Chapter 150: Iron Anvil and Blossoms

After bypassing the third "void", the terrain changed.

The ruins gave way to large tracts of cultivated fields, the bunds enclosed with steel plates from scrapped vehicles, welded with sharp iron spikes. In the distance, a smokestack puffed gray‑white vapor—not the black smoke of fire, but the steam of smelting metal. On the watchtower, someone signaled them with a mirror: three short, one long, meaning "Identify yourselves, or we'll shoot."

Han Qing jumped out of the vehicle, unarmed, holding only a flag—made from Chen Mo's old work clothes, embroidered with the "Pure Land" plant‑network symbol. He signaled using the military sign language from seven years ago: both hands raised level, slowly crossing in front of the chest, then pointing south.

The watchtower fell silent for five seconds.

Next, the rusted iron door creaked open a crack. An old man with a full head of gray hair stepped out; his left leg was a mechanical prosthesis, emitting a regular hydraulic hiss as he walked, but his hand gripping the hunting rifle was steady as if welded to the bone.

"Han Qing?" the old man narrowed his eyes. "You're still alive."

"Old Zhou." Han Qing stepped forward; the two men didn't shake hands but tapped each other's shoulders with their fists—the pre‑disaster militia greeting—"We need to enter the town. Not to occupy, but to discuss cooperation."

Old Zhou's gaze swept over the convoy, lingered on Su Yu for a moment, then flicked to the scar on her chest—though her collar was fastened, the outline of the scar glowed faintly beneath the fabric. "Who is she?"

"Seeder." Su Yu answered herself, plucking a wildflower from the roadside as she got out of the vehicle. The moment her fingers touched it, the petal edges flickered with a faint golden tracery.

Old Zhou's rifle barrel dipped three degrees—not a relaxation of vigilance, but confusion.

Iron Anvil Town was as hard‑lined as its name.

The streets were paved with broken concrete chunks, houses rebuilt from car shells and shipping containers, even the children's swings made of tires and chains. But Su Yu noticed the details: every windowsill hosted cans sprouting scallions or chilies, mended clothes on the laundry line were spotless, and in the corners, crooked suns were drawn in colored chalk.

A group of kids hid at the alley entrance, peeking at the convoy. The oldest was no more than ten, the youngest still clutching a rag doll. They were playing a game: one child pretended to be a "spore monster," baring teeth and clawing, while the others linked hands in a circle, shouting "Unity! Unity! Monsters can't get in!"

Su Yu watched, then suddenly recalled Chen Mo's words: "Disaster can't break people—unless they themselves forget how to laugh."

She crouched, pulling a few candies from her pocket—the ones Xiao Yu had slipped her before departure, the child saying, "Uncle Chen Mo woke up and needs sugar." She offered the candies to the kids: "What are you playing?"

"'Seeder's Game!'" the eldest blurted, but didn't take the candy, merely eyeing her warily: "My mom said not to take food from strangers."

"What if I say I'm the Seeder?"

The kids froze. Then they began whispering among themselves: "Really?" "Does she glow?" "Is something shining on her chest?"

The youngest suddenly ran up, thrusting his rag doll at Su Yu: "My 'Little Flower' is sick—can you heal it?"

Su Yu took the doll missing an eye. She lightly touched its chest with a fingertip; through her consciousness the plant‑network sent out a filament finer than a true root—a thread of starlight. The thread slipped into the doll's torn cloth, and after a few seconds a white flower the size of a grain of rice emerged from the seam.

The kids gasped and crowded around.

Old Zhou's reception room was actually an old garage, walls hung with a dozen assorted wrenches, the table spread with a hand‑drawn map—the very route from Pure Land to the southern wasteland, with seventeen spots circled in red.

"What you call the 'void,' we call the 'Lost Soul Zone.'" Old Zhou poured three cups of murky tea. "They started appearing three months ago. Three miners from Iron Anvil Town went in; when they came out… they'd forgotten who they were, even how to breathe, and their organs failed after three days."

Han Qing's face grew grave: "Why wasn't this reported to other communities?"

"Who'd we tell?" Old Zhou gave a wry smile. "The mining camp said we were making up stories, the reservoir shelter was busy repairing its dam. Seven years into the apocalypse, Han Qing, everyone's just struggling to survive—no one has spare energy to monitor others' anomalies."

He turned to Su Yu: "You say you're the Seeder. Then can you explain what these 'voids' are?"

"Something is feeding on emotional memories." Su Yu spoke bluntly. "Seven years ago Chen Mo scattered fragments of his consciousness into the environment; these carriers hold emotional energy. Now something is systematically harvesting them—like reaping a crop."

Old Zhou tapped his fingers on the table, the hydraulic line of his prosthetic leg giving a faint hiss: "So you're heading south to rescue Chen Mo. Because if he's whole, he could stop this harvesting?"

"It could also extend the plant‑network here." Su Yu pointed to Iron Anvil Town on the map. "Your soil is heavy‑metal contaminated, crop yields dropping five percent a year. The plant‑network can purify the soil and provide a steady food source."

Suddenly a commotion came from outside.

A middle‑aged woman rushed in, clutching a teenage boy in her arms. The boy's eyes were vacant, his hands clenched tight around his collar, muttering over and over: "Iron… what color is iron? What color is iron?"

"My son came back from the mine like this!" the woman cried, tears streaming. "Old Zhou, you said you'd have a solution!"

Su Yu rose and walked over. She didn't touch the boy, merely squatted to meet his gaze, then hummed a tune softly—not a real song, but the melody Chen Mo used to hum while fixing machines, wordless, just a few simple notes repeated.

The boy's muttering stopped.

He slowly turned his head to Su Yu, the vacancy in his eyes cracking open a slit: "That tune… I think I've heard it before…"

"Because your dad might have heard it too." Su Yu said, sensing via the plant‑network a faint emotional residue on the boy—the last lullaby fragment his father hummed to him before dying in the disaster.

She placed her hand on the boy's forehead; her chest scar glowed with a soft light. This time it wasn't healing, but "resonance"—taking a thread of the Chen Mo memory fragments she'd reclaimed from the void and feeding it into his consciousness.

The boy's eyes suddenly cleared.

"Iron is gray," he whispered, "but when heated it turns orange‑red, like… like sunset."

The woman clung to her son, wailing.

Old Zhou watched all this in silence for a long while. He walked to the wall, took down an inconspicuous iron box from the corner, opened it, and inside was a photograph—himself young, with his wife and daughter, backdrop the amusement park before the disaster. The photo had yellowed, but the three of them were smiling brightly.

"My daughter was sixteen when she died." Old Zhou's voice was even, but his hand trembled as he held the photo. "During the early spore contamination, the medics said there was nothing to be done. Her last question to me was, 'Dad, can Iron Anvil Town really forge a new world?'"

He returned the photo to the box and turned to face Su Yu.

"I told her yes. But seven years on, we've just been patching things, making weapons, building more fences." He drew a deep breath. "So tell me the truth: if Iron Anvil Town joins your network, could that 'new world' my daughter asked about actually come to pass?"

Su Yu didn't answer right away.

She walked to the window, looking out at the scallions in the cans, at the kids cheering around the rag doll, at the mended clothes fluttering on the line in the wind.

"I don't know whether a new world will come." She turned, her gaze candid to the point of harshness, "But Chen Mo taught me: what matters isn't the endpoint, but whether each step along the way makes today a little better than yesterday."

She gestured toward the window: "Your windowsills have greenery, the kids are still playing their game, you keep your daughter's photo—these are the 'a little better.' The plant‑network can turn 'a little better' into 'much better.' That's all I can promise."

A long silence.

Then Old Zhou went to the table, drew a bold green circle around Iron Anvil Town on the map, took a stamp from the drawer—one he'd turned himself on a lathe, engraved with an anvil—and pressed it down hard beside the circle.

"Iron Anvil Town voluntarily joins the Symbiotic Alliance." He said, "But we have conditions: first, the network must first purify the mining‑area soil; second, help us cure everyone in the Lost Soul Zone; third…"

He glanced at Su Yu's chest scar.

"When you find Chen Mo, bring him here. I want him to see whether the iron we've forged these seven years is strong enough."

Han Qing reached out. The two men clasped hands, this time gripping tight.

Stepping out of the garage, Su Yu felt her chest scar suddenly warm—not her own heat, but fresh data arriving from the plant‑network far away in Pure Land. She closed her eyes to sense it, then smiled.

"What's up?" Han Qing asked.

"The plant‑network just expanded on its own." Su Yu opened her eyes, light in them, "The moment Iron Anvil Town agreed to join, three dead trees at the town's edge sprouted— their roots linked to the network's main trunk. Coverage jumped from eight percent to eight point seven percent."

Old Lao Zhao whistled from the side: "That's a good omen!"

"It's also a warning." Ji He's voice came over the communicator, calm but grave: "I've detected a new void signal five kilometers southeast of Iron Anvil Town—and it's larger than any before. It seems… to be moving toward the town."

Everyone's faces changed.

Su Yu looked toward the south; the sky grew darker. But she recalled the words on Chen Mo's note, whispering them again: "Countdown: three days... It seems those 'hungry things' are even more anxious than we are."