Chapter 18: The Mystery of Age [Special thanks to Deep Sea Brother for the Alliance Leader’s generous reward!]

“Mr. Ren, then shall we meet again in an hour and a half?”

At the entrance of Spark Town, Zheng Tian and her companions reluctantly parted with Ren Zhong, feeling deeply fortunate for their luck that day. Who would have thought that a casual hunting trip would lead to a fortuitous encounter with a census officer traveling incognito?

With hands in his pockets, Ren Zhong walked straight down the main road leading to the town center. This time, he had entrusted all the minor details of selling the crystal-winged dragonflies to Zheng Tian's team. As for the ten percent tax, it no longer mattered. He was preparing to negotiate a business deal worth at least a hundred contribution points with Sun Miao and needed to leave himself ample time for talks. The trivial 0.08 was but a scrap—one must learn when to let go. Such is the art of weighing gains and losses.

By the way, Ren Zhong also intended to take this opportunity to observe the slums more closely—there was a world of difference between a fleeting glimpse from a vehicle and a direct, on-foot investigation.

The first time he entered the town, he had wandered the streets, but it was already late; the streets were nearly empty, and those he saw hurried toward the communal sleeping cabins, revealing little. Now, having arrived over twenty minutes earlier than before, he noticed that while most people had already left their shacks, a few were still held up by other matters.

As he walked, Ren Zhong observed everything with careful attention.

He noticed many details he had never paid attention to before.

From a distance, he had only seen the dullness and lifelessness on the faces of the people. But up close, he realized that behind the seemingly vacant eyes of these downtrodden folk, there were still occasional sparks of light.

Someone was asking around if there was a need for extra night watch shifts.

Another person slid down a ladder from the roof of a shack, then received payment for patching the roof from another's makeshift wrist device.

Someone else stood under an eave, cradling a wrinkled book and reading intently. The way he turned the pages was so gentle, as if he feared damaging an ancient relic.

Curious, Ren Zhong quietly approached this rare reader. A glance at the cover revealed the title: "A Gunsmith’s Survival Guide for Spark Town."

This young man was diligent; besides studying in the learning pods at night, he continued to seek knowledge during the day.

He wanted to change his fate.

But as Ren Zhong knew well, with Spark Town having almost no industries, employment prospects were bleak. Whether suited to the task or not, their only choice was to risk their lives hunting wild beasts outside the town.

“You rascal, why are you still standing there? Hurry home for dinner, we need to get to the sleeping cabin early!”

A scolding voice from an old woman rang out behind Ren Zhong.

The young man reading looked up anxiously. “Mom, you go ahead. I'll come right after I finish this page.”

He then turned and called into the shack, “Brother Ding, can I borrow the book and read it at home? I'll return it tomorrow.”

A gruff voice answered from inside, “You wish! That’s called renting, and you’d have to pay!”

The young man could only helplessly turn to his mother, who was approaching with hands on her hips and ready to grab his ear. He pleaded, “Just five more minutes, please! Give me five more minutes!”

“Five minutes my foot!”

Mother and son began to bicker, stopping only when the man in the house threatened that if the book was damaged, they’d have to pay half a contribution point.

When the young man had looked up, Ren Zhong had immediately recognized him. They had crossed paths twice before; the boy had agreed to take his mother’s quota but had already decided to leave town in secret.

Though there was no formal agreement this time, Ren Zhong decided he should at least find out the youth’s name.

The old woman scolded, “What’s the point of all this reading? With your scrawny body, you want to go adventuring? That’s a death wish! You should listen to me and learn to mend clothes—safe and at least you can save a little.”

Knowing the youth’s plan, Ren Zhong stepped forward, “Auntie, your son is very motivated. Let him read.”

The old woman glanced at Ren Zhong, an unfamiliar face, and rolled her eyes. “Being a gunsmith isn’t so easy! Dream on! Just the cost of a gun and ammo—where would he even get it? He’s not even an apprentice, no scavenging team would take him. If he goes out alone, he’ll die for sure. You mind your own business!”

The youth, afraid his mother would offend someone, explained awkwardly, “Sorry, sir, my mother didn’t mean anything by it.”

Ren Zhong wasn’t offended. Looking at the woman, whose face was as aged as someone in her seventies, he grew curious and asked, “By the way, Auntie, how old are you?”

She snapped, “What’s it to you how old I am—”

The young man quickly covered her mouth. “My mother is thirty-eight, sir. Is something wrong?”

Ren Zhong was stunned. “Thirty-eight? How is that possible?”

Her hair was all white, her face lined with wrinkles and marked with age spots—she looked at least seventy.

Could it be premature aging?

Sun Miao had easily cured his own terminal cancer; medical technology was supposed to be advanced. Or perhaps premature aging was incurable?

Seeing Ren Zhong’s look of utter shock, both mother and son grew wary, as if they’d accidentally revealed some secret.

After over ten seconds, Ren Zhong recovered and abruptly asked, “Do you know how old Mayor Madafu is?”

The woman answered without thinking, “Mayor Ma should be forty-two or forty-three. Why?”

Ren Zhong fell silent.

Short and stout, Madafu’s face was also deeply wrinkled—better preserved than the woman’s, but still looking at least sixty-five.

As the town’s chief, Madafu should have had good material conditions, yet his age and appearance didn’t match at all.

In 2019, China’s National Health Commission announced that the average life expectancy was 77.3 years, more than double the 35 years in 1949.

Yet even during the devastation of wartime, people died young because of famine, disease, and war—but not everyone looked like this, aged beyond recognition at forty.

This was not normal.

Human genes should not be like this.

This was not merely a flaw of social structure, but a fundamental physiological issue for humanity.

If he hadn’t already been forced to feign normalcy after being targeted in the sleeping pods, Ren Zhong might have exposed himself as an outsider once again, simply out of shock.

After a long pause, he forced a laugh, waved goodbye to the suspicious mother and son, and headed straight for the Healing Hands Clinic.

“Doctor Sun, please help me. I’m in the final stage of lymphoma—no, the terminal stage. I have only a few days left. I beg you.”

Inside Healing Hands Clinic, Ren Zhong put on a pitiful face and pleaded sincerely.

Sun Miao, who had just turned on a projection to watch a TV drama, froze, her pupils contracting sharply.

These days, basic cellular abnormalities couldn’t survive in the human body for long. Minor ailments were easily cured by routine treatments, or even trace antibiotics in ordinary food.

Cancer cells had no chance to develop in the human body.

To produce a terminal cancer patient naturally would require a large medical institution carefully regulating a “lab rat’s” diet from the start, strictly controlling medication intake, and investing substantial time and resources.

Yet here someone suddenly claimed to be in the terminal stage of lymphoma—Sun Miao was struck by a sense of unreality.

“Terminal? Are you kidding? How terminal?”

“The kind where I’ll be dead by tonight.”