The northern gale sweeping across the vast wasteland whipped the small tent until it flapped and rattled. Bundled in his quilt, Michael lifted the tent flap just slightly, enough to see tiny, crystalline snowflakes drifting down from the sky. Indeed, though the snowfall seemed light, it was truly snowing. As the delicate flakes danced on the wind, their beauty was akin to that of ethereal sprites .
Witnessing this scene, Michael understood that while the sight was beautiful, it was fraught with lethal danger. Operating on the same principle as the radioactive rains, these snowflakes carried a heavy burden of fallout dust. Even without testing with a Geiger counter, he knew their radiation levels must be alarmingly high. Allowing them to land on one's skin, where body heat would melt them, would lead to a dire outcome—infection and illness at best, or worse, the emergence of a new infected individual.
Consequently, Michael spent another entire night without sleep. His primary fear was the accumulating weight of the snow on the tent, which might cause the aged canvas to collapse. Thus, he forced himself to stay awake, periodically standing inside the tent to vigorously beat its roof, shaking off the accumulated snow. The sound of similar thumping echoed from surrounding tents, indicating that his subordinates, even without his reminder, had already grasped this necessity.
From Michael's current perspective, this sudden and peculiar snowstorm seemed merely an inconvenience—a single sleepless night. He wasn't even overly concerned about its impact on the next day's coal mining; he assumed the harsh wasteland sun would quickly melt the overnight accumulation within a month or two, the moisture seeping into the ground. However, Michael's understanding of this world remained incomplete. He did not yet comprehend what this snowfall truly heralded for the world, nor the immense upheaval it would soon bring upon him, testing him in ways he couldn't imagine.
Elsewhere, countless wasteland natives gazed at the falling flakes with complex emotions—some with wild joy, others with deep dread .
In Soru Town, within the exclusive top-floor quarters of the tallest building, Chakra lay sprawled like a rotten mess on a large sofa. His right arm mechanically raised a bottle of potent "Atomic Vodka" to his mouth repeatedly. This once-luxurious room, equipped with battery-powered lamps, classic furniture, and thick carpets, was now utterly trashed—overturned furniture, shattered glass, and broken bottles littered the space. His attendants dared not enter to clean, fearing the volatile mayor's tendency to open fire. This state of dejection had persisted for two days, since his humiliating defeat and return. The shame of the rout was only part of it; more infuriating was the sensed shift in loyalty among his men, many now eyeing allegiance to "Harry Potter." Yet, Chakra was not a man to be permanently broken. In a drunken stupor, hearing the commotion about the snow outside, he initially raged at the timing—this resource, now lost, was crucial for surviving the impending long winter. But then, a manic inspiration struck. He burst into crazed laughter, bellowing for his henchman: "Ithan! Get here now! Harry Potter and his Cinder Town are in for major trouble! Spread the word at dawn—tell every town in the Wasteland Alliance about his big coal mine!" His booming voice, full of excited, carried far through the silent, snowy night .
In the city of Vanna, a true metropolis boasting tens of thousands, the first snowflake caused instant panic. Commoners scurried madly for shelter, while the elites, safe under solid roofs, were thrown into a different frenzy. Their knowledge and sources told them this unusual snowfall signaled something monumental—a potential rebirth for the post-apocalyptic world, fraught with both immense opportunity and unimaginable risk. Carriages and cars moved urgently through the streets as powerful figures engaged in a whirlwind of visits, negotiations, and deals. Alliances were forged and conspiracies hatched in mere hours. With this snowfall, everything had changed .
And in Cinder Town, which paled in comparison even to Vanna's outskirts, Old Lameleg, who hadn't slept for days, finally understood the source of his deep unease as he watched the snow fall outside his window. This was the precursor mentioned in prophecies—the sign of the world's impending restoration of vitality and order. But everyone knew the most dangerous time was beforechaos gave way to normality. Could their tiny Cinder Town possibly survive the coming cataclysm ?