Chapter One: Uprising

The sky hung low and oppressive, shrouded in such heavy grayness that one could no longer distinguish day from night. Beneath it, black smog drifted endlessly, and people survived amidst the ruins of the city, denied sunlight, fresh air, or any reliable source of food.

Jiang Jiuxi wrapped himself in a crumpled robe, huddling in a corner and counting his fingers—he had been living this way for more than a decade.

Beside him, a withered old man suddenly went rigid and collapsed. Instantly, the crowd surged, stripping him of his "supplies." Even though it was nothing but a greasy jacket, it was torn into scraps, each piece clutched by a different hand.

The ordeal did not end there. The old man’s corpse was slowly dragged into an alley by two or three emaciated hands, and soon the sound of gnawing echoed out.

Jiang Jiuxi gazed numbly at this diseased world, neither joining the frenzy nor trying to stop it. In this forsaken apocalypse, simply surviving was itself a kind of redemption.

Amid the city’s darkness, one place blazed with light—the only beacon left to the entire city.

That beacon was the Governor’s Mansion, the last hope for the remnants of humankind on Earth.

A hundred years ago, the continental shelf began to sink, leaving this land as humanity’s final refuge.

Seventy years ago, the Mars colonization project commenced.

Fifty years ago, those who emigrated to Mars extracted every last bit of Earth’s energy, promising that the Ark would soon return to take the remaining people away.

To this day, those left on Earth still wait for the Ark that never comes.

The air remained suffocatingly still, as though even the strength to wail had been drained from the people.

Suddenly, someone stood up. Bent and frail, he began to walk towards the Governor’s Mansion. In the darkness, the others watched his departing back and instantly understood his intention. One by one, they rose, following in his wake.

Soon, a swelling tide of people surged toward the Governor’s Mansion. Jiang Jiuxi was swept along, his last spark of will to live reignited.

They were going to the Governor’s Mansion to reclaim the food that was rightfully theirs.

The Governor’s Mansion stood in the city’s center, a seven-story tower storing the planet’s last reserves of energy, allowing it to maintain its lighting system.

Long ago, the Governor’s Mansion had been a sacred place in the hearts of Earth’s survivors; it housed the only working communications equipment linking Earth to Mars.

But in the face of starvation, that sanctity had long since collapsed.

Twenty years of waiting had not only exhausted Earth’s food supply, but also its people’s patience. Now, they no longer placed their faith in gods.

A shrill alarm pierced the air from the tall, solid walls of the mansion, long before the crowd drew near.

“Alert! Alert! Quick, alert!”

With a grinding screech, the patrol guards outside the wall rushed in, locking the gates and scrambling up to the battlements to keep watch.

“Go report to the Governor! The refugees are about to riot!” the captain barked at a young guard, who trembled, clutching an iron rod.

“What are you waiting for? Move!” The captain’s boot sent the guard flying, cursing the useless wretch.

“Yes… yes!” The guard scrambled up and dashed into the tower.

The captain leaned out to observe and drew a sharp breath. The starving throng below had regressed into beasts; greenish lights gleamed in their eyes, ready to devour everything in their path.

More and more refugees were converging on the mansion. The sight of the swelling, black mass struck fear into his heart. He staggered back, barely catching himself on a stone post.

Riots had happened before, but only ever in small groups—easy enough to disperse by locking the gates for a few hours. But this… this was the first time he’d seen a riot on such a scale.

The young guards were even more terrified, glancing at one another—none could hide their dread.

“Stay sharp! A ten-meter wall—no one’s flying over that!” The captain tried to rally his men, but was really steadying himself; the guard unit he commanded was the mansion’s last line of defense and could not fall so easily.

“You! Gather everyone—hold the main gate. And get all the crossbows from storage, first-level alert!”

“Yes, sir!”

The captain barked orders at his lieutenant, swiftly organizing the defense.

“Well? Why are you still standing there?” he snapped when the lieutenant failed to move.

“Captain, the Governor is still presiding over Mass. Are you sure you want everyone to leave their posts?”

The captain paused, then urgently asked, “Who received this week’s ‘Gospel’?”

The lieutenant’s eyes darted away. He didn’t dare answer.

The captain seized him by the collar. “Speak, damn you! Who got it?”

“It… it was the Young Master,” the lieutenant finally whispered.

“What…” The captain staggered as if struck by a mortal blow, his gaze unfocused and wild.

“That can’t be… The Governor promised me… This must be a mistake…” He slumped against the parapet, muttering to himself.

The lieutenant grew anxious as the crowd below swelled and the captain, his pillar of support, lost his composure. He already regretted delivering the news.

The so-called “Mass” was a tradition the Governor’s Mansion had maintained for years. In these dire times, the Governor used religious authority to brainwash everyone in the mansion.

According to the Governor, the Ark was, as in the Bible, a blessing from God. The sinking of the continents was divine punishment for humanity’s wickedness and brutality. Those left behind had not been chosen because their sins ran too deep. But if they prayed with true devotion, their sins would be washed away and God’s gaze would return to Earth.

It was a flimsy story, but it became everyone’s spiritual crutch—they chose to believe that if they prayed sincerely, the Ark would return for them.

Mass was the most important ritual of prayer.

Every Sunday afternoon, a grand ceremony was held in the tower. At the start, everyone would gather around the holy water and draw lots to see who would receive the “Gospel.” The lucky one would be granted peace for their soul.

But to receive the Gospel required a sacrifice.

After long, devout prayers, the ritual would reach its climax. The chosen would become God’s offering—their soul ascending to heaven, their flesh and blood left behind to feed the suffering.

No one ever knew what the others truly thought. They only knew that, with each “supply,” there was one less mouth to share with, and thus a little more hope for survival.

No one cared what the “sacrifice” themselves felt.

Today was the two hundred and forty-first Mass at the Governor’s Mansion. By tradition, no one could be absent.

But this time was different. For reasons unknown, the Governor had sent the captain and his men outside on patrol and denied them the chance to draw for the Gospel.

At first, the captain didn’t understand why. When he saw the refugees flooding toward the mansion, he admired the Governor’s foresight.

Until he learned that the Young Master had been chosen for the Gospel—then everything changed.

The Young Master was, in name, the Governor’s youngest son, but in truth, he was the captain’s child by the Governor’s wife—a secret known only to a handful, including the lieutenant. That was why he hesitated so long before telling the captain.

Of course, the Governor knew of the affair, but he needed the captain and his soldiers to ensure his authority, so he had always turned a blind eye. He had even promised to protect the Young Master.

But today, the Governor had broken that promise.

The captain realized that the Governor could easily rig the drawing, and with himself sent away, it was clear: the Governor meant to kill the Young Master.

“You keep watch here—I’m going to the tower.”

After a long moment, the captain finally pulled himself together and, feigning calm, leaned out to observe.

Below, the sea of refugees stretched endlessly. The captain quivered, lost in thought.

Suddenly!

His eyes widened. Among the refugees, a thin figure in a black robe caught his attention. Only half the man’s face was visible beneath the grime, indistinguishable from the others.

But the aura he sensed from that figure… It was him, there was no mistake.

“This can’t be! How is he still alive?”

The shock hit him harder than the impending sacrifice of his own son. He stumbled down from the wall, shouting in panic, “High alert! Prepare to defend!”

Below the wall, Jiang Jiuxi stood among the refugees, gazing up at the towering walls and those who guarded them, the hood of his black robe falling back.

“How strange… this sense of déjà vu…”