Dawn came slow and grey, like a bruise rising to the surface of the sky.
Wei sat up on the kang. The brick bed was still warm from the fire below—his mother must have woken early to stoke it, her habits unchanged even as the world crumbled around her. The warmth seeped into his bones, but it couldn't touch the cold that had settled there last night. The shimmer. The screams. The boar's body at the base of the tree.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The wooden beams were the same ones he had stared at as a child, counting the knots and cracks when he couldn't sleep. The third beam from the door had a knot shaped like a fish—Li had pointed it out when she was five, tracing it with her small finger, her voice full of wonder. "See? It's swimming toward the window." He had never stopped seeing it. Back then, his worries had been small. A test he hadn't studied for. A boy who had been mean to Li. Hei wandering too far from the farm and coming back with a limp that turned out to be nothing.
Now he was counting the hours until the next attack.
He focused, and a panel flickered into view.
```
┌──────────────────────────┐
│ STATUS │
├──────────────────────────┤
│ Strength: 2.2 │
│ Agility: 2.2 │
│ Physical Resilience: 2.2 │
│ Intelligence: 2.2 │
│ Stamina: 2.2 │
│ Mana: 168 │
└──────────────────────────┘
```
The fruits of the Tree of Life had changed him. He could feel it in his bones—not just denser, but lighter. Quicker. His mind felt sharper too, the morning fog burning off faster than it used to. His body didn't tire as easily. The bruises from yesterday's fight with the boar had faded to faint yellow smudges across his ribs, barely visible in the grey light.
He flexed his fingers. Made a fist. Opened it.
The gold ring around his pupils was still there. He had checked before sleep, tilting his face toward the lamplight while Hao snored beside him. It hadn't faded.
Probably never will. One more thing that marks me as different.
He dressed quietly, pulling on his worn trousers and the jacket his mother kept telling him to replace. The fabric was thin at the elbows, soft from years of wear. It smelled like wood smoke and the particular mustiness of the kang. Home smells. Safe smells.
Hao was still asleep, one arm flung over his face, his breathing slow and even. The bruise on his ribs from where the boar had slammed him was visible above the blanket—purple and black, spreading like spilled ink across his skin. But his chest rose and fell. He was alive. They were all alive.
Wei stepped over Xiao Hei, who had curled up on the floor beside the kang. The dark brown puppy with one white paw had appointed himself guardian of the bedroom sometime in the night. His small body rose and fell with each breath. One white paw twitched, chasing something in a dream—probably the goose, Wei thought. Even in sleep, the puppy couldn't escape the farm's feathered tyrant.
Good dog. Guarding already. You're learning fast.
Outside, the world was waiting.
---
The air was cold enough to see his breath.
Wei stood in the courtyard for a long moment, letting the chill settle into his skin. The farm was quiet—not the tense silence of last night, but something softer. The animals were still waking. Somewhere near the duck pond, a single quack broke the stillness and then faded, as if the duck itself was surprised by the sound.
The Tree of Life stood in the center of the open space, its leaves shimmering gold even in the grey light. It had grown again—not much, a few centimeters at most—but the crown had spread wider, casting a larger circle of shade. The air beneath it was cool and clean, like the first breath of spring after a long winter. Small white flowers had appeared at its base overnight, clustered around the roots like offerings left by unseen hands. They glowed faintly in the dim light, each petal edged with gold.
He walked toward it slowly.
The grass under his feet was wet with dew. It felt different now—springier, thicker, as if each blade had been woven from something more than cellulose. The tree's roots had spread through the soil, and he could feel them pulsing faintly when he stood still. Like the land itself was breathing. Like the farm had become a living thing, and he was standing on its skin.
He placed his hand on the trunk. The bark was smooth, almost warm, and he felt a pulse—slow, deep, like a heartbeat.
```
┌──────────────────────────┐
│ TREE OF LIFE │
├──────────────────────────┤
│ Tier 1 | Legendary │
│ Growth: 5% to next tier │
│ │
│ Protected area: 4.2 km² │
│ Wall durability: 500% of base │
│ Building durability: 300% of base │
│ Crop growth: +50% │
│ Animal survival rate: 85% │
└──────────────────────────┘
```
Five hundred percent. The wall was five times stronger than the stone they had laid. He tried to imagine a pack of goblins slamming into it, clawing at the vines, and finding no purchase. The image made him almost smile.
But the smile didn't last.
The world beyond the wall was still out there. The goblins. The jiangshi. The smoke rising from the town—he could see it now, a thin grey column on the horizon, barely visible in the morning haze. The silence where birdsong used to be. Yesterday morning he had woken to roosters and dogs and the distant rumble of trucks on the town road. This morning there was nothing but wind and the soft rustle of the tree's leaves.
He stood there for a long moment, his palm against the trunk, feeling the slow pulse of something older than him, older than the farm, older than anything he could name.
I'll hold the ground. You'll hold the gate.
He still didn't know what that meant. Not really. But he was starting to understand that he didn't need to. The tree knew. That was enough for now.
The dogs found him then.
Hei came, his old legs moving with the careful dignity of a creature who had earned his rest but refused to take it. His muzzle was greyer than it had been a year ago, but his eyes were still sharp. Da and Er followed, flanking like soldiers, their brindle coats almost identical. The three pups tumbled after them in a chaos of legs and tails—and at the front of the puppy pack, small and determined, was Xiao Hei.
The dark brown pup with one white paw had appointed himself leader of the younger dogs sometime in the night. He trotted ahead of the other two, his head high, his tail wagging so hard his entire back end swayed. When he reached Wei, he sat down directly on his feet and looked up with an expression of pure, self-satisfied devotion.
I am here. I have arrived. You may acknowledge me now.
Wei knelt and scratched behind Hei's ears. The old dog leaned into the touch, his eyes half-closing. "You're okay," Wei murmured. "You're all okay."
Hei licked his face. His tongue was warm and rough, and it smelled like whatever he'd been investigating in the night. Xiao Hei, not to be outdone, immediately climbed onto Wei's knee and attempted to lick his chin, lost his balance, and tumbled into the grass. He popped back up instantly, shook himself off with a spray of dew, and sat down again with immense dignity, as if the fall had been an intentional part of his approach.
The other two pups—a lighter brown female and a black male with a white chest—piled on top of Wei, yipping and squirming, and for a moment he forgot about the shimmer and the dead and the world outside.
For a moment, he was just a boy with his dogs.
Then a door creaked.
His grandfather stepped out of the house, leaning on his cane. He moved slowly, stiffly, his joints complaining after a night of restless sleep. But his eyes were sharp—they missed nothing. He had the look of a man who had been awake for hours, lying in the dark, thinking. His white hair was uncombed, sticking up in the back, and his old brown jacket was buttoned wrong.
He stood on the porch for a moment, looking at the tree. Then he looked at Wei. His gaze flickered to the dogs, to Xiao Hei still sitting with exaggerated dignity on Wei's foot, and something in his weathered face softened—a rare thing, like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Wei," he said. "I'm going to check how Old Wang is doing."
"I'll come with you," Wei said.
His grandfather nodded and walked past him toward the north shed. His cane tapped the ground in a rhythm Wei had known since childhood. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Xiao Hei fell into step beside him, matching his pace with the solemn attention of a small, furry honor guard. The puppy's legs were so short he had to trot to keep up, but his head remained high.
Wei followed.
***
The pig pen was at the back of the north shed.
The air smelled different here—not the sour smell of pigs, but something earthier, cleaner. Like forest after rain. Like the deep woods his grandfather used to talk about, the ones that had been cut down before Wei was born. The morning light filtered through the wooden slats, casting long shadows on the dirt floor.
Wei's grandfather reached the gate before he did. He stood there for a long moment, his hand on the wooden bars, not speaking. Xiao Hei sat at his feet, looking up at him with worried eyes, as if he understood that something important was happening. The puppy's tail had stopped wagging.
Wei stood behind him and waited.
Seven pigs.
Six of them huddled together in the far corner, trembling but alive. Their eyes were wide, dark, confused. They didn't understand what had happened to them last night. Neither did Wei, not fully. One of the sows was making a low, anxious sound, a kind of humming grunt.
The seventh stood apart.
Old Wang.
He was larger than before—not dramatically, but noticeably. His shoulders had broadened. His snout had lengthened, giving him a more distinguished, almost scholarly appearance. Coarse brown fur grew along his spine, bristling in the morning light. Two small tusks curved up from his lower jaw, no longer than Wei's little finger but sharp, unmistakable. His hooves looked harder, darker, like polished stone.
His eyes were the same. Warm. Brown. Intelligent. They looked at Wei's grandfather with an expression that was almost human—recognition, trust, a kind of patient affection.
Wei's grandfather made a sound—not a laugh, not a sigh. Something in between. A release of breath he had been holding since the shimmer.
"Old Wang," he said. "You look like a wild boar's grandfather."
The pig grunted and walked to the gate. He moved differently now—more deliberate, more grounded, each step carrying weight. He pressed his snout against the bars, and Wei's grandfather reached through to scratch his forehead. The pig closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Xiao Hei, curious, stood on his hind legs and put his front paws on the lowest bar, sniffing at the pig through the gap. Old Wang opened one eye, regarded the puppy with regal disinterest, and closed it again. The message was clear: I have survived storms and shimmer. You are a speck. But a tolerable speck.
"He was born in a storm," Wei's grandfather said quietly. "You remember?"
Wei did.
Twelve years ago. A summer storm that knocked down three trees and flooded the lower paddies. Lightning had struck the old locust tree by the well, splitting it down the middle with a sound like the sky tearing open. The dogs had hidden under the house, whimpering. The chickens had refused to come out of the coop for two days. Wei had been eleven, and he remembered standing at the window, watching the rain come down in sheets so thick he couldn't see the orchard.
His grandfather had stayed up all night with the sow, who was struggling to birth. The wind had rattled the windows. The rain had hammered the roof. But he hadn't left her side. Wei remembered waking in the dark and seeing the lamplight from the shed, his grandfather's silhouette moving behind the slats, patient and constant.
Grandfather named him after his oldest friend because "they both have the same stubborn face." The friend had died years ago, before Wei was born, but his name lived on in a pig.
The pig grunted again, as if agreeing. Then he turned his head and looked directly at Wei, his brown eyes calm and knowing. There was something in that gaze—not intelligence in the human sense, but something older. Something that understood survival.
Wei's grandfather was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The spotted one. The one you had to put down last night."
Wei's chest tightened. "I'm sorry. I didn't want—"
"I know." His grandfather's voice was rough but steady. He didn't look at Wei. He kept his eyes on Old Wang. "I saw from the window. I saw the whole thing. You did what had to be done. There was no other way." He paused. "I'll bury him today. Under the mulberry tree. He always liked the shade there. Used to wander over every afternoon, just to stand under it. No reason. Just liked the shade."
"I'll help," Wei said.
His grandfather nodded once. He didn't speak again for a long moment. Then he reached into the pen and scratched Old Wang's forehead one more time, his weathered fingers moving slowly through the coarse fur.
"We go on," he said. "That's what we do. We bury our dead and we go on. Your great-grandfather knew it. Your grandmother knows it. Now you know it too."
Xiao Hei, as if understanding the weight of the moment, sat perfectly still and didn't make a sound. His dark eyes moved from the old man to the pig and back again.
Then a panel appeared in Wei's vision.
```
┌──────────────────────────┐
│ PIG PEN UPGRADE AVAILABLE │
├──────────────────────────┤
│ Cost: 10 credits │
│ │
│ Effect: The pig pen becomes blessed. │
│ - Pigs inside evolve 50% faster │
│ - Feeding blessed crops to pigs increases evolution chance
│
│ - Grow blessed moss to repel stench
│
│ - One pig has already begun evolving (Mountain Boar, T2) │
│ │
│ Upgrade now? [YES] [NO] │
└──────────────────────────┘
```
Wei looked at his grandfather. The old man was still standing at the gate, his hand resting on Old Wang's head. Xiao Hei had crept forward and was now sniffing at a beetle near the gate post, his tail wagging cautiously.
"Grandfather," Wei said carefully. "I can do something. To make the pen... better. Stronger for them."
His grandfather didn't look at him. "Will it hurt them?"
"No. It will help them grow. Keep them safer."
"Then do it."
Wei focused on YES.
The ground shook.
Not hard. A tremor, like a heavy cart passing on the road. But Wei felt it in his bones, a deep resonance that seemed to come from the earth itself. His grandfather grabbed the gate with both hands, his cane clattering to the ground. Xiao Hei yelped and scrambled backward, then immediately ran forward again to stand in front of the old man, barking furiously at the shaking earth as if he could intimidate it into stillness. His small body was rigid, every hair standing on end.
The pigs squealed—a burst of panic, high and sharp—then fell silent as a soft gold light emerged from cracks spreading across the dirt floor.
Not breaking. Opening.
The light spread outward, touching the wooden barricades. It crawled up the posts like liquid honey, slow and deliberate, warm and golden. Wei could feel it—not just see it, but feel it, a gentle pressure in his chest that matched the tree's pulse.
The posts began to move. Not falling. Growing.
Slowly, visibly, the posts pushed outward from each other. The pen expanded. What had been a cramped enclosure for seven pigs became a spacious yard, easily three times its original size. The gaps between the bars widened—not enough for a pig to escape, but enough for them to move freely, to run, to root in the soil.
The wood itself changed.
The old, weathered grain darkened and thickened. The posts became sturdier, denser, as if they had aged a hundred years in seconds. Moss appeared on the surface—small green patches at first, then larger, spreading across the wood like a living blanket. The moss smelled fresh, like rain on forest soil, like the deep woods his grandfather remembered.
Xiao Hei stopped barking. He crept forward, sniffed the moss, and sneezed—a tiny, indignant sound. Then he sat down and looked up at Wei's grandfather as if to say, I have investigated. It is acceptable.
"The pigsty smells better than before. It doesn't stink much." Grandfather was in a moment of shock.
The old man bent down—slowly, painfully, his old knees cracking—and picked up his cane. Then he reached out and touched the moss. He broke off a small piece and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
"Smells like herbs," he said. "Like the ones your grandmother uses for her teas with a sweet scent. Pigs can eat this."
```
┌──────────────────────────┐
│ Blessed Sweet Woodruff
│ (Tier 1, Common)
├──────────────────────────┤
│This kind of moss contains high │concentrations of coumarin, which releases │a powerful, sweet, freshly-mown-hay scent │when bruised, stepped on, or humidified. │This scent mixes chemically with swine │odors to reduce their sharpness.
│
│ Effect when fed to pigs:
│ - Increases evolution chance by 5%
│ - Stacks with other blessed foods.
└──────────────────────────┘
```
"They can eat it," Wei said.
His grandfather tossed the moss into the pen. The pigs ignored it at first, still huddled and trembling. Then Old Wang walked over, his heavy steps deliberate. He sniffed the moss once, twice, then ate it. He grunted—a sound of approval. The other pigs came forward slowly, snuffling at the moss, then eating. Their trembling began to ease.
The pen was still transforming.
The water trough refilled itself with water that sparkled faintly, like liquid crystal. The feeding trough expanded, deeper and wider, with the same moss growing along its edges. A small shade tree sprouted in the corner—not from a seed, but from nothing, a sapling that grew to waist height in seconds, its leaves already unfurling.
Old Wang walked to the shade tree and lay down beneath it, his heavy body settling into the soft earth with a grunt of contentment. The other pigs followed, one by one, arranging themselves around him.
Wei's grandfather watched them for a long moment. His eyes were wet. Wei pretended not to notice, focusing instead on Xiao Hei, who had crept into the pen through the widened bars and was now sniffing at Old Wang's tail with great curiosity.
"That's not a pig pen anymore," his grandfather said finally. "That's a boar's hall."
He reached down and scooped up Xiao Hei, who had been trying to climb Old Wang's back. The puppy squirmed for a moment, then settled into the old man's arms, his small head resting on his shoulder. His dark eyes blinked slowly, already half-asleep from the excitement.
"We go on," his grandfather said again. "That's what we do."
He turned and walked back toward the house, Xiao Hei cradled against his chest like a small, furry grandchild. His cane tapped the ground in its familiar rhythm. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.
Wei stayed at the pig pen for a while longer, watching Old Wang sleep under the shade tree, watching the moss grow, watching the gold light pulse faintly from the cracks in the earth. The other pigs had settled, their fear fading into something like peace.
```
Credits: 42 → 32
```
Ten credits. Worth it.
---
Wei walked towards the chicken coop.
Wei found his mother there, already at work. She had been worried after all happened yesterday—he could see it in the redness of her eyes, the slight puffiness around her lids, the way she wouldn't look at him directly. But her hands were steady. She had collected two baskets of eggs already, and she was working on a third, her fingers moving with the automatic precision of decades of practice.
The coop was quiet. The chickens moved slowly, deliberately, as if they were still recovering from the night. Their feathers were brighter than before—deeper reds, richer browns, blacks so dark they seemed to swallow the light. A few of them had gold flecks in their tail feathers that caught the morning light and threw it back in small sparks. One hen, a Rhode Island Red that Wei remembered from years ago, had a single gold feather right in the center of her chest, like a badge.
Wei stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his mother work. She didn't acknowledge him. Her hands moved from nest to basket, egg to egg, a rhythm as old as the farm itself.
"One of the cows died," he said quietly.
Her hands paused over an egg. For a long moment, she didn't move. The chicken whose nest she was reaching into—a small brown hen with a nervous disposition—clucked softly and shifted.
"Your father told me," she said. Her voice was steady, but there was something raw underneath, like a wound that hadn't finished healing. "Last night. After you went to bed. He came to the kitchen and told me everything. How she was struggling. How the mist got to her. How he stayed with her until the end."
"I'm sorry, Mother."
"She was twenty years old." She picked up the egg and placed it in the basket with exaggerated care. "I raised her from a calf. She was so small when your father brought her home—all legs and big eyes. He put the rope in my hand and said, 'This is yours. Take care of her and she'll take care of you.'" Her voice caught. "She was the first animal I ever owned that was truly mine."
Wei didn't know what to say. He stood there, useless, while his mother's hands resumed their work. The chicken clucked again, as if offering sympathy.
"The tree," his mother said after a moment, her voice pulling itself back together. "The blessing. Do you think... do you think she's somewhere? In the tree? In the land? Does any of this... does it mean anything for her?"
I don't know.
But he couldn't say that. Not to her. Not now.
"I hope so," he said. "I really do. The tree... it's connected to everything. The land, the animals, us. Maybe she's part of that now. Maybe she's still here, just... different."
His mother nodded slowly. She picked up another egg—this one with a faint gold sheen to its shell, like it had been dusted with glitter.
"These are different," she said, changing the subject. Her voice was steadier now, building walls around the grief. "Look."
Wei took the egg from her hand. The shell was warm, and when he held it up to the light filtering through the coop's slats, he could see small sparkles moving inside the egg white. Like tiny stars trapped in liquid. Like the night sky had been captured and sealed inside a shell.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ BLESSED EGG (Tier 1, Common) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Effect: Minor stamina boost for 2 hours. │
│ Harvest experience: +1 point. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
"The tree blesses them," Wei said. "The eggs can make us a little stronger. Not much, but enough to notice."
His mother looked at the baskets. Thirty eggs, maybe more. Each one glowed faintly in the dim light. "Every one of them?"
"Every one."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she picked up another egg and set it carefully in the basket. Her movements were precise, deliberate, as if each egg was precious. Which, Wei realized, they now were.
"Then I will harvest everything," she said. "Every egg. Every fruit. Every vegetable. And we don't waste time crying over what we can't change." She said it like a command, her voice hard. But Wei knew she was saying it to herself.
"He knows that she was old. But it doesn't make it easier."
"No," she said quietly. "It never does."
Wei stayed with her for a while longer, helping her collect the last of the eggs. Neither of them spoke. But her hands were steady, and when she finally looked at him, her eyes were dry. She reached up and touched his cheek—just briefly, her calloused palm warm against his skin.
"Thank you," she said. "For checking on me."
"You're my mother."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She almost smiled. "Stubborn. Just like your father."
"I learned from the best."
She swatted his arm—gently, the way she used to when he was small and had said something clever. "Go. Check on your sister. She was crying earlier. I heard her."
Wei nodded and left. At the door, he glanced back. His mother was already reaching for another egg, her face set in its familiar lines of concentration. But her shoulders were looser than before.
***
The rabbit enclosure was at the south end of the property, near the wall.
Wei heard Li before he saw her.
She was crying.
Not the quiet tears of their mother in the chicken coop. Loud, gasping sobs that came from somewhere deep. The kind of crying that hurts your throat and leaves you hollow. The kind you can't stop even when you want to.
He quickened his pace.
The gate was open. Li was kneeling in front of the rabbit pen, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Xiao Hei had somehow appeared beside her—he must have escaped from their grandfather, or perhaps he had simply known where he was needed. He was pressed against her leg, his small body trembling, his dark eyes fixed on her face with an expression of pure, helpless concern. Every few seconds, he would lick her hand, as if trying to comfort her.
The rabbits—most of them—were alive. But two lay dead in the corner. Not mutated. Just dead.
Their bodies were still, eyes were closed. They looked like they were sleeping. One was a white rabbit with pink eyes, the kind Li had always loved. The other was brown and grey, the color of the earth.
Wei knelt beside his sister. "Li."
"They didn't change," she gasped. "They just... couldn't handle it. The mist. The change in the air. Their hearts gave out. I found them like this. Just... lying there. Like they went to sleep and didn't wake up."
He looked at the dead rabbits. Their fur was still soft. Their little noses were still. He remembered feeding them with Li when they were babies, watching her hold them in her lap, talking to them in a soft voice, naming each one. The white one had been called Xue Qiu—Snowball. The brown one was Niuniu, because it had a small pink nose that twitched constantly.
"I fed them this morning," Li continued, her voice hitching. "They were fine. They were eating. Xue Qiu came right up to me and took food from my hand. She always did that. She trusted me. And then I came back and they were just—"
She stopped. Her shoulders shook.
Wei put his arm around her. She leaned into him, and for a while they just sat there, brother and sister, while the sun climbed higher and the rabbits breathed and the world outside burned.
Xiao Hei climbed into Li's lap and pressed his cold nose against her chin. She let out a wet, shaky breath and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his soft fur. The puppy stayed perfectly still, as if he understood that this was his job now.
"Do you want to bury them?" Wei asked.
She shook her head against his shoulder. "I want to remember them alive. Not in the ground. I want to remember Xue Qiu hopping up to the gate every morning, waiting for me. I want to remember Niuniu's nose, always twitching." Her voice broke. "Is that stupid?"
"No," Wei said. "It's not stupid."
"Then what do we do with them?"
"We'll leave them. The tree will take them."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and there was a streak of dirt across her cheek where she had wiped her face. "Will it?"
I don't know.
"I think so," he said. "The tree takes everything eventually. That's what trees do. They take what's dead and turn it into something new. Into soil. Into life." He paused. "Maybe they'll become part of the tree. Part of the land. Maybe they'll help something else grow."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then a small, broken laugh escaped her. "That's a terrible thing to say. You're supposed to say something comforting. Not... tree philosophy."
"I'm not good at comforting."
"I know." She sniffed. "You're terrible at it."
"I know."
She was quiet for a moment, still holding Xiao Hei, who had fallen asleep in her lap as if the weight of the world was simply too much for a small puppy to bear while awake. His white paw was curled against her arm.
"I need to check the ducks," Li said finally.
"Li—"
"The ducks are fine," she said, and her voice was steadier now. "They're always fine. Ducks are survivors. They don't need me to cry over them." She stood up, carefully transferring the sleeping puppy to Wei's arms. Xiao Hei stirred, blinked, and immediately tried to climb onto Wei's shoulder.
She walked toward the pond, her shoulders straight, her head high.
But Wei saw her wipe her eyes again before she reached the water.
---
The pond was at the north end of the property.
The water was clearer than Wei had ever seen it. He could see the fish swimming at the bottom, their scales flashing gold in the morning light. The ducks paddled in circles, quacking softly to each other, their movements unhurried. The surface of the water was so still it looked like glass, broken only by the ripples from the ducks' feet.
Sixteen ducks out of twenty. Four dead, floating near the edge. Li was already pulling them out with a net, her face set in a blank mask. She worked in silence, her movements mechanical. The bodies were stiff. They had been dead for hours.
But that wasn't what caught Wei's attention.
Hao was running.
He sprinted across the grass, his arms pumping, his face pale. Behind him, the large white goose—the one he had kicked into the pond two years ago in what he still insisted was an accident—was chasing him with its wings spread wide, hissing like a steam kettle. Its long neck was extended, its beak open, and it was gaining.
"I think this one also mutated!" Hao shouted, dodging left. The goose adjusted its trajectory with terrifying precision, cutting him off.
"It's not mutated!" Wei called back. "It's just angry!"
"It's been angry for years! This is different! Its eyes are glowing!"
Wei squinted. The goose's eyes did, in fact, have a faint golden gleam. But that might just have been the morning light. Or the tree's blessing. Or pure, distilled hatred.
"The eyes always glow when it's angry!"
"That's not comforting!"
The goose lunged and nipped at Hao's heel. Hao yelped and jumped, his arms flailing. Xiao Hei, woken by the commotion, scrambled out of Wei's arms and ran toward the chase, barking excitedly. Whether he intended to help Hao or join the goose was unclear. He seemed to be having the time of his life.
Li looked up from the dead ducks. She was still crying, but something in her face shifted. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, like the sun breaking through clouds.
"The goose is fine," she said. "It's just happy the apocalypse didn't kill Hao."
"Nothing ever kills Hao," their grandfather's voice came from behind them.
He had appeared at the edge of the pond, leaning on his cane, watching the chase with something like amusement. Xiao Hei had given up on the chase and was now trotting back toward the old man, his tail wagging. "The boy's too stubborn. Takes after his grandmother."
The goose chased Hao around the pond twice more before giving up. It stopped at the water's edge, fluffed its feathers until it looked twice its normal size, and glared at Hao with an expression of pure, undying hatred. Then it honked once—a sound of absolute finality—and waddled into the water.
Xiao Hei, who had been running alongside the goose for the entire chase, sat down beside the pond and attempted to imitate its glare. The effect was somewhat undermined by his wagging tail and the fact that he was approximately one-tenth the goose's size.
"That goose," Hao panted, bent over with his hands on his knees, "is going to be the death of me."
"The zombies will be the death of you," Li said. "The goose is just a bonus."
Wei laughed. He didn't mean to. It just came out.
And for a moment, standing there by the pond with his brother and sister and grandfather, with Xiao Hei trotting back toward them looking immensely pleased with himself, Wei forgot about the shimmer and the dead and the world outside.
Then he looked at the horizon.
Smoke. Fires. Figures moving in the distant fields—small, dark shapes against the grey sky.
The laughter died in his throat.
He walked along the top of the wall to the east gate. The path was solid under his feet. The vines had woven themselves into a flat surface, springy but strong, like walking on a living floor. He walked slowly, his hand trailing along the stone. It was warm, pulsing faintly with the tree's life.
The Lin property was dark. No smoke from the chimney. No movement in the fields. The dog that had been tied to the post—a scruffy brown mutt that used to bark at them whenever they passed—was gone. The rope lay in the dirt, frayed at the end.
Wei didn't want to think about what had happened to it.
Beyond the Lin property, toward the town, he saw figures.
Jiangshi. The living dead.
They moved slowly, aimlessly, their arms hanging too long, their heads tilted at wrong angles. Their skin was grey, cracked, like dried mud. They didn't seem to notice the wall. They didn't seem to notice anything. Something about the tree's light seemed to keep them at a distance—they stayed far back, stumbling in circles at the edge of the clearing, never coming closer than a hundred meters.
Wei watched them for a long time.
One of them looked almost human. A woman, maybe. Her hair was still tied in a braid, though it was tangled and dirty now. She wore a blue dress that had once been pretty, the kind of dress someone might wear to a festival. Now it was torn and stained.
Now she was something else.
She turned, and for a moment, her empty white eyes seemed to look directly at him. Wei's breath caught. But she didn't move toward the wall. She just stood there, swaying slightly, as if listening to music only she could hear.
He turned away and climbed down.
Then a sudden notification came. Which froze him.
┌──────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ ⚠ CORRUPTION DETECTED │
│ Location: Vegetable Garden (East Field) │
│ Severity: Critical │
│ Cause: Residual shimmer miasma │
│ Effect: Crops dying. Soil contamination │
│ spreading. If not contained within 48 │
│ hours, corruption may affect adjacent │
│ fields and orchard. │
│ Recommended: Immediate removal of all │
│ affected plant matter and topsoil. │
└──────────────────────────────────────────┘
End Of Chapter 3