Bathed in sunlight, Michael crouched within a well-lit plastic greenhouse, scooping up a handful of soil that carried a faint, damp richness. He kneaded it gently between his fingers, and its texture conveyed promising news: this land, having been deeply plowed, cleared of stones, flood-irrigated, and nourished with preliminary compost, was far more fertile than he had anticipated.
Of course, the soil restoration period had not been long. For cultivating traditional Chinese staples like rice or wheat, the yield from this nascent earth might still fall somewhat short of hopes. Yet, for crops favoring sandy soil—melons, vegetables like peanuts, tomatoes, lettuce, or Houttuynia cordata—or for hardier, drought-resistant plants such as corn and potatoes, as long as subsequent fertilization was adequate, there should be no issue with yield. Indeed, thanks to this world's uniquely prolonged and intense sunlight, the flavor of these fruits and vegetables might even surpass those from the modern realm.
Satisfied, Michael turned to Zhu Dacong, a fellow countryman who had recently joined them and was promptly appointed head of cultivation. "Prepare your team well," he instructed. "In a few days, I'll bring seeds for melons, vegetables, corn, and the like. We'll plant them all here."
Zhu Dacong, a former scavenger with deep familial knowledge of farming, did not ask the novice's question of how crops could survive such drastic temperature swings without freezing at night. The technique of greenhouses, while sophisticated, boiled down to a simple principle for basic needs: covering the plastic structures with tattered quilts at dusk to retain enough heat to protect the plants. A sufficient number of such worn quilts could be scavenged from the ruins by his people.
Nevertheless, Zhu voiced a concern. "Sir, I've been thinking... the weather this year feels sinister. This severe cold has arrived months earlier than usual. I fear that during the coldest spells, even with quilts, the temperature inside might still drop too low."
Michael's solution to this dilemma was characteristically simple and direct. "No problem. At worst, we'll just keep a coal stove burning in each greenhouse overnight. Don't worry about fuel consumption. In a couple of days, we'll re-establish the coal mining outpost. We'll have all the fuel we need."
Hearing this, Zhu Dacong's last worry vanished. Merely envisioning the scene months ahead made the former scavenger tremble with barely contained excitement. The two coldest months of winter had always been the most brutal for the wasteland's inhabitants, as vital food sources like lizards and rattlesnakes hibernated, making sustenance scarce. But Cinder Town, with its greenhouses, would have rows of ripe produce ready for harvest. The thought of sheltering from the freezing cold in a warm room by a stove, enjoying fruits like watermelon—once only a tale from their ancestors' time—made a fulfilling life seem within reach.
Having happily resolved to bring back a variety of seeds on his next trip to kickstart cultivation, Michael returned to town. At noon, the fox-girl Kaoru, following a tutorial from a short-video app, attempted to make him hand-pulled noodles topped with sizzling oil. The oil used was pressed, by a small DIY mill she operated, from the tumbleweed seeds gathered days prior. Truth be told, Michael had never tasted—or even seen—tumbleweed seed oil from the modern world. But after his first try, he found himself quite fond of this variant's product. A large bowl holding at least two pounds of noodles, generously mixed with chili flakes and other seasonings, was swiftly devoured with hearty slurps.
Naturally, while eating, Michael didn't forget to accompany his meal with about three liang of his crimson-hued medicinal liquor. After several trials, the young man had essentially confirmed that his serendipitous concoction significantly benefited the cultivation of his combat aura. On the surface, its individual ingredients seemed unremarkable, but combined and steeped, they transformed into something miraculous. A mere three-liang cup of this liquor yielded better results than a whole night of cultivation—a fact of considerable importance to Michael, who was now keen on enhancing his followers' capabilities.
Limited by what his body could tolerate, Michael only consumed just over half a pound daily, split into two portions. Even so, he estimated that persisting for three to five months might allow his aura to reach the fourth level, enabling feats like... well, not chest-shattering stones, but rather, withstanding ordinary bullets.
Given the liquor's astonishing effects, its ingredients were now added to the list of goods Cinder Town sought to acquire. Michael intended not only to use it himself but also to supplement his key followers. Of course, the specifics of its preparation and distribution would be kept strictly confidential. The frugal young man had no desire for his discovery to become common knowledge across the wasteland.
...
Three days later, Cinder Town's convoy set out once more. This time, the water truck, filled to the brim, was hitched behind the small cargo truck. Their destination remained the open-pit coal mine site. The difference was that the over fifty men accompanying the expedition wore much more relaxed expressions. Their task this time did not involve another fight. They were merely to construct a small, four-story blockhouse-like structure and a sturdy perimeter wall about three meters high using the building materials they brought.
Thus, the water hauled by the truck was solely for mixing concrete, and even this would be insufficient—the truck would need to make at least two trips daily. Considering that even a small blockhouse couldn't be finished in a few days, only about half the convoy's capacity was dedicated to construction materials. The rest carried various living supplies, with quilts, tents, and other cold-weather gear making up the bulk. It was necessary. Since the encounter with the tumbleweeds, the temperature difference between day and night on the wasteland had grown starker with each passing day. Daytime remained brutally hot, but as night fell, the howling north wind invariably arrived, plunging the temperature rapidly to well below freezing, reaching as low as minus ten degrees Celsius or colder at the coldest point. While this was still warmer than the minus twenty degrees of the deepest winter, one must remember that was the annual extreme. Now, it was barely a month into autumn...
Upon arrival, everyone set to work under Michael's guidance. Digging foundations, welding steel frames, pouring mixed concrete—despite Michael's knowledge coming only from observing a neighbor's construction project, the work proceeded in an orderly fashion. In just one day, with ample manpower, the blockhouse's foundation was complete. Although the laborers were willing to work overtime into the night, construction had to pause. Michael knew that freshly poured concrete structures required several days of curing before the next stage could begin. In the coming days, the workforce would turn to mining coal.
As for Michael, he planned to return to Cinder Town first thing the next morning, and then to the modern world.
That night, with no entertainment to speak of, Michael retired early to his tent, bundled under two thick quilts. He had just fallen asleep when astonished, even alarmed cries erupted outside: "It's snowing! It's snowing!"
It took Michael a moment to process. According to the local natives, in the past dozen or so years, snow had fallen only a handful of times on the wasteland, and only during the absolute coldest period of the year.