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

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the treetops, dappling the newly turned soil.

7:30 in the morning.

He Yuanchao squatted at the edge of the vegetable garden, holding a handful of wet soil in his hand and rubbing it between his fingers.

The soil has a good texture—loose, slightly damp, and without clumps. The alluvial soil from the riverbank is naturally high in minerals, and a couple of days ago he had some wood ash mixed in as an alkaline conditioner, so the pH level is close to the suitable range for most vegetables.

"Advisor He, do you really think this thing can survive?"

Old Tom squatted down beside him, a blade of grass dangling from his mouth, looking on with a skeptical expression.

"It's the apocalypse, there might not even be an earthworm in this ground, how can anything grow if we plant it?"

"Just wait and see." He Yuanchao brushed the soil off his hands, stood up and stretched his back. "You'll see sprouts within seven days."

"Seven days?" Old Tom's white eyebrows furrowed. "I've farmed all my life, and I've never heard of any vegetable that can sprout in seven days."

"That's because you haven't seen good seeds."

He Yuanchao said this and then stopped explaining.

He walked back to the middle of the vegetable garden and checked the furrows where he had sown the seeds yesterday. The soil was evenly distributed, the watering was sufficient, and the spacing between the rows was fairly standard—although most of the workers were touching a hoe for the first time, under his guidance, at least the seeds weren't buried too deep or too shallow.

The rest is up to time.

Seven days later.

These "improved seeds" will prove themselves at a speed that will leave everyone speechless.

The arrangements for the vegetable garden are complete.

He Yuanchao then moved on to the second item on today's agenda.

training.

He enclosed a field about fifteen meters by twenty meters in the open space of the camp with wooden stakes, covered the ground with a layer of gravel and sand, and erected a wooden pole at each of the four corners, on which hung simple targets made of old clothes and straw.

"Everyone aged 16 to 60, assemble at the training ground!"

He Yuanchao's voice wasn't loud, but it carried throughout the entire camp.

That voice carried an unyielding hardness—not the mechanical commanding tone of the military, but a more primal, oppressive sense of "you'll see what happens if you don't try."

People started arriving one after another.

After deducting Angela, the baby and their caregiver, and two people who are still recovering from injuries, there are a total of twenty-two people who can participate in the training.

Of those, only eight could fire a gun—He Yuanchao, Alice, Jill, Payton, Jack, Old Tom, Rune, and a middle-aged man who claimed to have worked in an office at the Raccoon City Police Department.

Of the remaining fourteen people, there were six men (including Greg and two high school students) and eight women (including the female office worker and two supermarket cashiers).

He Yuanchao stood in the center of the training field, facing the twenty-two pairs of eyes.

Some people are nervous.

Some people don't care.

Someone is secretly yawning.

He Yuanchao did not give any instructions.

There are no motivational platitudes like "You must become stronger in order to survive."

He only did one thing.

He walked to the edge of the training field, took a shotgun from the armory, and then walked to the position furthest from the target—about twenty meters away.

Raise your gun.

There was no aiming process.

"Bang!"

The straw target's head exploded into pieces instantly.

He Yuanchao pulled the bolt, ejected the spent cartridge, and chambered a new round.

"Bang!"

The second target had a fist-sized hole in its chest.

"Bang!"

The third.

"Bang!"

the fourth.

Four shots, four hits.

From raising the gun to firing four shots, the entire process took no more than eight seconds.

He Yuanchao put down his gun and walked back to the crowd.

"Those who can't beat zombies don't deserve to eat."

He only said this one sentence.

Then he started to divide the group.

"Eight men who can shoot, led by Jack, will practice shooting over there. The goal is to hit the target's head within twenty meters. A pass rate of seventy percent is required to pass."

"Fourteen men who can't shoot, come with me. I'll teach you close combat."

"What? Melee combat?" A female office worker raised her hand, her face full of reluctance. "I...I'm not really suited for it—"

"You're 'not quite suitable' because you didn't need to before," He Yuanchao interrupted her. "Before, you had the police protecting you, the army protecting you, and the law protecting you. But now all of that is gone. You either need to learn to protect yourself, or—"

He gestured with his chin toward the dark forest outside the camp.

"Or go out and try your luck."

The female office worker's face paled slightly.

Then she shut her mouth and stood in line.

He Yuanchao nodded.

For the next two hours, he worked like a tireless teaching machine, teaching the fourteen people the most basic close-quarters self-defense skills.

It's not some fancy martial arts routine.

These are all the most practical items that can save your life when fighting zombies at close range.

How do you cut a zombie's neck with a knife?

How to strike the temple with a stick.

How to break free when caught?

How to use terrain and obstacles to create distance.

and most importantly -

How to overcome fear.

"Zombies are terrifying," He Yuanchao told everyone during a training break, "but they have three fatal weaknesses."

"First, they're stupid. They have no tactics, no coordination, they just charge straight at you."

"Secondly, they are slow. At least most of them are slow. As long as you don't freeze in fear, you can outrun them."

"Third, they are fragile. If you hit their head, a knife or a gun will finish them off. Although their bodies are not afraid of pain, once their brainstem is destroyed, they are completely dead."

"So remember—if you encounter a zombie, don't panic. Aim for its head and take it down. If you miss the head, run. Run to a safe distance and then come back to finish it off."

Only the living have the right to be afraid. The dead don't even have the chance to be afraid.

When the training ended, all twenty-two people collapsed to the ground.

Someone is panting.

Someone is rubbing their sore arms.

Someone is drinking water.

But no one's eyes looked the same as before training.

That feeling of helplessness, that "I'm just an ordinary person with no strength to even kill a chicken," was replaced by something new.

It's not confidence—it's far from being confidence.

But at least there was a beginning.

At least I know that when faced with danger, I'm not just left to scream and wait to die.

He Yuanchao tucked the hunting rifle back into his waistband.

"Continue at the same time tomorrow morning."

"From now on, this will be done every day, rain or shine."

"Until each and every one of you can stand firm against the zombies."

No one complained.

not a single one.

Because they have already seen the fate of those who "cannot stand firm".

Those people are now either rotting flesh wandering the streets or particles in the ashes of a nuclear bomb.

In this world, the word "weak" is not an adjective.

It is a death sentence.

He Yuanchao turned around and walked back to his shack.

He paused as he passed Alice.

"What do you think?"

Alice leaned against a tree, carving something on the bark with her military knife.

She looked up at him.

"The way you train people is very similar to the military."

"Um."

"Have you ever led troops before?"

He Yuanchao did not answer.

His lips twitched—that signature curve that said everything yet said nothing at the same time.

Then he went into the shack and lowered the curtain.

Alice watched as the aluminum plate swayed slightly in the wind.

She looked down at what she had carved on the tree bark.

One word.

"H".

She herself didn't know why she wanted to carve this.

It might just be—

You're used to it, aren't you?

I've gotten used to the feeling of him being there.