Chapter 83 Part 1: Beef Jerky

Most of the shops on the street had collapsed.

Long cracks ran through the cement walls, the signs worn down to faint traces by wind and sand.

Shattered glass crunched underfoot.

The group didn’t move fast.

Little Frost pushed the bicycle, while White Night curled up in the basket, half her head poking out as she looked around.

Mu Yingying brought up the rear, a Tang Dao hanging at her hip. She occasionally lifted a hand to push aside dangling wires.

At an intersection, Mu Yingying stopped.

“Hey! Come take a look at this!”

She stared across the street.

Among the row of haphazardly collapsed storefronts, one was completely intact.

The shop was spotless, its roof and windows unharmed. Even the plastic sign above the door was still lit.

The sign was handwritten.

White characters on a red background, the script crooked but forceful.

Little Cow Beef Jerky.

Beside the characters, a small cow was drawn.

Simple stick-figure style: a round body, four short legs.

Two black dots for eyes, ears like leaves.

The strokes were earnest, the paint bright yellow. It was clear the artist liked that cow.

Mu Yingying narrowed her eyes.

“This place is off… The whole street is wrecked, so how is there a shop perfectly fine?”

Before she finished, her stomach growled.

Little Frost glanced at her sideways.

“Don’t tell me you’re losing your mind over food. Look at this hellhole—do you just run up to anything?”

“I’ve only had two crumbly compressed biscuits since yesterday. You’d be dragging your feet too. Don’t act so high and mighty.”

As she spoke, Mu Yingying headed toward the shop.

Little Frost said nothing. She’d only eaten compressed biscuits too, and she wasn’t losing her mind.

Still, having seen White Peace’s strength, she didn’t object to Mu Yingying wandering around.

Up close, the glass counter gleamed.

Inside, cuts of dried meat were neatly stacked in square piles.

Deep brown, glistening with oil.

A small handwritten sign stood on the counter, in brush script.

Free samples today! Welcome!

Mu Yingying swallowed and reached for the glass lid.

A hand caught her wrist.

The grip wasn’t strong, but she stopped instantly.

White Peace stood beside her, having caught up without a sound.

“Don’t touch it. You can’t eat that,” White Peace said.

Mu Yingying froze and looked back.

“Huh? Why not? The jerky looks fine to me.”

White Peace didn’t answer. Her gaze settled on the back of the shop.

Someone was inside.

A middle-aged man in a white apron, back to the door, wiping an enamel basin.

Hearing the noise, he turned around. When he saw the people at the entrance, his eyes lit up.

He pushed open the glass door and rushed out.

“Oh! Customers at last! What a rare treat! Ladies, please, come in and have a look!”

He ran a little too fast, almost tripping over the threshold, but quickly steadied himself with a chuckle.

Beaming, he rubbed his hands together, wiping them repeatedly on his apron.

“You ladies passing through, are you? Come, try some! All homemade beef jerky, real good meat, absolutely authentic!”

He was short, in his early fifties, with sun-darkened skin and deep crow’s-feet.

His apron was white, but near the hem were several dark red stains that looked like unwashed sauce.

His smile was warm.

Too warm.

Little Frost stepped forward, shielding the bike basket.

Mu Yingying’s expression shifted, but she went along with his chatter.

“At a time like this, with the whole street in ruins and everyone long gone, why are you still here doing business? Who’s even buying your stuff?”

The man replied.

“Ah, in this world, someone’s got to keep the trade going!”

He said it as if it were only natural.

“Out here in the rubble, who isn’t short of a bite to eat? My meat is a good deal—just a few eerie crystal shards and it’s yours! And today, free samples! Taste first, buy later. If you’re not satisfied, I won’t charge a cent!”

As he spoke, he lifted the glass lid, picked up a slice of jerky with bamboo chopsticks, and held it out.

The slice was thin, with clean edges, a dark red tinged with brown.

“Here, miss, try a piece. You’ll know right away if it’s good.”

Mu Yingying raised her hand.

White Peace’s finger moved slightly against her wrist.

Mu Yingying immediately withdrew her hand.

“…No, thank you. We don’t need to try.”

The man’s smile didn’t waver, but the chopsticks paused in midair.

For an instant, his gaze swept over White Peace, then the basket behind Little Frost, and finally the Tang Dao at Mu Yingying’s waist.

Quick.

But White Night, curled in the basket, saw it clearly.

The man’s eyes held a calculation—like a businessman weighing whether the deal was still worth it.

Then his smile returned. He placed the jerky back and kept his enthusiasm.

“No need to try, no need! No problem at all, I never force anyone! Then, ladies, how about coming inside for a bit? There’s a lot of dust outside, but it’s warm in here. I have hot water—I’ll pour you a cup to warm up?”

He stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.

White Peace didn’t move.

She just looked at him.

Her gaze was like sizing up a log, figuring out where to split it.

The man’s smile began to stiffen.

After about three seconds, he noticed it himself. He rubbed his neck and let out a dry laugh.

“Ladies… what, what’s the matter? Something not to your liking?”

White Peace didn’t answer.

She stepped over the threshold, barefoot on the shop’s tiles, making no sound.

Little Frost and Mu Yingying exchanged a glance and followed her inside.

The shop was even cleaner than it appeared from outside.

The floor was mopped, the walls white, the glass counter mirror-bright.

Behind the counter stood an old refrigerator, humming low.

Against the wall was a row of stainless steel shelves stacked with vacuum-packed jerky, each bag labeled.

But there was a smell.

Not the aroma of jerky, nor the scent of disinfectant.

It was a faint, greasy undertone—an oily, masked stench.

Mu Yingying wrinkled her nose.

Little Frost’s hand had already gripped the hammer’s handle.

At the very back of the shop stood a tall shelf, nearly reaching the ceiling.

On it were cardboard boxes, plastic crates, and bottles and jars of unclear purpose.

Behind the shelf was a wall.

But this wall’s color was different from the other three.

The others were old, yellowed white paint, while this one was a clean, fresh white—almost glaring.

It looked newly painted.

White Peace walked straight toward that shelf.

The man followed, his smile now strained.

“Miss! Please don’t! That’s just a storage room for supplies, a real mess, nothing worth seeing! Don’t go back there!”

White Peace didn’t turn around.

She reached the shelf, extended her hand, and placed all five fingers on its edge.

The man shouted, “Miss! What are you doing? Stop!”

White Peace pushed.

The force wasn’t strong, but the shelf toppled.

With a crash, the entire rack fell inward, slamming into the newly painted wall.

That wall was just a shell.

Thin boards, barely holding up.

The moment the shelf hit, the boards split, and the whole thing—wall and shelf—collapsed inward.

Behind it was a storeroom.

Deep, at least ten meters.

A warm yellow light hung from the ceiling, dim but enough to illuminate what was inside.

It was filled with hanging bodies.

Human-shaped bodies.

From the beams above, rows of rusty iron hooks dangled.

Each hook held a corpse, lined up in at least seven or eight rows.

Every one was skinned, drained of blood, and smoke-cured.

The skin was dark brown, stretched tight against the bones.

Some still showed their former outlines: a short man, a round-faced woman, and a young boy.

The ones at the farthest row were still dripping.

Fresh, dark red flesh at the tips of the hooks.

Water droplets fell from the tips of toes, hitting the plastic sheeting below.

Drip. Drip.

On the floor of the storeroom was a white-tiled workbench, with knives, a whetstone, and a smoker.

Beside it, a neat stack of vacuum bags.

Mu Yingying felt her stomach churn.

Little Frost was faster—she had already drawn the Tang Dao and raised the iron hammer.

White Night, in the basket, looked at the storeroom full of corpses. She didn’t move or speak.

She had seen worse.

But the horror of this storeroom wasn’t the blood—it was the orderliness.

The bodies were hung in neat rows, with gaps for easy access and drying.

Under each one, plastic sheeting caught the drips.

Like products from a processing plant.

The man’s smile vanished completely.

He stepped back twice, bumping into the glass counter.

His body began to tremble.

The trembling of someone caught red-handed, at a loss.

He opened his mouth.

“…Miss, ladies, please don’t get worked up. Let me explain, let me talk!”

His voice had changed.

“I really didn’t kill any living people! I swear, I’ve never harmed anyone alive!”

Little Frost snorted.

“Oh? Didn’t kill anyone? Then tell us—what exactly are these hanging here?”

The man shouted.

“They were already dead! All of them were already dead! I didn’t kill them!”

He explained, gesturing toward the storeroom.

“Ladies, open your eyes! This street, this whole ruined city—everywhere, there are corpses no one cares for! Right when the doomsday first hit, the dead piled up layer upon layer, with no one to collect them! I pick them up! All of them! I bring them back, handle them properly—at least they don’t rot in the street, gnawed by rats and strays. I give them a proper end, don’t I?”

He spoke faster and faster.

“I bring them back, skin them, drain the blood, dry them, smoke them for preservation, turn them into jerky, and sell it to the living passing by. The living get energy to survive, and these dead… they didn’t die in vain. They leave something behind for those after. Isn’t that a win-win? A win-win for everyone?”

Mu Yingying laughed at that clumsy speech.

“Win-win?”

She repeated the words.

“You’re calling this monstrous thing a win-win?”

The man defended.

“I really never harmed a single living person! I swear! I’ve never actively hurt anyone!”

White Peace hadn’t spoken.

She just stared at the bodies at the far end of the storeroom, still dripping.

“The three against the back wall—the bodies are still dripping water.”

The man’s words cut off.

White Peace continued.