Time flew by, yet time was still like an arrow, and the sun and moon still seemed to race across the sky.
Sometimes time seemed to pass very slowly, but once it truly passed, people discovered that it had gone by at a startling speed.
Before they knew it, a month had passed since the first batch of survivors had been rescued.
It was now April. By the Earth Calendar, it was roughly the time when the year was coming to an end.
However, perhaps all the Earth players had already grown accustomed to the wasteland. These days, hardly anyone discussed it on the World Channel. The occasional discussion was quickly buried beneath a flood of other messages, and practically no one cared.
Then again, for most survivors,
that was understandable.
Amid unending exhaustion and busyness, amid day after day of labor and migration with no visible end, and amid one difficult obstacle after another,
still finding the mental energy to remember life on Earth was already beyond the capabilities of an ordinary person.
As the saying went, one would rather be a dog in peaceful times than a person in times of chaos.
After nearly a year and a half, and after another great migration involving more than two billion people,
the lives of survivors had officially begun to diverge across every corner of the New Continent.
The Giant Tree Root Sea Area, on the northeastern coast of the New Continent.
Although the complete destruction of the three major gangs and the judgment and disbandment of tens of thousands of their members had made survival around the sea area less harsh than before,
the arrival of the migration tide had still inevitably reduced the population.
In nearly two months, it had fallen from its peak of eight hundred thousand