"Urgh—!"
Chu Yian gagged.
She instantly lost her appetite. The video was disgusting.
The WeChat group chat exploded. Everyone was frantically asking if the footage was real.
But before they could discuss it properly, the video was removed—completely blocked.
Chu Yian figured maybe 60% of it was true, 40% exaggerated.
Because as of now, there really wasn't any cure. According to the game prompts, the antiviral medicine wouldn't be available until day twenty of the outbreak.
But there were two very important details revealed in that video:
The pandemic wasn't just local—it had gone global. No help would be coming.
There was no treatment, but fever reducers could delay deterioration.
If that was true, it was actually great news for her.
After all, she had stocked up on fever meds right after entering the game.
She quickly went to tally her inventory:
Fever reducers: 50 boxes × 24 pills = 1,200 pills
Antibiotics: 35 boxes, mixed between 12 and 24 pills each = 648 pills
Masks: 189 (11 already used)
Medical hazmat suits: 30 sets
Gloves: 50 pairs
As for that can of amino acid powder—technically a supplement, so she didn't count it under medicine.
Rough estimate? Her supply was more than enough.
Day 7 of the Game.
The two families who had driven out of the compound never returned.
Chu Yian, hoping for another surprise, opened the daily loot box again.
[A steaming bowl of braised pufferfish.]
Note: This item will be reclaimed at the end of the current game round.
Item Quote: "A poison-free pufferfish is the dream feast of every true gourmand. You lucky thing, can't believe you actually rolled this."
Food, again.
Well, better than toilet paper, right?
She comforted herself with a bit of A-Q optimism and brought it to the kitchen—lunch was decided.
With the braised pufferfish ready to go, she stir-fried a plate of hot-and-sour shredded potatoes to go with it. Served with two big bowls of rice, she brought one portion to Lu Qingyuan's door, as usual.
While Chu Yian was eating well, others in the community were clearly struggling.
[Anyone got salt? We ran out.]
[Been eating plain rice porridge for three meals straight. I'm going out for supplies—who's with me?]
[Yeah, I'm starving.]
[If anyone's got extra food, I'll pay for a portion—please.]
The chat was flooded with pleas, but almost no one was willing to sell food or meds anymore.
When Chu Yian turned on the TV, she found the news broadcast was just a voiceover—no host visible on screen.
What kind of newscast was this?
She barely had time to wonder when—
BOOM!
A loud crash, followed by an explosion.
What the hell was that?!
She shot to her feet, dropping her utensils, and rushed to the window.
Thick black smoke was rising from the building across the compound.
The group chat lit up instantly:
[Car crash! There was a car crash! (pics)]
[Look at this! Happened right across from us.]
Photos flooded in—one showed a car smashed into a tree, its front end crumpled. Thick smoke and leaves obscured much of the view.
Chu Yian immediately thought of her drone.
She launched it out the window.
The streets were a mess—dozens of abandoned vehicles, trash scattered everywhere, sidewalks completely empty. The supermarket gates were locked shut, and every other storefront was closed. Not a single person in sight.
Chu Yian flew the drone toward the burning vehicle.
It was a small black truck, the same kind she'd seen transporting "supplies" in and out of the area. Its back end was tightly sealed with white canvas.
She recognized it instantly—one of those mysterious delivery vehicles.
The driver's door hung open. The driver was gone.
Chu Yian maneuvered the drone around to the back.
And when she saw what was inside—
Her pupils contracted.
It wasn't supplies. It was corpses.
No body bags. Just bodies piled on top of each other, filling the truck bed.
Yellowish fluid oozed from their stiffened skin, trickling down the metal chassis and dripping onto the ground.
Blank, gray eyes stared straight at her drone.
Her hands trembled. Watching from her phone, Chu Yian nearly dropped it.
She immediately pulled the drone back.
It was horrifying.
Even with the drone hovering outside, she didn't dare let it in directly. She donned gloves and a mask, retrieved the drone, and drenched both it and her apartment with disinfectant spray.
Just as she finished, the group chat erupted again.
[What's going on out there? Whoever flew the drone—say something!]
[I tried calling the police, but the line's busy.]
[Same. I got through once—they said it'd take half an hour to send anyone. Ugh, no one's reliable at times like these. What's the point of paying taxes?]
[Don't blame them. My nephew's a police officer—he caught the virus two days ago. The whole station's down. There's barely enough healthy officers left to count on one hand. My sister begged him not to go in… now the whole family's just sitting there crying…]
For a moment, the chat went silent.
Then—
[Hey, didn't someone say they flew a drone?]
[Yeah! What's happening outside?]
Chu Yian, who'd been lurking quietly in the group for days, finally spoke up.
[That drone was mine. The car hit a tree pretty hard—the front's crumpled. Might be totaled. Driver's side was open, though. He probably got out okay.]
She sent the message, and more questions poured in:
[You think the driver made it?]
[Why would anyone still be out driving now? That guy's got guts.]
[Wasn't that one of those trucks that's been running stuff in and out of the city? What was in it?]
So she wasn't the only one who'd noticed those trucks.
[It was filled with bodies.]
Chu Yian typed and sent.
Then she tagged the few people who'd said they'd contacted the police:
[Tell them not to come. If they're not in full protective gear, they'll just get infected too.]
[Got it! I'll pass it on right now.]
She was about to put her phone down when suddenly—
Friend requests started popping up. From strangers.
[Hi, this is 2B-306. Sorry to bother you, but… do you have any fever medicine? My wife's really not doing well. I'll pay anything—please, if you have even a little…]