As Michael had anticipated, the light snowfall throughout the night had left only a thin, few-fingers-deep layer of snow upon the ground. This meager accumulation had nearly melted away under the fierce sun by nine o'clock the next morning. Testing the ground with a firm stamp, Michael found that while the earth was damp from the melted snow, the wasteland's sandy, gravel-rich soil structure prevented any significant risk of vehicles getting stuck or losing traction.
After instructing the several dozen men staying behind to continue mining coal with heightened caution for safety, Michael set off with the convoy, now empty of supplies. Even the water truck, its tank drained, joined the procession rumbling back toward town. The journey proceeded smoothly, entirely unaffected by the previous night's snow. The only notable sight along the way was the increased number of scavengers diligently gathering scattered firewood and the ubiquitous tumbleweeds. It seemed these resilient survivors, hardy as cockroaches, had already sensed the ominous shift in the weather and were striving to stockpile whatever they could to survive the impending, seemingly protracted winter.
The moment of truth arrived as the convoy neared the outskirts of Cinder Town, approaching the plastic greenhouses that were a constant source of concern for Michael. Seeing the structures completely intact, unharmed by any snow load, allowed a wave of relief to wash over him. He acknowledged their good fortune—last night's snowfall had been minor. A heavy snow would have certainly crushed the painstakingly cultivated two hundred acres of greenhouses, destroying all their efforts. Nonetheless, the incident served as a crucial warning. Starting that very evening, he decided to assign a dedicated night watch specifically for the greenhouses. If it snowed again, and more heavily, these men, clad in the expensive radiation suits leftover from the Detroit operation, would carefully remove any accumulating snow from the plastic sheeting. Those high-end suits, costing thousands apiece and capable of blocking even intense, invisible radiation, would offer more than sufficient protection against the weaker radioactivity of the meltwater.
However, shortly after arriving back at the three-story building, an entirely unexpected incident gave the young man a severe fright. Hungry and thinking about breakfast, he had just stepped inside, about to call for one of the women to prepare something to eat, when a figure lunged at him like a ghost emerging from the shadows. Thanks to the recent strengthening effects of the medicinal liquor on his physique and his aura approaching the fourth level, Michael managed to dodge the pounce at the very last second. Reacting instinctively to the perceived threat, he drew his Beretta from its hip holster, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round, his finger poised on the trigger before he registered that the stumbling figure was lame. It was this realization that prevented a tragic shooting.
"Damn it, Old Lameleg! Are you insane? You can't scare a man like that!" Michael exclaimed, staring down at the old man who had missed his lunge and now lay sprawled in the dirt. He was shocked by the appearance of his logistics chief. The once fastidious old rogue, who usually preened like an aging rooster, was now almost unrecognizable. His eyes were bloodshot, his remaining hair a wild mess, and he carried a strong odor of stale sweat, clearly indicating he hadn't washed or slept for days. "What's gotten into you? Have you lost your mind?"
Picking himself up and wiping blood from a split lip as if it were nothing, Old Lameleg fixed Michael with an intensely serious expression. "Sir, we must go to your office immediately. I have something extremely important to discuss."
Seeing the utter gravity in the old man's demeanor, Michael's levity vanished. He knew that unless Old Lameleg had truly snapped, something of catastrophic importance must have occurred. Once inside the office, with the door securely bolted behind them, Old Lameleg began his report in a tone of unprecedented solemnity. As the old man spoke, Michael's face grew increasingly grim.
...
Decades ago, in the aftermath of the global conflagration that involved two world wars and the ensuing nuclear fallout, those who survived—including the stranded invaders—struggled for mere existence amidst the horrific conditions. In their desperation, they pondered a critical question: How long would this accursed nuclear winter last? How many years would it take for this utterly ravaged world to begin recovering?
At the time, surviving scientists from humanity's ranks, drawing on their专业知识, offered professional predictions. Under optimistic models, the nuclear winter might last only a few months; even the most pessimistic estimates suggested a maximum of five years. By then, they reasoned, the smoke and soot blasted into the atmosphere would settle, allowing the climate to normalize. Nature would gradually cleanse itself, and the world would begin to heal.
Yet these predictions, however scientifically grounded they seemed without real-world precedent, proved incorrect. The actual nuclear winter dragged on for not five, but ten long years before sunlight could consistently penetrate the atmospheric shroud. During that protracted decade, the planet's delicately balanced ecosystem, forged over billions of years, was shattered. The plants and animals that managed to survive were irrevocably mutated. The distinct four seasons and regular patterns of rain and snow became a distant memory, replaced by erratic and bizarre weather.
A critical factor exacerbated the tragedy: the scientists, lacking physical strength and often unable to secure sufficient resources, were among the first to perish from starvation. Consequently, no one remained who could explain why fine radioactive dust continued to cling stubbornly to the sky above them like a malevolent curse, turning every precious drop of rain and every snowflake into a radioactive scourge. The prospect of the world becoming habitable again seemed to vanish over the horizon.
Then, at some unknown point, a prophecy began to circulate among the pure-blooded humans and half-breed denizens of the wasteland. It was attributed to a renowned elven astrologer from among the invaders. When the situation deteriorated catastrophically, the interdimensional portal connecting the two worlds was sealed shut by the invaders' own leaders, abandoning their expeditionary forces to prevent the contamination from spreading back home. This particular astrologer, supposedly a powerful figure who survived the initial nuclear blasts, was said to have expended the remainder of her long life to deliver a prophecy: When snow begins to fall in autumn, it signals the world's gradual rebirth.
Yet, year after year, generation after generation passed away, and the prophecy remained unfulfilled, fading into a half-remembered tale known only to a few. This was the very fragment of lore that Old Lameleg, after days of frantic contemplation, had finally pieced together.