Chapter 12 Drought Years (Part 1)

Hot.

That was Qin Huai’s first impression of this land.

The sun hung high in the sky, scorching the earth. The blinding light made it almost impossible to open one’s eyes. The ground was as hard as stone, cracked into irregular pieces, with deep fissures showing not a trace of green. When the wind blew, it carried only waves of heat and dust. Even the sky seemed veiled in a burning red hue.

A thousand miles of barren land—this was the first time Qin Huai truly understood the meaning of that phrase.

He crouched down and touched the ground. It was rough and solid, yet he couldn’t feel any temperature. He deliberately kicked a rock—yet it didn’t budge, and his foot felt no pain.

Good. He was probably just an observer in this dream.

But where was the main character?

This was a vast wilderness. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but endless yellow earth, a few withered trees, and a suffocating monotony of color. There weren’t even large rocks to hide behind—no people, no animals, not even wild grass. There was nowhere to hide even if he wanted to.

Qin Huai was confused.

Could it be that the system had tricked him into this dream just to make him play desert survival?

But survival wasn’t even necessary—he felt nothing. The sun above was blazing, yet he felt no heat. A normal person would probably collapse from heatstroke within minutes in such a place.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet moved.

A small mound rose up.

Qin Huai: !!!

With a startled shout, he jumped aside. The mound grew bigger and bigger—then a head burst out of the soil.

It might sound strange to describe it that way, but it really did break out of the ground. The person’s hair and face were covered in dry dirt, even their mouth was full of it. They spat repeatedly but couldn’t get it all out, eventually giving up and swallowing the rest before struggling to crawl out. Just like that, a “mud person” emerged.

“Why is it still daytime?”

It was a young woman’s voice—oddly familiar.

She wiped her filthy face with even dirtier hands, smearing mud around like mixing paint. After scraping off quite a bit, her facial features became barely recognizable as human.

Chen Huihong.

A younger version of Chen Huihong.

Though she looked younger—and barely human—Qin Huai was absolutely certain. This was Chen Huihong!

Looking at this far more lively younger version of her, Qin Huai muttered, “Damn…”

Rich people really are different. When he dreamed, he usually dreamed of getting rich overnight.

But Chen Huihong? She dreamed of surviving in a drought, even burying herself underground. Just one step away from a zombie apocalypse survival game.

“Still no one.” Chen Huihong looked around. “I’ve changed locations three or four times and haven’t seen a single person. Did I go the wrong way?”

“That can’t be right… I’m heading south.”

She looked up at the sky. “Southeast… this is… east is… which way should I go again?”

After muttering to herself, she shook her head, fidgeting restlessly, her fingers constantly moving as if she couldn’t stay still for even a second.

“This way!” she finally declared, pointing south. “I’ll walk for ten days and see if I can find anyone.”

Qin Huai: ?

A marathon across barren land?

This dream was way too hardcore.

And then Chen Huihong actually started walking.

Without stopping.

From day to night. No food, no water. Only after the moon rose did she lie down on a slightly flat patch of ground, sleep for a few hours, then wake up, take out a thin strip of bark from her clothes, chew it hard, swallow it, and continue walking.

Her stamina and endurance were practically superhuman.

She walked like this for six days.

If she were fleeing famine, then direction-wise, she seemed to be going the right way.

The land was still cracked, the sun still scorching, and the air still filled with dust and heat—but Qin Huai could sense a faint trace of life hidden beneath it all. From dried riverbeds, abandoned farmland, collapsed mud houses, and deserted wells, he could tell—

People had once lived here.

But the drought and famine had forced them to leave their homes. Chen Huihong was like a player dropped into a survival game, casually looting every village she passed through.

Of course, there was little worth finding.

No clothes, no food. Some wells still had water, but it was murky and filthy—after drawing water once, she poured it back.

For ordinary farmers, every bowl, spoon, chopstick, and piece of wood was valuable property. What she could find were only useless scraps: rotten wood not even good enough for firewood, dry grass barely enough for warmth, broken stones, and burnt debris of unknown origin.

Still, it wasn’t entirely without gain.

From a brick house that clearly belonged to a landlord, Chen Huihong pried out a few copper coins from a crack in the wall. She also found two broken wooden toys—a humanoid figure missing limbs, and half of a wooden horse, with traces of red paint still visible, hinting that it had once been exquisite.

She carefully tucked these “treasures” into her clothes, keeping them close—just like a game player stuffing everything into their inventory.

And so, she kept walking and scavenging.

Thirteen days passed.

Qin Huai followed her for thirteen days as well.

If asked how he felt, he didn’t have much to say. This was her dream—he didn’t feel hunger, thirst, fatigue, or sleepiness. Aside from the slow pace and overly realistic setting, it felt like watching a movie.

Still, he had noticed something.

It seemed like Chen Huihong was learning.

She searched for traces of people, but she wasn’t obsessed with finding them. From her path, it was clear—if she truly wanted to find others, she would have followed main roads or at least well-trodden paths. But she deliberately chose routes leading into desolate wilderness—paths so obscure that even maps wouldn’t mark them.

Fortunately, the drought had wiped out all vegetation. Otherwise, she would’ve wandered deep into the mountains.

She wasn’t fixated on people—but she was deeply interested in how people lived.

Whenever she found a village, she inspected every house carefully—the stove, the bed, the woodshed, the yard. Even collapsed mud walls that barely retained their shape were examined closely.

It felt like… a human observing animals.

Unfamiliar. Ununderstood. Yet strangely curious.

It was unsettling.

Another night fell.

Clouds covered the moon, and “pitch black” became a literal description. Chen Huihong lay on the ground, asleep. The small wooden horse at her waist slipped off and made a faint sound. She didn’t notice, merely turned over and kept sleeping.

Soon, another sound came from the distance.

Footsteps.

Light, yet uneven.

Qin Huai stood up and looked toward the source. Through the faint moonlight, he could barely make out a small figure, stumbling forward. Like a newborn fawn learning to walk, it staggered toward Chen Huihong.

As it got closer, Qin Huai realized—

It wasn’t an animal.

It was a child.

A frail, tiny child who couldn’t even stand properly, crawling and running forward on hands and feet.

Chen Huihong woke up.

She sat up, immediately picked up the fallen wooden horse, tilted her head, and stared at the child. The child also saw her and froze in fear. They remained like that until Chen Huihong spoke:

“Who?”

Her voice was female.

The child finally dared to move, trembling as she stood up and tried to see who was in front of her. But in the darkness, she could only make out a bulky silhouette.

(It looked bulky because Chen Huihong had stuffed her clothes with dry grass—true to a scavenger, she didn’t waste anything.)

“My name is Huiniang,” the child said in a hoarse, trembling voice.

Chen Huihong looked at her. “Come here.”

Huiniang didn’t dare move.

“Why are you here?” Chen Huihong asked again.

“I… I…” Huiniang glanced around as if searching for others. Seeing no one else, she gathered courage. “I got separated from my parents.”

After a pause, she asked, “Sister… did you get separated too?”

Chen Huihong didn’t answer immediately. They sat in silence, staring at each other in the dark like two statues under the moon.

Finally, Chen Huihong said, “Yes. I got separated too.”

Huiniang’s face lit up instantly, as if she had found someone like herself. She cautiously approached and sat down in front of Chen Huihong.

“Are you from Yu County?” she asked eagerly.

“No,” Chen Huihong shook her head, then added, “I’m… from nearby.”

Huiniang nodded easily, completely convinced. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you going?” Chen Huihong asked in return.

Huiniang fell silent.

Under the moonlight, Qin Huai felt her face looked oddly familiar.

“I don’t know,” Huiniang said, her voice even hoarser. “I got separated from my parents.”

“Why?” Chen Huihong quickly took control of the conversation.

“I was too hungry… couldn’t walk… and fell asleep,” Huiniang’s voice trembled. “When I woke up, they were gone.”

“I’m so hungry… and thirsty. I wanted to find them, but it was too dark. I think I went the wrong way… then I met you.”

Chen Huihong looked at the frail figure in front of her. After a moment, she took out a small strip of bark, hesitated, tore off a piece, and handed it over.

“That’s all I have.”

“There’s an abandoned well nearby. It might still have water. Go fetch some after sunrise… I’ll think of something.”

Then she lay down again. “Sleep. Don’t bother me.”

Huiniang froze for a moment. She looked at the bark, hesitated, then stuffed it into her mouth, chewing with difficulty before swallowing. Only then did she cautiously lie down beside Chen Huihong, watching her nervously.

When she heard Chen Huihong’s steady breathing, she finally relaxed and closed her eyes.

Soon, she fell asleep.

Dawn was breaking.

Chen Huihong, who should have been asleep, opened her eyes. In the faint morning light, she carefully examined Huiniang’s face. Then she turned over, picked up the wooden horse that had fallen again, and continued sleeping.

Behind her stood Qin Huai, eyes wide in shock.

Even weak daylight was clearer than moonlight—enough for him to see Huiniang’s face.

It was a typical face of a poor child—thin, dark, severely malnourished, with underdeveloped features. Not ugly, but far from pretty.

But Qin Huai knew this face all too well.

This was Chen Huihui.

Just that morning, she had been a cheerful, well-dressed little girl—clean, cute, obedient, lively, and full of sunshine. A child who even dreamed of her mother.

And now, in her mother’s dream—

She had become a refugee.

Looking at the sleeping mother and daughter, Qin Huai couldn’t help but sigh:

“This really is…”

“…a dream full of motherly love and filial devotion.”