The morning air was cool and grey, the sun still hidden behind the eastern mountains. His bare feet left prints in the dew-wet grass as he circled the property. The dream was still in him—not as images anymore, but as a pressure behind his eyes, a taste of copper at the back of his throat.
I can't shake it.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and cold.
That city. Those things. They're still there, somewhere. Waiting.
The beasts. He had never seen anything like them. The grey-skinned things that had been people, their bodies cracking and crumbling at a touch. The small green creatures that laughed while they killed. The massive bats, the wyvern with its yellow eyes, the orc whose spear had passed through his chest like he was made of smoke. And the tree. The seed. The voice that had spoken without words.
"Plant me before the sky breaks. I will hold the ground. You will hold the gate."
He stopped walking and looked toward the center of the property. The Tree of Life stood where he had planted it hours ago, five meters tall, its leaves the color of jade after rain. And on its branches—fruit.
They had not been there when he went to bed. A dozen small orbs hung from the lower branches, each the size of a plum, their skin the color of old amber. They glowed faintly, like coals that had just stopped burning. The light pulsed in a slow rhythm that matched nothing Wei could identify—except, perhaps, his own heartbeat.
A panel appeared in his vision.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TUTORIAL QUEST: FIRST HARVEST │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Harvest and consume all Blessed Fruits from the Tree of │
│ Life. │
│ │
│ Reward 1: Permanent all-stat increase │
│ Reward 2: Blueprint: Scythe of the First Harvest │
│ │
│ Warning: Fruits lose potency in 6 hours. │
│ Time remaining: 5h 52m │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the golden characters. Twelve fruits. Eat them before they go bad. Simple. Except nothing about this was simple.
He reached up and picked one.
The moment his fingers touched its skin, warmth spread through his hand. Not the gentle warmth of sunlight. This was deeper, more insistent, like the heat that builds in muscles after hard labor. It climbed his arm and settled in his chest, and for a moment he could feel the tree—not as a separate thing, but as an extension of himself. Roots reaching down into soil he could not see. Branches stretching toward a sky he could not touch.
The fruit came away easily. A small brown scar remained on the branch, already beginning to close. He held it in his palm. It was heavier than it should have been. It pulsed.
He focused on it.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ APPRAISAL │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Fruit of the Tree of Life │
│ Tier 1 | Legendary │
│ │
│ Effect: Permanently increases all basic stats by 0.1 │
│ (stacking up to 12 times) │
│ Mana + (10-20) random │
│ │
│ ⚠ Toxic to unadapted humans. Do not share. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Toxic to unadapted humans.
Wei turned the fruit over in his palm. The skin was smooth and warm, pulsing faintly against his fingers.
So sharing these is a no go.
He bit into the fruit.
The taste was nothing he could name. Not sweet. Not sour. Not anything that existed in the world of ordinary food. It was earthy but clean, like the smell of soil after the first spring rain, translated into something the tongue could understand. It dissolved before he could chew, becoming warmth that spread down his throat and into his chest, his arms, his legs.
```
Strength: 1.0 → 1.1
Agility: 1.0 → 1.1
Physical Resilience: 1.0 → 1.1
Intelligence: 1.0 → 1.1
Mana: 0 → 14
Fruits consumed: 1/12
```
The numbers meant nothing. What did "1.1 strength" feel like? He clenched his fist. It felt the same. Maybe a little warmer. Maybe he was imagining it.
He ate the second fruit. The third. The warmth built steadily, a slow pressure behind his eyes and in his joints. By the sixth fruit, that warmth had become heat—dry and prickling, like the beginning of a fever. His limbs felt heavy. His eyelids drooped. A warning flashed at the edge of his vision.
Mana exhaustion (mild). Rest recommended.
Not yet.
The others would wake soon. He did not want to explain why he was standing under a tree eating fruits at dawn like a man possessed. He just wanted it done.
The numbers kept climbing, but he stopped tracking them. His body was too busy trying to process what he had done to it. The tenth fruit rolled out of his trembling fingers and landed in the grass. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to remember why it was on the ground. Then he remembered. He picked it up, wiped the dirt off on his shirt, and ate it.
The world tilted.
Not fell. Tilted, like a cart with a broken wheel. The tree leaned left. The ground leaned right. Wei leaned somewhere in between, and that was not working well at all.
Eleventh fruit. He chewed with his eyes closed. The warmth crawled through him like honey through narrow pipes, thick and slow. His arms felt like they belonged to someone else. His legs had stopped responding entirely.
By the time he reached the twelfth fruit, he was barely conscious of eating it. He remembered opening his eyes and seeing the empty branch. He remembered the panel flashing.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ TUTORIAL QUEST COMPLETE │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ All basic stats +1.2 │
│ Total: Strength 2.2, Agility 2.2, │
│ Physical Resilience 2.2, Intelligence 2.2 │
│ Mana: 152 + 16 = 168 │
│ │
│ Reward 1: Scythe of the First Harvest added to storage. │
│ Reward 2: Blueprint added to store. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
And then he was on his back in the grass, staring up at the leaves, unable to move his arms or legs or anything at all. The sky was lighter now. Pale gold at the edges. The leaves rustled above him, and he could feel the tree—really feel it, not as a presence but as a second self, a body that was not his body but was also not separate from him.
A shadow fell across his face.
"Are you dead?"
Hao's face appeared above him, upside down, blocking the leaves. His younger brother looked concerned. He also looked annoyed, which was his default expression when dealing with Wei before breakfast.
"No," Wei said. His voice came out rough and thin, like a frog that had been stepped on.
Hao crouched down, his elbows on his knees, and studied Wei with the careful attention he usually reserved for broken machinery. "Then why," he said slowly, "are you lying on the ground at sunrise?"
"I ate something. From the tree."
Hao's eyes flicked to the branches, to the empty spaces where the fruits had been. He was quiet for a moment, and Wei could see him working through it—the tree, the fruits, his brother flat on his back in the grass.
"You ate all of them," Hao said. It wasn't a question.
"Had to."
"Had to." Hao's voice was flat. "You had to eat twelve fruits until you couldn't move."
"That's... accurate."
Hao sat back on his heels. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "Are you sick? Is this going to kill you?"
"No. I don't think so. My body just... needs time."
"Time for what?"
"To adjust."
Hao stared at him. Then he reached out and poked Wei's cheek. "You're warm. Fever warm. And you're grey. Not your usual grey. You're grey-grey. Like old congee that's been sitting out for three days and everyone's afraid to throw it away because Grandmother might want it for something."
"That's very specific."
"I've been thinking about it." Hao's hand moved to Wei's shoulder and pressed down, not hard, just holding him there. His fingers were warm. "You scared me, you know. I came out and you were just lying here. I thought—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind. I'm getting Mother."
"No—"
But Hao was already on his feet. "She's going to find out anyway. Better now than when you're unconscious." He walked toward the house, his long legs eating up the distance.
Wei closed his eyes.
Tree of Life: Minor restoration active.
The heat began to fade. Slowly. Degree by degree.
---
The dogs found him first.
Hei came padding across the grass, his old legs stiff but steady, and lowered himself to the ground beside Wei with a grunt that sounded like judgment. He rested his heavy head on Wei's chest and stared at him with dark, patient eyes. The three pups arrived in a tumbling chaos of legs and tails, and upon discovering that Wei was horizontal and therefore available, they proceeded to cover his face and hands with enthusiastic licks.
"Stop. I'm not food. I'm not—" A tongue found his ear. "Hao. Traitor."
One of the pups—the boldest one, the dark brown male with one white paw—managed to get his entire snout into Wei's armpit. Wei yelped.
"That's—that's not—get off—"
The pup wagged his tail furiously, delighted by this new and fascinating smell.
Da and Er had remained at their posts by the animal pens. They did not come to investigate. They were working dogs, serious dogs, and they understood that not every commotion required their attention. Hei, retired from active duty, had appointed himself Wei's personal guardian years ago and took his responsibilities seriously. He watched the puppy assault with the resigned expression of an old soldier watching recruits make fools of themselves.
Wei's mother appeared a few minutes later, her hands still dusted with flour from the morning's cooking. Hao was behind her, trying to explain what he had found—"He ate something from the tree, Mother, I don't know what, he's just lying there, and the dogs are—" but she was not listening to him. She was looking at Wei on the ground, at the tree towering above him, at the faint glow that still lingered on its leaves, at the puppy still enthusiastically investigating his armpit.
She stood over him with her arms crossed and her head tilted, the expression she wore when one of her children had done something inexplicable and she was deciding how angry to be. Her face was lined in ways Wei did not remember from two years ago. Deeper around the eyes. More grey in her hair, pulled back in its usual tight bun.
"You look like death," she said.
"I ate something from the tree. It... didn't agree with me."
"I can see that." She crouched down, her knees pressing into the damp grass. Her hand found his forehead, cool and rough. With her other hand, she gently pushed the puppy away. It immediately tried to climb onto her lap instead. "You're burning up. What did you eat?"
"Fruits. From the branches. Twelve of them."
"Twelve."
"Yes."
She was quiet for a moment. Her hand stayed on his forehead. The puppy had given up on her lap and was now chewing on the hem of her apron. She ignored it. "Why?"
Because I need to be stronger, and that was a way for that. Because something is coming and I have to be ready.
But he couldn't say any of that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"I had a feeling," he said. "That I needed to. That it was important."
"A feeling."
"Yes."
She looked at him for a long moment. Her eyes were tired, but there was something else in them—something that might have been fear, or might have been trust, or might have been both. "Can you stand?"
"I think so."
"Then get up. Eat some rice. Then we'll talk."
She held out her hand. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet with a strength that surprised him. His legs held, barely. The nausea had faded to a dull ache behind his eyes. He walked to the house—slowly, carefully, with Hei walking beside him like a four-legged cane—and sat down at the kitchen table.
The puppy followed, still attached to the hem of his mother's apron, growling softly as he tugged at the fabric. His mother finally looked down.
"Xiao Hei," she said flatly. "Release."
The puppy looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes and did not release.
"I will get the broom."
The puppy released. He trotted over to Wei and collapsed dramatically across his feet, as if the effort of being a menace had exhausted him entirely.
Wei's grandmother put a bowl of plain rice in front of him without comment. Her small, gnarled hands moved with their usual efficiency, setting down chopsticks, a cup of tea, a small dish of pickled vegetables. She did not look at his face. She looked at his hands, at the way they trembled slightly when he picked up the chopsticks. Then she turned back to the stove and said nothing.
Wei ate. The rice was warm and bland and exactly what his body needed. The ache behind his eyes began to recede.
His mother sat down across from him. She did not speak. She just watched him eat, her hands folded on the table, her expression unreadable. Hao hovered by the door, uncertain whether to stay or go.
"Sit," their mother said without looking at him.
Hao sat.
The fatigue faded slowly, like fog burning off under morning sun. By the time Wei finished the rice, he could feel his fingers again. His thoughts were clearing.
"Better?" his mother asked.
"Yes."
"Good." She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "Now. Tell me what's going on. And don't tell me you had a feeling. I know you better than that."
Wei set down his chopsticks. He looked at his mother, at Hao, at his grandmother's back.
How much do I tell them? How much can they carry?
"There's something coming," he said finally. "Today. Before nightfall. I don't know exactly what. But the world outside these walls is going to change. The tree—" He gestured toward the window. "The tree's presence will protect us. As long as we stay inside the walls, we'll be safe."
His mother's face was very still. "Safe from what?"
Wei looked at the tree through the window. Its leaves were still, but he could feel them breathing. "I don't know," he said. "I wish I did. But I don't."
His mother stared at him. Her jaw tightened. "Wei. I am your mother. I have fed you and clothed you and watched you grow for twenty-three years. I deserve more than 'I don't know.'"
"I know." He met her eyes. "And if I had more to give you, I would. But I don't. What I have is a warning, and a tree, and the certainty that if we stay inside these walls, we live. That's all. I'm sorry it's not enough."
The silence stretched. The puppy, Xiao Hei, had woken from his dramatic collapse and was now attempting to climb Hao's leg. Hao picked him up absently and held him like a sack of rice. The puppy licked his chin.
Then his mother reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were rough and warm. "I trust you," she said. "But it's hard to believe, did you had a bad dream."
He couldn't say anything more. Just looked down aimlessly.
---
He washed his face at the well. The water was cold and clean, shocking against his skin, and when he looked down at his reflection in the bucket, he saw something that made him stop.
His eyes had changed. The brown was the same—the same ordinary brown he had inherited from his father, the same brown Hao had and Li had and their grandfather had—but there was something else now. A faint gold ring around the pupil, thin as a hair, catching the morning light.
He leaned closer to the water, tilting his head. It was not a trick of the light. The ring was there, embedded in his iris like a thread of metal woven through cloth.
Great. That's not going to raise questions.
Hei, who had followed him to the well, wagged his tail once. The old dog did not seem surprised. But then, Hei had seen a great many things in his right years, and very few of them surprised him anymore.
From the kitchen, he heard a crash, followed by his mother's voice: "Hao! Put the puppy down before you break something!"
"I'm not holding the puppy!"
"Then why is there flour on the floor?"
"That's—that's a long story—"
Wei closed his eyes and let the morning chaos wash over him. For a moment, just a moment, it felt like a normal day.
---
Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when everyone in a room is thinking about the same thing and no one wants to be the first to speak it aloud.
Wei's father ate without looking at anyone. His movements were slow and deliberate, each bite of congee measured, each sip of tea taken at the same interval. He was a man who processed difficult things by reducing everything else to routine. Wei's grandmother kept glancing at the tree through the window, her chopsticks pausing halfway to her mouth. Li had not said a word since she woke up and saw the vines crawling up the walls. She sat with her bowl cupped in both hands, staring into the congee like it might contain answers. Her old blue jacket—the one with the torn sleeve she refused to let their mother mend—hung loose on her thin shoulders.
Only Hao seemed unaffected, eating with his usual enthusiasm, though Wei noticed that he was watching everyone else more closely than usual. His eyes moved from face to face, cataloging, assessing. Xiao Hei the puppy had been banished to the courtyard after the flour incident and was now visible through the window, sitting exactly where he'd been left, looking deeply wronged.
After the bowls were cleared—Wei's grandmother collecting them with her usual efficiency—Wei asked everyone to sit.
They sat. His father was at the head of the table, rigid posture. His mother beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her knuckles white where she gripped her own fingers. His grandmother and grandfather together on one side, their shoulders touching. Hao and Li across from Wei. And his uncle Jianguo, who had appeared silently from wherever he had been, standing by the door with his arms crossed.
Wei told them what he could.
Not about the dream.
I can't.
The images were still too raw, too close. The grey people crumbling. The baby in the burning street. The orc's spear passing through his chest. Some horrors had to be carried alone.
But he told them about the warning. A disaster coming. Today. Before nightfall.
"The sky will change," he said. "A shimmer will pass through the air. It will last about ten minutes. Everyone and everything exposed to it will... become something else. The old stories called them jiangshi—the living dead. But they'll be faster. Hungrier."
He paused. No one spoke. Li had stopped breathing—Wei could see her chest, motionless.
"The tree will protect us," he continued. "As long as we stay inside the walls, we'll be safe. But we need to prepare. Stock supplies. Secure the gates. Make sure we have everything we need."
Silence.
His father set down his chopsticks. He did not look at Wei. He looked at the tree through the window, its jade-green leaves catching the morning light. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.
"You grew that tree last night."
"Yes."
"And now you're telling us the world is ending."
"Yes."
His father turned to Wei's mother. "Did he hit his head?"
"I don't think so." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Did he sleep at all?"
"He was in bed by nine. I checked."
His father turned back to Wei. For a long moment, he just looked at him. Wei could see the struggle behind his father's eyes—the desire to dismiss this as madness, as exhaustion, as anything other than what it was. His father was a man of soil and seasons. He believed in things he could touch, measure, predict.
"You're not a liar," his father said finally. "You never have been. Even when you were small, you couldn't lie without your ears turning red." He gestured vaguely at Wei's ears. "They're not red now. But this—" He gestured at the tree, at the vines on the wall, at the air itself. "This is not something a person just accepts."
"I know," Wei said.
"It would be better if I just show you something"
Wei reached into his pocket. A pumpkin seed, small and flat. He held it up.
"Watch."
He placed the seed on the wooden table. The surface was scarred with decades of use—knife marks, hot pot rings, the ghost impressions of countless meals. Wei focused. He pulled on the warmth in his chest, and it flowed down his arm.
"Grow," he said.
The seed cracked.
A white root pushed out, thin as a hair, then thicker, coiling against the wood. A green shoot followed, curling upward. The shoot lengthened. Leaves unfurled—small at first, crinkled, bright green, then larger, flattening out. The stem thickened. In ten seconds, a pumpkin seedling stood ten centimeters tall on the table, its leaves trembling.
No one spoke.
His father reached out. His hand, rough and calloused from fifty years of working the land, touched the seedling. His finger brushed one of the leaves. The leaf bent, then sprang back.
"That's not possible," his father said.
"I know."
His father looked at him. Wei saw it happen—the moment his father's certainty cracked. It was not dramatic. Just a slight sag in his shoulders, a loosening of the muscles around his jaw.
"How long?" his father asked. His voice was very quiet.
"The sky breaks in less than twelve hours."
Li stood up.
She did not do it fast. She just stood up, very slowly, and walked out of the room. The door closed quietly behind her.
Wei's mother started to rise. His grandfather put his hand on her arm.
"Let her go," he said. "She needs a minute."
His mother sat back down. Her hands were shaking.
Then Li came back.
She stood in the doorway, her face red, her eyes wet. She was trembling. She looked at Wei, and her expression was not anger. It was hurt.
"You left," she said. Her voice cracked. "You left for two years. Two years, Wei. You didn't call enough. You didn't visit. You sent letters that were three sentences long and half of them were about the weather."
She took a step into the room. Her hands were clenched at her sides.
"I waited for you. Every day. I waited for the mail, I waited for the phone to ring, I waited for you to walk through that gate. And you didn't. And I told myself it was fine. That you were busy. That you had important things to do in the city." Her voice broke. "Important things that didn't include us."
"Wei." She was crying now. "Did you even miss us?"
The room was very still.
Wei opened his mouth. Closed it.
What can I say? She's right. I left. I stayed away. I was selfish.
"Yes," he said. "I missed you. Every day."
"Then why didn't you come home?"
He had no good answer. Only the truth.
"Because I was ashamed."
Li blinked. "What?"
"I left to prove something—to Father, to myself. I thought if I could succeed in the city, it would mean I was worth something. But I didn't succeed. I just existed. I went to classes. I worked a job I hated. I lived in a room smaller than this kitchen. And every day I thought about coming home, and every day I told myself I couldn't, because coming home meant admitting I had failed."
His throat was tight.
"But I didn't fail because the city was too hard. I failed because I was already home. I just didn't know it." He looked at Li. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I didn't call. I'm sorry I made you wait. I can't undo any of it. All I can do is stay."
Li wiped her face with her sleeve—the old blue jacket.
"You promise?" Her voice was very small.
"I promise."
"You won't leave again?"
"I won't leave again."
"What if you have to? What if something happens and you have to go?"
Wei stood up. He walked around the table and stopped in front of her. She had to tilt her head back to look at his face.
"If I have to go," he said, "I'll come back. No matter what. No matter how far. I'll come back."
She stared at him. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, her face pressed against his chest. He held her. She was shaking.
"You're still an idiot," she mumbled.
"I know."
"The biggest idiot."
"I know."
"If you break your promise, I'll feed you to Báixuě."
"The goose?"
"He's been training. Every morning. Watches the gate. Hisses at shadows. Very dedicated."
Wei almost smiled. "I believe you."
Li pulled back and wiped her face again. Her eyes were still red, but something in them had shifted. "Fine," she said. "Stay. But I'm still mad at you."
"That's fair."
She walked back to her seat and sat down, pulling her empty bowl toward her.
No one said anything for a long moment. Then Hao cleared his throat.
"So," he said. "Just to be clear. The sky is breaking. Monsters are coming. And we have a goose."
"A very motivated goose," Li said without looking up.
"I'm not saying he's not motivated. I'm saying he's a goose."
"Báixuě once chased a fox for half a li."
"That fox was elderly."
"Age is not a disqualification. He also bit the mailman."
"That's not a qualification!"
"The mailman never came back."
"Because we don't get mail anymore!"
Their mother made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. She covered her mouth, and her shoulders shook. Wei's father reached over and put his hand on her back. He did not speak. He just held it there while she cried.
The room was quiet except for the sound of her grief. Wei's grandmother got up and walked to the stove, her back to the room. His grandfather sat with his eyes closed. Hao stared at the table, his earlier humor gone. Jianguo stood by the door, his arms still crossed, his jaw tight.
---
His uncle Jianguo pushed off the doorframe and walked to the table. He did not sit. He stood at the end, his large hands flat on the scarred wood.
"We need to be practical," he said. "If what Wei says is true—and I believe him—then the money in the bank becomes worthless after today. Every yuan we've saved buys nothing once the world changes."
Wei's father started to speak. Jianguo held up one hand.
"I've seen this before. Not here. Other places. Places where systems broke down. The first thing that becomes worthless is currency. The second is promises. What matters is what you can use. Tools. Medicine. Metal. Food that keeps. Seeds that grow."
He leaned forward.
"We have ninety-five thousand yuan left. The wall took nearly everything. But it's enough to buy what we need if we go now."
Wei's father's hands were clenched on the table. "You're talking about spending everything. On a warning that might not—" He stopped. Looked at Wei. Looked at the seedling. His jaw worked.
"Brother." Jianguo's voice was quiet. "When the Lins burned our rice field, how long did you wait before you built the wall?"
Silence.
"You waited until you had proof. Until you saw the three ignition points. And while you waited, the field burned. Eight mu of rice. Our best yield in years. Gone."
"That was different—"
"Was it?" Jianguo's voice was still quiet, but there was an edge to it now. "You had warnings. Hao saw boot prints near the boundary. Hei came back with a broken leg. The fruit was going missing. You had warnings, and you waited. And we lost the field."
He straightened up.
"I served twelve years. I watched men die because we didn't have the right supplies. I watched them die because someone higher up decided the intelligence wasn't reliable, or the threat wasn't imminent, or the cost was too high. And every time—every single time—the intelligence was right."
He looked at Wei's father, and his expression was not anger. It was something closer to grief.
"I am not making that mistake again. Not with my family. Not with your children. Not with you."
The silence was absolute. Even the puppy outside had stopped whining.
Wei's father stood up. He walked to the door. "I need to see something."
He went outside. Wei followed. Jianguo followed. Hao followed. They walked to the eastern wall. The vines had grown thick overnight, weaving through the stone. The wall looked different—older, more solid. Its height had increased; Wei measured it with his eyes. Three point eight meters now. Nearly four. The blessing had done more than he realized.
His father placed his hand on the stone. He stood there, not speaking, just feeling. The vines were warm under his palm. Alive.
"How long did this take?" he asked quietly.
"The blessing did it," Wei said. "When I planted the tree. It happened in minutes."
His father was silent for a long moment. Then he turned and walked to the north gate. He touched the iron hinges. They were thicker than before, darker, as if they had aged centuries in a single night. He walked to the south wall. Touched the stone there too.
Finally he stopped and looked at the tree. Five meters tall, its leaves jade-green, its roots spreading beneath their feet.
"Jianguo," he said.
"Yes."
"If I say no. If I say we keep the money and take our chances. What would you do?"
Jianguo was quiet. "I would go anyway. With my own savings. Buy what I could." He paused. "And then I would come back and stand on this wall and fight alongside you. Because you're my brother. Even when you're wrong."
Wei's father looked at him. Something passed between them—something old, something that had been there since they were boys stealing peaches from the orchard and blaming it on the birds.
"When have I ever been wrong?" his father said.
Jianguo's mouth twitched. "The peach incident. Nineteen eighty-two."
"That was you."
"I have a witness."
"The witness is a liar."
"The witness is standing right there." Jianguo nodded toward the house, where their mother was visible through the window. "She saw everything."
Wei's father was silent. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly. "Fine," he said. "Go. Buy what you need. But Jianguo—" He pointed a finger at his brother. His hand was steady. "You come back. Whatever happens, you come back."
Jianguo nodded once. "I will."
He turned to Hao. "You're with me. Get the truck."
Hao stood up straighter. "Finally. Something I can actually do."
"Hao." Wei's voice stopped him.
Hao looked back. For a moment, the mask slipped—the humor, the sarcasm—and Wei saw his brother clearly. Twenty years old. Scared. His hands trembling slightly at his sides. The puppy, Xiao Hei, had appeared at his feet and was looking up at him with worried eyes, as if he understood something was wrong.
"Be careful," Wei said.
Hao tried to grin. It didn't quite work. "Always." He bent down and scratched the puppy behind the ears. "Guard the house, little one. Don't let any monsters in."
Xiao Hei barked once, sharp and serious, as if he understood.
Hao straightened up and walked toward the truck. Jianguo followed. The engine rumbled to life. The truck pulled out through the east gate and disappeared down the road.
---
The house settled into a strange, suspended quiet.
Wei's mother returned to the kitchen and began cooking—not because anyone was hungry, but because cooking was what she did when she didn't know what else to do. Her hands moved through familiar motions: washing rice, chopping vegetables, tending the fire. Wei watched her from the doorway. She did not look at him.
Xiao Hei had stationed himself at the east gate, sitting exactly where Hao had told him to guard. His small body was rigid with concentration. Every few minutes, he would growl at nothing, then look around to see if anyone had noticed.
His grandmother sat by the window, the pumpkin seedling on the sill beside her in a small clay pot. Wei walked over and sat down on the low stool beside her. She did not acknowledge him, but her hand moved—just slightly—so that it rested on the edge of the pot, near his.
Her fingers were cold and thin.
"You saw something too," she said. "In your sleep."
"Yes."
She withdrew her hand and turned back to the seedling. "Good. Fear keeps you alive."
That was all. She did not speak again.
Wei sat with her for a while longer, watching the leaves tremble. Then he got up and went outside.
---
His grandfather was standing at the edge of the orchard.
Wei found him there, his cane planted in the soil, his gaze moving slowly across the trees. Twenty-three varieties. Thousands of individual trees. He had planted the first twelve himself, carried the cuttings from his father's land after that land was taken. He had tended them for sixty years.
Wei stood beside him. Neither spoke.
The morning light was full now, gold and warm, filtering through the leaves. The trees were heavy with fruit—peaches and plums and persimmons and pears, all ripening in their own time. The air smelled of earth and green things and the faint sweetness of fallen fruit beginning to ferment.
After a long time, his grandfather said, "The trees don't know."
"Know what?"
"Anything. They don't know about the sky, or the monsters, or the end of the world. They just know soil and sun and water. They just know how to grow." He reached out and touched the trunk of the nearest peach tree. The bark was rough and peeling. "I envy them sometimes."
"When I was young," he continued, "younger than you, I planted my first tree. A peach. From a pit my mother gave me. I watered it every day. Talked to it. I was very serious about this tree." He paused. "It died. Root rot. I cried for three days."
Wei waited.
"The next year I planted another. It died too. Frost. The third year, I planted twelve. All from cuttings I took from my father's land—the land that was taken. I didn't talk to them. I just watched. I learned what they needed instead of what I wanted to give them."
He looked at Wei. His eyes were pale and clear.
"That's the difference between a farmer and a gardener. Gardeners want things to be beautiful. Farmers want things to survive. Your father is a farmer. I tried to make him a gardener, but the land wouldn't let me." He paused. "You're a farmer too. I can see it. You just don't know it yet."
They stood in silence for a while longer. Then his grandfather said, "The pig. The one with the white spot. Check on him. He gets anxious when the routine changes. Paces back and forth. Won't eat."
Wei's chest tightened. "I will."
"And Wei."
"Yes?"
"Whatever happens today." He stopped and looked back, his pale eyes meeting Wei's. "Just stay safe."
Wei nodded. He could not speak.
His grandfather turned and walked slowly back toward the house, his cane tapping against the packed earth. Wei stood in the orchard, surrounded by trees that did not know the world was ending, and felt the weight of everything he had not said.
---
The truck returned at noon.
Not just their truck. A small convoy—their old blue pickup, plus two flatbeds that Jianguo had hired, plus a van bringing up the rear. They rolled through the east gate one by one, engines rumbling, and parked in a loose semicircle in the courtyard. The hired drivers climbed out, stretching their backs, eyeing the wall and the vines with expressions that ranged from curious to wary.
One of them, a young man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a faded denim jacket, stared at the vines for a long moment. He reached out to touch one.
"I wouldn't," Hao said, appearing beside him with a box of kerosene lamps.
The driver pulled his hand back. "Why not?"
Hao shrugged. "They bite."
The driver looked at the vine. The vine, as if on cue, twitched. The driver stepped back.
"Right," he said. "Okay. No touching the carnivorous plants. Got it."
Jianguo jumped down from the truck's cab. His face was red and sweating, but his eyes were sharp, alert. Hao set down the box of lamps and went back for another, his movements quick and jerky. The puppy, Xiao Hei, had abandoned his post at the gate and was now orbiting Hao's feet like a small, furry moon, occasionally tripping him.
"Xiao Hei," Hao said through gritted teeth. "I love you. But if you trip me one more time, I'm going to—"
The puppy sat down directly in his path and looked up at him with adoring eyes.
Hao sighed. "Fine. Walk with me. Slowly."
They proceeded across the courtyard together, Hao taking exaggerated careful steps, the puppy trotting beside him with immense dignity.
Jianguo walked over to where Wei and his father stood. He pulled a thick stack of receipts from his jacket.
"Ninety-five thousand yuan. Gone." He flipped through the receipts. "Hardware market. Hand tools—hammers, saws, shovels, wrenches, picks, axes. Cooking utensils—pots, pans, knives, water containers, thermoses. A manual grain mill. Four kerosene lamps and twenty liters of fuel. Rope, tarps, nails, wire, chains. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, bandages, antiseptics, suture kits."
He tapped the first receipt with his finger.
"List price for all of it was twenty-eight thousand. I got him down to twenty-two."
Jianguo's mouth twitched. "I bought in bulk and got a discount". "Then I paid in cash and offered to take the damaged lot of shovels—the ones with the cracked handles. He threw in the rope for free."
Hao, passing by with another box, snorted. "He also told the merchant his mother made better knives."
"The merchant's mother probably does." Jianguo shrugged. "Twenty-two thousand. Done."
He moved to the next receipt.
"The steel yard. Best quality structural steel I could find. Q345 grade—the kind they use for bridges and high-rises. Market price is eight thousand five hundred a ton."
Wei's father's eyes widened. "We can't afford—"
"I got him down to seven thousand eight hundred. Cash. Bulk purchase. Ten tons."
"How?"
Jianguo's expression shifted. The almost-smile faded into something harder, more serious. "I told him we were supplying a provincial infrastructure project. Showed him my old military ID. Then I pointed out that his competitor across town had a better price on rebar."
He paused. The silence stretched.
"He said no. I walked to the door. He said, 'You're not serious.' I opened the door. He said, 'Wait.'"
Wei's father was silent.
"Ten tons. Seventy-eight thousand yuan. Plus the hardware—that brought us to a hundred thousand total."
Wei's mother stepped forward. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady. "But we only had ninety-five thousand."
Jianguo reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather pouch. It was old, the leather cracked and soft from years of handling. He emptied it onto the tailgate of the truck. Coins. Small notes. A few larger bills, folded carefully with edges aligned.
"I had five thousand saved. Personal. From before." He looked at Wei's father, and his voice was very quiet. "I was going to use it to fix the roof on the tool shed. The leak over the forge has been getting worse. Ruined three bellows last winter. But the roof can wait."
No one spoke.
Wei's father picked up one of the coins—a one-yuan piece, old, from before the last currency redesign. He turned it over in his fingers, studying it like it held answers he had been looking for his whole life.
"Jianguo," he said. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." Jianguo's voice was quiet but absolute. "I served twelve years. I watched men die because we didn't have the right supplies. I watched them die because someone, somewhere, decided that saving money was more important than saving lives." He swept the coins back into the pouch, his movements quick and efficient. "I'm not watching my family die for the same reason. Not while I'm still breathing."
He tied the pouch and put it back in his pocket. His hands, Wei noticed, were completely steady.
"We have three hundred yuan left. Not enough for anything that matters."
The hired drivers had finished unloading the last flatbed. They stood in a loose group near their vehicles, stretching their backs and eyeing the stacks of steel bars, the piles of tools, the boxes of supplies. The young one with the denim jacket was still glancing nervously at the vines.
"Need anything else?" the lead driver called out.
Jianguo shook his head. "No. Thank you."
The drivers climbed into their cabs. The engines rumbled to life, one after another. The convoy pulled out through the east gate, tires crunching on the dirt road, and disappeared toward the town.
Wei's father looked at the piles of supplies. Ten tons of metal. Boxes of medicine. Coils of rope. Stacks of tarps. Crates of tools. Kerosene lamps. A hand-cranked grain mill.
"Now what?" his father said.
Wei walked to the nearest stack of steel bars. Each bar was as long as his arm, heavy enough to need two hands to lift comfortably. The metal was cold and rough, still bearing the marks of the mill. He touched the top bar.
A panel appeared in his vision.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ SPATIAL POCKET │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Capacity: 100 slots │
│ Current weight: 0/1000 kg │
│ │
│ Imagine to store something │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
He focused on the bar. On the idea of it moving, shifting, leaving this space and entering another. The warmth in his chest responded, flowing down his arm and into his fingers. The bar shimmered—once, like heat rising from summer asphalt—and vanished.
His father stepped back, his hand going to his chest in an involuntary gesture of shock. "What—"
"I can store things," Wei said. "Like an invisible pouch." I don't understand how it works. I just know that I can do it."
He stored another bar. A third. "Well it works fine", He added a box of antibiotics, a coil of copper wire, and a set of wrenches. Each one settled into the pocket with a small pulse of warmth.
Pulling things out was also fine. Just by thinking about taking it out.
"That's enough for now it seems," he said. His voice was thin.
Hao was at his side, a hand on his elbow. The puppy was at his feet, looking up with worried eyes. "You're doing the grey thing again."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Sit down."
Wei sat on the low wall by the well. Hei pressed against his leg on one side; Xiao Hei immediately claimed the other, flopping down with a dramatic sigh. The family worked around him—his father and Jianguo carrying steel bars to the tool shed, Hao and Li moving boxes of medicine to the kitchen, his grandmother organizing supplies with her usual silent efficiency.
Within a few hours hour, the courtyard was clear. The sheds were full. The kitchen counters were covered with supplies. And Wei had two hundred kilograms of steel in his spatial pocket.
His head still ached. But it was manageable.
---
The sky began to change at four in the afternoon.
Wei noticed it first as a quality of light. The color was the same—the pale gold of late afternoon—but the shadows had no edges. They bled into the ground, soft and indistinct, like ink spreading through wet paper. The air felt wrong. Not colder or warmer, but flatter, as if something had been removed from it that he had never noticed was there until it was gone.
The dogs noticed next. All five of them went still at the same moment—mid-stride, mid-breath, mid-thought. Hei was standing by the gate, and his body locked into place like a statue, his ears flat against his skull, his tail rigid. The three pups, who had been tumbling over each other near the shed, froze in a tangled pile and did not move. Da and Er, by the animal pens, turned to face east and stood like stone.
Xiao Hei, still lying across Li's feet, let out a low, continuous growl. It was the first time Wei had ever heard him growl like that—not play, not warning, but pure, primal fear.
The chickens stopped scratching. The ducks stopped paddling. The cows in the yard stopped lowing. Every animal on the property went silent at the same instant.
Wei was in the vegetable garden with his mother and Li. They had been weeding in silence, the rhythm of the work a comfort. His mother's hands had stopped shaking. Li's face was still pale, but she was present, grounded.
"Wei," his mother said. Her voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made his skin prickle. "What is that?"
He looked up.
The shimmer appeared at the horizon—a faint distortion, like heat waves rising from a summer road. But the air was cool, and the distortion was spreading in all directions, growing brighter, climbing higher. It moved like a wave, a ripple in the fabric of the world, and everything it touched seemed to bend.
Time until phenomenon: 0 hours, 0 minutes.
"Inside," Wei said. His voice came out sharper than he intended. "Everyone inside now."
They ran.
His mother grabbed Li's hand and pulled her toward the house. Wei followed, his eyes still on the shimmer as it swept toward them across the fields. It was beautiful in a terrible way—like watching a fire from too close, like seeing something you knew would burn you and being unable to look away.
The family gathered in the main room. His father barred the door, sliding the heavy wooden beam into its iron brackets. His mother lit every lamp she could find, as if light could hold back whatever was coming. His grandmother sat in her chair by the window, her lips moving in silent prayer. His grandfather sat beside her, his cane across his knees, his eyes closed. Li pressed herself into the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees. Hao stood by the door, his hands clenched at his sides, his face pale but determined. He was not joking now.
Jianguo was the last one in. He had been checking the gates, making sure they were locked. He came through the door and barred it behind him, then stood with his back to the wall, his eyes on the window.
The puppy, Xiao Hei, had been scooped up by Li and was now pressed against her chest, trembling. Hei lay at Wei's feet, his head up, his dark eyes fixed on the window. Da and Er flanked the door. The other two pups huddled together under the table.
The shimmer reached them.
Through the glass, Wei watched it wash over the wall. The vines that had grown from the tree flared with gold light—a brief, bright pulse that made him flinch—and the shimmer parted around them like water around a stone. The Tree of Life glowed in the center of the property, its leaves blazing with that same gold light, its trunk pulsing with warmth that Wei could feel in his chest. The ground beneath it hummed.
But not all of the shimmer was stopped.
A thin mist, grey-green and faintly luminous, seeped through the vine barrier. It drifted over the wall like smoke, settling on the fields, the orchard, the animal pens. The crops did not change. Wei could see them through the window—the rice paddies still green, the vegetable garden still healthy, the vineyard still heavy with fruit. The tree's blessing held them.
The animals were another story.
The rabbits screamed first.
It was a sound Wei had never heard from a rabbit—a high, wet shriek that cut off mid-cry, as if the throat producing it had suddenly become something else. Then another shriek. Then another. And then the crash of a cage door bursting open, the sound of small bodies hitting the ground, the skitter of claws on packed earth.
A notification appeared in Wei's vision.
```
Mutated beast detected. Location: Rabbit enclosure. Threat: Low.
```
Li made a small sound—a whimper, quickly stifled. Xiao Hei pressed himself harder against her. Hao's hands were white-knuckled at his sides. Their mother had her hand over her mouth. Their father was staring at the window, his face pale but set.
"Stay here," Wei said. His voice was steadier than he felt. "Do not open the door for anyone but me. Do you understand? Anyone but me."
"Wei—" his mother started.
"I'll be back."
He pulled the scythe from his spatial pocket. It appeared in his hand—a weapon he had never held before, a blade that had not existed this morning. The handle was smooth dark wood, worn as if by years of use. The blade was curved and sharp, catching the lamplight and the strange glow from outside. It felt right in his grip. It hummed.
He unbarred the door and stepped outside.
---
The rabbit enclosure was at the south end of the property, past the vegetable garden and the duck pond. Wei reached it in thirty seconds, his legs eating up the distance with a speed that surprised him. The gate was hanging open, twisted off its hinges. Inside, blood.
Two rabbits were dead on the ground—one with its neck snapped, its head twisted at an impossible angle, the other with its throat torn out, the wound ragged and wet. The third rabbit was still alive. But it was not a rabbit anymore.
Its fur had fallen out in patches, revealing grey skin stretched tight over bones that had shifted and lengthened. Its hind legs were longer now, jointed wrong, bent backward like a grasshopper's. Its eyes were white—not the white of blindness, but the white of something that had never had pupils, never had anything but emptiness. Its teeth had grown long and jagged, protruding from its mouth at angles that made Wei's stomach turn.
It stood on its hind legs, watching him. Its head was tilted at an angle no living rabbit could achieve.
The scythe felt light in Wei's hands. The blade hummed, eager. He did not let himself think. Thinking would make him hesitate, and hesitation would get him killed.
The rabbit lunged.
It moved faster than anything that size should move, a grey blur launching itself at his face. Wei swung. The scythe's blade caught it mid-air, just below the ribs, and the creature came apart in two pieces that hit the ground on either side of him. Black blood—thick and foul-smelling—splattered across the grass.
But in that same instant, before it died, its claw raked across his forearm. The cut was shallow, but it burned. Wei looked down. Blood welled up—his blood, red and normal—but there was something else in the wound, a thin grey residue that sizzled against his skin.
He wiped it off with his sleeve. The cut stung, but it was shallow. He wrapped it quickly with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt, tying it tight with his teeth. The bleeding slowed. He did not stop to examine it further.
The chickens were next.
---
The chicken coop was larger—fifty birds, maybe more, in a long wooden structure with wire mesh windows. The door was hanging open, the wood around the latch splintered from the inside. Wei pushed it open with the tip of the scythe and stepped in.
The smell hit him first. Blood and feces and something else, something sweet and rotten that clung to the back of his throat. Feathers covered the floor like snow. Five chickens were dead—torn apart, their bodies scattered in pieces. Two more were still alive. But they were not chickens.
They were the size of small dogs now. Their necks had elongated, becoming flexible and serpentine, swaying as they tracked his movement. Their beaks had split into jagged edges, serrated like knives. Their feathers were gone, replaced by something that looked like wet leather, grey-green and glistening. Their eyes were white.
They turned to face him at the same time. Coordinated. Intelligent.
One lunged from the left. Wei sidestepped—his body moving faster than his mind could track—and brought the scythe down on its neck. The blade passed through cleanly. The head separated and hit the ground, the beak still snapping. The body kept moving for two more steps, wings beating uselessly, before collapsing in a heap.
But the second one was already in the air.
It hit him from the side, its claws finding his shoulder. Not deep—the scythe had come up instinctively, blocking most of the attack—but the impact staggered him. His shoulder ached with a dull, spreading bruise. The creature clung to him, its serpentine neck coiling back to strike at his face.
Wei grabbed its neck with his free hand. The skin was cold and slick, pulsing under his grip. He squeezed, felt something crack, and threw the creature to the ground. It landed on its back, legs scrabbling at the air. He brought the scythe down on its chest.
It stopped moving.
He stood in the coop, breathing hard. His forearm stung. His shoulder ached. Each breath sent a small spike through his ribs—not broken, he didn't think, but bruised, maybe cracked. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and the pain was starting to rise.
But it was over.
He stepped outside, wiping the blade on the grass. The mist had thinned. The Tree of Life glowed in the distance, a beacon of gold light against the grey-green haze. The house was quiet. Everyone was safe.
Wei let out a long breath. His hands were shaking. He made them stop.
And then something hit him from the side like a falling tree.
---
He did not see it coming.
One moment he was standing outside the chicken coop, the scythe loose in his grip, thinking it's over. The next moment, the air was punched out of his lungs and he was flying sideways. The ground slammed into his shoulder, his hip, his head. The scythe skidded away into the grass, out of reach.
Something heavy pinned him down. Something that smelled of mud and blood and rot.
Wei opened his eyes.
A pig. The gate to the pig pen was fifty meters away, hanging open, twisted off its hinges. The creature must have broken out during the shimmer and been waiting, hidden, patient. It was enormous—two hundred jin before the change, now larger, swollen with unnatural muscle. Its skin had split along its spine, and something dark and glistening pushed through the gap, something that pulsed with its own faint light. Its tusks had grown long and yellow, curving upward like sickles. Its eyes were white.
Wei did not recognize it at first. Then he saw the white spot on its left shoulder, a marking he had known since childhood.
Grandfather's pig.
He asked me to check on it. And now—
It stood over him, snorting, its breath hot and foul. It lowered its head, preparing to gore.
Wei rolled.
The tusks dug into the dirt where his chest had been. One of them grazed his side—not deep, but he felt the burn, felt the blood soak through his shirt. He scrambled on his hands and knees, grabbed the scythe, and rolled again as the pig turned. The blade came up just in time—the creature's shoulder slammed into the metal, and the edge bit deep into its flesh.
The pig squealed. It was a sound that was part pig, part grinding metal, part something that had never existed in the natural world. It thrashed its head, trying to dislodge the blade. Wei held on. The muscles in his arms screamed. The wound in his side burned. He pulled the blade free and backed away, putting distance between them.
His side was wet with blood. Each breath sent fire through his ribs. His vision was blurring at the edges.
The pig charged again.
Wei ran. Not away—the creature was faster than him on open ground, and he knew it. He ran toward the tree.
Fifty meters. Forty. The pig's breath was hot on his back, its hooves pounding the earth. Thirty meters. He could hear its tusks scraping the air, reaching for him. Twenty. The tree's glow grew brighter, warmer, pulling him forward. Ten meters.
He turned and swung.
The scythe caught the pig across the face. One tusk flew off in a spray of black blood, spinning through the air and landing in the grass. The creature's momentum carried it forward, its head slamming into Wei's chest. He flew backward, hit the ground hard, lost the scythe again. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent white pain through his ribs.
The pig stumbled. Its legs tangled. It crashed into the ground at the base of the tree and slid to a stop, twitching, its breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.
Wei crawled to the scythe. His ribs screamed with every movement. His side was a river of pain. He grabbed the handle, pulled himself up, and walked—staggered—to where the pig lay.
It looked up at him with its white, empty eyes. Its chest rose and fell. Once. Twice. The white spot on its shoulder was still there, unmistakable.
Wei raised the scythe and brought it down on the back of its neck.
One clean cut.
The pig stopped moving.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ COMBAT LOG │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Mutated Boar defeated. │
│ Credits earned: 25 │
│ Total credits: 42 │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ QUEST COMPLETE: FIRST DEFENSE │
├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Reward 1: Blueprint: Reinforced Gate Lock (Tier 1, Common) │
│ Reward 2: Blessed Wheat Seeds x5 (Tier 1, Common) │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stood there, bleeding, the scythe hanging loose in his grip. The tree's leaves rustled above him. A thread of coolness touched his forehead, then his side, then his ribs.
Tree of Life: Minor restoration active. Bleeding slowed.
The gash on his side stopped bleeding—not healed, but closed enough that he was no longer losing blood. His ribs still ached with every breath, a deep, grinding pain that suggested something was cracked but not broken. The tree's power had limits.
He looked down at the pig's body. Its white eyes stared at nothing. The white spot on its shoulder was still there, clean and bright against the grey, corrupted flesh.
Wei knelt. He touched the spot with his fingers. The skin was cold, already cooling further, the unnatural warmth of its transformation fading into the ordinary cold of death. He thought of his grandfather, who had fed this pig from a bottle when it was too small to feed itself. He thought of his grandfather sitting in the pen, hour after hour, talking to it in that low, rough voice.
I'm sorry.
He stayed there for a long moment, his hand on the white spot, feeling the stillness where there should have been warmth. Then he stood up slowly, holding his side. The scythe vanished back into his spatial pocket.
In the window of the house, a silhouette stood motionless. His grandfather. Watching.
Wei met his eyes across the distance. Neither moved. Then his grandfather raised one hand—just slightly, just for a moment—and let it fall.
Wei nodded once. Then he walked toward the house.
---
His father met him at the door.
He must have been watching through the window. He must have seen everything—the rabbit, the chickens, the pig. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady. He looked at the blood on Wei's shirt, at the gash on his arm, at the way Wei was holding his ribs.
"The pig," Wei said. His voice came out rough, scraped. "The one with the white spot. Grandfather's."
His father nodded slowly. He did not ask if Wei had killed it. He could see the answer in the blood on Wei's clothes and in the emptiness of his eyes.
Wei's mother pushed past his father. She took one look at him and her face went through several rapid changes—horror, fear, and then a cold, practical focus. It was the same expression she wore when one of the animals was injured, when something needed to be done and there was no time for panic.
"Sit down," she said. "Take off your shirt."
"I'm fine—"
"Sit. Down."
Wei sat. He was too tired to argue. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as the movement pulled at the gash on his side. The wound was ugly—a long, ragged tear where the tusk had caught him, the edges already starting to knit together from the tree's healing but still raw and red.
His mother cleaned it with water from the kettle. The water was warm, and it stung, but Wei did not make a sound. He watched her hands move—steady, efficient, the hands of a woman who had been tending wounds her whole life. She packed the gash with a poultice of herbs from his grandmother's stores, then wrapped it tight with clean bandages.
"Your ribs?" she asked.
"Bruised. Maybe cracked."
She pressed her fingers against his chest, feeling for breaks. Wei winced when she touched the spot where the pig's head had slammed into him. "Cracked, I think. Not broken through. You're lucky."
"I know."
She finished wrapping his ribs and sat back on her heels. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dry. She had cried enough for one day. "You're lucky," she said again. "That pig could have killed you."
"I know."
"It almost did."
"I know, Mother."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached out and touched his face—just briefly, her calloused palm against his cheek. "Don't do it again," she said.
"I'll try not to."
She almost smiled. Almost.
His father stood in the doorway, watching. Behind him, Wei could see the others—Hao, pale but trying to look unafraid, his hands still clenched at his sides, Xiao Hei pressed against his leg; Li, her hands over her mouth, her eyes red but dry; his grandmother, still sitting by the window, her prayers finished, her gaze fixed on the tree; his grandfather, standing now, staring out at the dark shape of the pig's body in the distance.
"The shimmer is fading," his father said.
Wei looked past him, through the window. The grey-green mist was thinning, breaking apart like fog in morning sun. The sky beyond was returning to its normal blue, though something about the color was still wrong—a faint bruise-purple at the edges, like a wound that had not fully healed. The vines on the wall relaxed, their gold glow fading to a soft, steady warmth. The Tree of Life stood in the center of the property, its leaves rustling in a wind that touched nothing else.
"It's over," Wei said.
"For now."
---
They gathered in the main room. Wei's mother had made tea, though no one drank it. The cups sat on the table, steaming gently, untouched. The pumpkin seedling on the windowsill had grown another two centimeters during the shimmer. Its leaves were still green, still healthy. Wei's grandmother had watered it without anyone noticing.
Wei's father spoke first. He was sitting at the head of the table, his hands wrapped around his tea cup, his eyes on the window. "The tree," he said. "The wall. The animals." He looked at Wei. "You were right."
He did not say it like an apology. He never apologized—not with words. But from him, this was the same thing. This was his way of saying I should have believed you sooner. I should have trusted you. I'm sorry I didn't.
Wei nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I wasn't."
His grandmother reached over and took his hand. Her fingers were cold and thin, but her grip was strong. She did not speak. She did not need to.
Hao was staring out the window. His usual humor had drained away, leaving something younger and more vulnerable underneath. Xiao Hei was in his lap now, and Hao's hand rested on the puppy's back, fingers moving absently through the soft fur. "The rabbits," he said. "The chickens. The pig." He shook his head slowly. "We lost a lot."
"We lost some," their mother said. Her voice was quiet but steady. "But most survived. The cows are fine. The sheep. The ducks—I checked." A faint, almost-smile crossed her face. "Báixuě is fine too. He was standing on top of the duck house, hissing at the mist. Very angry. Very loud. Very much alive."
Li made a small sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "Of course he was."
"The mist couldn't handle him," Hao said, and there was a flicker of his old humor in it, though his voice was still shaky. "Smart mist. Knew when to quit."
Wei's father's hands tightened around his cup. "The cow," he said. "The one that died before the shimmer. The one I—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "She was twenty years old. Your mother's wedding gift."
"I know," Wei's mother said. Her voice was very soft. "I raised her from a calf. She was the first animal I ever owned that was truly mine. Not the family's. Mine." She looked at her husband, and her eyes were wet but not falling. "You did the right thing."
"It didn't feel right."
"It never does."
Li got up from her chair and walked over to their mother. She did not say anything. She just put her arms around her, her small frame pressing against their mother's solid warmth. Their mother stiffened for a moment—she was not used to being comforted—and then she relaxed, her shoulders dropping, her breath coming out in a long, shuddering exhale. She held Li and cried quietly, her tears soaking into Li's old blue jacket.
No one spoke for a long time. Xiao Hei had abandoned Hao's lap and trotted over to Li and their mother, sitting at their feet and looking up with worried eyes.
Then Wei's grandfather spoke.
"The spotted one."
Everyone looked at him. He was still standing by the window, staring out at the dark shape at the base of the tree.
"I raised him from a piglet. His mother wouldn't feed him. I sat in the pen for hours, holding him, feeding him from a bottle." He paused. "He was a good pig. Stubborn. Like all of us. Used to escape the pen just to stand under the mulberry tree. No reason. Just liked the shade, I think."
Wei stood up. His ribs protested, but he ignored them. He walked over to his grandfather and stood beside him at the window.
"I saw," his grandfather said quietly. "From the window. I saw what you did."
"I'm sorry," Wei said. "I didn't want to—"
"I know." His grandfather did not look at him. "You did what you had to do. That's what farmers do. We do what we have to, and we carry what we have to." He put his hand on Wei's shoulder. His grip was strong, stronger than it should have been for a man his age. "You carried it. That's enough."
He squeezed once and let go.
They stood together at the window, looking out at the tree and the dark shape beneath it. After a long moment, Wei's grandfather spoke again, his voice very quiet.
"I'll bury him tomorrow. Under the mulberry tree. He liked the shade."
Wei nodded. "I'll help."
His grandfather looked at him then. His pale eyes were clear, unblinking. "Good," he said. "That's good."
He turned and walked slowly back to his chair, his cane tapping against the floor. He sat down heavily and closed his eyes. Xiao Hei immediately trotted over and lay down at his feet, as if understanding that this was where he was needed now.
---
Outside, the Tree of Life stood in the center of the land. The wall held—three point eight meters of stone and living vine. The sheds were full of metal and tools. The family was alive.
But the world beyond the wall was silent.
No birds. No distant dogs. No sounds from the Lin property. No sounds from the town road, which usually carried the faint rumble of trucks and tractors this time of day. Just silence, vast and complete, pressing against the walls like water against a dam.
Wei stood at the window and looked out. His mother was still holding Li. His father was staring at nothing. Hao had gone to check the gates with Jianguo. His grandparents sat together, their shoulders touching, their hands intertwined—a rare display of closeness between two people who usually kept their affections private. Xiao Hei had claimed a spot in the exact center of the room and was watching everyone with the solemn attention of a small, furry guardian.
They had believed him once. They had seen the proof—the tree, the seedling, the shimmer, the changed animals. They knew now that he was not lying, not crazy, not mistaken. But knowing did not make it easier. Knowing just meant they had to face what was coming with their eyes open.
Wei looked at his family. His mother, her hands raw from kneading grief into dough. His father, carrying the weight of a dead cow and a dying world in the same silence. Hao, trying so hard to be useful that he had forgotten how to be afraid, though his shaking hands betrayed him. Li, who had waited for him for two years and would probably wait forever if he let her. His uncle, who had spent his own savings on steel and medicine without being asked. His grandparents, who had lived through war and famine and land reform, and now had to live through this.
And Xiao Hei, the smallest and newest of them all, who had appointed himself guardian of the gate and now watched over the family with the same fierce devotion as Hei and Da and Er and all the dogs who had come before.
They were still here. They were still together. And whatever came next, they would face it as a family.
"Get some sleep," Wei said. His voice was quiet, but everyone heard him. "Tomorrow will be harder."
No one argued.
The lamps burned low. The house settled into an uneasy quiet. Wei lay on the kang, feeling its warmth seep into his bruised ribs, and listened to the silence beyond the walls. It was not peaceful. It was the silence of a held breath, of a world waiting to see what came next.
The tree pulsed at the edge of his awareness, steady and gold, a second heartbeat that never faltered. Xiao Hei had followed him and now curled up on the floor beside the kang, his small body warm against the cold night.
We made it. One day. That's enough for now.
He closed his eyes. The warmth of the tree followed him down into the dark. Outside, the silence pressed against the walls like a held breath, waiting for morning.