The middle-aged woman approached the entrance of Fulai Supermarket and looked at the old man. "Mr. Zhang, why is Qing Chen playing chess with you again?"
From her tone, it was clear that the two knew each other.
The old man's response was far less polite. "He's your son, why are you asking me? He's out of money, so he's playing chess to earn a little to feed himself."
The middle-aged woman, Zhang Wanfang, was stunned. "But I transfer his living expenses to his father every month."
This also made Mr. Zhang pause for a moment. "Then I don't know what's going on."
He thought about it. Zhang Wan Fang wasn't poor, and judging by her situation, the money she gave Qing Chen shouldn't have been a small amount. So why was the boy always short on cash?
Qing Chen didn't seem like a spoiled kid who wasted money. He was meticulous in his daily expenses and never even took a sip of soft drinks.
"But isn't he supposed to be in school until evening?" Zhang Wanfang asked.
The old man suddenly remembered what Qing Chen had said. "I think he mentioned he was waiting for someone."
"I need to go home and check on him," Zhang Wanfang said.
She was about to leave with the cake still in her hands when the man beside her interjected, "Wanfang, today is Hao Hao's birthday. I've already reserved seats for dinner, and after that, we're taking him to the movies!"
Zhang Wanfang looked back at the man. "Qing Chen might be skipping classes again. I need to see what's going on."
"He's already seventeen. He should be able to take care of himself. Besides, his father is still around," the man said, pausing before softening his tone, "How about you visit him this weekend? Today, let's focus on Hao Hao."
Zhang Wan Fang frowned upon hearing this. But after a few seconds, she let out a sigh. "Alright, today is for Hao Hao's birthday."
…
In the City Hall West residential area, Qing Chen walked silently along a tree-covered lonely pathway.
Unlike the towering skyscrapers of modern cities, this neighborhood was filled with four-story buildings hastily constructed in the 1970s—no elevators, no gas lines, and the sewers often clogged.
High-power appliances were forbidden in the homes because the electrical circuits would trip easily.
Qing Chen walked into the dimly lit stairwell, ignoring the lock-opening services and house-selling posters plastered on the walls. He took out his key and opened the door to his first-floor apartment.
The apartment was only 76 square meters, and the rooms were poorly lit due to being on the ground floor.
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
"Hey, Dad…"
Before he could say more, the voice on the other end cut him off. "Go ask your mom for living expenses. I have no money. She's the one with money now."
In the background, the sound of mahjong tiles clattering could be heard.
"I don't need money," Qing Chen said quietly. "I haven't asked you for money in a long time."
"Then what?" the man snapped impatiently. "Is this about another parent-teacher meeting? Go ask your mom. I'm too busy for—"
Before the man could finish, Qing Chen hung up.
He leaned gently against the closed door, then rolled up the sleeve of his school uniform.
He stared blankly at the white numbers etched into his forearm, resembling a digital screen:
Countdown 5:58:13
The numbers glowed faintly, embedded in his flesh like a fluorescent tattoo that couldn't be wiped away no matter how hard he rubbed.
Upon closer inspection, Qing Chen noticed intricate and dense patterns within the digits, resembling mechanical components interlocking with one another.
The numbers ticked down silently.
Countdown 5:58:12
Countdown 5:58:11
Only 5 hours, 58 minutes, and 11 seconds remained. The countdown seemed to remind Qing Chen that something extraordinary would happen when it reached zero.
Though there was no sound, Qing Chen could feel the seconds ticking away in his chest.
He glanced at the phone he had just hung up, then at the empty room.
He didn't know what awaited him in 5 hours and 58 minutes. He only knew one thing—he could rely on no one but himself.
…
Time was a heavy unit of measurement. It marked the length of a life, the span of civilizations.
The concept of time existed in everyone's life.
So when a countdown appeared in your life, no matter what it was counting down to, it brought a sense of urgency.
Only 5 hours remained. No one knew what it would lead to.
Could it be danger?
A new life?
Qing Chen wasn't sure, so he could only prepare for the worst.
He had to be ready before the countdown ended.
If danger was coming, he needed to be able to face it with whatever strength he had.
Qing Chen put on a clean gray hoodie and pulled the hood over his face, casting a shadow over his features.
Under the cover of night…
He left the apartment and headed toward the farmer's market. It was October, and the sky over Luocheng darkened early.
From the residential buildings, the sounds of stir-frying echoed—vegetables sizzling in hot oil, followed by the enticing aroma drifting through the air.
The scents of eggs, pork, and lamb flooded Qing Chen's mind like strands of data. If he needed this information later, he could retrieve it from the "archive" in his memory.
He bought a wrench and a shovel from a hardware store, then rice, flour, and salt from a grocery store.
He also picked up several boxes of antibiotics from the pharmacy and batteries, flashlights, and hardtack biscuits from a supermarket.
Not knowing what he might face, Qing Chen prepared for every possibility.
Buying all these supplies nearly drained his savings.
When he returned home, he went straight to the kitchen and gathered all the available knives, placing them in strategic locations around the house.
A kitchen knife went under his pillow, and a boning knife was placed on his nightstand.
The countdown now read 2:43:11
He checked all the doors and windows to ensure they were locked. Then, he sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought.
Should he seek help?
But who could help him?
His mother had a new family. His father was a gambler.
When Qing Chen first noticed the countdown on his arm hours ago, his instinct—like any 17-year-old—was to seek help from his parents.
But he quickly dismissed the idea.
He took out his phone and attempted to take a picture of the glowing white countdown on his arm. But to his shock, though the numbers were clearly visible to his eyes, they didn't appear on the phone screen at all.
Something this bizarre and incomprehensible—asking an ordinary person for help would be useless. Besides, he didn't have many close friends at school. Even if he did, he couldn't drag them into this.
In the dimly lit room, he didn't turn on any lights. The windows weren't soundproof, and living on the first floor, he often heard the footsteps of passersby.
The footsteps outside and his breathing inside the apartment—everything felt eerily quiet yet unsettling.
Wait.
Qing Chen suddenly thought of something. He got up and searched the living room.
Two minutes later, he stood silently, holding a small statue of Guanyin Bodhisattva, the Buddhist deity associated with compassion and mercy.
He placed the statue in front of him and bowed nine times.
The final preparation was complete.