Chapter One: Beneath the Mask

Acid rain—again, the acid rain.

The raindrops, as large as beans and tinged with the scent of rust, battered the glass curtain wall of the abandoned office building. The shattered glass emitted a shrill, mournful wail, like the cry of some dying creature. Dirty streams traced down the cracks in the walls, pooling on the ground in frothy, unnatural puddles that reflected the gray, sunless sky.

This was the world after the “Great Rupture,” a graveyard for human civilization.

Tao Zui curled up in a corner on the twenty-third floor, her back pressed against a cold pillar of reinforced concrete. She wore a faded gray work jacket, patched in several places, and her trousers were made of durable canvas, scarred and stained. The combat boots on her feet had long since lost their sheen; the soles were nearly worn flat, offering only the barest grip.

Her face was concealed behind a pure black carbon fiber mask, covering her features from forehead to chin and leaving only her eyes exposed.

And what extraordinary eyes they were.

Even in this oppressive gloom, those eyes shone with astonishing clarity, like obsidian submerged in a cold pool—profound, steady, and carrying an age-worn vigilance that belied her youth. Long lashes cast delicate shadows beneath her lids, trembling slightly at the faintest disturbance, betraying a hint of emotion not easily seen.

Now, she took small, measured breaths through the mask’s filter. The air was thick with the corrosive tang of acid rain, the earthy reek of dust, and a faint, elusive stench—one of rot.

It was the scent of the Aberrants.

Tao Zui shifted, pressing her ear to the frigid wall. Beyond the rain, she caught the distant, dragging footsteps—heavy, lumbering—and the guttural, wordless snarls that followed.

Her hand closed soundlessly around a sharpened steel bar at her side, knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. This rod was her only weapon—about a meter and a half long, one end honed again and again with stone and sandpaper, sharp enough to pierce the Aberrants’ tough hides.

Her stomach rumbled at the worst possible moment.

Tao Zui pressed her lips together, her gaze flickering toward a shriveled backpack nearby. There was only half a compressed ration left inside; it would have to last her the next two days.

It had been three days since her last “resupply.” Three days ago, she had risked everything to sneak into the ruins of the supermarket below, managing to find only that half ration and a small bottle of barely drinkable rainwater, hastily filtered. She paid for those scraps with a scrape on her left arm from a falling slab, which still ached dully.

She flexed her left arm with care, her eyes drifting to a spot just above her wrist. A faded scar lingered there, shaped like a tiny maple leaf. She’d gotten it at age seven, on a sunlit afternoon beneath the great locust tree in her family’s courtyard, cut by a sharp stone.

Memory, like a stone dropped into dead water, sent ripples through her mind before the surface stilled once more.

In this world, memories were useless—only draining what little strength remained.

Tao Zui forced her thoughts back, listening once more. The dragging footsteps drew closer, now interspersed with the sound of something tearing. She frowned and decided it was time to leave.

Aberrants rarely acted alone, and they were exceptionally sensitive to the scent of the living. The longer she stayed, the greater the risk.

She rose, light as a cat, making no unnecessary sound. Slinging the steel rod across her back and shouldering her shriveled bag, she moved toward the fire escape.

She paused at a broken window, casting a quick glance outside.

The street below was a ruined wasteland—overturned, burning car hulks, collapsed masonry, and clusters of twisted, mutant plants. Several grotesque Aberrants wandered aimlessly. Their bodies looked as if corroded by strong acid, skin ulcerated and dark red, limbs warped, thick saliva dripping from their mouths.

One of them suddenly paused, lifting its muddied gaze toward the twenty-third floor.

Tao Zui shrank back instantly, her heart pounding. She held her breath, pressing herself to the wall, and only when the creature lowered its head and resumed its aimless wandering did she dare move again.

The fire escape door was rusted nearly shut, screeching at the lightest touch. Tao Zui held her breath and used the steel rod to pry open a narrow crack, slipping through sideways.

The stairwell was thick with the stench of mold and dust. She moved step by step, footfall placed carefully at the edge of each stair—cleaner there, and less likely to make a sound.

Her movements were steady and practiced; clearly, she had survived in such conditions for a long time.

Yet, at times when she lowered her head, a glimpse through the mask’s edge revealed the elegant line of her jaw and a complexion grown pale from chronic malnutrition.

No one would guess that the face hidden behind the ugly mask had once been hailed as “God’s most perfect masterpiece.” Before the Great Rupture, even a photograph of her could spark a global sensation. Countless people were obsessed with her; endless resources were lavished at her feet.

Now, that beauty had become her deadliest curse.

In this world of collapsed order and extinguished humanity, beauty meant trouble—it meant being hunted, being claimed as someone’s “trophy.” Tao Zui had seen too many women destroyed for their looks, their fates worse than being torn apart by Aberrants.

So she wore a mask. Since the age of fifteen, the day she witnessed her mother beaten to death for refusing the advances of a petty warlord, the mask had never left her face.

It hid her beauty from the world, and shielded her from much of its malice, allowing her to survive on this wasteland—like a silent, struggling rat.

When she reached the eighteenth floor, a sudden crash struck the stairwell window, as if something had slammed into it. Immediately after came the Aberrant’s bone-chilling howl.

Tao Zui froze, her gaze turning razor-sharp.

Trouble had found her.

She scanned her surroundings, eyes landing on an abandoned janitor’s toolbox at the landing. Without hesitation, she darted over and crouched behind it, gripping her steel rod tightly, ready to fight.

Her breath was shallow, but her heart raced—not from fear, but from intense vigilance.

Stay alive. She had to stay alive.

It was her only belief, the single force that kept her moving through this hell, day after day.

The rain continued. The howls drew nearer. Tao Zui’s eyes never left the darkness above, where something moved swiftly in the shadows.

The first rule of survival in the apocalypse: never let your guard down.

She had mastered it—and mastered it well.