Chapter 18: Liu Wei (Part 1)
"I have seeds," he said. He reached into his inventory—a motion that had become as natural as breathing—and pulled out the packets. They gleamed in the faint light of the cave, the Silvervein Rice with its pale, almost translucent shimmer, the Goldflour Millet warm and golden, the Hillcrest Wheat rich and brown. "Rice, millet, wheat. They're like the vegetable seeds—they'll resist the corruption. They'll grow faster than anything we've planted before."
His father stared at the packets. "Rice seeds? Real rice?"
"Silvervein Rice. A hundred days to harvest. The yield is fifty percent higher than what we used to grow. It thrives in mana-enriched water—the spring will be perfect for it."
For a long moment, his father didn't speak. He took the rice packet and turned it over in his weathered hands, his fingers tracing the clear panel where the seeds were visible—tiny grains, each one veined with silver, each one carrying the promise of a hundred meals. His hands, which had been steady even when the goblins came, were trembling.
"Rice," he said. His voice cracked on the word. "Real rice. After all this time. After everything." He looked up, and his eyes were wet. "You found rice."
"I found rice."
Grandfather stepped forward and took the millet packet. He didn't speak for a long moment, and when he did, his voice was rougher than Wei had ever heard it. "Goldflour. This is the same strain my mother used to grow. Before the land reform. Before any of this. She made porridge from it every morning, before the sun was up. She'd add a little honey if we had it, and the whole kitchen would smell sweet all day." He looked at Wei, and his eyes were wet. "This strain has been extinct for fifty years. I haven't tasted that porridge since I was a boy. I thought I'd never taste it again."
"You will again," Wei said. "Fifty-five days to harvest."
Grandfather nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"We'll need a canal," Wei's father said, his voice steadying into the familiar tone of command. "A big one. From here to the first paddy, then branching out. The old channels are broken in a dozen places, and the gradient needs to be right, or the water won't flow." He looked at Jianguo. "You know how to lay a channel."
"I've done it before," Jianguo said from the cave entrance. "In worse conditions. With worse tools. Give me stakes and string and a bucket of water, and I'll give you a canal."
"Hao, get the picks and shovels from the tool shed. Li, you'll help your mother clear the debris from the old ditches—pull out the dead stalks, dig out the silt. Grandfather, you'll supervise—you've dug more channels than any of us." He paused, looking at Grandmother. "And you—"
"I'll dig," she said. "I dug the first well on this farm. I was sixteen. The ground was harder then. Full of rocks the size of my fist. My hands bled for a week." She flexed her gnarled fingers. "I can still hold a shovel."
No one argued with Grandmother. No one ever did.
Wei hesitated. "Father. There's something else. Before we start."
His father turned. "What is it?"
"Liu Wei. And his son. They're still in the barn. The boy's fever broke yesterday—he opened his eyes for the first time in two days. They're going to leave soon, but..." Wei paused, trying to find the right words. "He's not like the others. He's not like Lin Tao. He's just a father trying to keep his son alive.
Lin Tao threatened him—told him if he didn't go along with their demands, his family wouldn't survive. He was afraid. He went along with it. But he's not a bad man. He's been sitting in that barn for two days, watching his son breathe, waiting for him to be strong enough to walk. He hasn't asked for anything. He's just grateful."
His father was quiet for a moment. "You've spoken to him."
"Several times. He told me about Lin Tao's threats. He told me he's done with them—when his son is strong enough, he's going far away, somewhere Lin Tao won't find them. He's not a threat. He's just tired. And his son... his son almost died. The fever was so bad he couldn't even lift his head. If we'd sent them away with the others, he wouldn't have survived."
His father looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Bring him. Bring them both. If they're going to leave, they should leave with full stomachs and a clear idea of what's out there. And if they want to help before they go, we could use the extra hands."
Liu Wei was sitting on a crate near the entrance, his son in his arms. The boy's eyes were open—really open, not half-closed and glassy. His cheeks had a touch of color. He was looking around, taking in the barn, the light coming through the doorway.
His father stepped inside.
"How is he?" he asked.
Liu Wei looked up. His face was still gaunt, but the desperation was gone. In its place was something fragile—hope, maybe. Relief.
"Better," he said. He shifted the boy in his arms, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. "The fever broke in the night. Around two in the morning. He woke up and asked for water." He smiled—a small, tired smile. "He ate a little congee this morning. Not much. But enough."
He looked down at his son. "ChenChen, say hello."
The boy turned his head. His eyes were brown and clear, still a little glassy from sleep, but focused. "Hello," he whispered.
Wei's father smiled. "That's good. That's very good."
Liu Wei shifted the boy in his arms again. His hands were shaking. He looked at Wei's father, then at Wei, then back at the older man.
"Mr. Zhang," he said. His voice was rough. "I don't know how to thank you. The medicine, the food, the shelter. You didn't have to do any of it."
Wei's father started to speak, but Liu Wei held up his hand.
"Please," he said. "Let me finish."
He carefully set ChenChen down on the crate. The boy's legs wobbled, but he stood. He was small for his age—too small, too thin. His clothes hung loose on his frame. But he was standing. He was alive.
Liu Wei crouched and put his hand on his son's shoulder, steadying him.
Then he reached into his pocket.
His fingers fumbled for a moment, and he pulled out a worn leather wallet. The leather was cracked, the stitching loose, the edges frayed. He opened it with trembling hands. Inside were a few crumpled notes—old currency, from before the shimmer. A hundred yuan, maybe less. The paper was soft, creased, the ink faded.
He pulled them out and held them out to Wei's father.
"I know it's not much," he said. His voice cracked. "It's all I have left. Please. Take it."
Wei's father didn't move.
Liu Wei's hand trembled. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a watch—an old one, silver, the glass cracked across the face. The band was worn, the metal tarnished. He held it out alongside the money.
"This too," he said. "It was my father's. He gave it to me when I turned eighteen. Said it would keep me safe." He laughed—a short, bitter sound. "It didn't. But you did."
He swallowed. "You gave me and my son shelter. You fed us. You saved my boy's life. I have nothing else to give you."
The barn was silent. ChenChen looked up at his father, then at Wei's father, his small face confused.
Wei's father looked at the money. At the watch. At Liu Wei's face, hollow and desperate, his eyes red, his cheeks wet.
He didn't reach for them.
"Put them away," he said quietly.
Liu Wei's eyes widened. "Please—"
"Put them away." Wei's father stepped closer. He put his hand on Liu Wei's shoulder. "I don't want your money. I don't want your watch."
Liu Wei's face went pale. His eyes darted to his son, then back to Wei's father. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked at the money in his hand, then at the watch, then at his son—his small, thin son who had almost died of fever, who was just now strong enough to stand.
And then, very quietly, he said: "You don't want my money."
"No."
"You don't want my watch."
"No."
A long, terrible pause. Liu Wei's face cycled through confusion, then dawning horror, then pure, unfiltered panic.
"Then what do you want?" His voice rose, cracking. "I don't have anything else. I don't—" He looked at his son. His son. The boy who was small and thin and just recovering from a fever that had nearly killed him. The boy who hadn't eaten properly in weeks. The boy who, in a starving world, might look like something else entirely to desperate people.
Liu Wei's face went white. He stepped in front of ChenChen, his arms spreading wide, his body blocking the boy from view.
"No," he said. His voice was shaking. "No. Absolutely not. We're fucking leaving. We're leaving right now."
Wei's father blinked. "What?"
"You can't have him." Liu Wei's voice was rising, his eyes wild. "I don't care how hungry you are. I don't care what you've done to survive. You are not touching my son. I'll fucking kill you first. I swear to god I'll kill every single one of you before you lay a finger on him."
The barn went very, very quiet.
Wei stared at Liu Wei. His father stared at Liu Wei. Even ChenChen, peeking around his father's leg, looked confused.
Then Hao, who had been hovering near the barn entrance, made a small, strangled sound. It might have been a cough. It might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell.
Wei's father closed his eyes. He took a long, slow breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes again, his expression was caught somewhere between exhaustion and profound, bone-deep bewilderment.
"Liu Wei," he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "We are not going to eat your son."
"You fucking said—"
"I said I don't want your money. I meant that I'm offering you a place here. On the farm. To stay. To work. To eat real food and sleep under a real roof and not wander the godforsaken wilderness with a sick child."
Liu Wei stared at him. His arms were still spread. "You... you want us to stay?"
"Yes."
"As in... live here? Permanently?"
"If you want. For fuck's sake, man, we have vegetables. We have pigs. We have an orchard full of fruit. We are not starving. We are not desperate. We are not cannibals."
"But you said—"
"I said I didn't want your money, not that I wanted your child for dinner."
Liu Wei's mouth opened and closed several times. He looked at Wei, who nodded. He looked at Hao, who was now openly grinning. He looked at his son, who seemed more confused than frightened.
"Oh," he said finally. His voice was very small. "I thought... I thought you were going to..."
"I know what you fucking thought." Wei's father's voice was dry. "You were wrong."
"I see that now. I see that very clearly."
"We grow vegetables, Liu Wei. We have pigs and chickens and an orchard full of fruit. We are not starving. We are not desperate. We are not cannibals. How many times do I have to say it?"
"Right. Yes. Of course." Liu Wei's face had gone from white to a deep, mortified red. "I'm so sorry. I just—when you said you didn't want my money, and I had nothing else to offer, and the boy is so small, and people get desperate, and I thought—"
"You thought we were going to eat your fucking son."
"I panicked."
"Clearly."
Hao was shaking now, his hand pressed over his mouth, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "This is the best thing that's ever happened," he whispered. "This is the best misunderstanding in the history of misunderstandings. 'You want to eat my son?' 'No, I want you to live here.' This is incredible. This is art."
"Hao," his mother said warningly from the doorway. She had appeared at some point during the exchange, and her expression was a complex mixture of sympathy and barely-suppressed amusement.
"I'm not laughing," Hao said, very clearly laughing. "I'm not. This is a serious moment. This is a very serious moment about a man who thought we were going to eat his child. Who threatened to kill us all. Very serious."
"Hao."
"I'm going to remember this forever. I'm going to tell this story at every family gathering for the rest of my life. 'Remember that time Liu Wei thought we were cannibals?' It'll be a classic. It'll be—"
Li appeared beside him and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. He doubled over with a wheeze that was half pain and half laughter.
Liu Wei had buried his face in his hands. "I'm so fucking sorry," he said, his voice muffled. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't believe I said that. I can't believe I threatened to kill you. You must think I'm insane."
"Don't be." Wei's father's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You were trying to protect your son. That's not something to apologize for."
"But I accused you of—I threatened to—"
"You made a mistake. In a world like this, it's an understandable one." He paused. "Though I have to say, if we were going to eat anyone, it wouldn't be the sick child. He's too small. Not enough meat. And the bones would be a choking hazard."
Liu Wei's head snapped up, his eyes wide.
And then Wei's father—stoic, serious, never-cracking-a-smile Zhang Senior—let the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
Hao lost it completely. He slid down the doorframe, wheezing, tears streaming down his face. "He made a joke! Father made a joke! This is the greatest day of my life! First we're cannibals, now Father's a comedian!"
Li was shaking her head, but she was smiling too. Even Grandmother, standing in the doorway with her knitting, made a small sound that might have been a chuckle.
Liu Wei stared at them all. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he started to laugh too. It was a rusty sound, unused, like a door opening after years of being stuck.
"I can't believe I said that," he said. "I can't believe I thought—I can't believe I threatened to kill you all."
"We'll never let you forget it," Hao promised from the floor. "Never. This is family lore now. You're part of the family lore. 'Liu Wei, the man who thought the Zhangs were cannibals and threatened to murder everyone.' It's going in the official records."
"We don't have official records," Li said.
"We do now. I'm starting them. Rule one: don't accuse people of wanting to eat your son."
ChenChen tugged on his father's sleeve. "Baba? Why did you think they were going to eat me? And why did you say all those bad words?"
"Because your father is a very silly man who says very silly things when he's scared," Wei's mother said, stepping into the barn. She crouched down and smiled at the boy. "No one is going to eat you. No one is going to hurt you. You're safe here. Both of you."
ChenChen considered this. Then he looked at Hao, who was still on the floor. "Why is he laughing?"
"Because he's an idiot," Li said.
"That's fair," Hao agreed, still wheezing.
Liu Wei crouched down and pulled his son into his arms. He held him tight, his face buried in the boy's hair, his shoulders shaking. When he looked up, his eyes were wet, but he was smiling.
"Thank you," he said. "For everything. For the medicine. For the food. For not eating my son. And for not killing me after I threatened to kill you."
"You're welcome," Wei's father said. "Now put your money away. You'll need it someday." He paused, then added, deadpan: "To buy more children. Since we won't be providing any."
Hao wheezed so hard he nearly choked. Li had to pound him on the back. Even Jianguo, who had appeared in the doorway at some point, made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Liu Wei stared at Wei's father, his expression caught between disbelief and gratitude. Then he slowly put the notes back in his wallet, the wallet back in his pocket. He looked at the watch in his palm.
"My father gave me this," he said quietly. He turned it over, watching the light catch the cracked glass. "He said it would keep me safe. He said as long as I had it, nothing bad would happen to me."
He looked up. "He was wrong. But you were right."
He held the watch out one more time. "Please. Take it. I want you to have it."
Wei's father hesitated. He looked at the watch, then at Liu Wei's face. Then he reached out and took it.
"I'll keep it safe," he said. "Until you need it again."
Liu Wei wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
ChenChen tugged on his father's sleeve. "Father? Are we staying?"
Liu Wei crouched down and pulled his son into his arms. He held him tight, his face buried in the boy's hair. "Yes," he said. "We're staying."
---
While the Zhangs welcomed Liu Wei, the Lins were walking.
The road to the town was cracked and overgrown, a shattered spine of asphalt pushing through dead weeds. The fields on either side were brown and rotting—crops that had died in the shimmer and never come back. Nothing moved except the wind, which blew in cold, mean-spirited gusts, carrying the smell of ash and decay. The sky was the color of a fresh bruise.
End Of Chapter 18