Famine 212: The Old Soldier

Rong Bei was a player who specialized in combat.

To say so was, in truth, little more than empty words. The survival game had been running for seven years now, and the overwhelming majority of players were fighters. Only a small fraction survived by wit or took on support roles.

There was nothing that set Rong Bei apart from the other countless players.
@Jinjiang Literature City

If anything, it was that he was truly ruthless.

Ruthless to his enemies, and even more so to himself.

Rong Bei was not a man of many words, mostly keeping to himself. Later, as the harshness of the game increased, he could no longer cope alone, and so joined a fairly reputable mercenary group. Even within the team, he remained silent, often sitting in the shadows at the campfire, silently wiping his blades.

Concealing things that only he knew—his deep yearning.

—He yearned to distinguish himself.

Perhaps the world is simply filled with all kinds of people. Some are content to live peacefully, savoring a quiet life; others, always scheming, are driven to make something of themselves, whatever it takes. Rong Bei was such a person.

His talent was unremarkable. He had no family legacy, and his physique was nothing special.

He wielded a dart gun that shot poison-tipped darts, two short blades, and all his enhancements were invested in speed.

He would strike first with a dart, then charge like an arrow loosed from the string—twin blades aimed directly at the throat, killing with a single blow.

Like a comet streaking past the moon, reckless and unflinching.

Rong Bei’s ruthlessness, especially toward himself, was well-known and widely acknowledged.

One dart, two blades—three moves, death in an instant. For these seven years, he had practiced this simple combo every day.

The survival game was a life-and-death struggle; most would become numb, living only for today. Rong Bei was different. Unless there was a high-intensity mission, no matter how harsh the environment, he would rise before dawn, swinging his knives over and over.

Sometimes he practiced; other times he watched.

Rong Bei understood his shortcomings well, and so he made a habit of observation.

For the sake of a better vantage point, he could spend a dozen days hiding in a cursed and hazardous environment. He hid in pools thick with blood, buried himself in rotting piles of corpses, silent and unflinching, always watching, watching without end.

Eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, reflecting every subtle movement of the supernatural.

Each anomaly had its own nature, but after countless observations, he recognized that their actions always followed certain shared rules.

He cared nothing for their stories—only for knowing how to kill them.

Rong Bei classified them into dozens of types: vengeful spirits, hulking humanoids, mind-corrupting aberrations… and so on, and so forth.

The methods by which each monster moved and interacted, what behaviors signified agitation, what signals betrayed tension—Rong Bei knew them all.

He was like an old wolf hidden deep in the grass, patience incarnate, biding his time until prey stepped into his trap, then ending it with one fatal strike.

Perhaps, in this world, there was no one who understood the supernatural as well as he did.

The captain once described Rong Bei thus: Seemingly mad, but able to bear solitude and risk it all—he’s quite the character.

Without question, the captain admired him.

Rong Bei was very fortunate. Although every fight was as if he had no tomorrow, leaving him with countless wounds large and small—even a scar running the length of his face—he had always managed to come out alive.

The mercenary group entrusted him with a modest role: squad leader.

His example and his death-defying ruthlessness earned his teammates the chance to survive. Many younger members lived on thanks to him, calling him “Old Captain” with deep respect.

And yet, for Rong Bei, it was not enough—never enough.

He yearned to become one of the chosen, to stand atop this game and glimpse new worlds.

For some, life is like a mountain. To conquer the heights is reason enough for the climb.

…If only he could climb higher.

But there are always those with greater talent. He kept volunteering for ever harder assignments—the captain gave him several chances—but after repeated attempts, he was forced to face a brutal truth:

No matter how hard Rong Bei pushed himself, his strength had limits.

The failure rate was just too high.

After one failed mission, the captain clapped his shoulder and sighed,

“Don’t go again. Listen, let’s be honest—we’ve reached our ceiling. We’ll never be the chosen ones in this lifetime.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that; most people are the same. How often do people achieve greatness? If we can just live well, we should count our blessings.”

“We’ll stick to regular jobs—it’ll keep food on the table, and that’s good enough.”

Rong Bei said nothing.

The next day, he packed up and left the mercenary group.

Returning once more to his solitary ways, he began again.

But—

But the world was vast, and out there were many more skilled than he, and greater talent still.

There were eight billion people in the world. Even one in ten thousand meant eight hundred thousand rivals.

Rong Bei gave everything he had—

—until one day, the world changed.

Rong Bei emerged from a thicket of dead trees, in a sea of mist, to see a great wall before him.

Atop the wall, a figure in a black trench coat floated in the air, arms crossed, casting a brief and indifferent glance downward with calm, crimson eyes.

Rong Bei’s pupils shrank to pinpoints.

One look was all it took—he knew this was a being he could never shake in a lifetime.

—He had encountered the Farm.

Rong Bei was indescribably excited.

It was a wondrous place where no one went hungry, where everyone had a place. He learned the figure was the Farm Owner—someone truly worthy of his loyalty.
@Jinjiang Literature City

The Farm Owner said that in seven days, a great catastrophe would befall the Farm, and many would be needed to face it together.

Rong Bei prepared thoroughly, hoping to make something of himself here.

That day, the fog turned to blood, a giant eye appeared above the city walls, an entire forest of black brambles blotted out the sky and collapsed toward the castle, ghost moths swarmed, and a hundred spirits roamed in the night.

“Do your best!” Commander Lin Qiushui shouted from atop the wall, raising her hand, “The Farm Owner will not forget any of you! All who stand here today are veterans—there are good days to come for all of you!”

“Yes!!” the players chorused.

Rong Bei stood atop the wall. At Lin Qiushui’s command, he charged into battle, fearless and death-defying.

Amid the swarming ghost moths, he was one of the few at the wall’s defenses manning the heavy artillery to the last moment.

As the moths attacked, Rong Bei’s consciousness began to fail. He stabbed his own thigh with a blade, tearing himself back to awareness by force.

His mouth filled with blood, but he refused to fall. With the last of his strength, he swiveled the artillery and gunned down an S-ranked anomaly heading for the command post.

Then, finally, his consciousness gave out entirely.

Rong Bei had saved Lin Qiushui’s life.

Yet perhaps, as fate would have it, the battlefield was never truly his stage; perhaps it was just that his talent had a ceiling—some things were simply out of one’s control…

…When Rong Bei awoke again, he found that he could no longer stand.

Battle still raged. A support player tearfully forced restorative milk and strength foods down his throat…

Yet he still felt nothing.

His left leg still bled, yet it felt numb—as if it were gone altogether.

Rong Bei leaned in the arms of the support player, staring blankly at the sky.

To have lived this long, for such a reckless man, was already considered lucky.

But no one’s luck can last forever.

After the battle, the farm’s doctor came to treat him.

After an examination, the doctor took off his stethoscope, shook his head, and told him,

“It’s probably neurological.”

“Most likely because you kept fighting under the moth’s illusion, letting the toxin erode your system for far too long. The damage is irreversible.”

If it was only damage to both legs—amputation and prosthetics would suffice—but not when it comes to the nervous system.

The brain and nerves are simply too delicate; not even the Lord God’s Shop has a way to fully repair them.

The doctor told Rong Bei that for the rest of his life, he would most likely depend on a wheelchair. With successful rehabilitation, perhaps he could walk with a cane. But high-intensity exertion or combat was forever out of the question.

Any push beyond that, and he risked paralysis.

As he was informed, the doctor didn’t seem particularly discouraged. This young doctor’s tone was light as he told him:

“But don’t worry—in the Farm, veterans get the best treatment. All your medical bills will be covered!”

“For a battle hero who was gravely injured, the Farm will take care of your food and board for life. There’s even a weekly stipend… all from the farm’s public funds.”

By the end, the doctor’s voice sounded almost envious:

“Ah, to trade a leg for security in this survival game—how many people envy such a fate?”

“No more fighting, no more work; just live well, and happiness will take care of itself.”

“Mr. Rong? Are you listening, Mr. Rong?…”

……

……

Rong Bei was not listening.

Head tilted back, he stared fixedly at the bulletin board, reading the notice top to bottom, his gaze burning over every stroke and line.

His heart pounded violently in his chest, aching against his ribs.

For some time now, Rong Bei had not been living well.

To be fair, the farm treated the injured very generously.

In this apocalypse, any survivor with a disability could already count themselves lucky. But the farm had given him a small house on the ground floor with a yard, all meals included, a canteen account with a high enough limit to order anything—and people stopped by from time to time with gifts, while his scheduled stipend covered all necessities and even left pocket money for luxuries.

The doctor was right: Rong Bei could live comfortably for a lifetime, as long as the farm itself survived.

But no one would hand a “crippled” man a post on the front.

Lin Qiushui was a good person, conscientious in both work and sentiment, and never forgot his kindness—often visiting in person with gifts and thanks. But every time Rong Bei brought up “let me return to the team,” Lin Qiushui could only smile wryly and shake her head.

Then, she’d transfer more credits to his account.

Rong Bei did not blame Lin Qiushui.

Escape as he might, he never bothered with the particulars of the [Farm Defense Battle Wounded Veterans Compensation Policy] or [Veterans Honor Badge]. The day those honors arrived, he simply tossed them in the trash.

When people brought him gifts or credits, he accepted them—after all, he had to live.

When alone, he would again and again mime the motions of his short blades in the empty field meant for his retirement.

Crawling, sitting, standing, falling, staggering, and starting over.

Even now, he persisted in rising early each day, yet could never return to the dangerous work he knew.

Day after day, he watched the bulletin board, watched the ever-changing innovations on the farm, saw chances appear and vanish, always just out of reach.

Then he would return to his little house, repeating the empty routines with his knives, calling it rehabilitation.

At first, the doctor had said he’d spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, at best standing with a cane, never able to remain on his feet for long.

But thanks to extreme discipline, Rong Bei’s rehabilitation had met with enormous success—even the doctors were amazed. Now he could walk entirely unaided, moving slowly, with a limp, but not hindered by a cane.

…Just like his life.

Able, but never quite able to keep pace with the best.

Doomed to a life half-awake, half-dreaming.

…

But never, in any life, willing to admit defeat.

Lips pressed together, Rong Bei braced his leg and inched his way out of the crowd.

He had his own ideas about what he wanted to sell.

Rong Bei was not much of a cook, but he knew most street stalls or shops required little skill. Especially in the amusement park—many were just gaudy attractions, while the actual food was simple.

Years of hardship had left him with savings. The farm’s food was not expensive, so long as he chose his ingredients well and did a bit of basic prep, opening a shop in the park could be a real success!

Yet after carefully selecting ingredients and going to the logistics window to buy supplies, he learned something—

The farm’s commerce had been developing fast; wholesale food orders were now limited—it was necessary to queue.
And the current queue stretched out half a month.

The clerk grimaced in apology. “A lot of people have the same idea now. First come, first served—there’s just no way around it.”

Behind him, a sea of people waited their turn for logistics.

Rong Bei’s face stiffened as he considered what to do.

Suddenly, another staffer inside glanced up, eyes catching on his shoulder, and let out a startled cry: “Are you a veteran from the first Farm Defense?”

The people nearby all turned to look.

Rong Bei wasn’t used to such attention. He raised his head. “…I am.”

It was a cool day, so he’d worn one of the farm’s thick wool coats—deep green, nearly black, heavy and warm.

There were so many perks on the farm that Rong Bei had never really cared—but today, glittering on his chest was a badge he’d never noticed before.

The staffer blinked, took a closer look, and suddenly his eyes lit up. “You really are an old player!”

A bit flustered, the clerk jumped up, hurried to pour him a cup of hot water, and ushered him to a seat. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you earlier… please, have some water! Sit right here.”

Cradling the hot water, Rong Bei remained uneasy with all the attention.

He simply calculated in his mind, and asked, “Which ingredients don’t require a wait?”

The staffer grinned: “Ah, no wait at all!”

He brought over a list, placing it respectfully before Rong Bei, passing him a pen, and said cheerfully,

“Just write down what you want here, pre-pay the credits, and we’ll have everything delivered to your address before the afternoon!”

Rong Bei was stunned.

He couldn’t describe the feeling inside, as if someone softly kneaded his heart.

He sat in a daze for a while before rasping, “…Really?”

The staffer said, “Of course! Without you, the farm might not even be here today. How could we ever enjoy such peace?”

He added, “Don’t worry, the farm will never forget people like you.”

“Take your time, no rush. Whatever you need, whatever opportunity, the farm is ready for you at a moment’s notice!”

His young voice was full of vigor and respect.

Rong Bei’s hand trembled.

Sweat seeped from his brow into his eyes, stinging them bloodshot—but he refused to blink.

He pressed his lips together, glancing down. There, on the table, lay a booklet he had never noticed before.

[Farm Defense Battle—Wounded and Disabled Veteran Compensation Policy]