The pale light seeping through the curtain cracks stung Lin Yan's eyes. He blinked slowly, his fingers tightening instinctively. The icy chill crawling up his fingertips jolted his foggy consciousness back into focus. The scene outside pierced his mind like a shard of ice—endless snow and ice, howling winds, buildings frozen solid into sculptures, not a trace of life. This was nothing like the sweltering Nairobi he remembered. Nothing like the world he knew.
A dull ache still throbbed at the back of his head, and his neck ached stiffly, reminders of the brutal blow at the competition and the sickening betrayal that had followed. But right now, the memory of Su Qing, his defeat on the mat—all of it faded under the weight of the frozen wasteland outside. A cold, sharp unease crept up his spine. He forced himself to stay calm. Instinct honed by years of sanda training told him panic was useless. Only by understanding his situation could he survive.
He turned and studied the small, shabby ward. Cracks ran down the walls, and a thin layer of dust settled in the corners, proof that no one had tended to this place in a long time. A single hospital bed, a chipped nightstand with an empty IV bag and a thermometer, and nothing else. The faint smell of disinfectant lingered, mixed with mold and cold. The heating system had long since failed.
Lin Yan walked to the nightstand and picked up the thermometer. The mercury rested at 36.5°C—normal. His basic bodily functions had recovered. He pressed the back of his head; no obvious swelling, but a sharp pain flared with pressure. The impact from the match had done damage, though nothing vital. His neck still stung when he turned, but it didn't hinder movement.
He glanced down at his clothes—still the thin red sanda competition uniform, stained and dusty, unchanged since that day three months ago. His toiletries bag was locked in the arena locker. He had nothing else but this flimsy outfit, not even proper shoes. On his feet were the lightweight wrestling shoes he'd competed in, useless against the freezing cold outside.
"Anyone there?" Lin Yan called out. His voice was hoarse, cutting sharply through the silence, but no one answered. He raised his voice and called again. Still nothing. Only his own echo drifted down the empty corridor. No nurses, no other patients. The entire hospital was eerily quiet, as if he were the only living soul left.
Lin Yan frowned and stopped waiting. He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. Dim and cluttered, with weak daylight filtering through a few windows, illuminating scattered medical records, discarded masks, overturned chairs, and dry leaves. Chaos had come and gone, leaving abandonment in its wake. The wall clock was frozen at three seventeen in the afternoon—exactly three months prior. The hands didn't move, as if time itself had stopped during the catastrophe.
He moved cautiously down the corridor, his combat-trained senses alert to every sound. Most ward doors stood ajar. He pushed a few open. The scenes were similar—messy beds, thrown blankets, some stained with blood, others completely empty. Patients had either fled or met a worse end. No medical staff, no other survivors. Only silence and cold closed in around him.
At the end of the hall was the nurse's station. The computer monitor was dead, the tower silent. The keyboard and mouse lay scattered. Drawers had been wrenched open, medicine and syringes spilled everywhere, most expired or frozen stiff. Lin Yan searched but found no usable food or water, only a few expired fever tablets and bandages. He slipped the bandages into his uniform pocket—better than nothing. Even expired, they might stop bleeding in an emergency.
He noticed a thermometer in the corner of the station. Indoor temperature: −7°C. At that temperature, his thin uniform offered almost no protection. Cold seeped through the fabric, making him shiver, his fingers and toes going numb. He folded the thick quilt from his bed and stuffed it into his backpack—his only reliable insulation against the cold.
Lin Yan approached the hospital's main entrance. The glass doors were encased in thick ice, blocking his view of the outside. He pushed hard; the door didn't budge. The ice layer was at least a dozen centimeters thick, rock-hard. He punched it; his knuckles stung, leaving only a faint white mark.
He didn't waste more strength. He searched the nurse's station and hallway, and in a storage closet found a rusted shovel and a metal crowbar. The shovel's wooden handle was loose, the crowbar corroded, but both were functional. He gripped the shovel, positioned it against the ice edge, and slammed it down. A heavy crack echoed; the ice split slightly.
Once, twice, three times… Lin Yan's movements were steady and powerful, his elite physical conditioning carrying him. Despite the throbbing pain in his head and neck, years of training had given him endurance. His fingers had turned purple from the cold, but he didn't dare stop. Chunks of ice broke off and clattered to the ground. The cold deepened. Sweat beaded on his forehead, then instantly crystallized into tiny ice particles on his brows. His palms grew red and raw against the wooden handle, but he kept going.
Ten minutes later, he had smashed a hole large enough to climb through. Lin Yan leaned on the shovel, breathing heavily, rubbing his sore arms. Through the gap, the world outside looked even more devastating. Pure white stretched to the horizon. Thick snow buried the city—roads, buildings, trees all encased in ice. No green, no human sound. Only the wind howled like a wounded beast.
He ducked through the opening. A bitter gust slammed into him, thousands of tiny needles pricking his skin. The thin uniform offered no defense. His body locked up, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He hurried under the overhang to escape the wind.
Under the eaves, the snow was thinner. Lin Yan leaned against the cold wall, steadying his breath while scanning his surroundings. This was the hospital's rear yard, littered with medical waste. Distant buildings bowed under heavy snow, their roofs threatening to collapse. In the nearby parking lot, over a dozen vehicles sat frozen solid, windows shattered, bodies encased in ice.
His gaze settled on an ambulance. He walked over and tried the door. Frozen shut. He wedged the crowbar into the seam and pried hard. A sharp creak; the ice broke. He pulled the door open. The smell of diesel and cold rushed out.
He climbed inside. Dark, dusty, the dashboard dead, the steering wheel frozen stiff. He searched the glove compartment and found a half-bottle of mineral water, completely frozen solid. He tucked it inside his shirt to thaw with body heat—he was parched, and water was his most urgent need. He also found a tattered backpack containing thin gloves and a light jacket. Better than nothing.
He put on the jacket and gloves, feeling slightly warmer. He exited the ambulance and kept exploring the yard. In an abandoned storage shed, he discovered several boxes of expired bread and crackers. Hard, damp, some moldy—but in this apocalypse, they were precious. He stuffed them into his backpack, along with an empty plastic jug for later use.
Then he heard faint footsteps and muffled voices. Not his imagination. Someone was coming. Lin Yan tensed, gripping the crowbar tightly, staring toward the front gate. Two figures in heavy coats approached, carrying tools, moving with purpose.
He didn't reveal himself immediately. He hid behind the shed door, holding his breath. The two men stopped by the ambulance and spoke in low, urgent tones—in Chinese. A wave of relief washed over him. In this frozen foreign land, hearing his mother tongue was a lifeline.
"There shouldn't be any survivors left here. Let's do one last check before moving to the next location. See if we can find more supplies… and any other compatriots."
"Right. Three months now. Wonder what's happening back home. Hope the embassy has some news."
Three months. Lin Yan's chest tightened, a wave of shock crashing over him—not the sharp, physical pain from his head or neck, but something deeper, more suffocating. He had been unconscious for an entire three months—three long months where the world he knew had collapsed into a frozen hell. The cataclysm that had turned everything to ice had unfolded while he lay in a coma, oblivious. He had missed the end of the world, missed the three months when everyone else was fighting to survive. What had become of his parents? Of his hometown? He dared not think, the weight of uncertainty squeezing his heart tight. That unconsciousness had spared his life, yet it had also cut him off from the most crucial three months of the world's collapse.
"I'm Chinese. I just woke up."
The two men spun around, alert, gripping their tools tighter. When they saw his thin uniform and backpack and sensed no threat, they relaxed and hurried over.
"You're awake! Thank goodness," the taller one said. "We're staff from the Chinese Embassy in Kenya. I'm Zhang Wei, this is Li Lei. We were ordered to stay behind after the catastrophe, tasked with searching for stranded Chinese citizens. Who are you? How did you end up here?"
Lin Yan exhaled, his tense body loosening. "Lin Yan. Sanda athlete for the Chinese team. Came here for the Olympics. Got injured in the ring three months ago, been in a coma until now."
He almost mentioned Su Qing. The words died on his tongue. Three months had passed. She was probably long gone with that man. No point bringing it up now.
Zhang Wei and Li Lei exchanged a solemn, sympathetic look. Zhang Wei clapped him on the shoulder. "Lin Yan, while you were out, the world changed completely. A massive gravitational pulse event—we're calling it the Yuanwu Incident, named after the Yuanwu Observation Station that first detected the anomaly—swept the globe. Earth drifted off its orbit. Temperatures plummeted. The entire world froze over. Governments collapsed. Chaos and despair are everywhere."
Lin Yan's heart sank. Now he understood the desolation outside. Yuanwu Incident. He silently memorized the name—this was the force that had turned the world into a frozen cellar, the disaster that had torn his life apart and separated him from his family. He would find out its truth, sooner or later. He thought of his parents back in China, and a sharp anxiety twisted his chest. "What about… my country? My family? Is anyone still alive?"
Zhang Wei's gaze dimmed. He hesitated before speaking. "We don't know. The incident cut off all communications completely. We've lost all contact with the mainland. But we haven't given up. Word is the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau still has a fully functioning military security zone. That might be our only hope."
Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. Lin Yan repeated the words silently, his eyes hardening. No matter what had happened to his homeland, no matter if his parents were safe—he had to go back. He had to see for himself. He tightened his grip on the crowbar. The cold still bit into him, but a stubborn flame burned in his chest: survive, get home, find his family.
Zhang Wei noticed his inadequate clothes and pulled a thicker old coat from his own pack. "It's well below zero out there. You won't last like this. Take this. We have a few supplies left. We'll take you back to our temporary outpost and fill you in on everything—including our next move."
Lin Yan took the coat and wrapped it tightly around himself. Warmth seeped in. He nodded, his gaze returning to the frozen horizon. He had slept through the end of the world, but he hadn't slept through his chance to live. From this moment on, he was no longer an Olympic athlete chasing gold. He was a survivor in a frozen apocalypse, with only one goal: to return home.