Famine 243: The Rain Stops

The portal opened.

Nie Du leapt through it in a flash. He hadn’t yet figured out what was happening—confused and frantic, he called for a situation report, desperate to return and rescue Yu Yao and the other castle residents.

Alice sat curled in a corner, smiling, shaking her head with tears in her eyes.

It was too late. Far, far too late.

The players poured out of Hephaestus Castle, one after another stepping onto the farm’s soil. They passed through the warm fields, the crowds weaving, survivors embracing through tears. Amid these arms, steam from a simmering soup pot could be glimpsed.

Many people noticed Alice.

They surrounded her, crowding tightly around the little miss. Liang Qingshuang held her in a close hug, whispering softly. In her hands, a communicator relayed the noisy mechanical chatter of the little kids from [Amusement Park]. Someone brought her a bowl of winter melon meatball soup.

The bowl was insulated, the broth freshly ladled from the pot, sending up clouds of fragrant steam. A thin layer of oil floated on the surface, with plump meatballs and cubes of winter melon bobbing together with a sprinkle of scallions, rising and falling gently.

Alice held the bowl in both hands, eyes fixed on the meatballs rolling in circles, blinking back more tears.

A warm hand settled atop her head.

Si Zhiyan and the assistant crouched before her. Si Zhiyan gently patted her head, as the assistant pulled out a small plastic bag and quietly set it at her side. A cloud of tangy tomato sauce and sweet-sour cheese floated up—it was a small bowl of grilled pancake, Alice’s favorite from the city’s winding alleys.

“Eat it while it’s hot,” Bian Xu whispered.

Bubbling, bubbling…

The soup pot boiled, suffusing the room with enveloping warmth and fragrance.
Every survivor of the storm deserved a bowl of steaming, comforting soup.

Alice’s vision grew blurry, as if she were back in that shopping mall. Yu Yao leaned behind her, Naya by the fire, everyone huddled together, passing her a bowl of soup, smiling and saying:

There’s strength in numbers—let’s live together from now on.

Her fingertips trembled for a while; she raised the bowl for a sip, nodded forcefully, “Mm.”

The winter melon was fresh and just shy of scalding, the meatballs tender and springy, all the savory flavor steeped into the piping, translucent broth—a bowl of truly good soup.

……

The hardest trial was over; everything that followed seemed veiled behind a shimmering haze.

After a night’s rest, Alice, bearing her new space, returned to the front lines of transport.

She didn’t borrow Yu Yao’s form. Her puppets displayed their wooden joints openly, striding through the fresh grass, guiding returnees home.

More and more players returned to the farm, rushing to the arms of loved ones, friends.

Some were coming to the farm for the first time.

Beyond the Chinese players, more and more people of diverse backgrounds emerged—peoples from other continents, like Nidhoog and others. Under the Chief God’s power, all languages were unified within the Famine Game, automatically translated—no differences in communication.

With skins of every hue and natures unfamiliar, many had never set foot on the farm itself, though all had eaten its food, heard its name. One by one they stepped onto this moist and fertile earth, eyes wide, heads lifted, gazing in awe at the scene before them.

This was the land that had fed them.

Li Cui’e opened the entire metropolis, leading her administrative group to receive the returning players. Registration of identity, allocation of residences, food distribution… No matter where you came from, everyone would find a place to stay here, and a place for their next meal.

These institutions, built and run by service players, were like the glow of a kerosene lamp in a storm—wavering, flickering, but never yet snuffed out.

The long night persisted. Countless sacrifices and bloodshed held torches high, illuminating the streaming river of their journey.

With time, fewer exiled players remained, though the shadows’ strength continued to grow.

Finally, every watchtower in sight was cleared, every settlement had set foot on the farm’s land… Bit by bit, Si Zhiyan began withdrawing his forces.

First, the temporary civilian rescue teams were stood down. Snow Egret leapt from the icy snows of the frigid mountains, shaking snow from his feathers as he hopped back into Shen Qing’s sleeping embrace. His friends had already made hot potato stew for his return.

Next, the armed squads disbanded; then the teams led by the Chosen…

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Everyone received the same message: Thank you for your sacrifice and dedication these many days. Go home now—it’s time.

Now, the farm’s Twilight Inn had been converted to a long-term residence, included in the housing distribution. Many favored the dreamy lava castle, some so accustomed to living there they refused to leave, calling it home.
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Yan Cheng lounged at the castle’s highest terrace, nursing a drink. Though the night was far from over, the long darkness stretched on, the wind and rain still swirling. Under the eaves, young doctor Ye Xianqing bowed his head, focused and attentive.

“Now’s your chance to really rest,” Ye Xianqing said. “Take care, don’t push too hard.”

Yan Cheng sighed, “Mm.”

After a while, he added, “Actually, old friend, we fought many times—never could break through. It’s a pity.
We’d kept trying, but now we’re being reassigned.”

“There was an announcement,” the other replied. “No need to worry about those people.”
He said, all survivors whose locations were confirmed would be looked after, brought home.”

“Oh?” Yan Cheng looked up, “In places even we couldn’t reach—who is it that can rescue them?”

Ye Xianqing said nothing, only shook his head.

Beyond the farm, only a few truly unfortunate souls remained, lone survivors who had fought in hell to this day.

In the final days, even they appeared on the farm.

Questioned by the curious crowds, each lucky soul rescued from hell recounted the same story:
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In the midst of endless shadow, a lone figure in a windbreaker forced a breakthrough and stood before them.

He came from the rain-soaked night, cloaked in pure white fog, stray blond hair sinking in the endless darkness—features hard to discern.
Behind him, an endless jungle of vines unfolded, vibrant and lethal.

Their tips bristled with thorns, directed as if by thought, devouring all the surging shadows; but at the trailing ends, they circled protectively, shielding everyone within—branches supple and warm, without a hint of aggression.

He looked terrifying, uncanny, enough that some found their legs giving way—yet everywhere he went, life bloomed.

Supreme Commander of the armed forces.
The farm’s assistant.

Another region’s shadows were cleared.

In the endless night’s rain, Nidhoog, wounded and bloodied from long fighting, lifted his dragon head amid broken trees, vertical pupils narrowing, eyes fixed on that man.

“Who are you, really?”

The assistant said nothing. He seemed to smile, waving once through the swirling mist, before turning to go.

It wasn’t time yet.

……

Those seemingly endless storms—rain, wind, frost, and snow—at last reached their end.

One day, as everyone at the farm rose, they found that although dawn still hadn’t broken, the rain outside had stopped at last. Only the ground was left muddied with pools tinged a faint red.

They lifted their eyes to the gloomy skies, and through the thick clouds, glimpsed the first glimmers of dawn.

The forty days of ‘Open Selection’ were finally over.

The Chief God was about to descend.