Twenty

After driving Old He and his group away, the people at the farm barely enjoyed a few days of peace before new worries crept in: with more than half of their fighters gone, what would they do from now on? Surely they couldn’t rely on Bai Qing alone?

Ye Yin was well aware of everyone’s unease. But since the timing wasn’t right, and her “trump card” was still just a step away from completion, she feigned ignorance, choosing instead to comfort everyone a little.

“You’ve all worked hard lately. The work on the wall should be finished before the New Year, and what’s left can wait until spring. For these few days, I’ll have Master Deng prepare some extra meals for everyone.”

As soon as she spoke, cheers erupted. It had only been half a month since the apocalypse began, and everyone’s bodies were already nearly depleted. Master Deng was a skilled cook, but even he couldn’t make cabbage taste like fish. Meat dishes that used to be looked down upon—like braised pork belly—had now become incredibly precious, more satisfying than any delicacy.

People only learn to cherish things after losing them. Many who once claimed to be picky eaters would, after a few years in the apocalypse, trade everything they had for a single piece of candy or a bit of pickled vegetables. Life for ordinary survivors was unbearably hard. Even in the best official bases, most people survived on boiled sweet potatoes or stewed potatoes, rarely seeing a drop of oil, salt barely present. It left them with thick necks, skinny limbs, and a listless sway, not unlike Ye Yin’s own paper puppets.

Since she had promised everyone a real treat, Ye Yin wasn’t stingy. She personally took Master Deng and the mute boy to the poultry yard, bringing back a fat pig and fifty chickens to prepare. The mute, though young, had remarkable strength; he hoisted the several-hundred-pound pig over his shoulder as if it were nothing, refusing to let his teacher bear the load. Master Deng, carrying the chickens, trotted behind, eager to help but unable to catch up, much to Ye Yin’s amusement.

Dinner was a long-missed feast, with more than a dozen tables laid out, each laden with hearty fare: bone broth with radishes, stir-fried pork offal, stewed chicken with potatoes, farmhouse braised pork, corn with pork ribs, spicy stir-fried pork, pork blood in chili oil... It was almost like the festivals they’d once celebrated on the farm. In addition to the food, Ye Yin brought out a case of loose liquor and several boxes of fruit juice, delighting many.

Once the banquet began, no one bothered with pleasantries. They dug in, eating with the single-mindedness of the famished, the only sounds in the hall the urgent gulping and chewing.

Ye Yin’s own table was special, with a few extra dishes: roasted pig’s head, marinated pig ears, pig tail, and crispy pig trotters—a “perk” of her role as farm leader. A few children eyed the marinated dishes from afar, too shy to approach. Ye Yin beckoned them over and shared more than half with them.

“Ah, after so many days of plain fare, I’ll finally sleep well tonight,” Old Guo said, working his tongue around a big bite of pork. “Give it a few more months, and all my high blood pressure and cholesterol will be gone—starved away!”

Sun De laughed. “Didn’t we have at least one meat dish a day? When did you ever eat plain food?”

“Meat dish? More like a pot full of greens, with Master Deng splashing in some oil and salt, tossing in a few shreds of meat and calling it ‘meat.’ But seriously, how much oil and salt do we have left? How long can we make it last?”

“I heard from Yin Yin that in a few months we’ll be pressing our own canola oil.”

“Oil is one thing, but what about salt? There’s no salt mine here, and we’re nowhere near the sea. What do we do?”

“Salt’s not a worry, at least for now. Remember when those rumors were going around? Yin Yin bought into it and stocked up a lot. Some people are just born lucky—they can weather any disaster.”

Several people looked at Ye Yin with admiration, all the more determined to stick with her.

Ye Yin sneezed. She hadn’t noticed the admiring glances behind her, only a faint shiver down her spine.

“Caught a chill?” Bai Qing asked.

“No, I’m perfectly healthy—I never catch colds.” Ye Yin tipped her glass and finished her drink. “You all keep eating. I’m going to check on Jiang Wen. She’s been sleeping so long, I can’t help but worry.”

“Go ahead, sis. I’ll save you some food,” Ye Hua said, gnawing on a pork rib without looking up.

“Just save me a pig trotter. I’ll have Master Deng make pig trotter noodle soup for me tonight.”

“No problem.”

Ye Yin, a bit tipsy, pushed open the door—and sobered up almost instantly at the sight before her: Jiang Wen was already awake, sitting up in bed and gazing out the window.

“You’re here,” Jiang Wen said, turning at the sound and giving Ye Yin a gentle smile.

Ye Yin had always thought Jiang Wen was a stunning beauty, but now, in the dim evening light, that soft, lonely smile—those foxlike, exquisitely alluring eyes reflecting the moon’s radiance—left Ye Yin herself a little dazed, even as a woman.

“You’re finally awake.” Ye Yin sat down in the chair by the bed. “Are you feeling unwell anywhere? Hungry? Want something to eat?”

Jiang Wen shook her head gently, then after a moment asked, “Did you have a drink?”

“It was a feast tonight—I couldn’t help joining in,” Ye Yin replied, scratching her head and getting up quickly. “Is the smell bothering you? I’ll go out and come back tomorrow—”

Jiang Wen slid over and pulled Ye Yin into an embrace. “Thank you... Thank you. From now on, my life is yours.”

While Jiang Wen was bedridden, Ye Hua had taken care of her bathing, so now a faint scent of orange lingered on her. Ye Yin couldn’t help grumbling to herself: Hua Hua, honestly, I told you not to use children’s bath gel on Jiang Wen. Now I feel like a creep.

“It’s all over now,” Ye Yin said, hugging her back and patting her gently. “Get well soon—there are still many hardships ahead, and as fellow... well, as women, we should support each other. Your life is your own—never give it up.”

Jiang Wen let her go and nodded.

Ye Yin chatted a while longer, had Master Deng make her some chicken congee, and didn’t settle Jiang Wen down for the night until after eleven, feeling immensely relieved. Since Jiang Wen had been secretly hidden in the villa, no one but Ye Hua knew about her presence, and it had taken some effort to explain her as a refugee. Her beauty stirred up many of the younger and unmarried men, who would come by to show off whenever they could, but she always kept them at arm’s length, cold as ice, leaving them both infatuated and resentful.

The nightly hauling of supplies and zombie-slaying had rapidly improved Ye Yin’s shapeshifting ability. In just a month, her transformation duration had increased from half an hour to a full hour—a remarkable achievement. But what pleased her even more was that her “trump card,” the first advanced puppet she had ever made, was finally complete.

She was a breathtakingly beautiful girl, lying on the large sofa in Ye Yin’s study like a Sleeping Beauty from a fairytale.

Hair as black as ink, skin whiter than snow, lashes like a doe’s, lips like petals—any word of praise would fall short. She was as flawless as a doll crafted by a master artisan.

In fact, the puppet’s body was that of a doll—a rare, limited-edition ball-jointed doll Ye Yin had come across in a luxury mall. She’d taken one look and known: if only this doll could come alive, what a dream she would be.

This secret art created what was called a Hollow Soul Puppet, whose strengths were its lifelike appearance—undetectable as a puppet except by a grand shaman—and its ease of control, with simple commands producing very refined actions and little demand on spiritual power or energy. The downside was obvious: the body was hard to craft, extremely fragile, and liable to break under direct physical attack.

This was, in a sense, her first child. It needed a name.

Ye Yin was not much of a poet; every name she thought of sounded unbearably tacky. After much struggle, she finally settled on one that wasn’t too harsh: An.

But An what? Anjing—serenity? Anxin—peace? Anning—tranquility? An...

Ye Yin ruffled her hair in frustration. “Forget it, I’ll just call her An An!”

Hmm, that would do.

Delighted, Ye Yin put a crystal core in An An’s mouth, then sent a sliver of her spiritual sense into the puppet’s body, carefully trying to control her.

An An slowly opened her eyes, sat up with a roll, and tilted her head at Ye Yin. Before Ye Yin could cheer, An An raised her hand—

—and slapped Ye Yin right into the doorway.

What the hell?!

Ye Yin dangled awkwardly from the doorframe, too embarrassed to cry out, only howling inwardly: What a useless puppet! Not even as obedient as Xiaolu! I was just trying to make her wave at me!

While Ye Yin struggled to master An An (which in reality meant getting beaten over and over), Jiang Wen sat before a mirror, scissors in hand, cutting her long hair into a short bob.

“What a shame,” Ye Hua said, carrying in oatmeal bread and milk. “Your hair was so pretty.”

Jiang Wen smiled at her. “Long hair is hard to manage, and it gets in the way.”

“You’re still recovering. You could rest a bit longer.”

“It’s fine—I’m almost better.” Jiang Wen lowered her head. “Even if I can’t protect others yet, at least I won’t be a burden.”

Ye Hua set the food on the table and smiled brightly. “I believe you’ll become someone reliable—just like my sister.”

“Thank you,” Jiang Wen murmured. “I hope so too.”

With Jiang Wen’s help, Ye Yin drafted a new set of effective farm management rules and began implementing a new work-point system. Each person earned points based on their labor, then exchanged them for food and other necessities. With clear goals, people no longer muddled through; the diligent no longer overworked while the sly loafed, reducing disputes and friction. Even the elderly and children could contribute what they could, no longer hanging their heads as mere dependents.

The system itself had many flaws, but Jiang Wen’s detailed implementation methods made up for its weaknesses, turning it into a truly practical set of rules. Gradually, the farm’s overall productivity improved, and its atmosphere brightened considerably. Ye Yin was deeply grateful: “With an expert, you can tell the difference right away.”

“It’s just serviceable,” Jiang Wen replied modestly. Quick to learn, she soon became a jack-of-all-trades—running accounts, repairing equipment, tending livestock, anything that needed doing—leaving Ye Yin marveling: How could such a wonderful woman have starved to death in the original novel? Author, are you blind or just blind?

Author’s note: Here’s the second update~

It’s tough without a backlog… No more double updates without a stockpile…

[Ah Ba has coughed up eight pints of blood and died. Hurry and revive her with comments and favorites!~>