Chapter 34: The Moving Corpse

Wang Xiaoqiang could now *feel* it clearly—his body had become a circle, spinning endlessly. Every time he swung his long blade, the weapon seemed to transform into a circular antenna, circling around that invisible sphere. To onlookers, his swordlight was no longer the two fixed circles from two days ago. Instead, it was now a swirling halo of overlapping rings—so many, in fact, that they formed a kind of spherical space, isolating Xiaoqiang’s body and the air around him like a bubble.

Today, he’d incorporated the simple footwork he’d learned from reading books. As he moved back and forth, the swordlight became a mobile fortress—invincible, unyielding, capable of shattering anything that dared come near.

The mist cleared.

Suddenly, Wang Xiaoqiang felt as though he’d stepped into another world. Everything around him looked… different. Then, out of nowhere, a foul stench hit his nose. He glanced left and right—nothing unusual. He bent down, sniffed his own clothes—and nearly vomited.

His clothes were sticky, reeking of something rotten. Without hesitation, he bolted downstairs, turned on the shower using water from the storage tank, and scrubbed himself raw. It took forever before the nausea finally faded.

Standing under the spray, he bellowed, “Dad! Bring me some underwear and a fresh shirt!”

After changing, Xiaoqiang pulled out every lead bar and gold ingot, then started huffing and puffing as he scrubbed his vest clean. He wasn’t about to parade around smelling like a corpse. Today, forget the weighted vest—he’d have to wear his bulletproof vest instead.

When he got into the truck, he instinctively reached for the ladder, pushed off with one hand, and tried to leap up a rung. But instead of landing on the step, he *ended up on the roof*. His heart skipped a beat.

He patted his chest, stunned. After a few seconds, he climbed down, took a deep breath, and tried again—this time, with just one hand, he *leapt straight onto the cargo bed*, landing smoothly.

His eyes widened.

A grin split across his face.

After nearly twenty years of grinding practice, it had finally paid off. The breakthrough was real. Inside, he was screaming with joy.

No more books today.

Something inside him had changed. The words on the page no longer made sense. He needed to *do*—to test, to feel, to digest what he’d learned.

And so, an odd sight unfolded: a moving freight truck on the highway, with a man standing atop it, wielding twin blades, slashing through the air again and again. People on the street stared, shaking their heads. *Madman*, they thought. But Xiaoqiang didn’t care. He kept swinging, his blades slicing through the air with a sharp *hiss*, as if each cut severed wind itself.

The truck stopped at the gate of a security outpost. Xiaoqiang kept moving, still chopping the air. He noticed something strange—his hearing was sharper than ever. Distant whispers carried clearly. Tiny text far away? No problem—he could read it. His vision was clearer, his reflexes faster.

He felt a new mastery over the blades. Like driving a car, he knew exactly how much wrist twist would produce which kind of flourish. A step forward, and the tip of the blade would cleave precisely where he intended. The sword wasn’t separate from him—it *was* him.

Every motion, every arc—he saw it all, perfectly.

*You can’t travel a thousand miles without taking one step. You can’t form a river without tiny streams.*
After twenty years of relentless effort, a single spark had ignited a transformation.

Just as he was lost in that transcendent state, a flicker in his peripheral vision caught him—something on the ground, not far away. A corpse.

It *moved*.

Xiaoqiang froze.

His breath stopped.

This wasn’t a trick of the light. Not the wind. That body had *twitched*.

His hair stood on end. A cold wave washed over him—from deep inside, a primal fear gripped his soul.

He fought to keep his lips from trembling, then shouted, voice cracking but loud enough to make the air vibrate:
“Old Wang! Da Fu! Get back in the truck—now!”

A moment later, two figures emerged, carrying a box.

“What’s wrong?” Old Wang asked. “We still got several rooms to check.”

Xiaoqiang didn’t answer. Just pointed toward the corpse. “Get in. Start the engine.”

Old Wang followed his son’s gaze—but saw nothing unusual. Still, he obeyed.

Da Fu turned the key.

The engine coughed, then roared to life with a stuttering *thump-thump-thump*.

“Turn around,” Xiaoqiang said. “Head back to town.”

“Already?” Da Fu protested. But Xiaoqiang didn’t respond.

Reluctantly, Da Fu turned the truck around.

Xiaoqiang wasn’t sure what he’d seen. But one thing was certain: when coincidences pile up like this, they’re never just coincidence.

He remembered the last two times—the corpses twitching. The more he thought about it, the colder he got. This wasn’t normal. It was too weird. Too much like *Resident Evil*.

*Life always finds a way.*

That line from a movie. Most people heard it and moved on. But few truly considered its weight.

When nuclear fire tore the world apart, it wasn’t just humans who faced extinction. Animals, plants, microbes—all were wiped out or dying. Yet after five years of struggle, a virus had finally found a way to survive—by nesting inside human bodies.

Now, it was searching for a way out.

Back in town, Xiaoqiang felt completely lost.

He splashed a bucket of cold water over his head, staring at his reflection in the puddle below. The three moments—the dead rising—kept replaying in his mind.

Would it happen like in the movies?

He needed proof. And he needed an exit strategy.

Old Wang watched his son, alarmed. Something was deeply wrong. He hadn’t smoked in ten minutes. Just stood there, silent, worried.

Xiaoqiang turned slowly, voice hoarse.

“Dad. Organize everyone. Inventory all supplies—food, canned goods, anything that lasts. Pack it all into the东风箱货. Under the beds. Fill it up. Even if it takes half the bunks.”

“Move all five freezers into the other box truck. Fill every gas tank to the brim. Load everything we can carry. Make sure—*if we need to leave*—we can just get in the car and go.”

Old Wang blinked. “What’s going on?”

Xiaoqiang shook his head. “I don’t know. I saw the bodies move. Maybe I’m imagining things. But I hope I am.”

That scared Old Wang to his core. He knew his son wouldn’t joke about something like this.

*Zombies?*

Seeing the look on Xiaoqiang’s face, he knew—something real was happening.

He called out: “Everyone—move! Start packing!”

“Da Fu.”

“Yeah, boss, I’m here.”

Even though Zhou Dafu hadn’t seen anything, he’d *felt* it. He’d always sensed that Qiangge knew things others didn’t. Now, seeing Xiaoqiang like this—pale, tense, focused—he was afraid.

“Take the 6.8-meter box truck. Go straight to the repair shop. Put in the racks you prepared. And on top of them—build a chicken coop. Small enough to hold 100 chickens. Use thin iron rods and wire. Make it sturdy.”

Dafu nodded, already moving. The order was strange. But in that moment, he didn’t question it.

Not anymore.