Chapter 12: Old Wang Next Door Still Has the Most Skill

Suddenly, the weird Taoist’s version of the Yi Jin Jing flashed into Xiao Qiang’s mind—and he perked right up. Back when life was a mad scramble just to survive, he’d never had time for this kind of thing. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he climbed up to the rooftop on the second floor, sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began slowly recalling the movements stored in his memory. With each breath, his body started to move—slow, deliberate, rhythmic. He went through the form again and again, lost in that strange, meditative flow, until Ying’s voice snapped him back.

“Qiangge, come down—dinner’s ready.”

He finished the set, exhaled deeply, and felt something shift inside. That faint, nagging fatigue? Gone. For the first time in forever, his body felt light, clear, completely at ease.

Breakfast was simple: rice porridge, pickled cucumber, boiled eggs, and steaming hot buns. Li Ma chewed thoughtfully. “No electricity means everything’s a hassle. But we’ve still got two gas canisters left—should last about a month.” Old Wang nodded. “After breakfast, I’ll head over to the gas station. I know the guy there. Maybe I can trade for a couple more.”

“Qiangge,” Ying added, “I stayed up all night watching the radio. Nothing. Not a single signal.” She paused. “You rest during the day. Let Li Ma and my mom take turns. The kids can help too—do whatever they can.”

“I’m heading over to the township office later. See if there’s any word.”

He dashed back to his parents’ house, came out a moment later with two packs of soft-hued Hongtashan cigarettes, and placed them on the table. “This might come in handy.”

“That’s expensive stuff,” Dad said, eyeing the packs. “Two packs could buy you a whole gas canister.”

“Right now, survival supplies matter most. Cigarettes don’t fill your stomach.” With that, he stepped outside, fired up the car, and drove straight toward the township office.

By the time Xiao Qiang arrived, a crowd had already gathered outside—the usual mix of anxious faces, all desperate for news. A flustered staffer wiped sweat from his brow. “Still no contact. Just keep waiting. Looks like the fighting’s over, though. Might get word soon.” Someone else called out, “What about the emergency rations? We’re down to our last grain of rice here!”

More voices joined in. “There were two trucks full of supplies en route before the air raid. Now we can’t reach them. Probably stranded halfway. We’re prioritizing this—we’ve sent teams out to reestablish contact. Hold on another day. Might even get the goods by afternoon.”

Xiao Qiang listened, but nothing was resolved. He got back in the car and started driving around town—a habit from his days as a ride-share driver.

As he neared the edge of town, he spotted three figures trudging toward him in the distance. They looked wrecked—dusty, clothes torn, one missing a shoe, feet bloody and limping. He pulled up beside them.

“Where are you from?” one of them asked urgently.

“We came from Dian’an City,” the man said, voice cracking. “Brother, please—can you give us a ride to your shelter?”

“This is just a small town. Only the township office has an air-raid shelter. I’ll take you there.”

They practically fell into the car. “Thank you, little brother! We’re done. Can’t go another step.”

As he drove toward the township office, Xiao Qiang asked, “Dian’an City… it didn’t look too bad from here. Buildings seem mostly intact.”

The words hit them like a slap. Tears welled up instantly, mixing with the grime on their faces—like coal miners who’d escaped a collapse. “Don’t talk about it,” one whispered. “It was hell. We were near the outskirts when the siren went off. Everyone tried to drive out, but traffic jammed up fast. Then—out of nowhere—missiles lit up the sky. Panic. We ditched the cars and ran. No stopping. Some collapsed after a few steps, just dragged behind. Then the missiles hit—people fell like wheat in a field. Whole rows. Never stood up again. The buildings? Most still standing. We ran the farthest. Scared half to death. Didn’t know which way was north. Finally collapsed under a construction site, slept for a whole night. Woke up this morning and walked here.”

“The city? We don’t even know what happened. It’s… unnatural.” Xiao Qiang listened, palms sweating. Thank God he hadn’t taken the city route. If he had, he’d probably be dead too.

He dropped them off at the township office and turned back home.

He’d barely stepped inside when Old Wang rolled in with a handcart carrying two gas canisters. “Dark times,” he grumbled. “Gave up two packs of cigarettes and four hundred bucks for these two tanks.”

Xiao Qiang actually grinned. “You go back this afternoon—you won’t get anything for four thousand bucks.”

Old Wang froze. “What? You heard something?”

Everyone crowded around. Xiao Qiang laid it out: no supply trains coming, no relief in sight. “We’ve gotta act fast—while people still don’t know. Spend every last bit of cash. I’ve got a few packs of cigarettes—sell them all. Keep only food and drink. Everything else? Gone.”

He dashed back to his parents’ house, grabbed several cartons of cigarettes. The others scattered to do the same.

By noon, everyone returned. Not much to show for it. Dr. Li got some millet. Mom traded for a bag of corn. Nobody was dumb—food was king. But Old Wang came back with two old hens slung over his shoulder.

Xiao Qiang laughed. “Still got the touch, huh? I came back empty-handed.”

“Five packs of cigarettes for two chickens,” Old Wang said. “Only a real smoker would trade for that.”

“Lock those chickens in the yard. Leave them out, someone’ll steal ‘em.”

The news spread like wildfire. By lunchtime, the whole town knew. And then it hit them—this wasn’t the end. This was just the beginning of hard times.

Prices skyrocketed. The craziest? One egg cost a hundred bucks.

But Xiao Qiang wasn’t thinking about prices anymore. The orphanage might hold out for two months on what they had—but if another attack came, the town wouldn’t be safe. They needed a vehicle—something big enough to carry everyone away.

Where could he find a truck that could haul that many people?

Buses? All electric. Halfway out, they’d die on the road with no charging stations. Minivans? Too small. Then it hit him—maybe a cargo van. Or a Jiefang truck. That could work.

It was just how he’d always operated—his job as a ride-share driver had trained him to anticipate. Always think ahead: where’s the next pickup? Which route will be fastest? Which one will clog? Over time, it became instinct. Even now, when the world was falling apart, he kept pushing forward—always planning, always moving.