Chapter 170: When the Southern Dipper Stirs, the Northern Dipper Appears

The sky, gray-yellow like a rusted iron plate, pressed heavily upon the lifeless earth, as if intent on crushing all vitality.

The air reeked of metallic corrosion and burning oil, tightening throats and making breaths difficult.

In the distance, several unfamiliar, colossal chimneys rose along the horizon, spewing thick black smoke—clearly among the chief culprits of this environmental decay.

The guardrails along the highway had been violently torn apart by some heavy machinery; the ground was littered with shattered concrete and twisted rebar.

Abandoned vehicles lay scattered haphazardly around, their bodies riddled with bullet holes and scars, bearing witness to more than one brutal battle.

Occasional pedestrians passed by, each hurrying, eyes wary. They carried gleaming weapons and armor, wore coarse linen hoods, fully armed, as if silently declaring they were no easy targets.

Everyone avoided eye contact, flinching from glances; even fleeting eye meetings were swiftly averted, as if afraid their inner unease would be exposed.

Yet when their gazes swept past the one-armed man standing statue-still by the roadside, they nearly sighed inwardly, lamenting the chaos of the age and the hardship of survival.

But when they saw his face, they immediately retracted their pointless pity, swallowed hard, and quickly looked away, pretending they had seen nothing.

And the man subjected to their pitying glances now stood dumbfounded, eyes vacant—as if he had witnessed something unbelievable: the fried chicken shop he used to frequent before his transmigration had closed down!

"DeLicious," the place he always visited upon returning, his personal "blessed bonfire," was now shuttered. Had it not been for the dusty but still vividly colored sign hanging precariously above, he would not have recognized the place. Fortunately, there was no blood inside—the little golden-haired clerk must still be unharmed.

Yet Jia Ji could not suppress a question rising in his mind—

"How long have I been gone?"

According to his own memory, he had left no more than half a year ago, yet the drastic changes in the surroundings suggested that the BeiDou world had clearly passed far more than half a year.

The entire world's atmosphere had shifted profoundly, suffocatingly oppressive—even more so than the world encased by the giant stone stele in "Black Bullet."

The air felt like a taut string, ready to snap at any moment, unleashing unpredictable consequences; everywhere smelled of gunpowder, as if a bloody clash could erupt in the next second.

Just as Jia Ji took several deep breaths, forced himself to calm down, and tried to match familiar landmarks from memory with the shattered reality to locate his home and head back—

The northern star cluster above suddenly blazed with brilliant light.

He shuddered, his expression transforming.

Jia Ji held his breath, gazing upward at the Purple Emperor Star and the Seven Stars of BeiDou hanging in the sky, studying the ancient celestial pattern.

The Seven Stars—the Seven Stars arranged in the shape of a ladle, BeiDou!

Dazzling, blinding, striking, radiant—they blazed forth unnaturally against the dull sky, as if alive, welcoming someone's return.

His tear ducts unconsciously secreted moisture, moistening his dry eyes.

Those were the Seven Stars of BeiDou, seven bright stars forming a ladle, handle pointing east, heralding spring across the land… yet the temperature Jia Ji felt on his skin was anything but spring—it was far hotter than even the peak of summer he had ever endured.

"That's…"

Jia Ji's expression turned horrified as he tore his gaze from BeiDou and turned to other directions—the positions of the southern stars differed utterly from his memory.

The Six Stars of NanDou and its auxiliary stars had been crushed by some unknown force, their constellations shattered beyond recognition.

BeiDou still clung faintly to its outline in the north, but the NanDou stars had completely lost control; stars streaked across the heavens in dark red trails, like gashes torn in the celestial veil.

Celestial phenomena, stellar patterns, weather—all had begun to unravel. The gray-yellow hue induced a deep, visceral discomfort, as if something was churning and gestating beneath.

So terrifying, so uneasy desu.

Damn, this is bad, really bad!!

I just stepped out for a moment—how did my home turn into this?!

"Yahoo—"

From afar came excited shouts and the roar of engines as over a dozen modified motorcycles surged from behind.

Jia Ji snapped back to awareness, turned his head—and saw a gang of punk musclemen with mohawks.

They rode powerful, heavily modified motorcycles, engines roaring, rear wheels kicking up thick clouds of dust; clearly, these had replaced cars as the era's dominant transport.

All riders sported exaggerated mohawks, faces painted with grease, bare torsos covered in grotesque tattoos; they howled, waving chains, steel pipes, clubs, knives, and swords, circling Jia Ji with hostile intent.

Merely by their cruel eyes and muscular builds, one knew they were rare specimens even among bandits.

"Moxi clones…"

Jia Ji was slightly surprised, yet not entirely shocked—it was perfectly normal in this world to have some brain-dead, muscle-filled idiots, their numbers seemingly auto-refreshing.

This was one of BeiDou's defining traits.

But these clueless end-of-the-century trash had arrived just in time. Jia Ji glanced at their modified bikes and bared his white teeth: "Welcome to this crazy time."

…………

Riding the newly seized motorcycle at breakneck speed, Jia Ji raced home; the closer he got to the dojo, the calmer his heart became. He had just learned from those guys that it was now early 1994—three years had passed since his departure.

No nuclear warheads had fallen, no Third World War, no 1999 conflict had even begun—but government control had weakened steadily, while local biker gangs and violent gangs increased year by year, with constant small-scale clashes, giving off the vibe of an impending "War of Natural Enemies" in lawless chaos.

But things had not yet sunk to that level.

One-handed, Jia Ji pushed the modified violent bike to its limit, exhaled in relief—his home territory remained stable, proving the chaos had not yet reached BeiDou.

When he slipped silently back to the "BeiDou Qi Refining Dojo," he discovered a sparring match underway: one fighter was a stoic, muscular teenager, the other a blond, handsome young man.

"That's Ken Shi Lang and… Xin Xian Di?!"

(End of Chapter)