Chapter Eleven: News from Jinghui (First Update) A newcomer humbly asks for recommendations and support.

Gulp...

In the spacious administrative hall, the group, hungry for two or three days, watched as Liang Jing continuously produced various foods from his mountaineering bag, swallowing hard, their Adam’s apples bobbing up and down.

Military-issue compressed rations in green packaging, Jinhua sausages, Dove chocolate, spicy pickled chicken feet—though there were only two or three packs of each, every item looked delicious and enticing, stimulating their appetites, and full of energy.

For a moment, those who had just refused to join now regretted it bitterly. Was there any chance someone would share food with them now? Their longing gazes stayed fixed on the display.

Liang Jing, however, pretended not to notice, handing bottles of purified water to Zhang Huke and the others. By the stainless steel water dispenser stood a stack of disposable cups, just right for drinking.

“Boss, shouldn’t we share a little with them too?” Seeing the hopeful, burning looks from the others, Zhang Huke hesitated, unable to harden his heart.

“Water is fine, but not food,” Liang Jing replied, casting a glance at Liu Zhixiong and Ling Qinghe, whose expressions remained blank. That was more like it. They still had no idea how precious food would become, but it would only grow rarer in the days ahead. After all, these supplies were essentially nonrenewable; without a solid base, who had the luxury of producing more?

Just then, a commotion and shouting sounded outside, gradually drawing nearer to the administrative building. Soon, shadows flitted past the doors.

“Brother Wang, the door’s locked from the inside—someone must be there,” a voice called from outside.

“Anyone in there? Mind if we come in for a rest and a bite? We won’t trouble each other,” followed a deep, rough voice.

No one inside objected, and someone moved to open the door—though, reflexively, everyone looked toward Liang Jing, as if respecting his opinion most. Liang Jing gave a nod, signaling his approval. In a world like this, where countless people had already fallen to mutant monsters, he saw no reason to refuse, so long as it didn’t threaten his own group.

With Liang Jing’s assent, the short, bespectacled middle-aged man who’d just left the washroom hurried forward to open the door.

Creak...

Nine people entered: seven men and two women, all carrying backpacks and wielding an assortment of weapons—fishing nets, a wooden lid over a meter wide, kitchen knives, steel pipes. The leader was a man even more robust than Liang Jing, over six feet tall, with a four-centimeter scar across his cheek, his limbs thick and powerful. In his hand was an ancient-looking broadsword, its edge even and sharp, clearly old and weighing at least twenty kilos—no telling where he’d found it. Beside him, a young man in his twenties held a spear fashioned from rebar, about three centimeters in diameter and ground to a razor point; by the look of it, deadly for any large mutant.

They seemed well-equipped—more than a match for the average monster.

As Liang Jing sized them up, they were also appraising everyone inside. In an environment like this, carelessness meant death. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the food on Liang Jing’s desk, interest clear, but the burly man with the sword quickly noticed the motionless mutated black-backed dog zombie beside them and wisely stayed put.

“Hello, I’m an employee here. Is there anything I can help you with? I know this factory inside out,” the short, bespectacled man quickly spoke up, trying to ingratiate himself with the sword-wielding leader.

“Do you have any food here?” the burly man asked, glancing at him.

“Uh, I don’t think so. There’s no canteen; we always ordered takeout,” the bespectacled man stammered, realizing that if there’d been food, he wouldn’t be starving now, surviving only on water. He eyed their backpacks, swallowing—surely these newcomers had more to eat than Liang Jing did.

“If not, forget it. Ah Yao, find us a spot to rest and eat lunch. The supermarket isn’t far now,” the burly man said, disappointment in his tone. He looked over at his own pale, hungry companions, then at Liang Jing’s group, finally nodding to Liang Jing in greeting before closing the door. At his signal, his group went to organize their things on the office desks.

Liang Jing returned the nod, his every move under careful surveillance. Vigilance was essential.

“Brother Wang, there’s food over there—it looks amazing. Just looking at it makes my mouth water. We’ve been eating plain rice for days,” said Ah Yao, the young man with the rebar spear, unable to take his eyes off Liang Jing’s spread.

After all, they were just migrant workers who’d banded together by chance, none with food reserves at home. They’d been surviving on plain rice and a bit of pickled vegetables—which were nearly gone.

“Let it go. That guy with the dark red jacket isn’t someone to mess with. Didn’t you see that terrifying creature at his side? Why doesn’t it attack them? Clearly, it’s under command—just like that one by the river yesterday who shot ice arrows,” the burly man sighed. The world had changed; he’d thought his own strength would make a name for himself, but yesterday, a moment’s carelessness had nearly cost him his life. “Enough. The supermarket’s just ahead. Soon you’ll have your fill of anything you want—things you never dared buy or eat before.”

Remembering the incident by the river, Ah Yao’s face turned pale with fear. If they hadn’t run fast enough, all nine would have died—after all, they’d started with fifteen, but that one man had killed six in no time. He glanced in terror at Liang Jing and the “monster” beside him and said no more.

Their voices were low, but Liang Jing’s enhanced senses caught every word. He realized they meant no harm and had no intention of starting trouble. Still, the mention of someone by the river who could shoot ice arrows pricked his ears—an awakened one with ice powers. Strangely, a name flashed in his mind: Jing Hui. Could it be that Jing Hui wasn’t dead, that the ice archer was him? The idea seemed far-fetched, and Liang Jing dared not believe it.

He shook his head, unwilling to dwell on it. Since being ambushed by the man in black, he’d grown increasingly sensitive—paranoid, even. The man in black had better show himself soon so Liang Jing could end him, or his nerves would never be at ease.

He watched as the burly man’s group set out a pot of cold rice and a dish of pickles, devouring it ravenously. Liang Jing nodded for Zhang Huke and Ling Qinghe to start eating as well, while the short, bespectacled men’s eyes darted between the two groups.

After so long without food, they were half-mad with hunger. Unless you’ve experienced it, you can’t imagine the agony—especially when others are eating right before your eyes, even if it’s only cold rice, and you can only fill your belly with water. It was nearly enough to drive someone crazy.

But they dared not try to snatch anything. Liang Jing was out of the question—an enigma, and the “monster” by his side was more than they could handle. The other group, nine in number and fully armed, looked deadly as well.