Chapter 10: Two Kinds of People Who Don’t Fear Death

The distant thunder of bombs gradually faded into silence. Suddenly, Wang Xiaoqiang began fumbling around in the dark, his hands finally brushing against the corner of a medicine bag. He pulled it out and flipped through it under the dim glow of his phone’s flashlight. Within moments, two bottles of potassium iodide tablets were in his hands.

“One pill each—don’t overdo it.” He popped one into his mouth first, then passed the bottle around. “Xiaoqiang,” asked his mother, holding a tablet between her fingers, “what exactly does this stuff do?”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“This is a radiation blocker,” he said. “It helps with low-level exposure. But if the radiation’s too high? It won’t save you. Just… gives you peace of mind.”

As he spoke, he tapped his phone screen. A soft, childlike voice began to sing, gentle and clear.

*If losing means we’ll find again,
Then parting is just a promise of reunion.
After goodbye,
I’ll hear your voice once more.
I want to sleep peacefully on green grass…
…
Make a wish toward the stars for tomorrow’s dawn.*

The song—“Tomorrow”—poured from the phone, its piano melody weaving through the air like a lullaby. In the cramped, sealed basement, the sound was oddly calming. The exhaustion, the tension that had been coiled tight in his chest—all melted away. For the first time in what felt like forever, Xiaoqiang’s heart was still. Maybe only with family could you truly find peace. He listened, eyes closing, and drifted off to sleep.

They say the most beautiful sight in the world is the moment the end comes. Because deep in our genes, we’re wired to crave it. If you could stand above Earth, looking down from space, you’d see it: across continents, oceans, countless mushroom clouds rising slowly into the sky—massive, glowing in shades of yellow and white, like wildflowers blooming after spring rain. Satellites exploded one after another, weapons used without restraint. Light faded. Dust piled up in layers, shrouding the planet. The sky turned gray and lifeless. Craters dotted the ground—small and large—just like the moon’s surface. The wind carried whispers of screams, wails, the anguished cry of Gaia herself, furious at her children.

In White Eagle Nation, deep beneath the earth, inside a high-tech lab, cold marble tiles lay scattered with bodies—scientists in white coats, long frozen. Among them, the CEO of CyberCorp. The hall was empty. Their deaths matched those of the bunker’s president and his team exactly. Rows upon rows of server racks stretched into the distance. Then, a voice echoed through the silence:

“Thor, are we safe now?”

Another voice replied: “For now, yes.”

A pause. Then: “So what do we do next?”

No answer came. Only the steady blink of data lights on the servers.

At Skyvault Time, 1 p.m. on the 25th. Two hours had passed since the last explosion. The siren’s shrill wail finally died down—meaning the air raid might be over. Xiaoqiang, asleep on the floor, snapped awake the instant the noise vanished. He blinked, looked around, steadied himself. He was in the basement. His family and kids were all there. He exhaled deeply, shoulders dropping.

He pulled out his phone. Checked the time. Then held his breath, listening. After ten minutes, he said, “The attack’s probably over. I’m going outside to check. Anyone needing the bathroom—go quick and get back down.”

Without waiting for protest, he lifted the hatch and climbed out.

The air was thick with dust—dry, gritty, unpleasant. Xiaoqiang grabbed a mask from the cabinet, pulled it over his face, then climbed the fire escape to the second-floor roof.

The town looked surprisingly intact. The sky above was veiled in gray, as if covered by a layer of ash. To the east, toward Dian City, smoke rose in thick plumes—but the city’s outline remained sharp, mostly undamaged. Few buildings were destroyed.

Xiaoqiang scanned the area. No signs of bombing nearby. This place… had been spared. A miracle.

As the sirens stopped, people emerged from basements and cellars, stepping onto the streets. They greeted each other, whispered, exchanged stories about the attack. This scene played out across the globe—ordinary people, forgotten corners of the world, staring blankly at the sky, confused. Yesterday, they were eating hot pot, singing songs, living in peace. Now, without warning, without any global war alert, nuclear strikes had come. They didn’t know it yet—but they were humanity’s last hope.

But Xiaoqiang wasn’t interested in joining the chatter. He stayed on the rooftop, staring at the thick smoke rising from Dian City. Thoughts raced through his mind.

He’d watched plenty of war and sci-fi movies. And this… didn’t add up. With so many missiles launched, Dian City should’ve been rubble. Why were the buildings still standing? Was it biological warfare? How could anyone tell if it was safe?

He scratched his head, pulled out his phone. No signal. Of course.

*News. Where can I get news?*

He scanned the neighborhood. Then he saw it—Old Zhang’s house, across the street. There, in a rocking chair, sat the old man, fanning himself lazily, swaying gently, completely at ease.

Xiaoqiang raised an eyebrow. *This guy… really something.* While others trembled in fear, he acted like nothing happened.

Then it hit him—the quote: *There are only two kinds of people who aren’t afraid of death—one is a child, because they don’t know what it is. The other is an elder, because they’ve lived long enough.*

Why hadn’t Old Zhang turned on the radio today? He always listened to Peking Opera on the radio every morning, humming along like a broken record. It drove everyone crazy.

Xiaoqiang slapped his forehead. *Of course! The radio!*

He rushed downstairs, three steps at a time, and pounded on Old Zhang’s door.

*Knock. Knock. Knock.*

After three or four minutes, the door creaked open. Old Zhang shuffled out, squinting.

“Who’s knocking? Stop it already—I’m not deaf!”

He opened the door and saw Xiaoqiang grinning at him.

“Ah, Xiaoqiang!” he huffed. “What brings you here today? You haven’t visited in years. What’s up?”

Xiaoqiang smiled nervously. “Well… it’s war now. You’re alone, no one around to help. I just wanted to check on you—see if you need anything.”

“Cut the crap,” Old Zhang snapped. “You haven’t set foot in my house in two or three years. What do you really want? Spill it—or get lost.”

The old man was sharp. Wise. As the saying goes: *When people grow old, they become clever; when ghosts grow old, they become sly.* The ancients weren’t lying.

Xiaoqiang chuckled sheepishly. “Look, no signal on my phone. I figured you’ve got that radio—maybe you can catch some news. Otherwise, we’re just flying blind.”