Before Li Hao, the teenage captain of the valley's "reserve force," stood what could only be described as a war party. Outwardly, he maintained a fierce, unyielding scowl, the one he'd practiced in the cracked piece of mirror that served as the garrison's luxury item. Inwardly, his stomach was a knot of cold dread. The timing couldn't be worse.
A crisis had fallen upon their hidden sanctuary, a silent, creeping terror that had split the adult leadership—Captain Liu and Lieutenant Zhang—into opposing factions. For days now, every able-bodied fighter, every adult with a vote or a weapon, had been locked in a tense, circular debate in the deep caverns that served as their council chamber. The duty of guarding the pass, the first and only line of defense, had fallen to him and the other "reservists"—kids, really, who should have been learning history or mechanics, not holding a perimeter.
Under normal circumstances, Li Hao had faith in his squad. The valley was remote, forgotten by the wider Wasteland. Who would even look here? But these weren't normal circumstances, and the group now arrayed before the rusted pipe barrier was anything but ordinary scavengers.
They weren't a ragtag band. They moved with a quiet, coiled readiness that spoke of discipline. Their weapons… Li Hao's eyes, trying not to show his fear, cataloged the threat. Several rifles, their wooden stocks worn smooth by use, not just for show. Bows of a uniform make, quivers full of fletched arrows. Curved swords at hips. And their attire! While mismatched, it had a bizarre uniformity: wide-brimmed straw hats, garish T-shirts adorned with smiling faces and strange symbols, baggy shorts, and… footwear. They all wore those slap-slap sandals. It was an absurd yet terrifying display of resources. Who had spare cloth for such garish shirts? Who had the means to make so many identical hats?
In contrast, he and his squad looked exactly like what they were: children playing at war. Their weapons were sharpened rebar, filed-down car springs, and a few chipped bayonets tied to sticks. Their "uniforms" were patched and re-patched cast-offs from the adults, hanging loosely on their thin frames. The sheer disparity was a physical weight, a crushing sense of inadequacy. And the leader of this group… a minotaur. The creature stood a head taller than the tallest man, its muscles coiling under its fur like cables. Li Hao was certain the beast alone could dismantle his entire squad.
So be it,he thought, a grim resolve hardening the fear in his gut. If we can buy Captain Liu and the others just five minutes, ten… that's all that matters.His father, years ago before a scavenging run from which he never returned, had told him, "We are sons of the Dragon. Our blood remembers honor. A meaningful death is not to be feared." Li Hao clung to those words now, tightening his grip on his rebar spear. He drew a breath to shout a defiance, to order the barrier held.
Then, the situation pivoted.
The minotaur, who had been swelling its chest to bellow a challenge, was silenced by a small, almost casual wave from a figure in the center of the group. This figure, shorter than the others and hidden under one of those ridiculous wide-brimmed hats, stepped forward. Then, with a deliberate motion, it removed the hat.
Black hair, cut short and practical. Dark eyes, set in a face weathered by the sun but unmistakably… like theirs. An Asian face. A face from the old stories. A face of home.
The sight struck Li Hao with a force that was almost physical. A wave of instinctive, profound kinship washed over him, so strong it made his knees feel weak. He fought it down. Caution. The elders warned us. The right face does not mean the right heart. Raiders can wear any mask.
Then the man spoke. The words were in Mandarin. Not the broken, pidgin trade-talk of the wastes, but clear, precise, with the rounded tones of the old world. "Hey there, good-looking kid. Most folks call me Lord Harry Potter Michael. But my Chinese name is Mi Gao. You've probably heard the first one. So, is Zhang Tiezhu back? I need a word with him."
The casual greeting, the flawless accent—it was a key turning in a lock Li Hao hadn't known was so tightly shut. The tension behind him broke into a wave of astonished whispers.
"Wow! It's him! The one from Cinder Town that Lieutenant Zhang talked about! The rice he brought was amazing!"
"Yeah, but those spicy strips! The 'la tiao'! I ate mine all in one go… Captain Liu gave me such a look."
"My dad said the flour made the best noodles he's had in years…"
Li Hao's face burned with a fierce, hot embarrassment that had nothing to do with the sun. He knew this man. Knew ofhim. The supplies Zhang Tiezhu had brought back—the miraculous, pristine rice, the addictive, fiery snacks, the sturdy tools—had been a lifeline, a taste of a legend. He remembered his own first taste of Spicy Strip, the explosive, unfamiliar flavors making his eyes water, licking his fingers clean until the oily red stain was gone. But this… this gawking, this babbling… it was undignified! They were soldiers, sort of.
"Quiet!" he hissed over his shoulder, his voice cracking with the strain of authority. "Remember your duty! Discipline! Maintain discipline!" The whispers subsided into guilty shuffles.
Turning back to the visitor, Li Hao's youthful face was a mask of flushed formality. "Greetings, Hu Mi Gao." The 'Hu' slipped out, an old, familial prefix of respect and closeness that felt right. "I am Corporal Li Hao, commander of the valley reserve force. Lieutenant Zhang Tiezhu returned several days ago. The supplies he brought were… greatly appreciated. That is why my comrades reacted so… warmly." He cleared his throat. "As for seeing him, all senior personnel are currently in a closed conference. I will need to request permission. In the meantime, perhaps you and your… party would care to rest?"
To his immense relief, Hu Mi Gao—a true compatriot!—nodded amiably. "Lead the way, Corporal."
Li Hao snapped an order, and the fastest runner in the squad, a perpetually-sniffling boy named Song Yang, took off towards the inner valley like a startled rabbit. Wipe your nose, you idiot,Li Hao thought despairingly, watching him go. They'll think we're savages.
He then led the visitors to a small cave just inside the entrance, a hideout dug by his father's generation. It was clean, scrupulously swept, but barren. Its only furnishings were a few smooth, flat stones that served as seats. The poverty of the place, used to host such obviously important guests, made Li Hao's ears burn again. He hesitated, then made a decision. He pulled a lanky boy named Zhou Jian aside. "Go to the post. Fetch the clean cups. Get water for our guests. A… a half-cup each." He saw the hesitation flash in Zhou Jian's eyes, and knew its source. Their daily water ration, strictly measured, would be utterly depleted. But you couldn't offer a fellow countryman, a benefactor, nothing. It wasn't in their blood. Thirst was temporary. Honor was not. They'd endured longer.
He watched, a strange pride and anxiety twisting in his chest, as Zhou Jian carefully poured the precious, slightly murky water from a ceramic jug into mismatched, chipped cups. He presented the first to Hu Mi Gao with both hands.
And Hu Mi Gao accepted it. He didn't sniff it, didn't grimace at the sediment. He simply raised it, met Li Hao's eyes, and drank it down in one go. As he did, Li Hao became acutely, painfully aware of his own tongue, a dry piece of leather stuck to the roof of his mouth. He fought the instinct to wet his lips.
A wave of quiet, profound satisfaction passed through the young guards. They had given what they had. It was enough.
Then, Hu Mi Gao did something that short-circuited Li Hao's understanding of the world. The man wiped his mouth, unhooked a heavy, sloshing canteen from his own belt, and pressed it into Li Hao's hands. "Alright, kid. Your turn. Drink. All of you. Don't worry about us running out. We brought a whole truck of the stuff."
Li Hao simply stared. The weight of the full canteen in his hands felt alien. A truck? Of water? The concept was so vast, so lavish, it belonged to the old stories, the tales of the Before-Time. His mind, reeling, groped for a reference, a frame for such staggering wealth. A phrase, half-remembered from an elder's fireside story, surfaced. In the golden age of the homeland, they said, there were men of unimaginable riches, men who pulled black gold from the earth. They were spoken of with a mix of awe and familiarity. Mei Lao Ban.Coal Bosses.
This man, Hu Mi Gao, traveling with two dozen armed guards, with a truckload of water… he wasn't just a benefactor from a friendly settlement. He was something out of a legend. A tycoon. A Coal Baron of the Wasteland. The boy clutched the canteen, the cool condensation already beading on its metal surface, and felt the world tilt on its axis.