Chapter 1: Resurrection [New Book, Please Add to Your Collection]

Bang! Bang! Bang!

In a secluded mountain valley, hidden amidst dense undergrowth and towering trees, the muffled sound of pounding echoed for over half an hour. Then, the grating wail of metal scraping against metal set one's teeth on edge. A wisp of white mist drifted upward from the forest, gliding over leaves that shimmered with a faint blue glow.

After another hour or so, voices emerged from the gloom.

"Renzhong, if you ever awaken, if you ever hear these words, do not worry. Your father and I lived a good life—a happy life. We even had a younger brother for you. He is thoughtful and gentle, and took care of us well. We enjoyed the fullness of family joy."

The speaker was an elderly man, his voice hoarse and steady, as if suppressing deep emotion.

"Yes, your father and I have no regrets in this life. Except for you... In any case, we hope you will not have any regrets either."

This time, the voice was that of an elderly woman, trembling with suppressed sobs.

The old man spoke again, "Remember this, Renzhong: in life, eight or nine things out of ten do not go as we wish. Since we cannot change them, we can only endure. Our greatest wish is for you to be happy—nothing more."

The old woman added, "Just remember, we have never once regretted what we've done. That is enough."

The old man: "Yes. We only want you to embrace a new life."

The old woman: "Since you're hearing this, it's a good sign. Let's not dwell on sorrow. We have little else to say except that we hope our good son will have a happy and fulfilling life. You must live well. Farewell."

The old man: "That's right, always look ahead. Son, farewell."

As the voices faded, a deathly silence fell. Then, from deep within the forest, the anguished, soul-rending cries of a young man erupted, so raw and wrenching that the birds in the trees burst skyward in a flurry of wings.

Long after, the sobbing subsided, and a young man in loose white clothes staggered from the forest depths. His face was pale, his steps unsteady, his gaze vacant and lost, his countenance steeped in sorrow that would not fade.

He had only slept, and yet had lost everything.

His name was Renzhong, a son of China, born in 2027, of ordinary family background, a PhD graduate of 2050.

Yes—a PhD at twenty-three.

His early life had been brief but brilliant. He entered primary school at six, graduated at eight, finished middle school at ten, and at twelve completed high school, having already previewed all undergraduate courses in environmental engineering. At thirteen, he joined a program for gifted youth, and by sixteen had earned dual bachelor’s degrees in environmental engineering and chemistry. At eighteen, he graduated with dual master’s degrees.

At twenty-three, after delaying his doctoral thesis by two years, he published it directly in the prestigious journal Science, setting a new record at his alma mater for the youngest author in that journal.

Had fate run its proper course, he should have entered society in 2050, started a family, raised children, cared for his parents, and lived a life both ordinary and remarkable.

But fate played a cruel joke.

Just days after graduation, he was diagnosed with terminal lymphoma.

Illness struck like a mountain collapsing. In just three months, he was but a shadow of himself, his life hanging by a thread.

With their only son on the verge of death, Renzhong’s parents, desperate and out of options, liquidated all their assets, scraping together ten million yuan to buy him a spot as a guinea pig in a human cryonics research project that had languished in clinical trials for nearly thirty years.

In the end, Renzhong, filled with unspoken regret, lay down in the cryonics pod and bid his parents farewell.

He knew, as he left, that whether he lived or died, he was destined to part from his parents forever.

These were Renzhong’s own memories.

Time slipped by, years passing in the blink of an eye. No one knew how much time had passed, or how far he had traveled. Nearly two hours ago, Renzhong awakened on his own inside the cryonics pod.

But there was no research team to greet him, no "after-sales service" as might have been expected.

His cryonics pod had been discarded in a desolate wilderness like so much rubbish. He had to force his own escape—smashing open the internal release and kicking aside the lid as the temperature slowly rose.

He didn’t leave immediately, for the LCD screen atop the pod played messages left for him.

Renzhong saw many things that had happened after he "slept."

His parents had hidden one crucial truth: the cryonics project was already nearly suspended, and ten million yuan bought only the chance to enter the pod as an experimental subject. Thereafter, annual maintenance would cost at minimum five hundred thousand yuan—a fee to be paid by the patient.

But his parents had been drained by the initial sum, and with retirement looming, where could they possibly find half a million yuan each year?

It was a hopeless situation.

Yet the two of them did not curse their fate or succumb to despair. In adversity, they found strength; in silence, they heard thunder. To buy their son one more year of life at a time, they mustered all their will, tapped hidden potential, and fought with all they had.

They both quit their mid-level jobs in public service, borrowed tens of thousands from relatives and friends, left their comfort zones, and threw themselves into business, working tirelessly day and night.

And so they fought on, for forty-five years.

In 2095, Renzhong’s parents passed away in their nineties, just seven days apart. In those decades, they amassed a fortune worth hundreds of millions, and in 2060, using IVF, gave Renzhong a younger brother.

Before their deaths, they set up a trust fund, prepaying three hundred years of maintenance for Renzhong’s pod.

Even if the cryonics project ultimately failed, the trust would hire basic technical staff to maintain the pod.

Renzhong also read that around 2107, humanity finally conquered terminal cancer.

But now a new problem arose: scientists could not find a way to safely revive those in cryonic suspension. There was no way to wake him for treatment, so his pod simply continued to run for three centuries.

For the next two hundred years, staff would update the records annually, logging the pod’s status and listing replacement parts.

But after three hundred years, the records ended, and it was unclear what had happened.

The last messages were his parents’ final words.

He listened. He wept.

...

In the forest, Renzhong staggered onward, not knowing where he was or where to go.

He was thirsty and a little hungry, his mind foggy. After some time, the sound of running water reached his ears. Hastening toward it, he found a small stream, scooped up water in his hands and drank greedily, then washed his face with the cold, clear water.

Refreshed, he lay back on the damp bank, gazing blankly upwards.

Above, layers of deep blue leaves interwove, blocking out the sky and casting the forest in perpetual dusk.

After a long while, he sat up, picked a flat stone from the ground, and skipped it across the stream.

At last, some emotion stirred on his face—life, relief, even a touch of fortitude and comfort, though uncertainty lingered.

He had many questions.

How many years had truly passed?

If humans had not cracked the code of safe revival within three centuries, how had he awakened alone in this wilderness, rather than in a laboratory?

His pod was overgrown with metallic moss that pricked the hand.

Nearby, other cryonics pods lay scattered, some smothered by vines, others half-buried, still others engulfed by monstrous trees—only fragments of metal protruding from their trunks.

Most of the pods were empty, but some held ghastly skeletons.

Judging by the state of the pod in the tree, these relics had been abandoned for centuries.

Aside from the pods, there was no trace of human activity.

Why had no one come for them?

Where were the rest of humanity?

Where did his path lie?

How could he return to society?

How was he to live this second life, given to him for nothing?

Sitting here and worrying would accomplish nothing.

Renzhong shook his head and forced a faint smile.

No matter—he was alive again.

And he knew now that his parents had lived well.

That alone was enough.

He had no regrets.

Wiping his damp cheeks—warm and cool at once—he thought: Life stolen by time can never be reclaimed. As his father had said, "Since we cannot change it, we can only endure."

He accepted it.

Regaining some strength, he rose.

As he stood, something fell with a soft thud at his side.

Glancing down, he saw a fruit, red as oil and seemingly ripe, smashed on the ground. It looked a bit like an apple, but its crystalline flesh was unfamiliar.

Looking up, he saw more of the red fruit dangling high above, swaying precariously from branches dozens of meters overhead.

He hesitated, unwilling to risk tasting unknown fruit, no matter his hunger.

He pressed on toward the edge of the forest, calling weakly as he walked, "Is anyone here? Is anyone out there?"

No answer—only his own echo.

After a few steps, a sudden spasm wracked his body, and he clutched his throat and collapsed in pain.

Soon, he was curled on the ground, hands pressed to his abdomen, face growing paler still.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and agony twisted his features.

Dread filled his heart.

Though he had only "slept," this pain was all too familiar.

At length, the pain faded. Renzhong sat up, gasping for breath, a survivor’s relief in his expression, but also a shadow of urgency and gloom.

He did not know how many days he had left—he must hurry, find people, and seek treatment.

The damnable cancer was still there!

Half an hour later, exhausted and famished, Renzhong emerged from the woods.

Before him stretched a vast plain, rolling like the back of a horse, covered in mottled grasses, ferns, and shrubs—strange plants of all shapes and sizes, each with leaves that glowed faintly with an eerie blue phosphorescence.

Though no botanist, Renzhong swore he had never seen the like.

Looking back, the forest was a shadowed world of gigantic trees, their crowns vanishing into the clouds.

These trees, too, were of unknown species.

But the most alien thing was the sky.

It was dusk. A sun, massive as a wagon wheel, sank toward the horizon. Opposite, a silver disc—a moon—was rising and had reached three o’clock in the sky. Below the moon, another, smaller orb had just cleared the horizon and was ascending rapidly.

A blue-glowing sun, two moons—one large and slow, one small and swift.

Renzhong was thunderstruck.

This was not Earth!

At that moment, a distant roaring split the air.

Renzhong stared into the distance. A shadow, the size of a car, skimmed the ground at incredible speed, flattening plants in its wake and leaving a scar as neat as a speedboat’s wake on a tranquil lake.

As the shadow drew closer, Renzhong could make out its form—about five meters long, shaped like a bullet, with a gleaming silver surface and elegant curves, two small wings sprouting from either side. It reminded him of the Dongfeng-17 missile from his memory, save for the lack of a fiery tail. What powered it was a mystery.

Clearly, this was a man-made aircraft.

He had not expected to be found so soon.

He thought: First, rejoin society; then find a cure; then, in time, learn about this world.

Surely, by now, cancer would be as easy to treat as a cold.

A new hope stirred in his heart.

He waved his arms wildly, trying to attract the craft’s attention.

Sure enough, the vehicle altered course and sped directly toward him.

Rapidly, the distance closed to a hundred meters. Renzhong let out a breath—he had been noticed. He had made contact.

In the next instant, a beam of orange light, thick as a bowl, shot from the craft’s nose.

It flashed and was gone.

Renzhong froze, looking down at his chest.

White smoke curled from a neat, round hole, the edges charred black.

What was happening?

Stunned, he looked up as the craft rushed near and stopped abruptly before him.

A fierce gust from its passage whipped his chest, and he could hear the wind whistling through the hole.

For a few frozen seconds, time seemed to stop. Then agony arrived, and with it, the inability to breathe. His body crumpled.

At last, he understood.

The craft had not come to rescue him.

It had not even bothered to greet him—only blasted a hole through his chest from a distance.

Why? What had he done?

His consciousness faded; darkness fell, shrouding his vision.

Yet in that twilight between life and death, his awareness seemed to detach, drifting backward, floating in the air as if he were a fixed perspective suspended above the ground.

A few meters ahead, his own corpse was half-kneeling, about to collapse, a perfect round hole bored through chest and back.

Suddenly, three metallic tendrils extended from beneath the craft.

Like elephant trunks, they coiled forward—two braced his corpse’s shoulders, keeping it upright; the third reached for his head.

What followed made Renzhong’s soul quail.

At the tip of the tendril, metal jaws opened—like the mouth of a lamprey, ringed with iron teeth.

The teeth spun rapidly, pressed against his skull, and in a moment, his crown was lifted away. Then, a ten-pronged metal claw reached inside, like a claw machine, and extracted his brain.

Renzhong’s disembodied awareness began to dissolve, his vision blurring.

Just before everything vanished, confusion filled his heart.

Could it be? After all it took to return from death, was this really the end?

So abrupt?

[New book—please add to your library!]