Famine 33: “Divinity”

“Divinity”
“That bastard Gu Haoping keeps changing the rules every day—restrictions keep tightening.”

“Before Commander Nie left, he entrusted three crates of nutrient paste as a guarantee to the Northern Squad, but instead of releasing those supplies, that bastard tightened the food distribution on the ferry, bought up surplus provisions at high prices, and monopolized all the food for unified sale. Outsiders can’t buy a thing anymore.”

Sha Tong spat, full of fury, yet powerless to do anything.

“I’ve been thinking, the food I’d saved from completing tasks in the past—even if it’s not much, it’s more than enough to keep you both fed.”

“But in these last few days, a sudden and significant expense has caught me off guard and upended my plans.”

“—Buying clothes for the cold.”

Zhong Manwen murmured the words in unison with Sha Tong’s account.

Clearly, Zhong Manwen had noticed it long ago.

The crudely built wooden cabin was drafty on all sides. Yi Zheng, seated on the table, sniffled, her voice weary. “There’s nothing to be done. It’s just too cold…”

“There’s only one tailor on the ferry, and during the riot he was driven off along with Lao Tang. No idea if he’s still alive.”

“Now as the temperature keeps dropping, the few winter garments left in the settlement have become treasures, their prices soaring sky-high.”

Yi Zheng hugged her arms, shivered, and scratched her head in vexation.

“I just stocked up on a pile of things, but now I can’t even afford a single cotton coat. I’ll have to save up again.”

“So… I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to sort out your own livelihood from now on.”

Yi Zheng recalled her boastful promises from before; her voice grew faint, heavy with powerlessness and guilt.

None among the resistance could bear it, but not a single one spoke up. In grim silence, they turned to Li Shize and Zhong Manwen, standing at the center of the crowd.

The weak and the old.

Though no one spoke the words aloud, who didn’t see the truth?

How exactly were the two of them supposed to make ends meet? On the paltry scraps Gu Haoping dispensed to them?

Li Shize slowly pulled himself up from the ground, his white coat wrinkled and disheveled, and moved to stand beside Zhong Manwen.

Zhong Manwen wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, straightened her clothing, and offered a deep bow. “All of you have endured so much for our sake.”

“I understand. Thank you, Sister Yi.”

“You have already done more than enough. If my son’s spirit is watching from above, I know he would share my gratitude.”

“No matter what becomes of us in the coming days, you’ve all shown boundless kindness; I will hold no resentment whatsoever.”

“But there is still one request that we—bold as it may be—must ask of you.”

She took a deep breath and spoke each word with deliberate care.

“Please, I beg all of you: send that dog Gu Haoping to the depths of the underworld, so that he may join my son!”

“You have my word.”

When he wasn’t cursing, Sha Tong’s voice was hoarse and deep, its unwavering solidity leaving no room for doubt.

“Man proposes, Heaven disposes. I dare not make empty promises. But of one thing I am sure:”

“As long as Gu Haoping lives, the resistance will not disband!”

“We will inherit Tang Qinghuai’s legacy, and fight until the last moment!”

Zhong Manwen lifted her head, casting a silent smile.

Someone could no longer bear it, turning away with shoulders trembling faintly.

At that moment, a subtle ripple flickered through the air.

“What the hell is that?!” Sha Tong was the first to react. He snatched up his flintlock with a clack, racked it, and stood protectively in front of the others.

In the next instant, directly above the table, a subtle and intricate black fissure suddenly appeared.

With a crash, everyone shoved their chairs back, hastily preparing for battle—muzzles and blades swung up together, forming a shield for Zhong Manwen and Li Shize. Yi Zheng rolled nimbly across the table, dropping to her knees as two gleaming daggers flashed into her hands.

Before their raised weapons, the black fissure widened, wider and wider…

A rich aroma wafted out from within the crack.

Sha Tong sniffed, baffled. “What in the hell is that smell? Why does it seem so familiar?”

“And… is it… actually kind of fragrant?” Yi Zheng hesitated. “A bit like that… what’s it called again, haven’t smelled it in ages, it’s…”

“…The aroma of tomato meat sauce?”

Boom.

A burst of light filled their eyes as the spatial fissure flared open.

The first thing they saw was the warm glow of a fireplace.

The flames crackled and danced, and beside them, on a soft red rug, a young man sat squarely at the center of the fissure.

He was slender, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat, clearly a little ill at ease. The fire’s warmth had flushed his skin with vibrant color and health.

He looked as if he was eating—lips closed, cheeks stuffed, a plate of fragrant tomato meat sauce pasta in his right hand, a fork with several pieces of pasta in his left, poised to bring them to his mouth.

In the instant this figure appeared, Zhong Manwen was stunned.

The young man looked up as well, freezing where he sat—the fork clattered back into the plate.

“Ah…”

Zhong Manwen cried out, “Qinghuai?!”

Tang Qinghuai.

Sha Tong gaped, jaw dropped, speechless.

“Wait, what? What the hell is happening?!”

…
…

Ten minutes earlier, at the farm.

“Have something to eat.”

Si Zhiyan leaned back on the sofa, across from Qinghuai, and smiled at Tang Qinghuai, making an effort.

He certainly wasn’t trying to play host for Tang Qinghuai’s sake.

Si Zhiyan always needed at least two minutes of mental preparation before any conversation, let alone breaking bread with a half-familiar acquaintance.

The words ‘warm hospitality’ could not be stretched far enough to reach Si Zhiyan—not by three whole Pacific Oceans.

Especially not when he had to eat while being watched; the thought alone sent shivers down his spine.

But he had a theory to test, one that required Tang Qinghuai’s help and his own presence.

From the first time he’d seen the description of the pasta dish, Si Zhiyan had sensed the presence of a subtle paradox.

“Thank you.”

Tang Qinghuai was oblivious, only feeling that the farm’s owner was truly kind. His expression softened.

The rich scent of tomato reached his nose and, famished after a day and night without food, his stomach growled loudly.

He took the plate of Italian pasta, scooped a large spoonful, and brought it to his mouth.

Each piece of pasta was coated in sweet and tangy sauce; cheese stretched in sticky threads, linking the pasta together. The tomato sauce was thick and luscious, clinging to juicy beef. Tomato meat sauce and melting cheese filled every hollow of each noodle—one bite, and flavor burst forth.

Delicious. So, so good. Exquisite.

The toothy wheat flavor of the pasta melded perfectly with the rich, smooth meat sauce. The strong milky taste of cheese was the finishing touch.

Tang Qinghuai lowered his head, removed his glasses, and wiped away tears. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d eaten something so delightful.

Days of anxiety dissolved slowly into the haze of warmth, his tense body at last relaxing.

At that moment, only one thought filled Tang Qinghuai’s mind:

If only Mother could eat this too.

It had been so long since she’d had anything so good.

Last time, he’d given her jerky and porridge. Since he’d left, who knew if she even had enough food. There were still so many wonderful dishes here on the farm—he longed to save them for his mother and senior.

He just wanted to bring his mother out soon, to let her have a taste of this.

He missed his mother so much…

As he yearned for her, somewhere, imperceptibly, the fabric of space loosened.

Si Zhiyan sat quietly on the sofa, waiting.

Ten seconds later, the system’s voice suddenly sounded:

[Warning. A mid-level spatial fissure is requesting passage through the farm. Fissure carrier: Tang Qinghuai.]
[Permit entry?]

Si Zhiyan’s tension eased; he leaned back on the sofa, smiling faintly.

It had arrived.

[Holy Covenant Pasta]
Pasta steeped in sacred tomato meat sauce.
The world’s warmest food, brimming with tolerance and trust.
If one’s faith is stronger than life and wealth, than all earthly things,
Then while eating pasta, a channel will open between you and the believer/deity with whom you share the most profound bond—so you may share together.

—Exactly!

The first time Si Zhiyan had read this description, he’d noticed something strange.

To activate the effect of the Holy Covenant Pasta, faith in the deity must be unshakable.

Yet the power of this world issued plainly from [Imagination], not from any real god.

The tale of the Holy Covenant Pasta described a paladin bestowed honors for battle, who drunkenly scorned holy bread and made a scene in the chapel.

Clearly, he possessed no real faith in his god at all!

A single meal of pasta could turn an unbeliever into a true devotee? Si Zhiyan had never bought such theological tales.

What kept that paladin fighting in the sanctuary was his devotion to the high priest.

A man gives his life for those who truly understand him. The noble dies by choice, never betrayed.

In other words, what might open that spatial channel was no favor from a divine being on high.

But rather… the obsession and trust in a human heart.

If a bond outweighs life and all possessions; if souls are in perfect accord—the channel will open.

If any pair in the apocalypse could embody purest [Tolerance] and [Trust], it must be mother and child.

Zhong Manwen had fled death time and again, never once blaming her son for her suffering. Tang Qinghuai, newly recovered from grievous wounds, worked night and day without rest, never ceasing in his efforts to save his mother from misery.

Their obsession and [Imagination] were enough to trigger the pasta’s effect.

—No matter the distance of time or space, life or death, nothing in this world could sever them.

The system asked again: [Permit entry?]

Si Zhiyan lowered his head, sipped his coffee, and replied in his heart:

Permission granted.

Suddenly, the space before his eyes split open.

Tang Qinghuai, hunched and anxious, half-finished with his meal, felt a sudden gust of frigid wind.

He looked up instinctively—and gazed into a pair of eyes identical to his own.

“Mom?!”

Tang Qinghuai cried out.

Through the rift, Zhong Manwen wrenched herself free from the resistance fighters’ protection, rushing forward in three long strides, her voice tumbling out:

“Qinghuai? Qinghuai? Is it really you?”

“Are you alive? Is that heaven? The underworld? Has some deity allowed you to visit?”

“Mom—ah? It’s me! It’s really me!”

Tang Qinghuai choked down his pasta, breaking into both laughter and tears, hands at a loss, one holding a fork, the other a plate, completely flustered.

“No, no, this isn’t heaven or the underworld—Gu Haoping didn’t kill me—well, he did injure me, but the farm’s owner saved me… Mr. Farm Owner!”

Tang Qinghuai glanced back suddenly, still clutching his plate.

Through the rift, a dozen pairs of eyes fixed upon the same spot.

Si Zhiyan sat at the head of the table, expressionless, long legs crossed, those jet-black eyes deep as bottomless pools.

He lowered his gaze, gently sipping his coffee.

“Congratulations,” he said calmly.