As the snowstorm howled over the blood-soaked village, Li Wei sat on the collapsed roof of the courthouse. His eyes stared into the distant stars, those cold lanterns in a sky that no longer cared. Below, the fire crackled. Meat roasted on salvaged metal. Smoke mingled with iron and frost.
And for a brief moment, his mind traveled back—not to Beijing, not to the barricades—but to a place far more silent.
Years ago. Li Wei was eight.
His mother had a scar along her forearm—a long, pale line from wrist to elbow. She told him it came from a farming accident. The truth, he later learned, was punishment from the village elders. She had spoken too freely. Asked the wrong questions. Trusted the wrong man.
In the village of Shenmu, nestled at the base of the mist-shrouded Qinglong Mountains, silence was safety. The old rules still ruled: don't question, don't resist, don't speak unless spoken to. The magistrate smiled with the teeth of a wolf. The temple bell rang not for prayers, but for obedience.
Li Wei was different.
Even as a child, he questioned everything.
"Why do we offer rice to the shrine when half the village is starving?"
"Why does Uncle Han's family have a motorcycle when others walk barefoot?"
"Why do the elders live in brick houses while we sleep under leaking roofs?"
His father would hush him quickly. "Books are better company than people here," he would say. "Keep your questions in your heart, not your mouth."
His father was a reader too—an unusual farmer. He taught Li Wei to write poems by lantern light and recite verses from the Records of the Grand Historian. "Words are power," he said. "But words spoken carelessly are knives without sheaths."
Then, on a cold winter morning, his father and mother were dragged from their hut.
They had been accused of "provoking unrest" after being seen giving extra potatoes to a widow with five children.
Li Wei, hiding in the chicken coop, watched the entire thing.
They beat his father with rods. His mother tried to fight, so they broke her arm. The village magistrate—his long black robe dragging in the mud—gave the order. Li Wei never forgot the exact words:
If a root grows crooked, it must be cut before it poisons the soil."
They were hanged from the archway that led into Shenmu's main square.
The same place where New Year lanterns used to be strung.
After that, Li Wei spoke less.
He learned to listen. He learned to mimic. He learned to disappear in plain sight.
And he never, ever forgot.
Five years ago. Beijing. The early days.
When the infection first began, the government lied.
Of course they did.
"Just a seasonal flu." "Keep calm." "Stay indoors." "We have it under control."
Hospitals overflowed.
Then came the "containment squads." Loudspeakers. Disappearances. Curfews.
Then came the bodies.
Then the riots.
Beijing became a labyrinth of burning districts and screams in the night.
Li Wei was seventeen. His university had shut down. No food. No transport. He walked south on foot, hiding in alleyways and train stations. His only companion: a stolen military-issue knife and a broken phone with no signal.
It happened on the third night.
He was scavenging from a flipped-over food truck near Daxing. A woman screamed nearby—short, sharp, cut off.
He ran.
Behind the alley, two men had a girl pinned against a wall. She couldn't have been older than thirteen. Blood on her knees. One man held her wrists. The other smiled with a cigarette between his teeth.
Li Wei's feet moved before he even made the decision.
He slammed the first man's head against the wall.
The second lunged, wild and surprised. Knife out.
Li Wei twisted.
The blade went into the man's neck. Not deep. But angled.
He bled out fast.
The girl didn't even thank him.
She ran.
And Li Wei just stood there, staring at his hands. He expected guilt. Horror. Vomit.
But there was nothing.
Just silence.
Just the cold.
He cleaned the blade, took the dead man's backpack, and kept walking.
That night, he didn't cry.
But something inside him curled in on itself like a dying spider.
Now.
The stars above the courthouse twinkled, distant and cruel.
Li Wei rose to his feet slowly.
There was still one survivor left from the bandits—the youngest. He'd caught him hiding beneath the floorboards. A boy, maybe sixteen. Dirt on his face. Wide eyes.
Li Wei had tied him to the main pole in the center of the village square. The firelight danced across the boy's face.
"I didn't do anything," the boy stammered, tears streaking his cheeks.
"You didn't stop anything," Li Wei replied.
"I was just following orders—"
Li Wei picked up his machete.
And paused.
The boy shook. "Please…"
Then something strange happened.
Li Wei reached into his coat and pulled out a can of beans.
He placed it in the snow before the boy.
"Survive," he said quietly. "But remember this night."
Then he turned and walked away.
The snow thinned as Li Wei traveled farther north. Gone were the heavy clouds that draped the sky like funeral cloth. Now, a pale sun stared through torn mist, casting long shadows on the cracked road ahead.
He walked alone, machete slung over his back, coat flapping against the wind. His breath came out in plumes. His boots crunched over gravel and the occasional frozen limb. Silence stretched, a quiet too large for one man's thoughts.
He hadn't eaten in a day.
Hadn't spoken in two.
He was heading toward a place he'd heard whispers of—Luoyan, a former military depot where the remaining soldiers were said to have fallen, leaving behind munitions, rations, and ruins. If it existed. If it wasn't another lie.
He didn't believe in sanctuary anymore. Only delays.
He found the boy outside the burned-down petrol station.
At first, Li Wei thought he was dead. The body lay face-down in the middle of the road, motionless, arms out like a snow angel. But there was no blood. No visible wounds.
Then the body spoke.
"Don't shoot! I'm unarmed and spectacularly handsome."
Li Wei froze. His hand slid toward his machete.
The boy rolled over slowly and sat up. He looked to be about Li Wei's age—maybe slightly younger—skin tan, hair wild, jacket patched in fifty places, and a pair of bright yellow sunglasses perched on his forehead like a crown. His grin spread ear to ear.
"Ha! Knew it. That pause? That's the pause of a man who thinks 'Is this guy crazy, or just annoying?' I get that a lot."
Li Wei said nothing.
"Name's Chen Yu," the boy said, leaping to his feet with surprising agility. "Former delivery driver, part-time pickpocket, and currently—" he bowed deeply, arms spread wide—"a scavenger of fine trash and a curator of end-of-the-world sarcasm."
Li Wei's machete stayed halfway out.
Chen Yu held up his hands. "Whoa whoa—easy there, Blade-boy. Not looking for a fight. Just a little conversation before one of us gets eaten by mutant dogs or whatever."
Li Wei's voice came low. "Why are you lying in the middle of the road?"
"I was trying to make a dramatic first impression." Chen Yu shrugged. "You'd be amazed how many people just walk past you if they think you're already dead. But you, my friend… you paused. I like that."
Li Wei's eyes scanned the horizon. There were no signs of ambush. No fresh footprints nearby. No movement.
"Where's your group?" Li Wei asked.
"Dead. All of them," Chen Yu said cheerfully. "One guy blew himself up with a grenade. Another got eaten by a cannibal grandma. True story. She wore his skin like an apron. Honestly, I miss her. Great sense of humor."
Li Wei blinked once.
Chen Yu beamed. "So… what's your story? You look like a man who's buried a few people."
Li Wei turned and walked.
Chen Yu followed.
"Alright, strong silent type. I can respect that. I once spent a whole week pretending to be mute just to escape a cult that believed sound was the cause of the infection. Worked fine until I sneezed."
Still no response.
Undeterred, Chen Yu jogged up beside him. "Where you headed?"
"Luoyan," Li Wei muttered.
"Oh ho! You mean the legendary depot of doom? The forbidden city of canned beans and expired bullets? I love that place. Never been. But I've written three songs about it."
"I work alone," Li Wei said.
Chen Yu whistled. "Of course you do. You have the look. The whole 'tragic loner with a haunted past and a thing for sharp objects' vibe. Respect. But let me pitch you something."
"No."
"Hear me out. You're the blade. I'm the distraction. You're the ghost. I'm the foghorn. It's perfect."
"No."
"Okay, but what if I told you I can get into Luoyan without stepping on a single landmine?"
Li Wei stopped walking.
Chen Yu grinned wider. "Ah. Now you're interested."
They moved together through a ruined stretch of highway flanked by shattered hills and overgrown rest stops. What little snow remained had melted into mud, and the air smelled of ash and something rotten beneath the earth.
"I wasn't lying about the landmines, you know," Chen Yu said as he skipped ahead. "Luoyan was a military storage yard. They set traps around it before they all got eaten—or went mad. Either way, boom-boom everywhere."
"You've been there?" Li Wei asked, still watching him warily.
"Nope," Chen Yu said with a wink. "But I stole the notebook of a guy who went there. Or tried to. He made it fifty steps inside before a metal pop and half his face disappeared. He managed to crawl back and write about it, though. Real trooper."
"Let me guess," Li Wei muttered. "You left him to die."
"Oh, no. I made him soup. Then I left him to die."
Chen Yu's face didn't even twitch. He was either joking—or perfectly fine with watching someone bleed out over a bowl of rice broth.
Li Wei didn't reply. There was no point.
That night, they found shelter in an overturned bus half-buried in the dirt. The windows had been shattered long ago. Burn marks crawled up the ceiling. On the far side, a skeleton still sat buckled into its seat, its empty eye sockets staring through the dark.
Chen Yu set up camp like it was a hotel suite. "Ahhh, prime location, lots of airflow, cozy corpse ambiance…"
Li Wei sat in silence by the door, cleaning his blade.
"Seriously though," Chen Yu said, eyes suddenly serious, "you've killed someone, haven't you?"
Li Wei looked up. His expression didn't change.
"You can always tell," Chen Yu continued, lowering his voice. "Something in the way you move. You don't hesitate. You don't look away from blood."
Li Wei was quiet for a moment. Then:
"My first kill wasn't a zombie," he said.
Chen Yu leaned in, fascinated.
"It was a man. During the first week," Li Wei said, his voice cold. "He broke into a pharmacy I was hiding in. Killed a child for antibiotics. I followed him outside, waited for him to start a fire, and then I put a brick through the back of his head."
Chen Yu blinked. "Wow. Brutal. Efficient. Hot."
Li Wei's eyes narrowed.
"Relax, I'm joking," Chen Yu said, laughing. "Mostly."
He turned toward the window, watching the wind sweep over the hills.
"You wanna know my first kill?" he asked, almost casually.
Li Wei said nothing.
"It was my brother," Chen Yu said with a crooked smile. "Day five. He caught the fever, turned fast. Clawed my arm up pretty good before I slammed a crowbar into his jaw."
He mimed the motion. "Wham. Instant dental appointment."
Li Wei remained still.
"You know what I remember most?" Chen Yu whispered. "I laughed. Not because it was funny. Just… because it was insane. Like my brain cracked a little. Ever since then, I've been like this. Jokes, grins, chaos. It's how I stay me."
Li Wei looked at him for a long time. Then finally spoke.
"You're not joking. You're hiding."
Chen Yu's eyes glittered in the firelight. "Aren't we all?"
By morning, the sky was heavy with dust. Somewhere in the valley below, faint howls echoed.
They began their hike toward Luoyan.
The land changed. Burned-out APCs lined the slopes. Cratered terrain spoke of old battles. The air buzzed with something unseen.
"You feel that?" Chen Yu asked. "Static. This whole place is cursed."
As they reached the fence of Luoyan, Li Wei held up a hand.
They dropped to a crouch.
Ahead, half-hidden in a crumbling watchtower, a sniper scope gleamed.
"There are still survivors guarding it," Li Wei muttered.
Chen Yu's grin returned. "Ooooh. Time for a show."
"What?"
"I'll draw their attention. You sneak around the side."
"That's suicide."
"I know," Chen Yu said brightly. "That's why it'll work."
The watchtower looked ancient, like a ghost left behind by a long-dead regime. Its steel joints had rusted over, and vines crept up its legs like veins on a corpse. But the glint of a sniper scope was fresh. So were the boot prints in the mud.
Li Wei crouched behind the remains of a cargo truck, blade strapped to his back, gaze locked on the tower.
"Remember," he said without turning, "create a distraction. Don't get killed."
"Killjoy," Chen Yu whispered. "You always this boring before murder-time?"
Li Wei didn't answer.
Then Chen Yu stood up, stretched like he was about to take a stroll through a rice field, and started whistling.
Not just any whistle. The opening notes of a children's song — the kind sung at Chinese festivals before everything had gone to hell.
Then he started walking, hands raised, grinning like a lunatic.
Li Wei slipped away.
"HELLOOOOOO!" Chen Yu shouted, waving toward the tower like a long-lost cousin. "Any honorable defenders of the People's Supply Depot home today?"
The sniper scope jerked.
Chen Yu kept going.
"Please don't shoot, I have dumplings!" he yelled.
Crack!
A shot rang out. The bullet missed him by less than an inch, ricocheting off a road sign and disappearing into the trees.
Chen Yu dropped to the ground, cackling. "Oooh! Feisty!"
Two more figures emerged from the ruins behind the gate. Armed. Rough-looking. Civilians turned soldiers—or worse.
Li Wei reached the east flank silently, staying low, using the broken terrain for cover.
Another shot rang out, and this time it clipped Chen Yu's shoulder.
He didn't scream. He laughed.
"YES! I like your aim, sniper-san!"
The guards hesitated. Nobody sane reacted like that.
That was when Li Wei struck.
He moved like a shadow — silent, surgical.
The first sentry didn't see him until the blade pierced his neck, severing the artery in one smooth arc. No time for a cry. Just a wet gurgle and collapse.
The second guard turned, saw his comrade fall — but Li Wei was already behind him. A hammer fist to the throat. A sweep of the leg. Then the blade again — quick, brutal, intimate.
The sniper realized something was wrong too late.
By the time he tried to shift position, Li Wei had scaled the opposite support beam and launched himself into the tower.
They struggled. The man was bigger, stronger, trained.
But Li Wei didn't need strength.
He needed hate.
He gouged the man's eye with two fingers, yanked the rifle sideways, and then headbutted him into unconsciousness. A moment later, the sniper was dead. Neck broken. Body flung down to rot.
Chen Yu clapped as Li Wei descended.
"My man!" he cried. "That was beautiful. Straight out of a wuxia novel, but more stabby."
Li Wei ignored him and searched the sniper's supplies. Ammo. Maps. Dried rations. A flash drive. He pocketed it all.
"You know," Chen Yu said, picking at his bleeding shoulder, "I've had girlfriends more gentle than you."
"You need medical attention."
"I need whiskey and a new shirt. But sure, doc."
Li Wei tore open a med kit, cleaned the wound, and stapled it shut. No words exchanged. No thank you expected.
They searched the depot. Inside were crates of old weapons, expired rations, gas masks, and something rare — a solar-charged battery pack still intact.
Li Wei paused, inspecting it.
With that, they could run lights again. Charge gear. Power heat. Small comforts, but vital.
"Score!" Chen Yu sang.
Then they heard a sound. Distant. Muffled.
A child's voice.
It came from the far storage shed — half-collapsed, roof sagging. The voice was cracked from thirst, but it was singing. Barely.
Li Wei and Chen Yu approached with caution.
Inside, they found her. Maybe eight years old. Curled up under a table, surrounded by the rotting remains of two adults. Her parents.
She didn't flinch when they opened the door. Just stared with huge, hollow eyes.
Chen Yu tilted his head. "Huh. Small, haunted, and half-dead. Reminds me of my childhood."
"Help me get her out," Li Wei said.
"No."
Li Wei turned, eyes narrow.
Chen Yu's grin faded slightly. "I'm not dragging a kid across corpse fields. She's dead weight."
"She's a survivor," Li Wei said coldly. "Like us."
"She's a future liability. You know it. I know it."
"She's a child."
"Exactly." Chen Yu stepped closer, voice sharp. "You want to teach her how to stab throats? How to smile while someone begs for mercy? You want to make her you?"
Li Wei was silent.
The girl looked between them, saying nothing.
Then he knelt beside her.
"You want to come with us?" he asked gently.
She nodded once.
Chen Yu sighed. "Fine. But if she slows me down, I'm using her as zombie bait."
"You won't," Li Wei said.
"You sure about that?"
"I am."
Because for the first time in a long while…
Li Wei wasn't thinking about vengeance.
He was thinking about what he might protect.