Chapter 8: 8, Really Crazy

Nightfall descended, and the people of the settlement hurried back to their dwellings. Those with houses slammed their doors shut, while those dwelling in hovels drew their curtains tight, sealing themselves in darkness.

Upon returning that evening, Ren Xiaoshu still heard whispers of a man from the glue factory who had been stabbed to death in the night. It was said he had a habit of hoarding coins, and someone had taken advantage of this, nursing ill intentions.

The people of the settlement favored shared quarters—friends, brothers, lovers taking turns to guard the night, as if such vigilance might ward off danger. Ren Xiaoshu and Yan Liuyuan had begun this way, bound together by circumstance.

Yet some among them had been felled by those very companions. Perpetrators, shortsighted and cruel, failed to grasp that once they turned on their own, no soul would trust them again.

To become a lonely soul through betrayal was rarely met with kindness.

Ren Xiaoshu sat in his hovel, peeling back the bandages on his wounded hand. His brow furrowed at the sight of redness and swelling—a sign of infection. He glanced up as Yan Liuyuan approached, hastily rewrapping the cloth over the injury.

“Brother, your wound—how do you fare?” Yan asked.

“It’s nothing,” Ren replied, voice steady.

“I don’t believe you. Let me see,” Yan reached for the bandage.

“I said it’s nothing. If it were serious, I’d buy medicine,” Ren pushed him away.

“You’re not fooling me. Last time, you tried to tough it out,” Yan’s voice carried a wounded tone.

Ren sighed. “Rest easy. I don’t jest with my life.”

In the animal realm, beasts rarely hunted carelessly, for they understood: injury meant death, even a small one.

Even beasts grasped this truth. How could Ren Xiaoshu not?

“Hey, brother—look under the chair. There’s two potatoes and three pills. Are these the anti-inflammatory drugs you sought? They look the same,” Yan exclaimed, delighted. “Did you put them there?”

“Not me. I checked—they’re ordinary pills,” Ren shook his head, eyeing the medicine.

“Then it must’ve been Sister Yu. I only told her about your injury,” Yan grinned, offering one. “She’s been kind to you. Why not accept her?”

Ren nearly spat blood. “You’re a snake in the grass—praising her when there’s food, tormenting her when there’s none.”

“Heh,” Yan chuckled, crunching into a potato. They rarely ate at night; Ren insisted morning meals should be hearty, noon meals filling, and evening food harmful.

It was a saying passed down from before the catastrophe, though Ren knew the truth—hunger, not health, kept their nights empty.

“Brother.”

Ren turned. Yan’s head hung low, his voice tinged with unease. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you remember last year, when you returned from the wolf pack attack? Someone secretly left us pills, saving your life?” Yan asked.

“Of course. I’ve been searching for that person,” Ren said.

“Those pills might’ve been from Sister Yu. The spot where they were left—it’s identical to today’s,” Yan added.

Ren fell silent.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside. Many of them.

Such movement at night in the settlement was rare, but Ren quickly guessed their identity—and their purpose.

…

The band would have to cross the mountain, as Ren had suspected. Those mercenaries indeed had other tasks: the ruler of the 113th Bastion had uncovered records proving the mountain formed after violent tectonic shifts, possibly harboring relics from the old world.

They learned of Ren through Old Wang’s grocery store, though doubts lingered about his sanity. Yet inquiries confirmed he was their best guide.

Some wondered what made this youth, Ren Xiaoshu, a celebrity in the settlement. Curiosity drove them to press until they unearthed a shaky answer: he was the sole survivor of the wolf pack attack in the 113th settlement.

Last year, Ren had returned from hunting, spent and scarred with claw marks. Even the settlement’s fiercest souls wouldn’t harm a dying youth—only cold indifference.

Yet when all believed him doomed, he lived. And now, he thrived.

The band asked how he’d survived. Old Wang laughed. “All thanks to Yan Liuyuan, begging for scraps door to door. He lived. Oh, and someone left pills—but who?”

Though the settlement knew Ren lived, they whispered he’d carried a sickness in his mind ever since.

“Right, Wang Fu Gui,” a band member called to Old Wang. “What’s this about his sickness?”

“Nothing, nothing—I spoke rashly. It’s trivial. See, we’re here,” Old Wang grinned, wrinkles clustering. “Not a problem. He’s not ill.”

Only with the refugees from the Bastion did Old Wang dare venture out at night. Now, he shouted loudly, as if to announce his ties to the elite.

“Xiaoshu, come out! We’ve guests!” he called.

The curtain was yanked open.

Ren beamed, gripping Old Wang’s hand. “Congratulations—you and your son are safe! Six liang exactly!”

Old Wang: “???”

The band: “???”

The mercenaries: “???”

The staff pointed at Ren, staring at Old Wang. “Still like this, and you call it ‘no problem’? What’s ‘father and son safe’ supposed to mean? Isn’t it ‘mother and child’?”

The staff snapped, “Wang Fu Gui, do you know the consequences of deceiving us? This is your ‘no problem’?”

Before Old Wang could reply, the staff turned away. They’d come seeking the legendary Ren Xiaoshu, only to find a madman.

No wonder the settlement said he was mad—it was true.