The old-mature larva had finally pupated.

Shen Cong discovered it on the morning of September 1st, when he went to feed Blackhead and the larva. The pupation was a striking sight — the larva’s body had already been silver-white, but now it had transformed into something that looked like a coiled mass of liquid mercury, utterly still.

Blackhead was circling the pupa in tight, agitated loops. Visibly distressed.

When Shen Cong tossed over a Gentle Sand Pear — Blackhead’s favourite — the ant didn’t lunge for it immediately the way it normally would. Instead it paced back and forth between the pupa and the fruit for a long moment before finally settling down to eat.

Day by day, Shen Cong could feel Blackhead’s Activity Value climbing. Its two enormous mandibles were becoming more like a pair of iron pincers with each passing week, the metallic gradation growing more pronounced. He found himself genuinely curious: when Blackhead eventually crossed into the Lv1 era, would the Activity core fully metallise? And if so, into what form?

He kept the Gentle Sand Pears coming.

The other reason for his generosity was that the pears were doing less and less for him. Same as the Activity peaches before — once his body adapted to the Activity they contained, the returns diminished. He’d consumed over a hundred pears by now, and the enhancement he felt from each one had faded to almost nothing. Another hundred or so and they’d probably stop enhancing him entirely, only covering his baseline daily consumption. Like an ordinary person eating food for energy — there was always an upper limit to how much the body could absorb.

The Gentle Sand Pears were close to hitting that ceiling.

The Evolution Grapes, on the other hand, were still producing noticeable gains. That made the Fenghuang Mountain Vineyard Camp a priority — not just for the political restructuring, but for the grapes themselves.

On the monitor, Wang Yingying’s figure appeared, walking toward Vajra.

Shen Cong slid the window open.

“Boss Huang,” she said immediately, “everyone’s ready. When do we move out?”

“Now. Zhu Haifeng takes point in the jeep, Zhang Youhai follows in the van, I’ll drive Vajra at the rear. You ride with the jeep. Zhou Yapeng leads your group, and make sure Zhu Haifeng’s people keep an eye on the fire brigade members.”

He’d deliberately structured the convoy to keep Zhu Haifeng and the fire brigade members separated — no opportunity for unsupervised huddles or side conversations. Until the leadership transition was complete, everything would run according to Shen Cong’s plan, with no room for improvisation.

The convoy rolled out in force, following Bantang Road before turning onto Central Yangtze Road, then west along West Yangtze Road toward the Fenghuang Mountain Vineyard Camp. The objective was speed — hit the camp before anyone had time to react, and rewrite its power structure in a single motion. Half the camp’s weapons were already in Shen Cong’s hands, after all.

The camp’s most significant piece of hardware was a QJY-88 general-purpose machine gun, left behind by the provincial military garrison. Unfortunately, its ammunition had been expended during a confrontation with an evolved beast near Lake Chaohu’s shore. If Liu Zheng hadn’t run the magazine dry, that gun would certainly have been on his vehicle rather than left in the camp.

Now it would go to Shen Cong instead. He’d already claimed it in his head.

The convoy moved in silence.

As they neared Fenghuang Mountain, Shen Cong launched the wired drone from the cab and brought the camp into view.

The camp sat at the foot of the mountain, ringed by a perimeter of stacked stones to cut off the lower approach. Above the stone line, the hillside was dotted with simple shelters. At the camp’s centre was a patch of green — the Evolution Grape vineyard.

Nine hundred-odd survivors were busy throughout the grounds. Some hauled fresh water piped in from Lake Chaohu. Others were felling the sparse trees on the mountainside. A group worked the lake between Fenghuang Mountain and Pingding Mountain, fishing. And scattered throughout, fire brigade patrol teams made their rounds.

While Shen Cong studied the camp feed, the fire brigade members in the convoy were studying the drone itself. None of them had expected he’d have equipment like that.

Then again — one look at Vajra’s brutal silhouette made it obvious that Shen Cong had been a serious survivalist long before the apocalypse hit. A truck built like that didn’t come from nowhere. Post-apocalypse, only a large, well-resourced organisation would have the capacity to produce something comparable.

The rest of them could only be envious.

The convoy arrived at the Vineyard Camp at ten in the morning.

Per the plan laid out the night before, the fire brigade members fanned out through the camp using Liu Zheng’s name as cover, inviting the camp’s evolved people to gather in front of Vajra for a meeting — nominally to welcome the newly arrived survivor group.

It was a thin pretext, but it didn’t need to be convincing for long.

The camp’s evolved people were scattered across their various duties. Deputy Captain Li Weijun was overseeing the water hauling. Logistics Officer Zhao Yalan was directing a team digging defensive trenches and earthworks. Chen Song and Xu Wanxian were out fishing. Fu Jianguo was leading the woodcutting crew. Of Liu Zheng’s inner circle, only Ran Tai had stayed behind in the main camp.

One by one, they came.

And once they arrived, leaving wasn’t going to be an option.

Zhang Youhai had materialized a battered table from somewhere, and the evolved people settled into seats around it.

Zhao Yalan was a relatively young woman in a police uniform that had seen better days — patched in several places but worn with a certain crispness that suited her. She had the bearing of someone used to being in charge, though the fangs at the corners of her mouth undermined the effect somewhat, lending her a feral edge. She’d been a household registration officer before the apocalypse, and after becoming evolved she’d joined the fire brigade.

She had a short fuse. She cast a quick, unimpressed look at Vajra, then turned to Zhu Haifeng: “We’re happy you’re back, Zhu Haifeng. But what exactly is this? You’re acting like you own the place. Where’s Liu Zheng? You summon all of us and nobody says a word?”

Zhu Haifeng shifted uncomfortably. “Sister Zhao, let’s wait until Ran Tai gets here. Then I’ll explain everything.”

Xu Wanxian mopped the sweat from his forehead, irritated. “Xiao Zhu, drop the mystery act. What’s going on? I thought Liu Zheng called us here to welcome the newcomers. I see the newcomers — where’s Captain Liu? Where are Wei Falü and Zhu Ran?” His left elbow joint was swollen to an unnatural size — his Activity core — and moved awkwardly at his side.

“The way this is looking,” Li Weijun said with the measured weight of a man who’d spent years in command, “I’d almost say you’re staging a Hongmen Banquet in Liu Zheng’s name.” He was a serious-faced middle-aged man, an ex-deputy battalion commander from the third regiment of a reserve infantry division — a local, born and raised in Chaohu, who’d chosen to stay rather than retreat to Hefei. His Activity core was in his feet; he wore open-toed shoes, which gave him a faintly absurd look that clashed with his bearing.

The joke landed closer to the truth than he intended. This was indeed a Hongmen Banquet — just with Shen Cong as the host, not Zhu Haifeng.

Ran Tai was brought over as Li Weijun finished speaking.

Ran Tai was an unusual case — no visible Activity core, but his body had grown enormously, in a way that resembled the physical expansion seen in certain evolved beasts. Standing there, he was taller and broader than any normal man had any right to be, muscle stacked on muscle. But for all his mass, something was off: his left shoulder sat a full twenty centimetres lower than his right, giving his silhouette a lopsided, vaguely disturbing quality.

The moment Shen Cong saw him, he filed the observation away — Ran Tai was probably another case like the grotesque cat he’d encountered before. A malformed mutation, twisted rather than refined.

“Ran Tai, have a seat,” Zhu Haifeng said, gesturing.

Ran Tai had a slightly dull-witted look about him. “What’s going on? How come it’s you, Zhu Haifeng? Where’s Brother Liu?”

“Sit down first.”

Zhu Haifeng settled into his chair. Then, under the weight of every pair of eyes at the table, he said, with some difficulty: “I’ve called everyone here because something significant has happened. Before I explain, I’m asking everyone to stay calm.”

“What happened?” Zhao Yalan demanded.

Zhu Haifeng drew a slow breath. “First: Liu Zheng, Wei Falü, and Zhu Ran are dead.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What?!“

The reactions came in different registers.

Li Weijun slammed his palm on the table hard enough to crack off a corner. “Liu Zheng is dead? Wei Falü and Zhu Ran too? How? Zhu Haifeng, you’d better have answers.”

Ran Tai moved faster — he lunged across the table and grabbed Zhu Haifeng by the throat. “How did Brother Liu die? Talk. Talk or I’ll kill you right now.”

“Let — go — cough — let go—!” Zhu Haifeng choked out, words barely forming.

Xu Wanxian, the oldest person at the table, took the news with more composure. “Ran Tai. Let him go. Let Xiao Zhu explain.”

Ran Tai released him, reluctantly.

Zhao Yalan stared Zhu Haifeng down. “You can speak now.”

Zhu Haifeng rubbed his throat, momentarily furious and humiliated, then steadied himself. “Right. Liu Zheng encountered another survivor group. He demanded to search their vehicle — they refused. He moved to kill them. They killed him first.” He paused. “That’s the whole story. And I’ll add one thing: the people he ran into are powerful. One person. They could take every single one of us out without breaking a sweat.”

(End of Chapter 102)