian stood over the wounded trio as they writhed and reached for phones to call for help. She kicked the woman's phone away, summoned the box again, enlarged it threefold... and ended their lives.
It was clinical—she looked calm, but inside she was numb, dissociated. She barely remembered the ride back to her apartment.
She had lived for decades—and this was her first kill.
She killed someone.
Their bodies in pools of blood—that horror would haunt her forever. Fear. Trembling. Cold.
She tasted their blood on her hands. She rushed to the bathroom, scrubbing violently, vomiting again and again. Nausea. Terror.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She couldn't turn off the lights. Nightmares struck her repeatedly.
Then came the fever.
At around 6 a.m., she realized she was shivering, weak. Her thermometer read 41°C (105.8°F). Too weak to go to the hospital—and besides, hospitals were overrun: treating mold poisonings, fights, robberies, accident victims.
Her mind drifted back to the three bodies.
Were they discovered last night? Were they on the ambulances she heard?
Thinking of their dead faces brought bile to her mouth. She ran to the toilet and vomited again. Afterward, she took two fever pills she had bought, slid onto her sofa, and turned on the TV.
The news blared comforting government reassurances and promises of food delivery.
Outside, chaos reigned. Few would still believe it.
She sighed, climbed into bed, and finally drifted to sleep—drugged by fever medicine, into troubled unconsciousness.