Chapter 21: Strengthening the Trump Card

Su Miao returned to the villa.

After taking her medicine, Xia Xiao’an’s breathing grew much steadier; hopefully, when she awoke, the viral flu would have passed. Outside, things were temporarily safe. Su Miao went back to the first-floor living room and began practicing drawing and thrusting her sword.

Two hours later, she finished her exercises. The torrential rain had stopped. Considering the conflict mentioned in the group chat between the villa district tourists and the restaurant staff, the clash would inevitably escalate; someone might take the risk and search her villa.

After all, even a severely injured old man had managed to crawl up here from the landslide—healthy people would have no trouble coming over. If this were an apocalypse game, without the threat of shrinking zones, players would naturally search every villa for resources. Except for a few, like herself, who were not short of supplies and preferred to hunker down.

This meant she and Xia Xiao’an would inevitably be discovered. Su Miao had already seen how vicious the earlier visitors knocking at her door could be. The ones who came later, hungrier, wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took.

Relying solely on her crossbow and sword umbrella might not be enough to protect herself. Her only remaining trump card was magic. She knew little, but she could try to enhance what she had, just in case.

Su Miao opened her hand, and a tiny red fireball appeared in her palm.

In moments, more fireballs emerged, gathering into a group of ten. She’d thought of this method while transporting the old man. If she could launch several fireballs at once, the damage should be considerable.

“Disperse.”

It still didn’t feel safe enough. Su Miao dispelled the fireballs she’d conjured.

She recalled reading about the relationship between flame color and temperature: red and orange flames, 3000 degrees; yellow and white, 4000 degrees; green and blue, 5000 to 6000 degrees; violet, above 7000 degrees.

If she kept infusing and compressing magic into the fireball, could she change its color—and thus its temperature? In that case, no matter how small the fireball, its lethality would be assured.

With this in mind, Su Miao began experimenting.

She extended her right hand, conjuring a red fireball in her palm. As she continued to infuse and compress magic, its color gradually shifted to yellow, then white, then green, and finally pale blue.

“It really works!”

Su Miao’s eyes lit up. Yet, as she tried to pour in more magic, she felt a strange pressure, as if she could barely control the fireball.

Worse, her head began to spin—a sign that her magic was nearly depleted.

“Disperse!”

Su Miao immediately dispelled the pale blue fireball. She sat down and drank an entire bottle of mineral water. She hoped the coming hours would pass peacefully; all she wanted was to survive this apocalypse in her own way.

…

“Dragon, Old Wolf died a miserable death!”

In the villa district, several men stared at a rain-soaked, swollen corpse, their faces twisted in rage. They’d come for a holiday together—who could have predicted that before they’d even enjoyed themselves, a brother would be killed?

“Fox, did you check? How did my brother die?” Dragon asked. “I want to know who the killer is—when I catch them, I’ll skin them alive and tear them apart!”

“I checked. Old Wolf was killed with a crossbow bolt.”

Fox produced a bolt, saying, “Dragon, I found several more bodies after that—all killed by crossbow bolts. The enemy’s got an expert.”

Dragon gritted his teeth. “An expert? Good! Dragon only wants to slaughter experts!”

Fox continued, “All these bodies were killed with a single shot, the bolt striking vital points. Whoever did this is ruthless.”

“I suggest we sneak over at night and kill them.”

Dragon shook his head. “No, we go during the day. If we wait until nightfall, the rain might come back, and then we won’t be able to cross.”

He glared fiercely across the landslide, wishing he could storm over and kill the culprit immediately.

…

At the ruins of the restaurant, everyone was gathered around several rescued cauldrons, waiting for food. Now, anything edible was thrown into the pot, mixed with rainwater filtered through clean clothes, boiled into a thick gruel—their daily ration.

After multiple battles, they’d lost men and morale was very low.

“Brother Fei, I found Chang Jieming’s security guards!” a thin middle-aged man ran over. “They’re hiding by the parking lot.”

Fei Chengqiang sprang to his feet, his face bulging with rage. “Tonight, we’ll take back all our food!”

…

At dusk, the sky gradually grew darker. The rain resumed, at first a drizzle, then a downpour within fifteen minutes.

Su Miao went to the kitchen to cook. Since Xia Xiao’an was sick, she prepared some porridge for her. For herself, she took out a portion of dry-fried chicken rice and tried to heat it in the microwave.

Wait—the microwave wasn’t working. Su Miao turned and realized the villa had lost power. Luckily, there was still some natural gas left—more than enough to cook porridge for Xia Xiao’an.

She lit a candle and placed it nearby.

After heating the porridge, she poured the dry-fried chicken rice into a pan and stir-fried it. The flavor suffered a bit, but it was still deliciously aromatic.

“Xiao’an, time for porridge.”

Su Miao brought the hot fish porridge to Xia Xiao’an’s room. This time, she’d added extra ginger, hoping it would help her recover faster.

…

In another villa.

Old Song, who had narrowly escaped death, suddenly opened his eyes.

Though he was in unfamiliar darkness, he could feel the bed beneath him was remarkably comfortable.

“I’m alive.”

He tentatively felt his body. His clothes were dry. His wounds—all gone. Though some pain lingered, he was certain the injuries had vanished.

He’d been hacked with a machete, so many large wounds, and now they were simply gone? Old Song’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“It was her.”

A vague memory surfaced in his mind. He recalled Su Miao’s silhouette. Yes, a young woman had rescued him.

So many wounds vanished—was it because of her? How had she done it?

Old Song got out of bed and discovered medicine, food, and mineral water left on the table, further proof that what had happened was no hallucination.

His stomach rumbled fiercely.

He hungrily tore open the mineral water, bread, and instant noodles, devouring them all. After days of starvation, severe trauma, and a day and night of unconsciousness, he could barely help himself.

In no time, he’d eaten almost all of Su Miao’s provisions, leaving only a few biscuits. The mineral water was nearly gone too. Otherwise, he’d have finished the biscuits as well.

Suddenly, Old Song heard strange noises outside, as if someone was about to break into the villa where he now stayed.

His expression changed. Was Fei Chengqiang’s group coming to kill him?