Chapter 364: Declaration

Amoeba worm instance world, day 7, afternoon 1:47.

Kanbura Safe Zone.

The woman working at the laundry shop wiped sweat from her forehead, exhausted; in the basket behind her, the baby slept soundly.

Her clothes were dirty and worn, while the clothes soaking in the basin were brand new.

Working twelve hours a day earns two bowls of porridge.

Helping the boss's family cook yields a bit of leftover food.

Her fingertips were pruned from soaking, and the bright red wound, soaked in fermented urea, felt like ant bites.

But she had grown accustomed to it.

The man had broken his leg a year ago; she, with her child, was relatively lucky—at least she found a job.

Maybe, maybe she could still survive.

Life seemed endless, numb work, numb existence.

If not for the child, she probably wouldn't want to live.

On the street, the vendor selling thin porridge called out listlessly.

The ingredients for the thin porridge came from leftovers of the food‑secure; the fresh bits went to the poor's canteen, while the spoiled bits he snatched for himself.

Of course, the price was handing over a portion of the grain sold each day to the gang.

The rotten vegetables in the pot bubbled, their mixed color like swill.

"Delicious thin porridge soup! One serving, half a grass cake!"

Barter is also possible.

The vendor holding a rust‑spotted ladle had a cloudy right eye; he looked wistfully at the vegetable mush in the pot.

In this weather, leaving it another two days would really make it inedible.

After the catastrophe, people's stomachs are strong, but not strong enough to eat porridge that's gone bad for half a month.

The porridge stall owner saw a food‑secure person leading a slave approach; he enthusiastically banged the pot but dared not speak.

The food‑secure won't eat this, but the slave will.

The slave being led crawled on the ground, his eyes longing for the fragrant thin porridge, his throat moving.

His once‑decent muscles had wasted away to roughly just an outline.

Sometimes the slave couldn't even fill his stomach.

The slave master bought him merely because he was cheap, almost free.

A food‑secure person in yellow robes watched with interest as the man let out a series of wails; the man, with a chain around his neck, clung to the scalding iron pot like a puppy and wailed.

"Shout! Shout louder and I'll buy you!"

The man being led had once been a member of the supplies‑search team; after breaking his left leg, his already‑not‑wealthy family instantly went bankrupt.

His wife, with their newborn, worked as a laundress in a food‑secure household; the older child scavenged trash outside the city.

He couldn't support himself, so he sold himself for the price of nine grass cakes.

He needed to gather grain.

Each day he hid part of the food the slave master gave him.

He was still one grass cake short.

If he had ten grass cakes, that would be enough to enroll his child in a machine‑repair apprenticeship—the only thing he could do.

If he kept scavenging trash, the child would die.

Any lingering self‑respect had been tossed away days ago.

The man bound in chains lifted his face, pleading loudly.

He was starving; he wanted to live.

Living meant hope; living might let him leave a bit more leftover rice for his wife, perhaps even scrape together a grass cake.

His dog‑like howling was spot‑on, and it soon amused the slave master.

The crowd on the street joined in laughing.

As the lowest of the low, they had hardly any entertainment.

But seeing their own kind suffer oddly gave them a bit of comfort.

Look, there are people who, even acting like dogs, can't get a meal.

Although I go hungry too, at least I'm not tied up.

The slave's performance ended with no result; after the slave master finished laughing, his face suddenly hardened, and he stepped on the man's face with one foot:

"You think I don't know? You've been hiding the leftovers I gave you these past days?"

He bent down menacingly, then jerked the chain hard, making the man barely able to breathe.

"Damn it! You're the dog I raised! When you're starving and useless, you're just wasting my food!"

"Eat! Eat your mother!"

He had no intention of letting the slave live; he had already decided to starve this disobedient slave to death.

The bloated hunger felt like a poisonous snake twisting in his intestines.

The slave being led felt icy all over; he hadn't expected the slave master to notice his action.

A grim laugh.

This time, he really whimpered like a puppy.

The child's "tuition" wasn't enough yet; if he stayed longer in the trash heap, the child would die.

"Pa"

A splat of thin porridge fell to the ground.

The porridge stall vendor feigned surprise, looking with pity at the spoonful of mush that had fallen to the ground.

"My porridge! How did it fall to the ground!"

The vendor sighed inwardly, a flicker of reluctance flashing in his eyes as he met the man's gaze.

Eat.

Although…

I can't save you.

He licked it up quickly.

The slave, his neck chained, hesitated no more as he crawled to the ground and gulped down the mush along with the muddy water.

The freshly cooked mush scalded his throat, and the sour, rotten mush resembled the fermented sludge at the bottom of swill.

But it really smelled fragrant.

The slave master looked at the vendor who had deliberately dumped the mush, his expression a mix of surprise and a half‑smile, and glared at him.

"Yo, you still dare to oppose me?"

He snatched the spoon without hesitation and then banged it against the man's head with a thud.

"Eat! All you know is to eat!"

One blow after another.

The flimsy iron spoon bent from the blows, the man's scalp split open as he struggled to finish the last mouthful, then he lay dazed and curled up on the ground.

No resistance, no struggle.

After being kicked over, he lay on his back with limbs spread, his eyes blurred.

He cried out in pain, powerless.

The sun in the sky was indistinct.

His consciousness faded, and in his peripheral vision he seemed to see the nearby laundry shop.

With a clatter of an overturned iron basin, a woman carrying a baby rushed out, her face grim.

She heard those anguished cries—they were her husband's.

"Please, don't hit him anymore… please…"

The woman turned the baby to her chest, her eyes red as she shielded the man.

The slave master, still unsatisfied, snorted at the sight and gave the woman a thoughtful glance.

"Your man?"

"Get up! Or I'll kill you too!"

He felt displeased.

Seeing the woman's humble nod, the slave master's gaze hardened, as if he had thought of something amusing.

He strode a few steps to the vendor's boiling iron pot and gave a sinister chuckle.

"So it was you who stole my grain!"

"You damn well like to eat, don't you?"

"Come on! Laozi will treat your whole family to a feast!"

Hearing that, the vendor's heart jumped; he tried to block the slave master, but was kicked to the ground.

The pot was lifted.

The slave master made as if to pour the scalding mush over the woman.

Boring days held no joy, but now it seemed there was a bit.

He could hardly wait to hear the wails.

Suddenly.

A clamor came from one end to the other.

"Everyone stay quiet! Stand where you are and look at the screen!"

Several soldiers pushing a makeshift large screen hurriedly hooked up power from roadside shops, then quickly wiped the dust off the screen with their sleeves until it was spotless.

A projection screen pulled from some corner looked rather aged.

Amid everyone's bewilderment, the screen flickered.

In the blurry image, a man stood on a high platform, behind him a vast army kneeling on the ground.