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

About twenty minutes later, the sound of an engine came from the southwest of the square.

The sound was particularly jarring in this dead city—it wasn't something a zombie could make, nor was it the sound of something collapsing.

It's a car.

He Yuanchao was instructing several armed survivors on how to build a makeshift defensive line—using roadblocks, wrecked cars, and metal shelves moved from nearby to form a semi-circular bunker—and they immediately looked up when they heard the sound of a car.

The black Chevrolet pickup truck sped out from a side street.

Several new scratches and dents appeared on the car body, and a dark, unidentifiable object was stuck to the hood. The windshield had more cracks than when it separated, and it was almost shattered.

But the car can still run.

The pickup truck stopped in front of the roadblock at the entrance to the square.

Jill jumped out of the driver's seat.

She wasn't in good shape—there were several new bloodstains on her blue tactical vest (judging from the color, they were from zombies), the bandage on her left hand had been rewrapped, her lips were chapped, and her dark circles looked like she hadn't slept for three days.

But her back was still straight.

The gun was still in his hand.

"Payton's in the back," Jill's voice was a little hoarse. "Angela's here too."

He Yuanchao walked to the back seat of the pickup truck and opened the door.

Angela huddled in the corner of the back seat, burying her face in the teddy bear's belly, her body curled into a small ball. She looked up when she heard the car door open, and seeing He Yuanchao, the fear in her eyes subsided slightly.

"Uncle." Her voice was very soft.

"Sweetie, go outside. There's an auntie who will take care of you." He Yuanchao carried Angela out and handed her to the young mother holding a baby next to her.

The mother transferred the baby to one hand and took Angela in her other. The two children and their mother were huddled together, a stark contrast to the blood and guns that littered the square.

He Yuanchao turned his head to look at the other side of the back seat.

Payton.

This once-robust policeman, who was as strong as an ox, was now huddled in the back seat, looking as if half of his life force had been drained away.

His complexion couldn't be described as "bad"—it was beyond the realm of normal human skin color. A layer of bluish-purple patches stained the grayish-white base, like a piece of pig liver that had been left out for too long. His eye sockets were sunken, his lips were purple, and his breathing was rough and rapid, as if each breath was being forcibly pulled out from some kind of viscous obstruction.

The bandage on the bitten leg was already soaked through with dark exudate.

He Yuanchao could tell without a system scan that Payton's infection had entered an accelerated phase.

He reached out and touched Payton's forehead.

It was terribly hot.

It is at least forty degrees Celsius or higher.

Payton felt the touch and struggled to open his eyes.

Those once sharp brown eyes were now covered by a thin layer of gray mist—a sign that the iris pigment was beginning to be eroded by the T virus.

"Well..." Payton's voice sounded like it was being choked, "I...I'm not feeling well..."

"I can tell."

He Yuanchao did not comfort him.

Comfort is the most useless thing at times like this.

He glanced back at Jill.

Jill stood beside the car door, her hands clenched into fists. Her nails were almost digging into her palms.

"He had two more episodes on the way," Jill said in a low voice, so low that only He Yuanchao could hear. "One time his hands started to change color, turning gray—I almost thought he was going to die on the spot. But he gritted his teeth and endured it."

How long ago was the last injection of that inhibitor?

"Seventy hours. Nearing the limit."

He Yuanchao remained silent for two seconds.

Then he pulled a syringe from the inside pocket of his bulletproof vest.

That syringe didn't contain a regular inhibitor.

This is a "secondary T-virus inhibitor" that he urgently synthesized in Hive B area using ancestral virus data and Angela's gene sample with the help of the system.

This is different from the "painkiller" level product from last time.

This one really can suppress the virus.

Not forever—the system estimates the effective period to be thirty days. And it can only reverse about half of the mutation process.

But thirty days is enough.

For Payton, thirty days is a life.

"Stretch out your arm."

He Yuanchao squatted down next to the car door and found the vein on the inside of Payton's arm that was still fairly clear.

The needle went in.

The pale blue liquid was slowly injected into Payton's body.

Payton's body trembled violently.

His teeth were clenched so hard they made a "crunching" sound.

A highly contradictory expression appeared on his face—as if he were experiencing excruciating pain, yet also as if he were experiencing some indescribable comfort.

About thirty seconds later.

His breathing began to become steady.

His complexion was still not good, but the ashen bluish-purple tinge began to fade little by little.

The layer of gray haze covering the iris was also fading.

Payton blinked.

He saw He Yuanchao's face clearly.

"What...did you call me this time?"

"Life." He Yuanchao pulled out the needle and put the syringe away. "You've gained another thirty days of life. Is that enough to pay back what you owe me?"

Payton's lips twitched.

I don't know whether I want to laugh or cry.

He reached out—the color of his hand was slowly changing from grayish-white back to its normal skin tone—and grasped He Yuanchao's forearm.

I owe you two lives.

"Raise interest rates."

He Yuanchao stood up.

Jill stood by and watched the whole time.

She didn't run over to hug him crying like she did last time.

But her eyes were red.

That red was different from the red caused by previous exhaustion—it was the red of finally being able to breathe a sigh of relief after hanging on the edge of a knife for seventy hours.

"Thank you," Jill said.

Two words.

But every word carries a heavy weight.

He Yuanchao patted her on the shoulder.

"Don't thank me. Just kill a couple more of Umbrella's people when the fight breaks out later, and that'll be it."