Chapter3

The images on the monitors flickered intermittently due to the extreme low temperatures. The city's power grid completely collapsed yesterday, and outdoor temperatures had plummeted to a dangerous -55 degrees Celsius.

In my old apartment, Luke was mechanically stuffing a shard of mahogany coffee table into an iron bucket. The flickering flames illuminated his and Chloe's bloodless faces. They were too exhausted to even argue, wrapped in dirty curtains like two still-breathing corpses.

I looked away and popped a large piece of freshly cooked stewed beef into my mouth. The rich gravy, mixed with the spiciness of black pepper, exploded on my tongue. On the temperature control panel of the underground fortress, the green "20°C" seemed to exist in a parallel universe to the icy hell outside.

A slight vibration came from the phone in my palm; the progress bar for [Doomsday Farm] had reached its maximum.

I pressed the extract button, and several potatoes with strange dark patterns on their skin rolled onto the counter. A system notification sounded: "Mutant cold-resistant potatoes, first batch harvest complete. Consuming them can slightly rebuild the body's cold tolerance."

Taking a bite of the freshly baked mutated potato, the smooth texture and gentle warmth spread rapidly down the esophagus and throughout the body. The muscles that had been tense from recalling the biting cold of the previous life gradually relaxed.

The comfort brought by the high-calorie food was abruptly torn apart by a sharp buzzing sound.

The red warning light on the center console was flashing wildly, and the external vibration sensors were sending back abnormal signals.

I immediately pushed aside my plate and my fingers flew across the keyboard, zooming in on the surveillance footage near ventilation vent number three.

Amidst the swirling snowflakes, a heavy snowmobile, almost completely buried in the snow, lay overturned in a snowdrift. The hood was pried open, and the engine oil was frozen into black icicles. Beside the snowmobile, a figure lay prone.

He wasn't a aimless vagrant. The man was dressed in professional snow tactical camouflage, and a composite crossbow wrapped in frostproof cloth was slung over his back.

I squinted, my finger hovering over the alarm-clearing button. In this newly emerged apocalypse, any uninvited guest was a nuisance. I had no inclination to play the savior; the frigid outside would resolve this threat within ten minutes.

Just as I was about to press the button, the figure moved.

She struggled to turn over and ripped off her heavy, cold-weather glove from her right hand. Her exposed skin instantly turned bluish-purple from the cold, but she seemed oblivious to the pain, frantically scratching the snow with her stiff fingers.

One line, two lines, and an irregular intersecting circle takes shape.

My pupils contracted sharply. Memories of my previous life flashed through my mind like sharp blades—the distinctive mark of the "Raiders," a thug organization in the city.

After finishing the last stroke, the woman slammed her head heavily into the snow and remained motionless.

Below the symbol that represented slaughter and plunder, she used her last strength to draw an arrow.

The tip of the arrow was pointing directly at the gate of the underground farm where I was.