Chapter 32: A Stroke of Divine Favor

He finished another bowl of rice, then set down his chopsticks. When he looked up, he realized he was the last one to finish eating. The orphanage kids stared at him in stunned silence, as if he were some kind of monster.

He cleared his throat and spoke to the brother and sister. “Where’s your home? Why aren’t you going back? What are you even doing wandering around out here?”

The boy answered, “We were supposed to go on a trip with classmates. But right after we got here, the air raid started. We don’t know anyone else around, so we ran into the subway.”

“Was it crowded down there?” Wang Xiaoqiang asked.

“Pretty packed—could’ve been hundreds. At first it was okay, but once the food ran out, people started fighting over scraps. It got worse and worse. My sister and I couldn’t take it anymore—we had to come up.”

That matched what Xiaoqiang had guessed.

“How many dead down there?” he asked.

The siblings’ faces turned pale instantly. They clearly remembered something terrible.

“We only survived because we hid in the deepest tunnel,” the boy said, voice trembling. “The closer we got to the surface, the more bodies we saw. At first they just vomited. After a few days… they were all dead.”

Xiaoqiang felt a chill run through him. The orphanage basement offered almost no protection against tactical weapons. If even one nuclear warhead detonated nearby, they’d be gone without a trace. They were just lucky—blessed by sheer chance.

Director Li said, “All communication lines are down. You can’t reach your families. Stay here for now.”

The two quickly replied, “Thank you, Aunt Li.”

Xiaoqiang added, “You two help out around the orphanage whenever you can. Ask Aunt Li about anything that needs doing. That’ll cover your meals and lodging.”

They nodded eagerly. Xiaoqiang suddenly noticed how full the room had gotten. This place was starting to feel like a makeshift shelter.

This time, he didn’t drive. He let Zhou Dafu take the wheel while he sat cross-legged on top of the car, his knife resting across his thighs, letting the wind rush past as he practiced *Yijing Jing*. He didn’t have that same crystal-clear clarity he’d felt that morning, but he knew the truth: practice makes perfect. No time to waste.

More people were flooding back into the city. Those who’d hidden in subway stations and civil defense shelters were finally emerging. These places offered some protection—but not enough. Against the overwhelming wave of nuclear strikes, many still died. And those who survived were often contaminated by radiation.

Xiaoqiang told the pair to drop him off at the municipal library, then sent them to the security office and jewelry stores. This time, they wouldn’t open safes in one spot. Instead, they’d visit multiple locations, collect several safes, then return together to crack them all at once. Earlier, he hadn’t done this because he wasn’t sure whether anything valuable had been missed. But after days of observation, patterns had emerged. Now it was time to move fast.

The idea of him heading to the library surprised the two. “Wait—he’s actually studying?” they whispered. “Even now, he’s still trying to learn!”

The library was empty. No one came here after the disaster. Xiaoqiang’s goal was simple: find books on swordsmanship. Though such knowledge was obscure in modern times, he eventually found a stack of textbooks tucked in a corner—history of blades, schools of thought, techniques. All textbook-style, dry and academic. But to someone like Xiaoqiang, a complete beginner, these were priceless.

He didn’t rush to read. First, he stuffed every book on knives into a large canvas bag. Then he sat at a table, quiet and focused, diving into the pages. Before he knew it, the morning slipped away. By noon, he’d gained a whole new understanding of blades.

For example, the knife he carried now—its center of gravity was closer to the tip, meaning it worked best with chopping and slashing motions. The second blade gave him two attack points and two defensive positions. That required both hands to work in perfect sync—double blades could attack together, defend together, or one could strike while the other blocked. The real power of dual blades lay in creating a seamless loop between offense and defense—no openings, no weak spots. To pull that off, you needed incredible endurance and explosive bursts of speed.

In practice, dual blades acted more like twin swords—light, quick, agile. Because knives were heavy, they demanded serious strength. Without it, you couldn’t generate real killing force, even in a single slash. But Xiaoqiang was different. He already had brute strength—enough to make up for any technical flaw.

Every blade had its limit. Once speed and power reached their peak, the weapon couldn’t do any more damage. That was the true measure of a good blade versus a bad one.

Just as Xiaoqiang was absorbed in his reading, a series of loud car horns blared outside. He knew—Old Wang had arrived.

He shouldered the heavy bag of books and stepped out.

As he climbed onto the roof, a flicker in his peripheral vision caught his eye—a body lying face-down on the ground. It seemed to twitch.

He froze, eyes narrowing. He stared again. Then a gust of wind swept past, lifting the corpse’s clothes slightly.

Relief washed over him. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Just a damn breeze playing tricks on me.”

On the way back, Zhou Dafu said, “Brother Qiang, our diesel’s almost gone. We need to refill soon.”

Xiaoqiang snapped awake. Right—diesel powered the generator and fueled their scavenging runs. He’d completely forgotten that critical detail.

He turned to Zhou. “Head straight to the materials market.”

They filled three 30-liter plastic jugs—about a third of the truck’s cargo space. Then they started hunting for diesel trucks, siphoning fuel directly from the tanks. By the time they finished, night had fallen.

Back at the orphanage, dinner was just starting. Maybe it was because Xiaoqiang had been eating so much lately—they’d slaughtered three chickens today. All were two-year-old hens. Sure, the village auntie had promised they’d be under two years old, but reality wasn’t always so neat. A few were already past their prime, barely laying eggs.

His mother somehow tracked down a dried ginseng root. The chicken soup tasted incredible. Xiaoqiang ate an entire bird himself.

Satisfied and full, he leaned back, picking at his teeth lazily. “Starting tomorrow,” he announced, “everyone gets up at 4:30 sharp. Practice the exercises I taught you. No excuses.”

Everyone stared blankly. Especially the little orphans—they drooped like wilted flowers, spirits crushed.

With the city getting more chaotic by the day, Xiaoqiang decided not to go back in tonight. Dark, dangerous streets meant one wrong move could get you shot in the dark. He locked himself inside the car, using the dim interior light to flip through the books he’d brought back.