One

1. Editor’s Message
November 30, 20XX

Editor Jin She: As your editor, I offer you this friendly reminder: if the apocalypse truly descends, you must use your own blood to test everything around you. Perhaps among them, you’ll find a portable space to unlock your golden finger. Remember this well!

Carrying a bag of snacks on his way home, Anfu Zhu read the message, completely ignoring the word “if.” He stopped, spun around, and dashed toward the nearest bank at top speed, not caring about the cross-bank withdrawal fee ranging from two to five yuan. He withdrew cash, then headed straight to the wholesale market to stock up: ten bags each of rice and flour, a case each of oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar, five bags of assorted grains, leaving his home address for delivery. Delivery? The shopkeepers wouldn’t dare refuse—Anfu Zhu was no fool; he only paid half up front. What shop would risk not sending the goods? They actually mistook him for a restaurant owner and were eager to win a long-term customer.

Once he’d finished the groceries, he moved on to the next section, sweeping up pickles, sausages, snacks—he bought everything in abundance. Too much stuff? He stored it at the shop, then went upstairs to the third floor to buy nuts. He loved nuts, believing they improved brain function, and as a long-term computer user, he always kept some on hand—but he wasn’t foolish enough to treat them as meals. He bought nuts by the bag, and since he was a regular, the store offered to deliver them straight home.

On his way downstairs, he spotted instant noodles and bought twenty boxes in one go. Watching his money dwindle, he felt no pain. The shop staff helped him take everything downstairs, he rented a small truck, and hauled everything home. The truck driver joked, “Opening a shop?” Anfu Zhu just grinned.

Back at home, Anfu Zhu didn’t bother to unpack. He found a small knife instead and gathered everything—jade, gold, silver, and all the knotted charms his mother had brought from the temple, even the carved wooden pagoda. He piled it all on the coffee table, but when it came time to cut himself, he hesitated. He was terrified of pain.

Remembering the message, he clenched his teeth and did it. “Ah… I’m bleeding! It really hurts!” He leapt up, shaking his hand, pain radiating from his fingertip. “No, no, can’t waste the blood—hurry!” He quickly smeared his blood on each item, muttering as he went, “Which one of you holds a magical space? I just want a place to grow some vegetables, a well, a stream, room for a few chickens, enough not to starve. I’m alone—one mouth to feed, that’s all. When the world ends, just a place to survive is enough. See? My requirements are really small…”

He mumbled to himself while smearing blood on each piece. When he finished, nothing happened. Having lost too much blood, he grew dizzy and collapsed on the sofa, glaring resentfully at the trinkets on the table. “Sigh… I’m just not destined for this. Not my fate…” He sang a few lines of “Not My Fate”—his resentment ran deep.

Anfu Zhu was a simpleton, slow-witted. When he was accepted to university, the Zhu family set off firecrackers for ten days straight. His parents never imagined their slightly dim son would make it, but somehow, with mediocre grades, he did. They never pressured him or expected much; he slept early, woke early, rarely finished his homework. When they learned their son was accepted into a top Chinese department, they believed it was a blessing from the ancestors, brought him to the family grave, and had him kowtow ten times in gratitude.

His academic success shocked many. Some better students had failed to get into good schools, aiming too high. Anfu Zhu also applied to top schools, thinking he’d never make it, picking names at random just to save face. When his acceptance letter arrived, his homeroom teacher, who’d taught him for three years, was stunned and repeatedly asked if it was a mistake, but deep down knew there was only one Zhu in the entire senior class.

With their son off to university, his parents threw themselves into making money. They knew full well their son’s limitations and set about preparing for his future: saving fifteen years’ worth of retirement funds, buying him an apartment, even saving enough for a car. Fearing for his safety, they bought him accident insurance—every year, for all three of them. In those years, the family’s luck soared, their savings multiplying. But perhaps too much insurance is an ill omen, because tragedy struck: his parents died in a car accident while traveling for business, and Anfu Zhu was the sole beneficiary of a vast compensation.

Now of age, Anfu Zhu faced relatives who came under the guise of “borrowing” money. Each time, he wept, recounting how wonderful his parents had been to him, until the relatives couldn’t take it and left. Some suspected he was pretending, but seeing his red eyes and genuine grief, they couldn’t accuse him. Eventually, they stopped coming, abandoning thoughts of tricking the “fool”—after all, it was tragic enough to be simple-minded and orphaned; best to keep their distance, lest he remind them of the money they failed to swindle.

For a long time, Anfu Zhu puzzled over the relatives’ sudden appearances and disappearances. After graduation, he tried working but never lasted more than a week before being asked to leave. Remembering his mother’s words—that she would support him so he’d never have to work—he felt a surge of sadness, hugged his pillow, and sobbed himself to sleep. He never looked for another job, turning instead to writing novels online.

Though incapable in many ways, Anfu Zhu’s imagination and storytelling were unmatched. From his first book, his monthly income never dipped below three thousand yuan, not counting tips and bonuses. He trusted his editor implicitly, which is why a casual text could set him into such frantic action, echoing every plot he’d ever read.

In the editor’s office, Jin She, after sending the mass message, suddenly realized it might be misunderstood by a certain simple-minded author. He rushed to send a follow-up, but his phone wouldn’t connect—he’d run out of credit. He slammed the desk. His luck was usually good; he’d even had a twenty-yuan overdraft every month—what happened this time? Damn, would the fool really believe it?

Jin She had first signed Ice Dancer as an author while still a trainee editor, assuming it was a woman, or perhaps a minor using someone else’s ID. It wasn’t until Ice Dancer missed several updates, prompting a phone call, that Jin She realized the author was, in fact, a genuine man. Over time, he became convinced: this guy was a bona fide fool, and a slow one at that.

Jin She recalled a group chat about trending genres, with Ice Dancer enthusiastically joining in. He thought the fool had finally caught up, only to be privately messaged days later—“What was that genre we discussed the other day?”

The more he worked with Ice Dancer, the more Jin She cared for the old-timer, especially after learning his parents had passed. He even worried about predatory relatives, but Anfu Zhu always replied, “They were wonderful. After my parents died, they came every day to cry and reminisce with me. Shame they stopped coming.” Jin She was certain none of those relatives cared for him, but Anfu Zhu never noticed.

Though a fool, point him in the right direction and he’d write a great story. Now, Anfu Zhu was a superstar author, his annual income rivaling the best of them. Sometimes he even set new trends. For an editor managing over a hundred authors, Jin She felt secure—so long as he had this fool, paying off his mortgage was no worry.

After reminiscing, Jin She decided he’d call the fool as soon as he topped up his phone. But an unexpected assignment in another department made him forget, and so the matter remained firmly planted in Anfu Zhu’s mind.

After paying for the rice and flour, Anfu Zhu collapsed on the sofa and soon fell asleep—or rather, fainted from blood loss, exhaustion, and hunger. What happened to him after he passed out? Well, that’s a story for the next chapter…