The easy days ended when Shen Cong moved into the northern district.
The wired drone’s footage showed it clearly: a three-vehicle convoy moving toward the main urban area, a red fire truck at the front. No guessing required. The Juchao fire brigade, with iron person commander Liu Zheng at the wheel.
The fire brigade apparently hadn’t known he was operating in the northern district. They appeared to be running their own salvage sweep — but at their current heading and speed, they’d find Vajra within the hour.
Last time he’d spotted them, he’d avoided contact to reduce complications.
This time he stayed put.
Once he’d committed to stockpiling resources for Vajra’s overhaul, Juchao had become his territory in a practical sense. The district was in a state of nature — no functioning government, no legitimate authority. He was here. That gave him standing, by the only logic that actually applied anymore.
He didn’t warn the salvage team. He repositioned Vajra onto an open stretch of road — good sightlines in every direction, no cover nearby that could hide an ambush — laid out every weapon within reach, and settled in to wait.
His current readings: Lv0.658 / Activity Value 1.042H. The hundred-plus Gentle Sand Pears had continued doing their quiet work. His hundred-meter time had come down to 3.3 seconds. Reaction speed: below 0.04 seconds. Striking force: approximately 500 kilograms. Dodging individual bullets was now a realistic option rather than a theoretical one. With the Super Baogai Armor on, conventional firearms alone were unlikely to kill him.
Against anything short of an equally-enhanced evolved person, he was comfortable.
An hour later, the fire brigade reached the Mingshi Jiayuan area and encountered the salvage team first.
Several fire brigade members approached: “Who are you people?”
The salvage team had received enough information through trading to know the local power dynamics. The fire brigade nominally controlled Juchao — and the salvage team also knew, from what Shen Cong had told them, that the blue-green-faced man who’d attacked their camp in the early weeks had been a fire brigade member. Zhou Yajun got everyone moving immediately, pulling the group back behind Vajra.
The fire brigade men followed and stopped in front of the vehicle: “Anyone in there?”
Shen Cong appeared at the window and turned their question back on them: “Who are you?”
“We’re the fire brigade, appointed by the military district. We manage all affairs in Juchao — public order, disaster recovery. You’re survivors — you can stand down. You’ve found your organization. We’ll lead the reconstruction effort, but we need you to cooperate with a check-in and registration process. Task assignments will follow.”
“I don’t need an organization. Your brigade can conduct survivor search-and-rescue elsewhere. Stop interrupting my salvage operation.”
The fire brigade member blinked. “Excuse me — you said what? We’re the military district’s appointed authority in this district. All reconstruction and order maintenance falls under our jurisdiction. This isn’t optional. Get out of the vehicle and cooperate with the inspection.”
A QBZ-95 barrel appeared at Shen Cong’s window.
“Either leave me alone, or bring your commander to speak with me directly.”
A short wait. Then the fire truck’s door opened and a broad-faced middle-aged man climbed out — the bearing of someone accustomed to authority, voice carrying the natural projection of someone who’d spent decades giving orders.
“Hello, comrade. Before the disaster I was the Juchao Fire Brigade’s political instructor. After the disaster, the Anhui Provincial Military District leadership assigned the fire brigade to manage Juchao’s reconstruction effort. This is a nationwide effort — all of China is working to recover together. I need you to cooperate.”
The words landed on Wang Yingying and Zhou Yajun’s group like something solid. He could hear the murmuring start behind him. Provincial military district appointment carried weight, even now. The People’s Liberation Army had spent decades earning a particular trust among ordinary Chinese — every flood, every earthquake, every major disaster, the military arrived first. That reputation didn’t dissolve easily, even in an apocalypse.
Several of the female students weren’t moving. Wang Yingying’s position was clear from the set of her face: “I won’t trust the fire brigade. I’ll keep trading with Boss Huang.” The women who’d been through what she’d been through weren’t persuadable on this subject.
Shen Cong didn’t consult the group. He had no interest in Liu Zheng’s account of his own authority.
“Your brigade’s reconstruction activities have nothing to do with me. Take them elsewhere. Stop interfering with my operation.”
“A little temper on you, comrade. You’re an evolved person, I take it. Refusing to cooperate?”
“You can take it that way.”
“Fine.” Liu Zheng turned and walked back to the fire truck. Then the vehicle’s loudspeaker crackled: “Provincial Military District fire brigade conducting public order inspection. All individuals are required to cooperate unconditionally. Non-cooperation will result in enforcement action.”
A squad of fire brigade members advanced on Vajra with handguns drawn, shouting: “Open the vehicle! Everyone out!”
Two of them led the approach. The first, a mutant with a round protrusion on the left side of his forehead — Wei Falü, per Zhu Haifeng’s earlier description. The second, a mutant whose fingernails had hardened into blade-like extensions — Zhu Ran. Both names matched faces he’d been given intelligence on.
The salvage team hit the ground, hands over their heads.
Shen Cong’s voice dropped low and flat: “Don’t push me. Anyone comes within ten meters of this vehicle — dies.”
Liu Zheng’s voice came back through the loudspeaker: “Resistance? You’re threatening a government body? You want to oppose the provincial military district? Don’t waste words on him — Wei Falü, Zhu Ran, break that vehicle open. Capture him and shoot him on site. Opposing the government, opposing the military — unacceptable.”
Wei Falü stepped across the ten-meter line.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
The QBZ-95 in Shen Cong’s hands put a burst across the approach. Wei Falü took two rounds and went down screaming. The rest of the fire brigade scattered immediately for cover and opened return fire.
The exchange became general.
Someone in the fire brigade knew how to shoot — several rounds came through Shen Cong’s window, and one bullet arrived on a line directly for his helmet. His body was already moving before the round reached him: a 0.04-second reaction time, head turning, bullet passing.
Clang.
Window sealed. Firing port open. Same method as Wang Gen — slingshot, bone-gold pellets, systematic.
First priority: the accurate shooter. But the man was trained — one shot from cover, then immediately shifting position. No clear follow-up.
Shen Cong switched targets. Anyone who broke cover, regardless of which direction, took a steel ball bearing at full draw. No need for the mandible pellets at this range against unaugmented targets. Standard steel was sufficient.
Eight fire brigade members down in a few minutes, Wei Falü among them — he’d been caught in the opening burst before he could react to anything.
The guns went quiet. Nobody was breaking cover anymore.
In the fire truck, Liu Zheng’s voice came back through the loudspeaker, iron edging into it: “Stop! I said stop! Do you know what you’re doing? You’re opposing an organ of state power! You want to make enemies of the provincial military district?”
Inside Vajra, Shen Cong wasn’t listening.
He was quietly opening a second firing port on the opposite side, lifting the crossbow — not the standard one, the highest-draw configuration — and slotting in the single rhino horn arrow.
He was waiting for Liu Zheng’s head.
An Activity-infused fang arrow at 0.159H had cracked the Hummer’s windshield. The rhino horn arrow at 0.236H would do considerably more. The fire truck’s glass had been Activity-infused over months of contact with an iron person — but glass wasn’t metal, and Activity-infused glass against a rhino horn arrow fired at full draw from thirty meters was not an even contest.
From the moment Liu Zheng had ordered his people to shoot him on site, Shen Cong’s decision had been made. Everyone who tried to kill him: if he could run, he ran. If he could fight, they died.
The fire truck sat thirty meters away.
Well within maximum effective range.
He charged the arrow completely. The sharpened tip radiated Activity in dense, visible waves — almost like watching something breathe.
Fire truck glass. Firing port. Shen Cong’s eye.
Three points, one line.
His hands were absolutely steady. His body didn’t move.
The firefight had gone quiet enough that Liu Zheng, sensing no immediate danger, began to raise himself upright — and appeared in Shen Cong’s field of view.
At a reaction speed below 0.04 seconds, the trigger was already moving the instant Liu Zheng’s head cleared the dash.
Thwack.
The rhino horn arrow crossed thirty meters with a high, sharp shriek of displaced air — and hit the fire truck’s Activity-infused windshield dead center.
The glass didn’t crack.
It detonated.
Not metal, regardless of its Activity content — it couldn’t hold against 0.236H of focused Sharpening at this velocity. The entire windshield came apart in the same instant.
Liu Zheng’s pupils went wide.
His body understood: lethal. His body could not respond in the time available.
His reaction speed was not in the same category as the arrow’s flight.
(End of Chapter 98)