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If judged purely in terms of gains and losses, their journey with the Tibetans had netted them a vehicle and replenished supplies.
The car wasn’t anything special—far inferior to the military jeep Old Liu had driven before—but it was at least a means of transportation.
In the car, they rarely discussed what had transpired. For each of the three, recalling their time with the Tibetan convoy brought only pain. Li Xingyuan often thought of Tsering Chokyi, the brave Tibetan girl who refused to lift her head even in death, unwilling to see the true form of the "Buddha" she worshipped. Or perhaps she already knew the truth but chose to kneel anyway?
Li Xingyuan didn’t have the answers. He wondered what Tsering Chokyi might dream of now, as the alien mantis carried her across the stars. What would her Shambhala look like? He still didn’t know. Perhaps it would resemble a more beautiful version of Nanjing than reality could offer?
Which was better—false dreams or harsh realities? Maybe Tsering Chokyi would find the answer to that question when she reached the distant stars, years from now.
But this time, Old Liu and Lin Song began discussing the Tibetan convoy—not Tsering Chokyi, but Pasang Dorje and Tenzin Dawa.
"Pasang Dorje was truly an impressive figure," Lin Song said, regret evident in his voice. "Regardless of anything else, he died like a hero. When things went south, all the Tibetans rallied around him, ignoring Tenzin Dawa entirely. If he had led them, maybe more people would’ve survived."
"Pasang Dorje was a good general," Old Liu countered, "but not a good leader. His approach worked in life-or-death situations, but if he had been in charge during peacetime, he wouldn’t have fared better than Tenzin Dawa."
Lin Song bristled. "Old Liu, what makes you say that?"
"Just look at the decisions Pasang Dorje made," Old Liu replied, eyes fixed on the road. "It was right to prioritize evacuating the elderly and children, but burning fuel and fighting to the death was reckless. A smaller group should have stayed behind while the rest escaped by car, using mobility to distract the Zan gods. That would’ve had a higher chance of success."
"That’s your reasoning?"
"That’s my reasoning." Old Liu didn’t glance at Lin Song’s disgruntled expression. "Being a leader isn’t about fleeting bravery; it’s about making well-thought-out decisions. Pasang Dorje couldn’t do that. He’s the kind of hero who shines in stories—making heroic choices and dying a hero’s death. But a leader’s responsibility isn’t to teach people how to die; it’s to help them survive. People want to live, and they’ll follow those who give them a chance to do so."
It was rare for Old Liu to speak so much. Li Xingyuan smiled, listening to their debate, trying to ease the tension between them. "Enough arguing. Let’s listen to some music."
This car might have hundreds of flaws compared to a military vehicle, but it had one standout feature: its previous owner was an audiophile who had loaded it with music. There were some Tibetan songs, but most were in Chinese. Though none of the latest hits were included, Li Xingyuan wasn’t someone who chased trends. He preferred older songs, especially those from a decade ago.
Listening to music while riding in the car almost made Li Xingyuan forget they were traveling on the road to apocalypse—it felt more like a casual road trip among friends.
Reaching out, Li Xingyuan prepared to play a song. Over the past two days, he’d become familiar with the music player’s controls. The car lacked modern infotainment systems, relying instead on an old-fashioned integrated music player and radio setup. Of course, there were no radio broadcasts anymore.
Just as he was about to access the local music library, the car hit a small bump, causing his finger to accidentally brush against the radio button.
"Sorry," Old Liu apologized. "There was a small rock—I forgot this isn’t my old jeep."
Li Xingyuan didn’t hold it against him. Smiling, he paid it no mind. The radio emitted only static white noise. He moved his finger to switch back to the music library—
"Is anyone there?" A sobbing voice suddenly crackled through the radio. "Can anyone hear me?"
Li Xingyuan froze, his face pale as if he’d seen a ghost. Old Liu and Lin Song mirrored his reaction.
It wasn’t a hallucination.
Li Xingyuan muttered under his breath.
The voice continued to sob, distorted by strange radio interference. It was impossible to tell whether it belonged to a man, woman, young, or old—it simply evoked an inexplicable sense of dread.
"Is anyone there?" the voice repeated, this time louder, more desperate. The speaker seemed on the verge of collapse, repeatedly crying out in despair: "Can anyone hear me?"
The three men held their breaths, afraid to make a sound. Li Xingyuan didn’t understand why he felt this way—was he afraid the entity on the other end might detect his presence?
"Please," the radio crackled again, the voice trembling with urgency and fear. The person’s panicked breathing was audible. Li Xingyuan could almost picture them huddled in a corner, clutching the radio and sending out a desperate plea: "Please… this is Forest Station Four. There’s something in the woods… everyone… everyone has been…"
The voice trailed off. The radio emitted a faint rustling sound—as if something thin and viscous, like a snake or something even stranger, was slithering across the ground.
Then came a scream—a prolonged, blood-curdling wail accompanied by the sound of flesh tearing apart and liquid boiling. The scream warped unnaturally, punctuated by soft cracking noises, followed by slow, heavy thuds.
Throughout, the horrifying scream persisted, like a grotesque background track.
Finally, all sounds ceased.
An oppressive silence lingered. For some reason, none of the three dared to move until the voice on the other end broke the quiet once more.
"Forest Station Four reports no anomalies," the previously distraught voice now spoke with eerie calmness. "OVER."
With a soft click, the radio drowned in a sea of static.
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