The Dog-Croc Warhammer made its point.

It wasn’t that the people around the table were unfamiliar with the power of bone-gold weapons. They knew what Activity cores could do. But a weapon at the Dog-Croc’s level — 0.726H of Activity Value, more than any of them currently carried, wielded in a triangular drumstick-head bigger than a basketball — was something else entirely. Seeing it crater solid asphalt like wet clay bypassed all intellectual understanding and hit somewhere more primitive.

The bigger the core, the harder it was to look away.

That was Shen Cong’s logic, distilled to its simplest form.

When order functions, logic is the rule that keeps it running. When order collapses, logic becomes whoever gets to write the rules. The biggest fist in the room is the argument that wins.

One gesture from Shen Cong had said more than an hour of talking could have. Even Zhao Yalan, who’d been the most resistant person at the table, went quiet. The meeting found its footing.

“Zhu Haifeng,” Shen Cong said, settling back with the warhammer across his arms like a man who had nowhere pressing to be. “The rest is yours to chair.”

Zhu Haifeng cleared his throat. “Restructuring the fire brigade into the Juchao District Provisional Government is the plan, and I think we’re past the point of debating whether it happens. So let’s talk about how we divide responsibilities. I’ll start with my own role: I’m proposing to serve as District Chief, with overall authority over all reconstruction efforts in Juchao.”

“On what basis do you get to be District Chief?” Zhao Yalan couldn’t stop herself.

Zhu Haifeng glanced at Shen Cong. Then back at Zhao Yalan.

Zhao Yalan got it immediately. She swallowed her anger, crossed her arms, and said nothing.

“Any other objections?” Zhu Haifeng asked.

Li Weijun, who’d said almost nothing through the whole meeting, spoke up. “There are nine hundred and sixty-three people in this camp. This isn’t a game.” He paused. “Before we go further — what role does Boss Huang take in the Provisional Government? What position is he assuming?”

“Boss Huang has no interest in holding a position,” Zhu Haifeng said. “I’ve mentioned before — he’s a lone operator. His plans involve moving on to Hefei eventually. He doesn’t have designs on Juchao district itself. Everyone here can set that concern aside. His interests and the district’s interests don’t conflict. The reconstruction work belongs to the people in this room.”

Li Weijun’s eyebrows rose slightly. “He’s going to Hefei? That road isn’t easy. The further west you go, the stronger the evolved beasts get.”

“I’ll get there,” Shen Cong said flatly. Then, as an aside: “While I have everyone’s attention — Juchao district isn’t safe. Zhang Tianshen mentioned seeing a dragon before he died. I’ve seen it too.”

Dragon. The word landed like a stone in still water.

“A mutated snake — probably a Golden Python that’s undergone further evolution. Thirty to forty metres long by my estimate. You’ve all seen the ten-metre crocodiles by now. The mutated Golden Python can kill one of those without difficulty. Even a group of them wouldn’t survive a confrontation with it. If you encounter it: play dead or run. Those are your options.”

“A snake that size?” Zhao Yalan’s voice had shifted from hostility to something closer to disbelief. “You’re trying to scare us.”

Shen Cong felt the familiar irritation rise — why, when the broad strokes were already settled, did these people insist on friction over every detail? What did resistance accomplish at this point?

He pressed it down. “I’m telling you about the Golden Python because I want the survivor community to be able to respond to natural threats as a unified group. A stable, orderly Juchao district serves everyone’s interests, including mine.” He let a beat pass. “The Provisional Government will be led by Zhu Haifeng. Don’t ask why, and don’t ask on what basis. Because I said so. What you need to do is support him, make the reconstruction work, and make sure the people here have decent conditions to live in.”

Xu Wanxian coughed gently. “Boss Huang, reconstruction is… complicated work. A lot of moving parts. For someone so young, perhaps—”

Li Weijun cut him off. “Understood. I know where Boss Huang stands.” He nodded once, the decision already made behind his eyes. “If things are genuinely as you’ve described — for the benefit of every survivor in Juchao — then I’ll support Zhu Haifeng. You have my word.”

“Brother Li—” Zhao Yalan started.

“Xiao Zhao.” Li Weijun turned to her, calm but firm. “Don’t let emotion drive this. Our fundamental goals are the same as theirs. Restructuring the fire brigade is necessary. A Provisional Government framework genuinely does serve the survivors better. Don’t lose the forest for the trees.”

With Li Weijun — the fire brigade’s second-in-command — committing his support, the Vineyard Meeting found its conclusion.

Zhu Haifeng: District Chief and head of the Hunting Unit. Li Weijun: Executive Deputy Chief. Xu Wanxian: Deputy Chief and Logistics Director. Zhao Yalan: Community Affairs Director. Chen Song: Construction Director. Fu Jianguo: Discipline Director.

Wang Yingying: Publicity Director. Zhang Youhai: Trade Director.

Several other positions were filled out from the remaining capable survivors.

The Juchao District Provisional Government was formally established, with the Fenghuang Mountain Vineyard Camp as its administrative centre and home base.

The first policy Zhu Haifeng pushed through was the tribunal Shen Cong had specified. He convened it in front of the entire camp population — the nine hundred-plus already there, plus the several hundred relocating from the southern district, fourteen hundred people in total — and every person with credible accusations of murder, assault, or rape against them was hauled out, judged, and sentenced. The worst offenders, a dozen or so, were executed on the spot.

That single measure, more than anything else Zhu Haifeng said or did, bought him genuine support from the survivor population. The man who had been a nobody two days ago now had people behind him.

The Provisional Government hadn’t come together exactly as Shen Cong had envisioned, but on the core objective — dismantling Liu Zheng’s legacy and breaking his faction’s hold — the result was clean. Leadership like Liu Zheng’s was ultimately only ever respected because of brute authority. Replace it with someone who didn’t make ordinary people’s lives worse, and ideally made them better, and the transition became practically invisible.

At most, it would be something to gossip about over dinner for a week.

The newly established Provisional Government had no shortage of work to do. Shen Cong positioned himself as an outsider to all of it, parking Vajra outside the defensive perimeter and getting on with his own agenda.

Wang Yingying and Zhang Youhai checked in periodically with updates. Zhu Haifeng came by occasionally to talk through specific questions.

“Handle it yourself,” Shen Cong told him during one of these visits. “I don’t want to be consulted on the day-to-day. When you’ve got the basics running, I’ll engage with the Provisional Government as an independent party for trade purposes.”

Zhu Haifeng had grown noticeably in the past few days. He nodded once, crisp and direct. “Understood.”

“One more thing — ask around for anyone with serious radio communications experience. I have a use for them.”

“I’ll find someone.”

He left. Not long afterward, a survivor came to find Shen Cong.

A middle-aged man, with a small child trailing behind him — five or six years old, staring up at Vajra with enormous eyes.

“Boss Huang, my name is Liu Changming. I worked at the Juchao district telecom company before — communications maintenance. I know the field reasonably well.” He gestured at the child, who had drifted closer to the truck and then frozen, caught between fascination and terror. “That’s my son. He insisted on coming along. Sorry for the disruption.”

“I’ve observed significant radiation interference since the apocalypse,” Shen Cong said, getting to it immediately. “Communication quality is severely degraded. I want to know if anything can be done to improve it. Long-range contact with the outside is probably impossible for now — but short-range, three to four hundred metres, might be workable.”

He had the capability to think through problems like this himself. But a person’s attention was finite, and he needed someone to carry the research load while he handled everything else.

“Radiation interference specifically — I don’t have a good picture of post-apocalypse conditions, and I’d need instruments.” Liu Changming looked uncertain. “I’m not sure how much help I can be without equipment.”

“I have equipment. Geiger counters, wireless routers, Bluetooth, infrared, the drone — whatever you need, use it. I’ll pay you for your time. If you produce results, there’s a bonus on top. I’ll be in camp for a few days. Work for me during that time.”

Liu Changming looked genuinely relieved — anything that wasn’t heavy physical labour. “Yes, absolutely. Happy to.”

Shen Cong had plenty to keep himself occupied.

Wei Falü’s and Zhu Ran’s Activity cores needed study. The fire truck’s remaining Activity needed to be absorbed into Vajra. Amalgamation upgrades to work through. The haul from his recent scavenging runs needed cataloguing. And he wanted to negotiate with the camp for some additional metal equipment.

Liu Changming, it turned out, had a significantly stronger technical background than Shen Cong in his specific domain. Within a day he’d designed several candidate anti-interference configurations and was moving through them methodically. Shen Cong’s target was reliable wireless communication beyond a hundred metres — Liu Changming was already working toward it.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Shen Cong worked the fang knife through the fire truck’s chassis panels the way a person might cut through thick plastic, reshaping the cargo body structure, expanding interior volume.

A few metres away, Liu Changming’s son stood watching with wide, fixed eyes.

He’d been there for a while. Fascinated by whatever Shen Cong was doing, and apparently unable to look away — but held at a distance by his father’s instructions, and by the rather alarming appearance of someone working in full Super Baogai Armor.

Boredom with the job made Shen Cong glance over.

The moment their eyes met, the boy fled immediately to his father’s side. Then, after a minute or two, crept back. Shen Cong looked at him again. The boy bolted again. This cycle repeated several times, each return slightly bolder than the last, until finally the child held his ground, watching from a few metres away with an expression of extreme concentration.

“Hey,” Shen Cong said. “Little Radish Head. Come here.”

The boy glanced at his father, who was absorbed in his signal testing and hadn’t noticed. Then he looked back at the enormous armoured figure beckoning at him, clearly weighing courage against self-preservation.

Curiosity won. He walked over.

(End of Chapter 104)