It started when a bloody rain was about to fall.

2025年4月16日，早晨6点25分，星期三。

"It's real... I've been reborn... It's not a dream..."

Looking at the perfect, handsome face before him, the thought struck Lin Ye like a thunderbolt, and at the same time, his legs instantly lost all strength.

He slumped into the wooden chair behind him, the hard, cold back pressing against his spine—

The dull pain pierced through the thin nightgown, so clear, so vivid.

That was the warmth of a living person, the touch of the civilized world, and the senses of "humanity" that Lin Ye had forgotten for five years amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

His throat suddenly tightened.

Tears streamed down her face.

The scalding heat slid down Lin Ye's cool cheeks, gathered into beads on his chin, and finally fell onto his faded jeans, spreading out a small dark wet stain.

The dampness spread out, like some kind of proof of "return"—proof that within this body, there are still tears to shed, blood to burn, and hearts to ache.

This is not weakness.

This was the only outlet for the pain that Lin Ye had accumulated in hell over the past five years.

An overwhelming hatred—for the betrayers, for the cannibalistic world, and for the "masters" who treat all living beings as ants.

The ecstasy of something lost and found—for this young body, for this still intact world, for those who are still alive.

There were also complex and indescribable feelings for a certain figure—a figure who had appeared in his darkest moments, like a shooting star streaking across the apocalyptic night sky, briefly illuminating his existence before falling away.

All of this broke through Lin Ye's defenses in that instant.

But Lin Ye bit his lower lip hard. The rusty taste of blood spread on his tongue, mixing with the salty bitterness of his tears, forcibly suppressing the beast-like sob that was about to burst out of his throat.

In the end times, crying will attract aberrations—those predators with keen hearing who can distinguish the frequency of human crying from three kilometers away.

It will also attract people who are even more terrifying than the mutants.

This instinct was already ingrained in Lin Ye's very bones.

A few minutes later.

Lin Ye took a deep breath.

The April air rushed into my lungs, cool and damp with morning dew, mixed with the unique dusty scent of the city before it awoke—

That was the smell of "being alive," the unaware vitality unique to peacetime. This scent brought a slight sting, yet it reminded him more powerfully than any words:

You're really back. You've gone back to before the disaster. You have the chance to change everything.

Lin Ye closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, all that remained in his eyes was a chilling coldness like frozen earth.

Five years of surviving the apocalypse taught Lin Ye one thing: emotions are a luxury, and can only be taken out occasionally after survival is ensured, as fuel to fuel his will.

Now is not the time to burn.

Then Lin Ye, who was sitting on the wooden chair, got up and went to the window, pushing open the dusty door and window.

The harsh metallic scraping sound shattered the morning tranquility—it was the sixty-year-long battle between the rusty window frame and the windowsill, finally decided this morning.

The sound was like a dull knife scraping against bone, startling several gray sparrows in the sycamore tree below. The sparrows flapped their wings and took flight, tracing several panicked arcs in the morning light before disappearing among the distant buildings.

A cool breeze swept in, carrying with it all the essence of the last peaceful moments of the civilized world—

The smoke from the breakfast stalls in the distance mingled with the sizzling sound of fried dough sticks and the aroma of scallions released by hot oil; the faint, pungent smell of car exhaust was the trace of the millions of engines breathing simultaneously in this city.

The freshness of the soil and plant roots in the green belt; the water from last night's watering is still condensed into dew on the leaves, sparkling in the sunlight.

There is also a kind of indescribable undercurrent belonging to "order" itself—an invisible net woven from countless rules, contracts, and customs, which allows millions of people to coexist on this land without devouring each other.

Downstairs, the woman who sells soy milk is struggling to pull up the rusty roller shutter, yawning, her hair casually tied behind her head.

Several students in blue and white school uniforms rushed towards the bus stop, munching on steamed buns, their backpacks bouncing on their backs, the hems of their uniforms billowing in the morning breeze. The early morning bus roared past, its exhaust pipe emitting pale gray smoke.

All of this is ordinary, trivial, and real.

It will also be completely torn apart in six months.

Lin Ye, standing by the window, closed his eyes.

Memories of my past life surged like a blood tide—

That day, crimson engulfed the sky.

At first, it was just an unusual glow peeking through the clouds. The glow was thicker and more vibrant than any ordinary sunset, as if a festering wound had been torn open in the sky, revealing the raw, bleeding flesh beneath.

Some people stopped to look up and take pictures with their phones; others muttered, "The sunset clouds are really red tonight," and then continued on their way.

No one noticed anything unusual.

After all, people are used to believing that today will be the same as yesterday, and tomorrow will be the same as today. This is the foundation upon which civilization is sustained—a blind faith in the "normal."

Then, the raindrops fell.

The first raindrop landed on the bronze statue in the city center square, making a soft "hiss" sound, and a wisp of smoke rose from the statue's surface. The second drop landed on the glass curtain wall of an office building, leaving a dark red stain, like a tear sliding down a face. The third drop landed on someone's shoulder; the person turned around, glanced at it, thought it was bird droppings, and wiped it away with their hand—

The moment his skin touched the rain, he started screaming.

The scream ripped apart the city's hustle and bustle, shattering everyone's last shred of illusion about "normalcy."

The raindrops had a dark red texture, initially sparse like cherry blossom snow, so beautiful and stunning that it was mesmerizing—the red color had a translucent quality in the sunlight, like diluted blood, like molten rubies, like tears from heaven, tears of some kind of prophecy.

The next moment—it poured down like a torrent.

That was no longer rain. That was divine punishment.

A thick, dark red slurry, reeking of rust and decay, enveloped the world. The sound of rain was no longer the gentle, soothing white noise that lulled one to sleep—

Instead, it was a sticky, persistent slapping, like a giant beast swallowing with saliva, like some enormous creature licking the city with its tongue.