Back at the graveyard, Liu Weian relayed the news to Lu Yan. She barely reacted—years of surviving by the sword had taught her that only two things mattered: monsters to kill and coin to earn. Everything else was secondary.
The tension had mounted over the last two days, and because nights in the graveyard were too dangerous, they agreed to log off and meet again in the morning. Before logging off, Liu Weian split the day's earnings evenly and handed her half. For once, the usually reserved Lu Yan couldn't hide a fleeting smile—she was, it seemed, a true coin-lover at heart.
While Lu Yan quit for the night, Liu Weian logged back into the city's underbelly and labored to inscribe sixty talismans—only fifty took shape before exhaustion drove him offline.
By dinnertime he was famished. With his newfound wealth, he and the girls now enjoyed three meals a day—and on late nights, an extra snack. Zhaoxin's cheeks had blossomed with infantile roundness. Zhaonan, astonishingly, was even taking a bath—something Liu Weian realized she'd never done before. In the slums, water was a luxury; slaves could scarcely afford clean clothes, let alone baths. Only nobles indulged themselves.
Dinner finished, Liu Weian stepped outside into the early evening. On Mars, night fell early—by six o'clock, gale-force winds bit like steel blades. The destitute had huddled in sheltered alcoves; the streets lay black and empty.
He cared not for that darkness. This was no leisure stroll; it was time to run. After ten minutes of warm-up, his pace increased until he was hurtling through the night at 80 km/h. The icy blast stung his cheeks, yet he felt a thrilling freedom, as though he were flying rather than sprinting.
Since consuming over eighty thousand power seeds, his body had craved this run—like a banquet demanding digestion. Each midnight for days, he'd sprinted for hours: 30 km/h on night one, 60 km/h on the next, then 80 km/h, his top speed edging slightly higher with each session. His bursts now reached over 50 m/s—more than twice an Olympic sprinter's start—enough that, in any other world, he could earn a living on the track.
For three and a half hours he ran, the fiery restlessness within finally abating. He checked the star-chart blazing softly in his mind; its runes glowed anew.
Then, from behind, came the roar of engines—over 110 km/h—razing the street. A yellow sports car thundered past so closely that had he not dove aside, he would have been crushed.
Anger flared… then settled. Who but the ultra-wealthy dared speed in a supercar at this hour? Two rugged SUVs followed. Moments later, the yellow car screeched to a halt on a wide plaza—a known meeting ground where slaves aired grievances, not a place for joyrides.
A young lord clad in flamboyant finery—no more than twenty—leapt from the hood and casually tossed a single steamed bun onto the asphalt. Under spotlights, it gleamed like a pearl in the dust.
The plaza fell silent—then erupted. Starving bodies launched forward at inhuman speed, every emaciated frame propelling at nearly 8 m/s. One sturdy young man snatched the bun and bit into it—only to have a rock smash into his skull with savage force. He crumpled silently, the bun escaping his grip as crimson life pooled beneath him.
A frail boy—skin stretched tight over bone—watched the treasure tumble into his hands. He hesitated, then bit down. Floury sweetness exploded on his tongue—more exquisite than anything he had ever tasted in the slums. For a breathless moment, his gaunt face lit with pure, unadulterated joy.
Then a brick struck his skull. He toppled without a sound, clutching the half-eaten bun as blood fountained around him. No one paused; the crowd surged again, tearing each other apart in a frenzy. The bun passed from hand to hand, shrinking to crumbs, while bodies piled in awful heaps of white bone and red gore.
The young lord roared in merriment. When the bun finally vanished, he dragged a painted courtesan from the car, stripped her, and forced her head into the dirt. His laughter echoed until even the SUVs' engines faded into the night, leaving dozens dead and countless wounded.
Liu Weian stood frozen until the lights vanished. Only then did he realize the sun had risen hours ago. His chest felt constricted, the boy's fleeting delight burning in his mind. Rich… poor. Over and over it whispered, until a couplet came to him:
"Behind the vermilion gates, meat and wine rot;Beside the frozen roads, bones lie starved."
He didn't know how to vent that rage—he lay down and drifted into troubled sleep.
Morning came. He washed, fetched parcels, bought breakfast for the girls, and—while Zhaonan studied and Zhaoxin played—he donned his helm and logged in. Lu Yan was already waiting in the graveyard.
"Zombies are harder to kill than you think," she remarked, dust speckling her collar from last night's battle. He said nothing.
She lured one zombie, slashed its throat, and dodged away—only to see it bound after her, jaw gaping. Before it could bite, he loosed a single arrow that shattered its chin and skull in one clean shot. Lu Yan stared as the monster's body collapsed in spasms.
"That… was one hit," she whispered, wide-eyed.
He grinned: "Try six."
Soon she had her first taste of rapid dispatch—each fractured skull echoing her renewed determination. They spent the morning felling over 130 zombies, gathering power seeds and meat sacs by the sackful. Lu Yan counted every haul with bright excitement, her face lighting up during their midday meal—a luxury only recently known.
"Do you eat lunch every day now?" he asked.
"Not until this month," she said, studying her food. "This is only my second lunch ever."
A memory flickered across her face—and for once, vulnerability touched her eyes. She looked away, voice low:
"I was born in the slums. Life was hard, but I had a family—parents, grandparents, siblings—and we were happy. I dreamed of the world beyond. One day I slipped past the gates… Only to return and find my home in flames. My family was gone. I was blamed—called a curse, a harbinger of death. Even my younger siblings wouldn't call me 'sister' anymore.
"So I worked myself ragged to help the old and weak, but how much could one lonely soul earn? I couldn't feed them all…"
Her voice cracked as Black Ox's cart rolled in on its familiar creak. For once, he was glad for the interruption. Lu Yan masked her grief behind her stoic mask.
By afternoon, her spirits had rallied. She danced among the undead like a sprite, leaving Liu Weian to pick off one per arrow. By dusk they had downed over 150 and prepared to depart—two perfect complements in this savage ballet.
That evening, they divided the spoils. Whereas Liu Weian reserved all power seeds and meat sacs for personal use, Lu Yan chose to sell most of hers—and he gently reminded her why: lifting entire villages from poverty called for extraordinary means. Only the strong could protect the weak.
Hearing that their combined efforts had already netted over a thousand gold in mere days, she no longer doubted his creed. When he suggested opening a meat sac for rare treasures, she responded with a brisk nod.
And that night's haul rewarded her with two black-iron artifacts, one priceless plant seed, and a single corpse-essence pill. He granted her the swift boots; she beamed.
"As partners," he said, "anything one of us can use, that person keeps; anything neither of us needs, we sell. Agreed?"
She nodded sharply—an unspoken accord bound them.
Black Ox and Stone Ox arrived punctually once more, loaded the evening's remains, and departed toward the city walls. Lu Yan logged off to rest; Weian stayed on to forge fifty-five more talisman arrows before sleep finally beckoned.
Tomorrow would bring another cycle of hunt, harvest, and the grim beauty of life and death in this harsh world. Yet for tonight, he allowed himself a single, weary thought: life was indeed as fragile as grass, and only he—and she—could bend it toward mercy.