Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

City Hall Square was originally the most respectable public space in Raccoon City.

In the center stands a bronze statue of the city's founder—now the statue's head is broken off and rolled away somewhere, and several pieces of clothing, whose owner is unknown, are hanging from the remaining bronze body, fluttering in the wind.

The square, paved with granite tiles, used to host markets and street performers every weekend. Now, the tiles are covered in blood and bullet casings, and several wrecked police cars are crookedly blocking the square's entrance.

When He Yuanchao arrived at the square, the sky had already changed from a murky yellow to a grayish white.

It's not dawn yet.

A large fire in a certain area on the east side of the city was burning more and more fiercely, and the flames illuminated half of the sky in this incongruous color.

He stood on the steps of a bank building on the west side of the square, looking down at his surroundings.

The main building of the city hall is on the north side of the square—a six-story stone building with the city flag, long since blackened by smoke, still standing on its dome.

The rooftop helipad is located on the roof.

The helicopters are not visible from this angle, but He Yuanchao's system radar has already detected them—three Black Hawks are indeed parked on it, with their engines in standby mode.

The problem is that there's a protective umbrella surrounding the city hall.

The system radar showed about fifteen to twenty green cursors concentrated on the first and second floors of the city hall—those were Kane's armed men.

He Yuanchao did not rush to make a move.

He is waiting.

About fifteen minutes later, Alice emerged from an alley to the south with Nicole. Neither of them was injured, but they were covered in sweat.

"A supermarket on the south road is on fire. There's a lot of smoke, and the zombies are being choked by the smoke and have all moved to the other side, making it much easier for them to walk," Alice reported on the road conditions.

He Yuanchao nodded.

About twenty minutes later.

A figure appeared on the east side of the square.

It's not a zombie.

is a living person.

group of people.

Leading the way were three men, wearing convenience store work vests, each carrying a shotgun and a large kitchen knife.

Behind them were four or five people—two men in police uniforms (one of whom had a bandage on his arm), a bald, burly man carrying a fire axe, and an old man with a hunched back supporting a teenager.

They walked very slowly.

It's not that I don't want to move quickly—it's because I'm too tired.

The same thing was written on everyone's face: fear, exhaustion, and a faint, almost extinguished hope.

That hope only came after hearing the broadcast.

He Yuanchao walked down the steps of the bank.

"Did you hear the broadcast?"

The convenience store owner at the front stopped and looked at He Yuanchao warily. Although he didn't raise his shotgun, his knuckles were already white.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the one broadcasting. My codename is Dawn."

The convenience store owner sized him up—his bulletproof vest stained with blood, the pistol at his waist, and a black longsword of unknown design—then asked uncertainly, "The nuclear bomb thing... is it true?"

"More real than the bullets in the gun in your pocket."

There was a two-second silence.

The convenience store owner put down his shotgun.

"Then we'll go with you."

Over the next hour or so, more people arrived one after another.

They emerged in twos and threes from different directions, from alleyways, from manhole covers, and from the windows of abandoned apartments.

The young mother carrying the baby arrived. She had run all the way from the basement—chased by two zombies for three blocks before finally escaping by hiding in an abandoned van. The baby was crying in her arms, her hands were trembling, but her legs didn't give way.

The priest arrived. He brought four wounded men—two who could walk, and two who were carried. The priest carried a chair leg he had taken from a church pew as a weapon, stained with black blood.

A group of office workers emerged from the subway. Six people, covered in dust and grime, dressed in suits, looked like they had just finished their morning meeting at a hellish company. One of the women was even carrying a briefcase—He Yuanchao later learned that it contained a photo of her daughter and a first-aid kit.

Two high school students carrying baseball bats arrived. They were still panting and swearing as they ran over, their mouths full of that stubborn, defiant spirit unique to teenagers.

There were a total of 27 people.

He Yuanchao stood in front of the headless bronze statue in the middle of the square, looking at the group of people.

Some of them sat on the ground, some leaned against the wall, and some squatted behind the roadblocks.

Everyone's eyes are a little different.

Some people are crying. Some are expressionless. Some are checking their weapons. An old priest is changing the bandages of a wounded soldier, muttering incantations.

He Yuanchao waited for five seconds.

Get everyone's attention to yourself.

Then he spoke.

"Okay, let's get acquainted. I'm the voice from the radio. You can call me He."

"I won't go into the nuclear bomb stuff—less than four hours. In four hours, everything standing on this ground—including you, the zombies, the buildings—will be reduced to ashes."

"The helicopters are up there." He pointed to the roof of the city hall. "Three Black Hawks should be enough in theory. But there's a bunch of unfriendly armed men inside—Umbrella Corporation. I'll deal with them later."

"There's only one thing you need to do now—"

He Yuanchao looked into the eyes of these people.

"To live."

"I'll live until I clear the way."

"Everyone who can hold a gun, step forward. Fire a shot into the air, and let me see if you still have the strength to pull the trigger."

There was a few seconds of silence.

The convenience store owner was the first to step forward, raising his shotgun and firing a shot into the air.

"Bang!"

Gunshots echoed across the square.

Then the two wounded police officers stepped forward. One could only fire with his left hand, but he still pulled the trigger.

The bald firefighter didn't have a gun, so he slammed his fire axe heavily on the ground.

The two high school students looked at each other, slammed their baseball bats into the ground, and shouted a swear word in unison.

He Yuanchao's lips twitched slightly.

enough.

Of the twenty-seven people, about ten are capable of fighting.

not much.

But that's not a small number either.