Famine 58: Spring Dawning

[Mist World – Day 2 / 7:45 AM / Edge of the Icefield / Current Farm Completion: 51%]

Liang Qingshuang sped across the icefield in skates.

Trailing behind him was an ornate, bloodstained gown, its layered skirt encrusted with jewels that gleamed alluringly.

The taste of blood filled his throat, but Liang Qingshuang could not stop. He gasped desperately, pushing himself forward, ever forward.

Crack!
Suddenly, one foot slipped and he fell hard to the ground.

Pain jolted through his entire body, but there was no time to rest; he scrambled to his feet, rolling and crawling as he went. Glancing back, he saw the skirt—soaked through with blood—had frozen to the ice in the bitter air.

“…”

He nearly collapsed, body utterly drained of strength.

From high in the sky, a distant voice drifted down:
“Qingshuang, stop running.”

“It’s not as if I’m out to hurt you. Once I become a god, I’ll revive everyone who’s died in this Famine Game and bring happiness to all.”

“Qingshuang, after all these years, how are you still like this?”

—How are you still like this?
Liang Qingshuang gritted his teeth, grabbed the skirt, tore it off with effort, then turned his back and continued on.

Liang Qingshuang, ranked fifty-sixth among the Chosen, title: [Silver Plume Phantom].

He had worked with his old partner Chen Chunsheng for seven years.

Since they were first swept into the Famine Game, they had acted together.

Before the apocalypse, Liang Qingshuang was a competitive figure skater—a lifelong prodigy, proud and aloof, never one for sweet words.
Fortunately he met Chen Chunsheng, who was taciturn and steady, always quick with a foolish smile and abundant patience.

Within a few years, they became Chosen. Chen Chunsheng rose as leader, assembled his brothers, and founded the Spring Grass Mercenary Corps, giving Liang Qingshuang an official title as his right-hand man.

Chen Chunsheng said, “Qingshuang, people must learn to go with the flow.”

At first, Liang scoffed at the idea. What use were those weaklings who weren’t even Chosen?

As a male figure skater, he was tall, slender, his looks androgynous, fond of long dresses and lavish jewels.

Within the Spring Grass Mercs, he clashed with nearly everyone, especially a group led by Gao Zhai. Gao Zhai was the classic tough guy, always sneering behind his back, unable to stand Liang’s “sissy” airs and attitude.

Liang Qingshuang frequently argued with the others, with Chen Chunsheng always intervening, smoothing things over with a smile: “We’re all brothers and sisters here, we have to rely on each other—it benefits us all.”

“That’s just how Qingshuang is, please, try to be a bit more tolerant.”

Until one mission months later, Liang, swishing his glamorous red skirt, saved Gao Zhai’s life.
Gao Zhai was dumbstruck, while Liang offered a beautiful, scornful glance, snorted and skated off.

Six months later, it was Gao Zhai who, at the cost of his left eye, cleared a path for Liang, breaking open the battlefield so Liang Qingshuang could strike a fatal blow against an anomaly.

Liang did not let him down; with a dancer’s flair at the tip of his ice lance, he swept in and killed the threat with a single strike.

After the battle, a dozen people lay exhausted together, roasting potatoes.

Gao Zhai was quiet a moment, then muttered awkwardly, “…That last thrust—pretty as hell. Eh, but still, sissy or not, you’re tough—I just can’t get over that part.”
Liang snorted coldly, crossing his arms with a sidelong look: “Who needs you anyway, you half-blind hick.”

The two locked eyes for a beat, then both burst out laughing.

Over the years, the group had stuck together through thick and thin, scoring impressive victories and making their name. From three or five, to a dozen, to hundreds—the name of Spring Grass Mercenary Corps spread through the Famine Game.

By day, they ran missions; by night, the camp rang with roughhousing, drinking games, the laughter of a family. They guarded each other’s backs, clashed and reconciled, advanced and retreated together.

Slowly, Liang’s heart softened—he came to think of the Spring Grass Corps as home.

Liang once believed this was how his life would always go.
Even if there were differences, the occasional argument, it didn’t matter. At most, a few days before things mended—wasn’t that just family?

After all, they’d depended on each other, shared honor and disgrace, and walked these worlds side by side.

Last night, Chen Chunsheng stood with Liang Qingshuang and their brothers, gazing up at the Divine’s broadcast in the sky, eyes filled with yearning.

Chen said, “We’ve got a big family, plenty of brothers—what’s there to fear? Let’s go meet this Nidhogg. If we can kill him, his cursed items will really boost our strength—and our ratings.”

“What if, though—what if it has to be me?”

Liang agreed without hesitation.

Together, the two led over five hundred of the Spring Grass brothers to the edge of the icefield, finding a hot spring. Night was falling, so they camped, intending to hunt Nidhogg at sunrise.

The hot spring was warm, seemingly safe, and that night, everyone soaked in the baths.

Liang dozed off in thin underclothes, curled up in a sleeping bag.

…Then, in the dead of night, the camp was engulfed in blood-red light.

It had been a [Blood Sacrifice Ritual Array].

Liang only understood what was happening when Gao Zhai shook him awake and he saw bloodlight and heard the screams. Chen Chunsheng’s target had never been Nidhogg—it was them.

Chen, having acquired a relic from some anomaly, had learned that the ritual array at these hot springs could drain the flesh and blood of sacrifices, feeding that power to the array-caster.

The group’s equipment and weapons were already gone, not even time to put on clothes. Liang alone had a dress—because he always slept hugging his soft, fluffy gown.

They fought back at once, but the battle was hopeless.

At the pivotal moment, it was the very brothers Liang had so often scorned who banded together, paying dearly to break Liang out.

Each crew-cropped brother was bloodied, pouring their strength into a breach, shoving him from the circle—their eyes alight, ready to die.

“Go, Sister Liang!”
“You’re the only one who can take that turncoat down.”

“You have to survive—and avenge us!”

Avenge us!

What a distant goal.

Liang Qingshuang skated for his life, desperate.

“Why bother? We’re partners…” Chen Chunsheng called after him.
“I never intended to hurt you—if you yield, I’ll let you come back. We’ll be partners again.”

“I can even let you join with the ritual array. Hundreds of eligible players, all their strength would merge in our bodies—we might go straight to number one or two on the Chosen rankings.”

“Shut up.”
Liang’s delicate features twisted in rage, cutting him off.
“Even if I die here today, I’ll never use my brothers as fuel for my strength.”

“I refuse to stand with scum like you.”

“…Sigh.”
Chen Chunsheng sighed.
“Always so aloof—never fitting in, or understanding others.”

“Qingshuang, people must go with the flow.”
“This is just… everyone’s fate.”

Liang Qingshuang, bloodied and battered, stood tall as ever—proud, sharp-eyed, unchanged from the day they met. He replied with a single word: “Scram.”

Silence. Only the howling of the wind and snow.

Behind Liang, withered blood-grass snaked forward, stabbing through the ice, drawing closer by the centimeter.

Liang was already moving at his limit, but still couldn’t shake it.

The ritual array had drained so much of him, his body shook with cold, nearly numb. Exhausted and starved, his stomach ached with hunger, bile rising in his throat.

It was only his mastery of skating and the terrain—which gave him a slim edge—that kept him from already being a corpse at Chen Chunsheng’s feet.

But even so, he would not last much longer.

It had been a day since he last ate: now, hungry, cold, strength gone. The acid gnawed at his stomach.

His gown left his shoulders and back bare, defenseless against the cold. Having emerged from the hot springs, the icefield’s air felt hellishly cold, burning his windpipe and lungs with every breath, a pain like knives.

Blood still trickled from his belly wound, agony fading to deadly numbness as he realized: perhaps a muscle had torn?

The endless, signless expanse of the icefield spread ahead, shrouded in mist.

The blood-grass grazed his heels.

Liang Qingshuang clutched his torn skirt, head held high, refusing to bow even in death.
Even if he died, he’d die watching Chen Chunsheng, biting off a piece of his flesh for vengeance.

Suddenly.

In the fog ahead, a faint yellowish light broke through, shining gently before him.

It was… a warm golden rectangle, as if—

A signboard?

Everything was white in his vision, heavy with mist; he could only glimpse that inviting glow. Instinctively, Liang summoned the last reserves of strength and sprinted toward it.

Blood-grass brushed his calves, but with one final effort, he lunged forward—!

Bang!

He crashed through a glass door, tumbling face-first onto his skirt.

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding~ ding~ ding~ ding~ ding~

A jaunty, cheerful welcome tune started to play.

After a moment, Liang raised his head in astonishment.

Ssshhhh…

Sunlight streamed down, dappling the spacious, spotless rows of shelves. The space was bright and clean, as if untouched by the apocalypse.
The background music was gentle and lively, the sizzling from the fryer delightfully pleasant, the air thick with the aroma of fried chicken.

This was a…
Convenience store?!

At the counter, a strong, brown-haired man—the clerk, apparently—leaned lifelessly over, a skewer of fried chicken dangling from his mouth. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“Clean up your blood. Don’t mess up the shelves.”

“…”

Liang Qingshuang didn’t speak, clutching his skirt and casting wary glances about.
He glanced back—no sign of Chen Chunsheng entering.

Maybe this was some anomaly’s territory, sent to lure him ahead.

Liang wiped his face, stood, and walked deeper inside.

The store had two main sections: the shelves, and an eat-in bar.
As he entered the shelves, what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Dried meat?!
Medicine?!
Winter clothes?! Even fleece-lined sleeping bags!

At the far end, behind the transparent ice chest, flawless white fish fillets were piled high, as if free for the taking; more than enough to stun the onlooker. Various flavors of ice cream sat in wooden tubs, each with a placard noting its buff. One breath and Liang felt his heart stop.

Were these really for sale?

Hugging his skirt, Liang moved forward, growing more wildly incredulous with every step.

…Although, for some reason, while the shelves were sparklingly clean, the goods were in disarray—just shoved haphazardly together. Price tags stuck in at odd angles like weeds on a dung heap.

Liang cast a sidelong glance at the surly clerk and kept his mouth shut.

He rounded a corner into the bar area, immediately forgetting everything before.
Gurgle, gurgle—the oden pot was burbling, tiny bubbles popping at the surface. The aroma of simmering dashi swirled with the steam, enveloping his wind-chapped face. He glanced down: half a pot of skewers left, plump and tempting, floating dreamily in the fragrant broth.

Was this real?
Was it a dying dream?

Liang Qingshuang was nearly stunned silly.

Could this be a trap to trick players into eating—killing them bloodlessly?

He hesitated, then glanced again at the clerk.

—Nidhogg was flipping through the Divine Mall on his device, chewing a fish cake, and with a tilt of his chin swallowed it whole; the stick tossed away, lips smacking with satisfaction. He hadn’t glanced his way once.

Liang: “…”

He had absolutely no intention of lying or luring him at all.

Gurgle.
His stomach growled. Legs trembling. After the drain of the blood sacrifice, Liang was running on empty. The hot, savory scent of konbu dashi wormed straight into his nostrils.

Liang swallowed and rushed a glance over the food notes, quickly deciding:
“Excuse me, I’ll have a latte to clear fatigue and stanch bleeding, and ten lucky-draw oden skewers.”

“Get them yourself,” Nidhogg yawned, “Fifty-one credits for the coffee, thirty-one per skewer. Pay at the door.”

Liang hurried to fetch a spoon and paper cup, piling himself a heaping serving of oden.

In his heart, he murmured: Is there still hope for Spring Grass’s fate to turn?

Then he ducked his head and took a bite of fish roe skewer. The sweet, savory fish paste and the popping roe danced between his teeth—a pure delight with every crunch.
He bit into a piece of daikon, cooked to shimmering translucence, the soup having soaked it through. A single bite burst a rush of sweet broth over his tongue, so delicious it made him tremble.
Lastly, a sip of soup—katsuobushi and konbu had been simmered to perfection, restoring both strength and spirit, each mouthful warmth straight to the heart.

Liang gulped down each scalding bite, not willing to slow for a second.

His cracked fingers were near freezing; clutching the warm cup, the heat almost scalded, but felt astonishingly good.
Before long, he’d finished every last drop. Even Liang, ever proud, nearly licked the cup clean for that lingering aftertaste.

In this wilderness, a single cup of hot oden erased all exhaustion.

A few sips of coffee and milk later, the energy drained by the blood ritual returned to his body.

All the way to this point, Liang had never once lowered his proud head. Yet now, cupping his face in the rising steam, eyes stinging from the thaw, he could not help but feel his vision blinking red.

At the end of the road, where all seemed lost—there was, again, oden waiting for him.

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding~ ding~ ding~ ding~ ding~

Suddenly, at the store entrance, the welcome melody played again.

Liang stiffened, looking up. The counter was empty—only strands of bloodied grass silently sprouted from the floor.

Chen Chunsheng had arrived.