Before the age of sixteen, Zhong Xiaoman's world was small, yet full. His sky was the simulated azure blue of the colonial dome—sometimes tinged with orange-red due to aging light filters. His land was the familiar streets of "Snail Shell" Village in Sector 3 of Colonial Outpost 45, always carrying the mixed scents of machine oil, soil, and recycled moisture.
"Ding—clang—thud!"
Mornings often began not with his mother's cheerful humming, but with the rhythmic clanging from his father, Zhong Shan. Rubbing his eyes, Xiaoman would slip into the small workshop in the backyard—his father's domain.
"Dad, breakfast is ready. Corn porridge and synthetic protein blocks." Xiaoman edged closer to the workbench, watching his father struggle with a core component of an old soil purifier.
"Leave it there," Zhong Shan replied without looking up, fine beads of sweat on his temples. His large, calloused hands gripped a high-frequency wrench with unusual steadiness. "This damned coupler is jammed again. The Osborn family is counting on this thing to grow their vegetables."
Xiaoman expertly picked a laser calibrator from a row of tools hanging on the wall and handed it over. "Could it be the buffer spring fatigue? Old Ling said last time that the third spring in this model is the most prone to issues."
Zhong Shan finally paused and glanced at his son, a hint of approval in his eyes. "Makes sense. Here, hold this for me. Support this side of the casing. Right there. Gently, don't let the wires tangle."
Xiaoman carefully held the casing as his father deftly opened it, revealing a complex network of wires and gears. "Look here," his father pointed with an oil-stained finger. "The cable is aging, the insulation is almost worn through. No wonder it's short-circuiting. And this drive gear, see? It's dry, grinding without lubrication. The sound is all wrong."
"Mmh! I heard it, like sandpaper grinding on stone." Xiaoman nodded vigorously, absorbing every whisper and movement from his father like a sponge. These trivial bits of knowledge were the foundational bricks of his mechanical world.
In the afternoons, when the clanging at home paused, Xiaoman would often sneak off to Old Ling's treasured workshop at the other end of the village. This place felt more like a second home to him, perpetually filled with the pungent smell of metal shavings, the rich scent of old machine oil, and the acrid odor of Old Ling's homemade tobacco.
"Stinky kid! Here to steal knowledge again?" Old Ling's voice boomed as he glared at a misbehaving servo motor.
"Grandpa Ling, I'm here to help!" Xiaoman grinned, edging closer, though his eyes drifted toward a quiet figure sitting in the corner.
Ling Mo was bent over, carefully polishing a small bronze gear with fine sandpaper, her expression focused. Sunlight filtered through the dome's simulated window, illuminating her gently fluttering eyelashes. Hearing Xiaoman's voice, she looked up, her eyes curving into crescents, two shallow dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth as she secretly waved at him.
"Don't even think about it! I'd be thankful if you didn't break my precious crucible!" Old Ling grumbled, though he pushed the troublesome servo motor toward Xiaoman. "Here, this thing's giving me a headache. Tell me, what's wrong with it?"
Xiaoman didn't hesitate. He picked up a multimeter, took a few measurements, and pressed it to his ear to listen. "Current overload? No… sounds like an internal rotor eccentricity, rubbing against the stator?"
Old Ling raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Not bad, kid! Your ears aren't deaf yet! But it's about feel! Repair relies on this!" He tapped his chest firmly with a grease-stained finger. "Machines have souls too. They complain, they groan—you have to understand them! Fancy meters alone are useless!"
Xiaoman chuckled but didn't argue, picking up his tools and starting the disassembly. Unnoticed, Ling Mo had slipped over and quietly placed a cup of cool water and a small piece of high-energy candy wrapped in tin foil beside his hand.
"Brother Xiaoman, take a break before continuing," she said softly, her voice like a feather brushing past.
Xiaoman's heart melted with the sweetness of the candy, his hands moving faster and steadier. He often thought how wonderful it would be if life could continue like this forever—listening to the rhythmic clanging from his father, smelling the aroma of food from his mother's kitchen, tinkering with cold parts and bringing them back to life amid Old Ling's scolding and Ling Mo's smiles. He had even secretly collected discarded platinum-gold metal scraps, using the workshop's furnace to slowly polish and shape them into a small, delicate gear ring. He hid it at the bottom of his toolbox, dreaming that one sunny afternoon, he would muster the courage to give it to the girl who always sneakily slipped him candy…
However, under the starry sky of the cosmic era, peace was always fleeting. This fulfilling, warm daily life was ultimately torn to shreds by a catastrophic storm, burying the clever, spirited boy named Zhong Xiaoman and all his beautiful fantasies in the year he turned sixteen.
The disaster struck without warning. That day, the colonial outpost's warning system emitted an unprecedented, piercing shriek. The dome's simulated blue sky was instantly replaced by a glaring blood-red alarm. The broadcast dissolved into intermittent, panic-stricken shouts: "...Ultra-high intensity solar wind... direct impact... shielding system overload... seek shelter..."
But it was all too fast.
It was as if a god had swung an invisible, scorching whip, brutally lashing this tiny artificial world. A powerful electromagnetic pulse instantly fried countless precision circuits, while flare radiation penetrated the incompletely closed protective layers. Outside, there was no fire, but something far more terrifying—an invisible, untouchable dance of death from the energy storm, capable of snatching life away in an instant.
Zhong Xiaoman's family took refuge in their reinforced underground shelter together with Old Ling and his granddaughter. In the darkness, he tightly held Ling Mo's icy, trembling hand, listening to his father's heavy breathing and his mother's suppressed prayers. Old Ling repeatedly checked the shelter's emergency systems, muttering curses about the damned weather.
The terrifying roar and vibrations lasted what felt like an eternity. When everything finally settled, Zhong Xiaoman pushed open the deformed hatch and saw a world as if gnawed by a giant beast. Charred marks were everywhere, the exteriors of many buildings had melted, and the once-neat streets were piled with debris. Amid the deathly silence, occasional heart-wrenching cries from survivors echoed.
His home was relatively intact, but the disaster's venomous fangs had not spared them. His father, rushing out at the last moment to protect the main circuit leading to the shelter, was instantly swallowed by the lethal radiation storm, not even a scrap of clothing left behind. Old Ling, trying to salvage his cherished core tools from the workshop, inhaled excessive toxic fumes and collapsed on his way back. And Ling Mo... that girl with the clear smile, during the storm's most violent moment, exposed herself to a lethal radiation leak to secure the shelter's shaking valve... She ended up lying in Zhong Xiaoman's arms, light as a feather, her pale face struggling to form a comforting smile, whispering faintly, "Brother Xiaoman... don't be afraid..." Then, her bright eyes forever lost their light.
The world, in this sixteenth year of his life, bared its cruelest fangs at Zhong Xiaoman, shredding everything he had ever cherished.
Lucky? Perhaps a little. His mother survived, but grief and shock broke her, leaving her bedridden. A local wealthy merchant whom his mother had once served, out of lingering kindness, sent a small bag of credits and some food, allowing them to barely erect simple cenotaphs for their three beloved family members.
Kneeling before three rough grave markers, Zhong Xiaoman felt as if his heart had been buried along with them in the cold ground. He didn't cry; his tears had long dried up in the darkness of the shelter that day. He merely kowtowed mechanically, once, twice, three times... his forehead pressing against the cold soil, as if seeking a warmth that no longer existed.
Survive. That was the only thought left. For his gravely ill mother, he had to survive.
He heard that in the distant capital of Ceres, His Majesty the King had ordered disaster relief funds, and aid supplies would arrive soon. This news was like a single faint point of light in the darkness. Dragging his exhausted body, he spent each day cleaning their home, repairing the water filtration unit, scavenging for anything usable, and carefully rationing their meager food.
"Mom, drink some water." Zhong Xiaoman helped his frail mother up, feeding her the last barely clean liquid produced by the water filter. The filter's hoarse, grating noise seemed on the verge of breaking down.
His mother swallowed with difficulty, her clouded eyes filled with heartache as she looked at him. "Xiaoman... you drink too... The supplies... they'll be here soon... His Majesty... won't abandon us..." Her voice was faint, barely a whisper, yet carrying a stubborn hope.
"Yeah, they'll be here soon." Xiaoman lowered his head, avoiding his mother's gaze, his voice dry as he echoed her words. "I heard there's synthetic grain, medicine, and new filter cores. Once they arrive, you'll get better." He seemed to be speaking to his mother, yet also repeating a lie he had to believe.
Days passed. Hope dwindled like the dimmed simulated sunlight under the colonial dome. The last edible thing at home was a scrawny rat caught two days prior. Xiaoman stewed it into a broth, feeding almost all the meat scraps to his mother while he only drank a few mouthfuls of the clear, watery soup.
Sitting on the doorstep, he gazed at the dead, lifeless village, his stomach feeling as if scraped by a file. Every time he heard any sound in the distance that wasn't the howling wind, he would jolt upright, heart clenched, hoping it was the supply vehicles. But each time, it was only deeper disappointment.
His mother's coughing from the inner room sounded like a broken bellows, each hack striking Xiaoman's heart. He clenched his fists, nails digging deep into his palms, yet he felt no pain.
Something colder than hunger began to breed and spread within his hollow chest.
It was doubt in promises, skepticism of hope, and... a quietly rising darkness named despair.
Hope, like a mirage in the desert, arrived in the cruelest form after four months of torment.
When the dust clouds stirred by the supply hover-trucks settled at the village entrance, Zhong Xiaoman dragged his weak legs to join the crowd. His heart pounded wildly, his chapped lips trembling with excitement. His mother's fading breath and hollow eyes haunted his thoughts. With food and medicine, she would recover. They would survive.
The boxes were roughly unloaded. An official-looking man impatiently urged people to line up. Xiaoman squeezed to the front, his hands shaking as he received the "hope" meant for him and his mother.
The box was heavy. Its weight nearly brought him to tears of joy.
Yet, when he pried open the lid with all his strength and saw its contents, he froze, his blood seeming to instantly turn to ice.
It wasn't synthetic grain cakes. It wasn't nutrient paste. It certainly wasn't medicine.
It was mud cakes.
Rough, dry, gray-brown blocks mixed with inferior flour and a great deal of sand, emitting a strange odor of earth and rot. He even spotted a tiny worm wriggling in the crevice of one cake.
The crowd erupted—shock, disbelief, finally boiling over into soaring anger and despairing wails.
"What is this?!"
"Mud?! They're feeding us mud?!"
"Does the King want us to die?!"
小鼠的耳朵响了,周围的噪音感觉像在厚厚的玻璃后面一样闷闷不乐.他固定着手里盯着泥蛋糕,觉得自己不握住它,而是好像它猛烈抨击了他的心脏,打破了他最后剩下的支撑.
愤怒.能够燃烧灵魂的寒冷,刺耳的愤怒取代了所有的饥饿和软弱.这不是宽慰 - 这是最恶意的嘲笑,是最完全的背叛!高高而强大的事情,即使是牲畜也会不屑一顾,显然是在告诉他们:您的生活只有几个泥土.
他抓着沉重的"耻辱"盒子,他错开了家,每一步都感觉好像是在刀上.
他的母亲在病床上听到了骚动,并努力睁开眼睛.当她的目光落在儿子手中的盒子里时,她眼中的微弱期望立刻变暗,只留下灰烬.她了解一切.
"孩子..."他母亲的声音微弱,但却带来了惊人的清晰度和最终的结局,"奔跑...离开这个地方...这里没有未来..."
她的骨头手紧紧地握住了小曼的手腕,召集了最后的力量. "你还年轻...你不能在这里死...去找...叛军...也许...有出路..."
小曼的眼泪终于折断了,大滴落落在母亲的枯萎手上. "妈妈...我不会离开...如果我去的话会怎样..."
他的母亲没有再回答.她眼中关注和疼痛的最后痕迹逐渐消失,凝固成永恒的空隙.她的手抓住了他的手,松开了.
世界完全保持沉默.最后的温暖已经熄灭了.
小米跪在床上很长一段时间.他没有哭;他只默默地哭泣,直到没有流泪为止.然后,他慢慢站起来,在屋子里发现了最后一个相对干净的布,小心地,默默地,擦了擦妈妈的脸,清洁了她的衣服.
在房子的后面,他用裸露的手和一根铁杆挖进了寒冷的地球,将母亲和那盒泥蛋糕一起埋葬了 - 王朝的最后一个"赏金".没有墓碑,只有一小块地球.
站在坟墓前,他最后一眼看过曾经充满了温暖和回忆的房子, 现在只抱有 绝望和仇恨.
"从今天开始,"他嘶哑地宣布冷空气,死了,"我的名字叫中米."
摧毁所有带来的不公正现象.摧毁这个世界腐烂的核心.