2:30 PM. Shen Cong sat on Vajra’s rear roof section, settled into the Hummer’s salvaged sports seat, a desk fan pushing cool air across him from the port behind. Mineral water in the rhino horn cup, three Gentle Sand Pears on a makeshift fruit plate, a sun shade blocking the direct light.

Since the storm, the temperature had dropped noticeably. Today was sitting around 33°C outside — warm enough to be bright, nothing like the killing heat of the weeks before. A light breeze moved through.

August 26th. The 29th day of the seventh lunar month.

The old saying had it right: the seventh month sees the Fire Star moving west — the first sign of autumn coming. The year’s two hottest months were the sixth and seventh by the lunar calendar, and the seventh was nearly done.

Day seventy of the apocalypse.

He looked at the date on his phone, registered the number, and went back to The King of Fighters 2020. The game’s announcer cycled through its signature calls — “Haoh Shoko Ken!” “Raging Storm!” “Exceed Accel!” — and then a final scream as his opponent went airborne.

“K.O.!”

He put the phone away when he heard them coming. Helmet on.

The Chaohu University survivors arrived in a loose group — torn clothing, unhealthy complexions, eyes that had the particular flatness of people who’d been under sustained stress for too long. Several had the waxy yellow pallor of illness. Two were moving with visible limps.

They stopped well short of Vajra and conferred in low voices for a while. Then two of them broke from the group and continued forward.

The man was Zhou Yajun — solidly built, younger than Shen Cong would have guessed for someone who’d held a group together through two catastrophic storms. The woman was teacher Wang Yingying, late twenties to early thirties, composure intact despite everything she’d apparently been through.

“Hello,” Zhou Yajun said, stopping at a respectful distance.

Shen Cong looked down at them from the roof. “You’re Zhou Yajun. You’re Wang Yingying. The leaders of this group.”

“Wang Yingying and I were voted in to manage things temporarily. We run on democratic consensus — major decisions go to a vote.”

Wang Yingying added: “Could you tell us who you are, and what you want from us?”

“Who I am isn’t what matters.” Shen Cong reached to the side, picked up a piece of granite he’d placed there earlier, and closed his hand around it in front of both of them.

Crack. Crack.

Granite dust fell between his fingers.

The demonstration was deliberate. Not subtle — he wanted them to understand the gap clearly, without ambiguity, before any negotiation started.

Zhou Yajun and Wang Yingying exchanged a glance. The conclusion was obvious: this person wasn’t an ordinary survivor. The same category as the blue-green-faced man who’d attacked their group, perhaps — mutated, enhanced, dangerous. They’d learned what that meant.

Wang Yingying steadied herself first. “How do we know we can trust what you’re offering. What kind of trade are you proposing?”

“Simple.” Shen Cong gestured at the ruins surrounding them. “I need various materials, and I don’t want to spend my time digging through rubble. I’m hiring your group to search for me. Based on what you find, you come to me and exchange it for food, medicine, and information — information about what happened to the world.”

“You know why this happened?” Zhou Yajun’s composure cracked for a moment.

“I know a considerable amount. But that’s trade information. Decide quickly — I don’t spend time waiting.”

Wang Yingying set her jaw. “We’ll agree. But how do we establish prices?”

“I set them.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fairness hasn’t existed in this world for seventy days.” His tone didn’t shift. “But I’ll be relatively fair. Example — see my phone? If your team finds an undamaged working phone, you can trade it for one high-calorie chocolate bar.”

Zhou Yajun and Wang Yingying returned to the group. Another round of quiet deliberation — then the twenty-one survivors accepted the arrangement.

The majority dispersed into the ruins of Bantang Town, moving in small clusters through the debris fields, turning over rubble and picking through the flood-sorted accumulation. Wang Yingying and a pale yellow-faced female student named Gao Miaoshu stayed back as liaisons.

Shen Cong had been explicit about priorities: metal components, especially high-precision electronics, were worth trading for. General debris had no value.

Having a labor team in the field freed him considerably. He could keep the drone in rotation — deploying it whenever the battery finished charging, capturing footage of the surrounding area, monitoring both the salvage team’s positions and the wider perimeter for evolved creature movement.

Wang Yingying and Gao Miaoshu sat near Vajra and watched him with expressions that mixed envy and wariness in roughly equal proportion. The sports seat, the sun shade, the rhino horn cup, the fruit. The occasional laptop session or tablet work. The phone gaming.

And then the slingshot practice, which shifted their expressions to something more alarmed.

Twenty-band draw. Ordinary pebbles. Punching through stone at range without apparent effort.

“Why are you so strong?” Wang Yingying asked, curiosity winning over caution.

“That’s trade information.”

“Is there anything you’ll tell us for free?” Gao Miaoshu asked, voice kept carefully soft.

Crack.

A stone in the distance exploded. Shen Cong lowered the slingshot and settled back into the seat, looking down at both of them from elevation.

“Two things, at no charge. First: you’re lucky to be alive, and dangerous things are everywhere. Second: your instinct not to trust other survivor groups is correct. Many of them are not good people. Additionally — if your team works well, I’ll give you a referral before I leave. There’s a group nearby that’s less bad than average.”

Wang Yingying pressed: “You must have been to many places. Can you tell us — will the government come? Is there rescue coming?”

“Trade information.”

Gao Miaoshu’s soft tone took on a faint edge: “Even that? Why do you make everything a transaction? We’re all disaster victims. Don’t you have basic compassion? We’re not asking for your food. We just want to know what’s happening. How can you be like this?”

Naive. Shen Cong didn’t engage with it — picked up his binoculars and began a methodical sweep of the area.

“Please don’t—” Wang Yingying pulled Gao Miaoshu back. To Shen Cong: “I’m sorry. She’s young. Please don’t take offense. We don’t even know your name.”

Shen Cong paused his sweep. Something in the question landed differently than expected — he found himself answering rather than deflecting.

“Huang. You can call me Boss Huang.”

By dusk the salvage team had completed its first pass through the area and returned with a pile of recovered items. Wind exposure, Activity corrosion, and flood immersion had done damage to almost everything — the usable fraction was small.

Wang Yingying and Zhou Yajun came forward as representatives to negotiate exchange. The rest of the group crowded behind them, everyone contributing opinions at once.

Their food situation was stable enough — evolved fish from the pond kept them fed. Medicine was the genuine need, especially for the sick students, though the exact illness was undiagnosed.

“Boss Huang — could you look at the sick ones? Tell us what they have?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

Wang Yingying adjusted: “Then we’d like to trade for antibiotics, if you have them.”

The medicine exchange went through. Then: information.

“Based on the value of what you’re asking, I’ll assess what it costs,” Shen Cong established. His rules, his assessment.

The group deliberated loudly among themselves for several minutes. Then Wang Yingying came forward with the first question:

“Will the government come for us — and what does China look like right now? What’s actually happening out there?”

(End of Chapter 96)