Chapter 1

Prologue: If Only Life Were Like the First Meeting of War

War destroyed an era, and war also created a new world.

No one knows when it began, but the night is no longer completely dark.

Under the night sky, two deep, dark red glows rise slowly in the air.

Where the faint light of the glow envelops, there flows thick, dark green sewage, always emitting a strong stench of decay. Even in the almost pitch-black corners, the sewage glows with a pale green light, illuminating a small area around it. Compared to its unbearable filth, the lethal radiation is the most dangerous aspect of this sewage, which is almost everywhere.

In the pools of sewage, tattered rags, rusted tin cans, and the decaying carcasses of unknown animals, along with various other pollutants, float or sink. Occasionally, a giant rat nearly a meter long emerges from somewhere, screeching and dashing through the sewage before disappearing into the darkness. The radiation, which could kill a full-grown horse, seems to have no effect on the giant rats. However, sometimes chunks of flesh, complete with skin and fur, fall off their bodies. Upon closer inspection, these pieces of flesh are already rotten, suggesting that the giant rats are not entirely immune to the radiation.

The red glow rises several meters and stops at the top of a tilted steel beam, scanning the world under the dark night. The two red glows reflect only the skeletal frames of buildings, half-collapsed walls, and scattered car wrecks.

The world under the night sky is bathed in a sickly green glow.

Such a place was called a wasteland fifty years ago, and now it is called a city.

Suddenly, a blinding light flares up at a street corner not far away, accompanied by wild and hysterical screams, quickly surging toward this area.

Startled, the red glow quickly spreads its four transparent wings and flutters upward. A beam of light just happens to shine over, revealing a giant beetle over a meter long flying away.

The man with the torch has no interest in the beetle, only running with the crowd, occasionally emitting a beast-like roar.

The light quickly fades, and the giant beetle re-enters the darkness. Suddenly, a strong wind blows, and the giant beetle emits a sharp, needle-like cry. Its sharp, blade-like legs scrape sparks on bricks and steel bars, and its four wings flap desperately, but it is still slowly dragged into the deep darkness.

Following its cries, there are crunching sounds.

In a dark alley, a woman, looking extremely panicked, suddenly rushes in. As soon as she enters the alley, she notices a figure sitting against the wall.

The person is completely wrapped in a black blanket, head lowered, making it impossible to see their face. From the slender figure, it looks more like an eight or nine-year-old child.

The woman grits her teeth, takes a few steps forward, and forcefully pushes the bundle she is holding into the person's arms, crying, "Please, save her!"

The green glow from the sewage reveals the woman's face. Despite the flickering and dim light, it is clear that she is young and beautiful, with delicate, snow-white skin, a rarity in this era, which would make most women jealous enough to want to scratch her face. Her neck is long and straight, and from her chin, a graceful curve extends downward, then suddenly rises at her white chest, creating a deep cleavage. Her clothes are thin, and the buttons on her blouse are loosely fastened, exposing most of her plump breasts. The outline of two inviting mounds can be seen through the blouse, surrounded by a small patch of moisture, indicating that she had just fed the baby.

Without waiting for a response, the woman suddenly stands up and runs deeper into the alley. After running about ten meters, she lets out a scream that almost pierces the eardrums. In the somewhat noisy night, the scream echoes far and wide. The frenzied crowd nearby immediately bursts into a roar of excitement or joy, and within a minute, torches light up the alley, and over a dozen ragged, cruel, and excited rioters rush in, pushing and shoving, chasing deeper into the alley.

A particularly muscular man swings a wooden club studded with large iron nails, pushing people aside with his arms, shouting, "When we catch that woman, I'll be the first to have her! Anyone who dares to compete with me, I'll smash their head!"

Behind him, a lean middle-aged man laughs loudly, mocking, "Forget it, Black Duncan! That woman has slept with demons, who knows what she carries. Do you dare to touch her? Aren't you afraid your thing will rot inside her?"

Black Duncan mutters, "That's not certain. I'm more radiation-resistant than you." However, his voice clearly shows some hesitation.

His hesitation immediately triggers laughter from several people, "Black Duncan, you even dare to mount a mutated sow, are you afraid now? Is your thing already rotten? But your thing is really disproportionate to your size!"

Black Duncan roars in anger, "I don't care! Whoever thinks their thing is bigger can go, I'm done!"

Suddenly, someone screams, "If none of you want, I'll do it! My thing is already half-rotten, but to get a smooth-skinned woman, it's worth it even if it rots completely!"

The one shouting is a gaunt old man, wrapped in a dirty cloth, almost naked. His emaciated body is covered with festering sores, his head bald with only a few strands of pale, soft hair. He pants heavily as he runs, his chest making a wheezing sound like an old-fashioned bellows. He can barely keep up with the group, but the black thing between his legs, hard like a short, thin iron rod, stands erect on his belly.

The alley is not long, and the dozen rioters quickly rush out the other end. After the flickering torchlight passes, darkness reigns again. The rioters, filled with violence and lust, only see the woman's fair skin, completely ignoring the shadow in the corner. Even if they had noticed him, a person lying by the radiated sewage, waiting to die, is common, and no one would care.

Not far from the alley, the rioters' shouts suddenly become more intense, mixed with the woman's inhuman screams. Soon, her screams turn into a muffled sound, as if something is blocking her mouth, while the rioters' roars and screams grow louder, eventually drowning out her voice.

In the dark alley, the figure wrapped in a black blanket suddenly moves, slowly lifting his head, and from under the blanket, he holds a bundle. The edge of the rag reveals a small hand, with a tender outline clearly belonging to a child, but the skin is ice-like and lustrous, almost blinding, standing out from the surroundings. In the lowered blanket, a deep green light glows, his eyes silently watching the baby in the bundle.

The baby neither cries nor fusses, her large blue eyes also gazing back at the deep green light. She is a girl, with a straight, prominent nose, skin as clear as the finest cheese, completely unlike the babies of this era, whose skin is often discolored by radiation. Her small lips have a rare, sharp line. In short, she is exceptionally beautiful, especially for a baby who has not yet been weaned.

He blinks, and the green light on the baby's face flickers. Finally, he reaches out, slightly unwraps the bundle, and lets the baby hear the sounds around her, the rioters' roars and breaths, and the occasional woman's desperate screams.

His hands are long and pale, with slender fingers like night-blooming cereus, quietly blooming for a moment before retreating under the blanket.

The baby tilts her head, her ears trembling, absorbing all the sounds around her, listening intently. He then notices that her ears have two tips at the top, half as long as a normal human's.

The brutal and debauched feast in the distance does not last long. With a roar of extreme disappointment, the rioters gradually quiet down. Then a flame shoots up, accompanied by thick smoke and a foul, burnt smell. The fire rages, occasionally reaching over ten meters into the sky, driving away the darkness in the alley for a moment.

In the sewage in the alley, the child, always wrapped in a dark black blanket, is nowhere to be seen.

The sun rises as usual.

The scorching sunlight struggles to penetrate the thick gray clouds, casting light on the black and yellow earth. Occasionally, a strong wind blows away a patch of gray clouds, allowing the sunlight to shine unobstructed, and all sorts of strange animals scatter to find shelter or hide in underground burrows, avoiding the deadly sunlight. The only thing unafraid of the sun is a tall plant with a pale stem covered in half-meter-long thorns. Whenever the sun shines, it twists its branches, absorbing as much light as possible, and grows rapidly, visible to the naked eye.

Clang, clang! The noisy sound breaks the morning tranquility. A fifty-year-old old man, hitting a metal pipe stuck in the ground, shouts in a hoarse voice, "Get to work! Get up, you brats! Let old Hans see who's still lucky today!"

Immediately, over a hundred people jump up and run over, but they stop automatically five meters from the old man, as if there is an invisible boundary they cannot cross. A few newcomers, unaware of the situation, try to push forward. The surrounding strong men immediately curse, "Newcomers, go to the back! What are you pushing for?" Before the newcomers can react, they are punched hard, falling to the ground. The surrounding people immediately kick and punch them mercilessly. After a while, the strong men throw the nearly unconscious newcomers out of the line, spitting on them in disgust.

Old Hans is used to such violence and just shrugs. He wears a dull leather jacket, a dark red plaid shirt, oil-stained jeans, and high-top military boots. Compared to the ragged refugees around him, Old Hans is like a king, and he is indeed as arrogant as one. On his chest, he wears a silver badge with a distant city in the background and a tank rolling forward in the center. Under the sunlight, the badge glows, catching the attention of hundreds of people, who look at it with fear, envy, and the greed of hungry wolves.

Facing hundreds of wild wolves, Old Hans is not afraid. He stands behind a table made of angle iron, takes a few cans from a wooden box behind him, and throws them on the table, shouting, "Same rules! One hundred kilograms of ore for five cents, food prices are the same as yesterday, and I'm even giving you a few cans today, see who can take them! No pushing, one at a time!"

The people already know the rules, form a line, and walk to the iron table one by one. Old Hans, like a butcher inspecting livestock, glances at their physique, skin, and complexion, and casually says, "You can, go get your tools and work!" or "You can't!"

Those who are approved immediately run to the tool pile, grab a pickaxe and a basket, and rush to the mine a few hundred meters away, fearing that any delay might make Old Hans say the terrifying "You can't." Those with experience walk calmly, acting as if they are in their own courtyard, knowing that the work will last all day, and it is unwise to waste energy running.

"Why can't I?" A thunderous roar draws everyone's attention. A black man, nearly two meters tall and as strong as a bear, pounds the iron table, roaring at Old Hans.

Old Hans takes out a clean handkerchief, slowly wipes the spittle from his face, points to a large, festering wound on the black man's chest, and says slowly, "You're sick! If you go down the mine, you'll infect my strong mules, and who will work for me then?"

"I can work! I need food, I have three children to feed!" The black man, not listening to Old Hans, keeps roaring, pounding the table loudly.

Old Hans frowns, strokes his thick beard, and signals behind him. A gunshot rings out, and the black man's roar suddenly stops. He looks in disbelief at the large hole in his chest, his throat making a gurgling sound, but he cannot speak.

Behind Old Hans, a bald, muscular man, wearing a wrinkled black suit with several holes, fires his double-barreled shotgun again. Another loud bang, and hundreds of iron pellets hit the black man's chest, doubling the wound and completely piercing his thick chest. There are three such muscular men standing behind Old Hans.

Old Hans finishes wiping his face and says to the air in front of the table, "Also, black man, your spittle stinks!" He speaks as if the black man is still standing in front of him.

There are still over a hundred refugees who did not enter the mine. Their gazes have less greed and more fear. A few people come over, drag the black man's body away, and throw it a few hundred meters away. Soon, the scent of blood will attract decay wolves and vultures, who will eat the body clean, leaving not a single bone.

The line in front of the table quickly shortens, and most of the refugees are already in the mine before dawn. Those not selected walk toward the town, hoping to find luck there.

"Sick mules are increasing, this month's quota is going to be tough..." Old Hans mutters, standing up and stretching his aching back. Halfway through the stretch, he stops, then leans forward, hands on the table, looking at the child who is just a head taller than the table.

The child is wrapped in a dirty blanket, with his face and hands, wherever they are exposed, tightly wrapped in bandages, leaving only one left eye, calmly looking at Hans. The child looks about eight years old, and it is unclear whether it is a boy or a girl.

Old Hans would never waste time on such an obviously unqualified refugee. Perhaps the bloodshed earlier softened his heart, or the worry about the labor shortage this month, or the child's eyes. Whatever the reason, he hesitates and asks, "Do you want a job?"

The child nods.

"Alright! But tell me, are you a boy or a girl?" Old Hans asks.