When the kids had naively wanted to establish the Guangxiu District Provisional Government, the teachers had stopped them, saying that other capable adults would step up to do it.
The teachers had genuinely believed that.
But they were wrong—to this day, no one had stepped up in Guangxiu District to organize and establish a provisional government.
The reason was almost laughable: Guangxiu District bordered the Tech District—it was too close.
From the very beginning, Guangxiu District had been the most frequently rescued area by the Tech District’s combat teams, and had the highest number of survivors rescued.
Several large groups of survivors had been taken away. The remaining small pockets couldn’t form an effective force.
Only No. 14 High School counted as a force of its own.
But the students were too simple, too naive.
Jiang Cheng’s voice turned cold: “What happened?”
The student said: “Nothing major, it’s just…”
It was just that every little thing felt unfair, felt bad, felt unhappy.
Nothing was turning out the way they’d imagined.
The thing Jiang Cheng had warned them about hadn’t actually happened.
Because after she left, the four student representatives had discussed it and separately called the boys and girls together for meetings.
The boys’ theme was to protect the girls—especially the younger ones.
The girls’ theme was to beware of all “uncles”—never be alone with any “uncle.”
There were no elementary school kids here—the middle schoolers already understood some things. The school had provided some education on these matters too.
The students’ problem was that they couldn’t connect “criminal” with the “uncle” in front of them.
For example, they knew that there were scumbags in society.
But in their minds, there was no such thing as “someone we worked so hard to rescue would try to take advantage of me.”
Those two things couldn’t merge or overlap.
Cognitive gaps existed everywhere—especially for kids.
All children grew up knowing they were born from their mom and dad.
But quite a few kids would suddenly realize one day, at a certain age: Holy shit—so Mom and Dad had to have sex to have me! So Mom and Dad have a sex life!
Jiang Cheng’s warning was meant to break that cognitive gap for the kids.
Indeed, one first-year middle school girl later reported that one day an uncle asked her to help find some bedding—he said he couldn’t find it.
The girl was puzzled—how could bedding be lost? Weren’t they all sleeping in classrooms together?
The aunties stayed in classrooms with other aunties; the uncles stayed with other uncles.
The girl almost went with this uncle. But as she was about to leave, she suddenly remembered the meeting the senior girls had held, and said: “I’ll go get a few people to come with me.”
The uncle immediately said: “Never mind, never mind—I remember where it is now.”
And he left.
The girl reported it to the senior girls—the two female student representatives among the four leaders.
The girls found the two boys—all four met up and agreed something was off.
But when they asked the younger girl to point out which uncle it was, she couldn’t recognize him.
All the uncles looked the same—greasy hair, scruffy beards, wrinkled suits.
One glance and they were all like that—the girl was a bit face-blind.
In the end, they couldn’t find the person to confront, but the senior girls held another meeting for the younger girls to remind them.
So no serious incident had occurred.
But day by day, things were just frustrating.
Some people demanded to switch classrooms, saying the north-facing ones were too gloomy—they wanted south-facing ones.
The people in the south-facing classrooms, of course, refused.
This should have been simple—the school had plenty of classrooms. They’d started housing people from the first floor up: first floor full, then second; second full, then third.
There were still empty classrooms higher up. All they had to do was move up one floor.
But they refused—because the teaching building had no elevator. Moving up meant more stairs every day.
People in their thirties and forties said they were too old to climb stairs and insisted that the students in first-floor south-facing classrooms give them up. They said the students were young and could handle more stairs, and accused the students of being selfish by taking the best first-floor classrooms.
The students were furious. “Taking the best”? This was their school! They were only sleeping in classrooms because they’d been trapped here when the zombie outbreak hit.
The students refused to swap.
But when they came back from a rescue mission, the swap had already happened.
A bunch of adults had moved downstairs and piled the students’ bedding in the hallway. They couldn’t even be bothered to carry it upstairs for the kids.
The students were so angry they couldn’t help but argue with these adults.
But the adults knew exactly what to say: “We thought you were good kids—people who help others and take care of others. You’re so disappointing. Why can’t you take care of older folks? What did your teachers teach you?”
The students were trapped.
Roasted over a fire.
Of course they wanted to be good people—but why did being good feel so miserable?
The teachers and parents also stepped in to smooth things over.
The students had no choice but to swallow their anger, pick up their bedding, and go sleep in the north-facing classrooms upstairs.
Then the cafeteria auntie came to complain: people were wasting food, throwing away half-eaten buns.
With more and more rescued refugees and newcomers seeking shelter, the aunties carefully calculated every day’s food usage, terrified of wasting anything.
Seeing someone throw away half a bun broke their hearts. When they went to say something, they got cursed at instead.
The auntie was heartbroken.
The school also had a vegetable patch—the cafeteria auntie and the security uncle had planted it long ago. The principal thought it was a nice touch of rustic charm and would help the kids learn about vegetables, so he’d allowed it to stay.
After the zombie outbreak, it became a source of fresh vegetables. But it was too small—just a little extra, a treat—not enough to feed so many people.
Then the refugees arrived, discovered the patch, and started grabbing tomatoes, twisting off cucumbers, pulling up radishes.
All edible raw vegetables.
Fine if they picked a few—but these city folks had no idea how to be careful. They tore the vines, trampled the soil.
The auntie cried from anger.
On the phone, the student told Jiang Cheng: “It’s just… a feeling of being powerless.”
There was an exhaustion in his voice.
“The school doesn’t feel like our school anymore.”
“They won’t listen to us. They refuse to help with work—we’re the ones doing everything. Only a few adults helped at first. Then they stopped coming too.”
“And some people said we’re just kids and wouldn’t let us be in charge anymore.”
“They insisted on taking over the warehouse. We said no. One of them turned out to be fire-type—we had no idea. He’d been here for days and never mentioned he was a superpower user, never helped at all. Then out of nowhere, he shot a fireball and burned off Xiao Yunshu’s braid. She cried her eyes out.”
Jiang Cheng asked: “Did you give them the warehouse?”
The student said: “No, we didn’t. But when we go out, they force their way in and take whatever they want.”
“Only the younger students and the ones without superpowers stay behind. Even the teachers can’t stop them.”
The teachers had never been particularly assertive people.
And among the refugees, a few were especially good at moral blackmail.
What really crushed the students’ spirits was: “Two of the parents—they had superpowers—left yesterday afternoon.”
These two parents had taken their children and left.
One family was from Changxing District, the other from Wuxing District. Both kids had gotten into No. 14 High School through the Olympiad early admission program.
Those districts now had their own governments, so they went to join their district governments.
Two adults who had fought alongside everyone from the very beginning, who had struggled to survive together—they’d just rejected the No. 14 High School kids with their actions.
It was devastating.
The kids were completely demoralized.
Jiang Cheng said: “Which one are you? The Duan kid or the Li kid?”
The student said: “I’m Duan Junqi.”
“Alright, Duan Junqi,” Jiang Cheng said. “I’m giving you one hour. Make me a list.”
“Everyone who’s been causing trouble.”
“Everyone who’s been grabbing supplies.”
“Everyone who’s been bullying students.”
“No fewer than ten—more if you want—list anyone you find annoying.”
“Wait for me. I’ll be there in an hour.”
After Duan Junqi hung up, everyone crowded around: “What did she say? Did Auntie Jiang agree?”
Duan Junqi looked at them: “No. She didn’t agree.”
A wave of disappointed sighs rippled through the crowd.
“But,” Duan Junqi said, “she said she’ll be here in an hour.”
“She told us to make a list.”
It was still early.
The departure of those two parents and their children yesterday had wounded the kids deeply.
They’d held a long meeting late into the night before finally making the decision: “Let’s give up the school and go join Auntie Jiang in the Tech District.”
It had been too late to call that night, so they’d waited until early morning—skipping breakfast—to call Jiang Cheng.
That turned out well, because at this hour, the Tech District combat teams hadn’t left yet—everyone was having breakfast.
Jiang Cheng used the walkie-talkie to give instructions to the cafeteria: “Tell all squad leaders—today’s plans have changed!”
Jiang Cheng went straight to the clubhouse cafeteria.
No matter how urgent things were, they had to eat first.
They held a meeting while eating, then everyone geared up: “Let’s go.”
—
Guangxiu District, No. 14 High School.
The students paced at the school gate, constantly looking outward.
An annoying adult came over, hands on hips: “Why aren’t you going out today?”
The student: “Not today.”
The adult: “Is there enough food in the cafeteria? You need to go out and find more supplies—don’t let everyone go hungry.”
Why don’t you go find supplies yourself? All you do is sunbathe here.
The students fumed.
“Making faces now?” The adult clicked his tongue. “Kids are so unreliable.”
“You—” A student couldn’t hold back, but Duan Junqi stopped him.
Duan Junqi: “We have something to do today.”
The adult: “Tch.”
Duan Junqi’s phone suddenly rang. He quickly answered: “Hello? Good! Good!”
After hanging up, he said: “They’re almost here!”
The students perked up.
Suddenly, the school’s PA system crackled to life: “Everyone, gather at the front plaza immediately. Everyone, gather at the front plaza immediately! There’s something important—come downstairs now!”
Some refugees complained: “So noisy—what for?”
They’d finished breakfast and had nothing to do—about to go back to sleep.
But then they thought: maybe they’re handing out supplies. If they didn’t go downstairs, they’d miss out. So they reluctantly got up and headed down.
A crowd of men and women gathered in the plaza in front of the school building, buzzing with noise.
Many people asked the students: “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
Even the teachers came to ask: “Xiao Yunshu, what’s this about?”
But Xiao Yunshu looked at Duan Junqi, who was still on the phone. She waved at the teacher to wait.
Duan Junqi hung up and shouted: “Open the gates!”
The senior students rushed over and opened the school gates.
A rumbling sound came from afar, growing louder.
“What’s that?”
“What’s going on?”
“Are more people coming? Let’s hope not—there won’t be enough food.”
But gradually, everyone realized something was wrong.
Rumble, rumble, rumble.
It sounded like very large, heavy vehicles—more than one—getting closer and closer, louder and louder.
Soon, they came into view.
The blade vehicles they’d seen on TV announcements.
Much bigger than regular buses—taller too.
After so many transformations and extensions, the paint on the vehicles had chipped and peeled. People thought they looked ugly, so the metal-types had stripped all the paint off entirely.
Now the vehicles were gleaming silver.
The blades glinted in the sunlight.
From the moment they came into view, they carried an air of menace.
Silver light flashed between the gaps in the school’s iron fence, rhythmically glittering.
They turned at the gate and drove into the school plaza.
The drivers were reckless—screeching to a high-speed halt.
The sound of brakes was enough to set teeth on edge.
Many people stumbled backward in fright, terrified of getting too close to the blades and losing their heads.
One, two, three—many vehicles.
They lined up in a row across the school plaza.
An oppressive killing aura filled the air.
The plaza fell utterly silent.
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