The digital clock on the dashboard of the Wuling Sunshine glowed a sickly green: 00:17. The warehouse district was a landscape of deep shadows and pools of jaundiced light from the sporadic sodium-vapor lamps. The air, thick with the day's residual heat and the smell of concrete and diesel, felt heavy, oppressive. Michael sat in the driver's seat, the engine off, the silence of the metal box around him amplifying the gurgle of his own stomach.
Before the final, irrevocable step back, he'd made one last stop. Not for anything grand or strategic, but for a simple, greasy cardboard container from the "Sha County International" eatery by the gate. Inside, a heap of stir-fried rice noodles clung to slivers of pork and wilted cabbage. The celebratory dinner with David and Wang had been an exercise in restraint. He'd limited himself to five small bowls of rice, a mere appetizer for his post-apocalyptic-accelerated metabolism, fearing the spectacle of his true appetite. Now, hunger was a sharp, twisting knot in his gut, a primal distraction he couldn't afford.
As he scanned the QR code to pay the ten yuan, the cheerful, automated female voice from the shop's speaker announced, "WeChat payment received. Ten yuan."
"Thanks, boss," the tired-looking proprietress mumbled, handing him the bag without looking up.
"Thank you," Michael echoed, the words tasting like ash. The true pain wasn't the ten yuan. It was the stark, damning number now displayed on his phone's banking app. A number with only two digits before the decimal point. The great Lord Harry Potter of Cinder Town, the dog-rich outlier of the Wasteland, was, in this world, officially, terrifyingly broke.
He devoured the noodles in the cab, the flavors of soy sauce and grease a comforting, mundane anchor. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took a deep, steadying breath and climbed out to make one final inspection. This was it. His one and only pre-war procurement run. He couldn't afford to have forgotten anything.
His gaze swept over the Wuling's cargo bay, now a monument to frantic, budget-conscious militarization. The bulk of the space, a good eighty percent, was occupied by what he mentally categorized as "combat support" – a chaotic, essential jumble.
The Arsenal:
First, the projectiles. Ranged weapons were the cornerstone of any static defense, and in his world, the most accessible and legally ambiguous option was the bow. He hadn't gone to a sporting goods store. He'd opened the PinDuoDuo app, that digital bazaar of the bizarre and the cheap, and dove in.
The variety was staggering. He'd messaged a vendor with a cutesy, feminine username (which meant absolutely nothing), mentioned a potential order for sixty units, and was instantly inundated with a crash course in archery. The seller, a true professional lurking behind the avatar, had laid it out.
There were recurve bows – the classic, elegant weapon of history. Their downside: the draw weight increased the further you pulled, demanding immense strength and control, making accuracy a skill forged in fire and time. Their upside: with their side-mounted limbs, they offered a faster shot cycle for someone with the power to use them. A weapon for veterans, for natural talents.
Then there were compound bows – modernity's answer. Their drawback: the center-shot, cam-and-pulley system meant a slower rate of fire. Their virtue: the let-off. The cams took a huge chunk of the holding weight, making them stable, forgiving, and accurate. A weapon for turning rookies into threats. Speed didn't matter if you couldn't hit the broad side of a Brahmin; hitting did.
The logic was sound. He'd ordered twenty compound bows for the raw recruits, and forty recurves for John, Onil, and any guards who showed a knack. Then, the ammunition: two thousand fiberglass arrows at 2.1 yuan apiece. The vendor, ecstatic at the 80,000-yuan windfall (he'd gone for mid-to-high-tier models, refusing to trust lives to the cheapest options), had promised—and delivered—same-day delivery from her Dongguan warehouse by 8 PM.
For close-quarters work, things were simpler. Yangcheng was famous for one thing in the manufacturing world: Shi Ba Zi knives. The "Eighteen Sons" brand covered everything from kitchen cleavers to, usefully, "craft" swords. He'd found a wholesaler and, for just over 20,000 yuan, acquired a hundred katana-style blades. They were mass-produced, unsharpened, but the steel was decent. They'd do. Supplementing these were three hundred one-jinthrowing hatchets, cheap at 22 yuan each. A brutal, simple semi-ranged option. The local factory had them at the warehouse within hours.
The Armor:
Next, protection. He'd purchased one hundred and fifty stab-proof vests. They looked pathetic, like sleeveless workout tops made of grey, quilted fabric. But the specifications claimed they could stop a determined knife thrust or slash. At 300-some yuan each on PinDuoDuo, they were the most cost-effective pieces of gear in the entire haul. A thin layer of modernity between his people and a rusty spear.
The Logistical Nightmare:
The rest of the van was a monument to paranoid preparation. Great coils of aluminum-core electrical wire. Fifty frosted-glass incandescent bulbs. Four powerful halogen work lights. One hundred heavy-duty, rechargeable flashlights. This was his night-fighting kit. He was no tactical genius, but he knew the raiders weren't stupid. They'd come under cover of darkness. He planned to turn that darkness against them.
To power this miniature sun, he'd bought a rumbling diesel generator and two 200-liter drums of fuel. The solar panels and the tiny petrol generator he'd taken before were hopelessly inadequate for this load. Along with the diesel, he'd also gotten fifty liters of gasoline. Not for the generator. For the Molotov cocktails he envisioned arcing down onto clustered attackers. The mental image brought a grim, cold smile to his face.
The remaining space was a chaotic pharmacy and pantry: antibiotics, hemostatic powders, bandages, rubbing alcohol, binoculars, bulk salt, soy sauce, and—crucially—several kilos of violently red chili powder. Each item had a projected use, however vague.
And then, the single most expensive line item after the bows, the purchase that had truly pushed his finances over the cliff edge: medicine. Alongside the essentials, he'd bought a truly staggering quantity of Ma Ying Long Musk Hemorrhoid Ointment.
It was, medically speaking, useless for battle wounds. A cold compress for a very specific, non-lethal area of discomfort. Buying it had felt like financial madness.
But Michael's logic, in his own mind, was impeccable. Morale. The stories of its miraculous, cooling, healing properties had spread through Cinder Town like gospel. The promise of this legendary balm as a reward for valor, for a kill confirmed, would make his guards fight like demons. In the economy of the Wasteland, a tube of this unguent was worth more than gold. It was hope, comfort, and status, all in a small aluminum tube. It was, he convinced himself, a force multiplier.
He slammed the van's rear doors shut, the metallic clang echoing in the empty warehouse. The checklist was done. The money was spent. He was down to double digits. He was armed, sort of. He was in debt. He was ready.
Taking a last, long look at the silent, ordered world of the warehouse, he climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and aimed the grille of the Wuling at the blank concrete wall. The familiar, cold vortex of energy swirled in his mind's eye. With a silent prayer to gods he didn't believe in, and a louder curse for his empty bank account, Harry Potter Michael drove forward, back into the war.