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

Late at night.

The campfire had burned shorter, and the flames no longer leaped as high, but the embers at the bottom were still burning a dark red, radiating a steady amount of heat.

Most people are already asleep.

The calories in a military ration pack are enough to sustain an adult's basal metabolic rate for twelve hours. After eating it, those who have been hungry all day feel overwhelmed by fatigue and simply cannot withstand it.

The tents were packed with people like sardine cans.

Angela nestled between Jill and the young mother; the two women's body heat acted like a natural heater, and the little girl finally stopped shivering.

Conditions inside the shack were worse. The roof, made of pine branches, had gaps, through which the night wind seeped in, making it chilly. Several people were wrapped in seat covers taken from the helicopter as blankets, and their sleeping postures were far from pleasant.

He Yuanchao did not sleep.

He sat by the campfire, a shotgun resting horizontally on his lap.

This is the first shift of sentry.

Besides him, there were two other people who hadn't slept—Payton and old Tom.

Peyton had intended to sleep, but the pain in his injured leg became more pronounced during the night. After tossing and turning for half an hour, he gave up and limped over to the campfire, leaning on his iron rod.

"I can't sleep," Payton said. "My legs hurt so much."

He Yuanchao glanced at him.

Payton's complexion looked relatively normal in the firelight—the ashen bluish-purple had indeed faded, but an unhealthy sallow hue remained. His eye circles were still dark, and his lips were still dry.

"The side effects of inhibitors," He Yuanchao said. "During the repair process, cells produce a lot of metabolic waste, which accumulates near the joints, causing soreness. It will get better after a few days."

Payton sat down and straightened his injured leg.

"You know so much."

"I read a lot of miscellaneous books."

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On the other side, old Tom finished carving his trap mechanism by the fire—a wooden wedge about the thickness of a thumb, sharpened at one end and with a groove carved at the other.

"What is this?" Payton asked him.

"The trigger for the slingshot trap." Old Tom held up the wooden wedge in the firelight. His voice was the hoarse hue characteristic of an old hunter, neither fast nor slow. "I'll set up a few around the camp tomorrow morning. Not only to keep out zombies, but also to trap rabbits. There should still be plenty of wild animals in these mountains."

He Yuanchao glanced at Old Tom.

This old man was the least "commoner" among the group. He was in his early sixties, lean, with a complexion tanned from years of wind and sun exposure, and his hands were covered in calluses. According to him, he had been hunting in the mountains and forests of this area for forty years before Raccoon City fell.

Rifles, hunting knives, traps, tracking—these skills might not have been worth much in the old world, but in the post-apocalyptic world, an experienced hunter is a hundred times more useful than a university professor.

"Old Tom," He Yuanchao called out to him.

"Um?"

"Come with me to town tomorrow morning."

Old Tom lifted his eyelids slightly: "Looking for something?"

"right."

"I'll go." Old Tom didn't waste any more words.

The campfire crackled, and a broken branch collapsed, sending sparks flying.

He Yuanchao kicked the broken branch back into the fire.

He looked up at the night sky.

The sky above the valley was unusually clear—the dust from Raccoon City hadn't yet reached here. A sky full of stars stretched out before the Milky Way, which slanted across the sky and disappeared over the southern ridge.

Before the apocalypse, this kind of starry sky without light pollution was a luxury that city dwellers could only see by spending a lot of money to go to the wilderness.

It's free now.

Because there's no one left in the city.

He Yuanchao turned his gaze away from the starry sky.

He should get down to business.

Kane was tied to a pine tree a dozen meters away from the campfire.

He Yuanchao used the binding straps he found in the helicopter to tie his hands behind the tree trunk and wrapped them around his ankles several times.

The former Umbrella Major now looked a stark contrast to the glamorous image of his name—his suit was tattered, the bloodstains on his collar had dried into brown clumps, his hair was disheveled, and his face was covered in a layer of ash.

He had his eyes closed; it was hard to tell if he was really asleep or just pretending.

He Yuanchao walked over and squatted down in front of him.

"Stay awake."

Kane didn't move.

He Yuanchao reached out and patted his face twice.

It's not heavy, but it's definitely not gentle.

Kane opened his eyes.

The composure and shrewdness that once graced those light gray eyes had almost completely vanished, replaced by the gloom of a trapped animal.

"What do you want?" Kane's voice was hoarse.

"Tomorrow morning." He Yuanchao's voice was very soft, so soft that only the two of them could hear it.

"I will lay your story bare. I will let everyone hear what you have done."

"Then what?"

"Then they decide your fate."

Kane's lips twitched.

It's hard to tell if it's mockery or a bitter smile.

"Do you think the vote of a group of ordinary people can represent justice?"

He Yuanchao stood up.

"I don't care about justice."

"But I care a lot about the rules."

"On my turf, those who harm others will pay the price. That's the rule."

He turned and walked back to the campfire.

In the darkness behind him, Kane leaned against a tree trunk, his expression swallowed by the shadows.