Chapter 8: Graceful Liberation

“Well then, Ren Zhong, see you later. You’re new here, just arrived, so it’s a good time to stroll around the town. It’s a pity it’s so late now—everyone from the Wasteland has to hurry and claim a spot in the sleep pods. If it were broad daylight, you could even visit the outer city brothels. The other industries in Spark Town aren’t much, but the service sector is unrivaled—cheap, good quality, honest business, no tricks. Just 0.1 contribution points, satisfaction guaranteed.”

Zheng Tian greeted him with a wave and left, chuckling to himself.

Because the town mayor was unexpectedly detained by some business, Ren Zhong, the first temporary wastelander to enter the town this month, would have to wait to meet him until after the mayor was free. He agreed with Zheng Tian to meet at the town office entrance in an hour.

This gave him the perfect opportunity to wander around the town on his own, especially since he was still worried about his illness.

He had kept up a persona in front of Zheng Tian, making it inconvenient to ask too many questions.

The town office was easy to find—the tallest lighthouse-shaped building at the very center of town. You could see it just by looking up; there was no risk of getting lost.

At the top of the lighthouse, a massive spherical surveillance camera floated, casting a faint red glow as it spun irregularly—like a sinister Eye of Sauron, always watching over the world below.

...

Creak... creak...

A white beechwood sign, hung by two wires, swung in the wind, rocking back and forth.

On it, four large characters were scrawled in crooked handwriting: “Healing Hands Restore Life.”

After parting ways with Zheng Tian, Ren Zhong made some discreet inquiries and arrived at a street near the town center, deep in the slums.

Compared to the other shoddy, handmade shacks lining the street, the two-story “Healing Hands Restore Life” clinic looked clean and neat, its shape far more regular—much like the prefab offices on construction sites he remembered from his past.

Night was falling, and except for the clinic, almost none of the houses showed any light in their windows.

There were no streetlights either; the street was cold and deserted, with not a soul in sight.

Fortunately, two moons, one large and one small, hung in the sky, shedding enough light to make out the surroundings.

Tattered scraps of paper, bits of ragged fur, and other trash danced wildly across the street, driven by the night breeze.

As the wind picked up, a metallic clattering sounded from deep in the alley, like an empty can rolling about.

A scene straight out of a war-torn land—if this had been his own era, the local officials would have failed every urban civilization assessment and been sent home to farm sweet potatoes.

Throughout his walk, Ren Zhong maintained a keen observation, trying to gather details of this era.

The townsfolk could be divided into three groups.

The first, like Zheng Tian’s scavenger squad, carried weapons and wore close-fitting, practical attire. Regardless of gender, they all bore a fierce look.

The second group, mostly in casual clothes, walked with a light step and relaxed demeanor, chatting and laughing. They moved in small groups, their direction unpredictable.

The third group, and by far the largest, were those he’d seen upon entering town—people with the haggard, unhealthy look of refugees. These people surged towards the outskirts of town like rivers flowing to the sea, an eerie sight.

Ren Zhong didn’t rush to stop anyone to ask where they were going or why. Instead, he quietly followed a pair, listening in on their conversation.

One was a teenage boy, about fifteen or sixteen, with the energy of a high schooler still on his face.

The other, a woman, had a head of white hair, a face covered in wrinkles and age spots.

The first sentence he heard startled Ren Zhong.

The boy took the old woman’s hand and said quietly, “Mom, don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

Mom? Did I mishear that?

He thought he must have heard wrong.

A boy of fifteen or sixteen, and an old woman who looked at least seventy or eighty. The age gap was half a century, and yet she was his mother?

The old woman sighed. “How can I not worry? In just half a month, you’ll turn sixteen. The town’s wastelander slots are already full. With the next census, there’s no way you’ll escape notice. Either you get taken away, or you have to run early. It’s so dangerous out there. Even though I’ve saved up enough contribution points to buy you a temporary wristband, you don’t know anything—if you go into the wild, you’ll just be killed by the wild beasts. Sigh.”

The boy said, “I... I’ll try to make it to a wastelander settlement. It’s dangerous, but at least—”

“Don’t be foolish,” she cut him off. “Do you even know where the settlements are? Even if you did, could you get there?”

“I’ll try to save up and hire a scavenger team to take me.”

“Then tell me, how do you plan to save up? Do you know how much they charge for one trip?”

“I... sigh!” The boy fell silent.

After a long pause, the old woman sighed again. “Alright, I don’t have many years left anyway. I’ll talk to the mayor and see if I can transfer my slot to you.”

“What about you, Mom?” the boy blurted.

“What about me? Sooner or later, I’ll die. At my age, what’s there to fear? Silly child.”

A faint, gentle light appeared on the old woman’s worn, sallow face.

“Mom... I...” The boy’s voice choked.

“No more talking. We need to hurry. We don’t have temporary wristbands, and if we’re late, there won’t be any left to rent at the sleep pods.”

“Okay!”

They walked quickly in silence, while Ren Zhong slipped away into the darkness.

He had learned three things.

First, sixteen was a crucial age. According to their conversation, those under sixteen were considered minors, didn’t count toward the wastelander quota, and could live safely in town. By extension, even in the wild, minors probably didn’t need wristbands as ID—hunters wouldn’t target them. It made sense; the civilization here gave new “crops” time to grow.

Second, the elimination mechanism was called a census, coming in just over half a month, but not much longer.

Third, wastelanders in town didn’t sleep at home, but went to a place called the centralized sleep pods, where wristbands could also be rented. He didn’t know the reason yet, but there surely was one.

Afterward, Ren Zhong found a kindly looking old man and asked where the hospital was, only to discover that in this town of over twenty thousand, there wasn’t one—just the “Healing Hands Restore Life” clinic, run by a single doctor named Sun Miao.

...

Knock, knock, knock.

Ren Zhong stepped forward, climbed the steps to the clinic’s front door, and knocked gently.

“Doctor Sun, are you there?”

A gruff, impatient middle-aged man’s voice replied from inside, “No, I’m not!”

Ren Zhong: “...”

Before coming, the old man who’d given him directions had warned him: Sun Miao had a strange temperament, mercurial and hard to deal with.

It seemed the warning was well-founded.

But Ren Zhong wasn’t worried about being refused treatment.

The location of “Healing Hands Restore Life” alone revealed much. He could see the truth beneath appearances.

This Sun Miao was, in all likelihood, a good man.

The clinic was at the street corner—the most imposing and respectable two-story building on the block.

Turn right at the corner, toward the town’s edge, and you’d enter the vast slums he’d passed through earlier.

But just a street to the left, the interior side, was a long expanse of white walls.

These walls enclosed the inner part of the town in a circle, divided into many sections.

Inside these circles, neat, well-lit houses rose—some tall, some short, their shiny facades glowing in the night, like a cluster of detached villas. The resource recycling company he’d visited earlier was here as well.

The clinic’s location was no accident.

As the only doctor in all of Spark Town, Sun Miao was never short of business. Rich or poor, if you needed medical attention, who else could you go to?

He certainly wasn’t short on money, yet he’d chosen to open his clinic at the border between the slums and the affluent district, enduring a life between paradise and hell—a choice that spoke for itself.

Of course, it was possible Sun Miao had some special hobby only the poor and desperate could satisfy, and was a complete pervert.

If so, that was terrifying, but there was nothing Ren Zhong could do but hope for the best.

He had no other options. He had already tested it: without medical help, even with rest, his illness would kill him in five days at most.

As someone who could come back from the dead, he didn’t fear being made a test subject by a mad doctor.

“Doctor Sun, please open the door. I know you’re inside.”

Just then, the agony of late-stage lymphoma struck him again. Ren Zhong clutched his throat, forcing his tone to sound calm as he spoke again.

But he couldn’t stop his voice from trembling a bit—it hurt too much.

And that was only the start. Within seconds, the pain erupted violently, radiating through his abdomen and brain, as if someone were drilling holes in both.

Instantly, sweat beaded from every pore.

Ren Zhong grunted under his breath and slid down to sit weakly against the clinic’s door.

Long illness had made him half a doctor himself. He knew clearly: if he were in a hospital, with painkillers or anesthetics, he might live a little longer.

But he wasn’t.

To break through the blockade of the Crystalwing Dragonfly, he had pushed his body to the limit in this cycle. The strain was immense.

Without timely treatment or pain relief, he might not survive the night.

Severe pain could trigger shock, carrying him quietly toward death.

It seemed cruel, but in truth, this was the body’s self-protection—a peaceful end was better than the agony of clinging to life, only to die miserably.

Shock and death were, in essence, nature’s final mercy.

“Are you done yet? I said I’m not here—why are you so—”

At last, the door opened.