A supersonic fighter jet streaked through the clouds, leaving behind sharp whistling sounds as it passed.
On the desolate icy plains, a survivor bundled in thick winter gear was struggling to chip away at the ice blocking a shelter's ventilation shaft. Hearing the sound from the sky, he couldn't help but look up, catching a glimpse of the massive aircraft intermittently visible through the clouds. For a moment, he stood there, stunned.
It wasn't awe—the jet's piercing whistle wasn't exactly pleasant. But the faint trace of human civilization it carried made his eyes inexplicably moist. After being isolated in this desolate place for so long, even with the internet as a mental solace, he couldn't help but feel the loneliness of wondering if the entire world was reduced to just the few people in their shelter. Now, through sound, he had tangible evidence that other humans still existed. The loneliness and unease in his heart miraculously dissipated a bit.
"Sixth-generation fighter jet," the survivor murmured to himself. He might not recognize the aircraft's design, but the long trail of "doughnut" contrails it left in the sky was all too familiar. It was one of the pinnacles of human technological achievement.
"The spark of human civilization hasn't been extinguished by the apocalypse. That's good."
At the Farmhouse Shelter's underground control center, a white task suddenly appeared on Su Wu's system panel, only to be marked as completed almost instantly. It happened so fast that Su Wu didn't even have time to see what the completion conditions were.
"The Spark of Civilization," Su Wu muttered, noting the lofty name of the task, which seemed somewhat mismatched with its plain white difficulty level. But that didn't matter. The task had refreshed and completed itself in an instant, granting him 5 Survival Points without any effort. This small, unexpected windfall lifted his spirits slightly.
"Wouldn't it be nice if more of these good things happened?"
To the far east, at the exit of the Black Pine Forest Shelter, over a dozen ruggedly modified off-road and multi-purpose vehicles surrounded the shelter, their mounted weapons trained on it.
"Listen up, people inside!" a gruff, burly man with coarse stubble barked into a communicator, using a previously scanned frequency. "Hiding won't do you any good. Open up now, and we'll give you some leniency. But if we have to cut through this door, none of you will make it out alive."
But the people inside the shelter remained silent, as if they hadn't heard. After several unsuccessful attempts, the man put down the communicator, his face darkening with suppressed anger.
"Keep cutting," he ordered. "Once we break in, I'll turn them all into skewers."
Inside the shelter, the survivors listened to the faint vibrations of the metal door being cut. Fear was etched on the faces of everyone, young and old. Among them were survivors who had escaped from another shelter previously raided by these bandits. They all knew firsthand just how cruel these people could be. Being cooked and eaten alive would be considered a merciful fate compared to what they could expect.
"Did the distress signal go out?" someone whispered.
"The game shows it's been received, but we don't know when help will arrive," a young girl replied nervously, clutching her phone as she logged into the game. She stared at the response from the Wish Hall, which she had checked countless times, her eyes filled with cautious hope.
"I heard the game is backed by Jianghe City in the Kuang River Basin. That's a full 1,500 kilometers away from us. By the time they get here, won't it be too late?" someone questioned.
No one answered. Everyone present knew it was a faint hope, but it was all they had left. Sending a plea to Jianghe City, even if it only brought a bit of psychological comfort, was better than nothing.
The Black Pine Forest Shelter, built during a time when some semblance of order still existed, hadn't stockpiled any of the strictly prohibited lethal weapons. Instead, they had focused on gathering survival supplies and making the shelter as sturdy as possible to withstand extreme surface conditions. Unfortunately, luck hadn't been on their side. They had endured over half a year of the apocalypse—heatwaves, torrential rains, earthquakes, and bitter cold—only to fall prey to a band of ruthless raiders.
On this ordinary, frigid day, they had finally been targeted. It was only then they discovered that the nearby official shelters had already collapsed. The former high-ranking officials and elites had either fled west on federal trains or turned into dictators of their own shelters, completely ignoring the plight of civilian shelters. Their only hope now lay in the Wish Hall of the game.
The air grew heavy with an uncomfortable silence. Everyone, men and women alike, gripped their makeshift weapons—knives, forks, spears, bows, and crossbows. If it came to the last moment, they would fight these bandits to the death, making their final stand.
Just as the atmosphere turned increasingly grim, one of the bandits' large off-road vehicles outside was suddenly engulfed in a burst of intense flames, disintegrating instantly. Shards of metal debris, propelled by the massive shockwave, shot out in all directions like bullets. Nearby vehicles began to shake violently.
"Ambush! Take cover!" the bandits shouted, seasoned as they were. But this time, they couldn't even locate the source of the attack. It seemed to come out of nowhere.
By the time a second vehicle was destroyed, a sharp-eyed bandit finally noticed the attack was coming from high above. But knowing this was useless—they had no way to counter an attack from such a height. They could only take the hits. Even retreating was no longer an option.
Within seconds of realizing the situation, more attacks rained down like a storm. Soon, all the bandits were killed in the violent explosions, with not a single one escaping.
A few seconds later, a black fighter jet descended from the clouds, circling the Black Pine Forest Shelter a few times to confirm all threats had been eliminated. Then it ascended again, disappearing into the clouds.
The Void-Class Sixth-Generation Fighter Jet, capable of carrying up to 120 long-range ground missiles, could launch precision strikes beyond visual range, eliminating any designated target on the ground. To enemies without comparable technology, it was akin to divine retribution raining from the sky—utterly defenseless, with no means of counterattack.
February 19th.
With the last large-scale convoy arriving at the Farmhouse Shelter in Jianghe City, the entire Kuang River Basin and the surrounding areas of Yu'an City had completed the transfer of all populations under Su Wu's control.
At this point, the total population of the Farmhouse Shelter officially surpassed 50 million, reaching half a billion. It had become the second-largest super shelter in East Asia, second only to the Western Wasteland Plateau's New East Asia Capital Shelter Cluster.
On the same day, at 8:40 AM, the surface temperature in Jianghe City officially hit seventy degrees below zero.
Seventy degrees below zero—a temperature that marked the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead. At this point, almost no animals could survive in such conditions. Even for humans, it was lethally dangerous. Any exposed skin would turn pale and numb within a minute or two. After five minutes, it could necrotize. Limbs like hands or legs would require amputation.
On snowfields at this temperature, there was no poetry or romance—only the purest, most brutal reality. The once cozy image of sipping warm tea while admiring the snowscape would forever remain a memory of past generations. For the new generation, snow was akin to molten lava, a source of deadly danger that could no longer be appreciated as a serene beauty.
"The era of peace is completely over," Su Wu murmured, sitting at the control center's console, watching the surface monitoring footage of the Farmhouse Shelter. Today, there was no snow or icy fog obstructing the view. The air seemed unusually dry and clear, like an ordinary overcast winter day without warm sunlight. But in reality, the area had become a perilous wasteland.
The level-seven gales sweeping across the surface were enough to make anyone dressed in ordinary winter clothing feel as if they were in temperatures below a hundred degrees, bringing them to the brink of death within a minute.
Turning his gaze away, Su Wu began his daily tasks. As surface conditions worsened, most vehicles from the pre-apocalypse era, even with extensive modifications, could no longer operate effectively on the surface. After an initial screening, Su Wu found that out of the hundreds of thousands of vehicles used for the mass migration, only about 5,000 high-end modified off-road vehicles were still barely functional.
This number was too small to justify maintaining roads for their use.
"Forget it, let's scrap them all," Su Wu decided after a brief moment of consideration. "There's no point in keeping them for future use."
With this decision, the era of transporting millions of people to the Farmhouse Shelter at minimal cost came to an end. From now on, the only way to move large populations and transport supplies would be through merchant caravans.
"Currently, there are 150 merchant caravans," Su Wu noted. "That number will continue to grow at a rate of five per day until it reaches 210, depleting the resources from Steel City. For now, it's sufficient."
A fleet of 210 caravans could transport about 1.6 million people at once. While not as staggering as the mass migration convoys, it was still in the same ballpark, reaching into the millions. Crucially, these caravans were impervious to low-temperature cold waves and most geological disasters, allowing them to traverse surface regions relatively quickly. In terms of efficiency, they could almost match the mass migration convoys, while far exceeding them in stability and safety.
"Though they're said to be impervious to low-temperature cold waves," Su Wu mused, "the average surface temperature is now close to the lower limit of such waves. We don't even need to differentiate them anymore."
While the merchant caravans were capable of large-scale population transfers, Su Wu couldn't dedicate them solely to that purpose. As the only viable means of transporting significant amounts of goods across the surface, they were needed to gather the essential resources required for the Farmhouse Shelter's development.
"Population transfers will have to be a long-term process, done gradually," Su Wu concluded. "We'll move as many people as we can without disrupting the supply chain."
After some quick calculations, Su Wu estimated that under this resource-first strategy, the shelter would gain around 200,000 new residents daily. It was better than nothing, but it was the best they could do.
Su Wu had to prioritize ensuring the shelter had sufficient resources and military strength. Without these, the hard-earned advantages they had built up could easily be lost, leading to potential collapse.
Fortunately, with its current population of 50 million, the Farmhouse Shelter had already become a substantial human society. With proper governance, it could develop into a complete human civilization even without further population influx.
"The internal space of the shelter is now large enough," Su Wu thought. "We can start focusing on improving residents' quality of life, transitioning them from collective dormitories to single apartments and family units. Then we can encourage marriage and childbirth—well, maybe not marriage. Let's just encourage childbirth."
(Chapter end)