Countdown

The middle-aged woman hurried to the entrance of Fulai Supermarket and looked at Old Zhang. "Uncle Zhang, why is Qing Chen coming to play chess with you again?"

It was clear from her words that they knew each other.

But Old Zhang's tone was far less polite. "Your own son—you're asking me? He ran out of living expenses and can only earn a little money for food by playing chess."

The middle-aged woman, Zhang Wanfang, froze. "But every month, I give Qing Chen's living expenses to his father."

Old Zhang was taken aback as well. "Then I don't know what's going on."

Old Zhang pondered it. Zhang Wanfang was not poor, and it seemed she had given Qing Chen a decent amount for living expenses. So why was that boy living so tightly?

Qing Chen did not seem like the type to squander money. He calculated every expense carefully and never even drank so much as a sip of soda.

"But shouldn't he be in evening self-study right now?" Zhang Wanfang asked.

Only then did Old Zhang remember. "I think he said he was waiting for someone."

"No, I need to go home and take a look," Zhang Wanfang said.

As she spoke, she picked up the cake and was about to leave in a hurry when the man beside her suddenly said, "Wanfang, it's Haohao's birthday today. We already made reservations, and we still have to take him to a movie after dinner!"

Zhang Wanfang turned back to look at the man. "Qing Chen may have skipped class. I can't just ignore it, can I?"

"He's already seventeen. He can take care of himself. Besides, he still has his biological father," the man said, then softened his tone. "We can visit him over the weekend. Today, let's celebrate Haohao's birthday first?"

Zhang Wanfang frowned at his words, but after a few seconds, she finally sighed. "Fine. We'll celebrate Haohao's birthday first today."

Qing Chen walked silently beneath the camphor trees along the shaded path of the municipal government's western residential compound.

Unlike the high-rise buildings of a modern city, the compound was filled with low four-story buildings from the 1970s. There were no elevators, no gas lines, and the sewers clogged from time to time.

High-power appliances could not be used at home, because they would trip the circuit breaker.

Qing Chen entered the dim stairwell, ignored the lock-picking and house-sale ads plastered over the walls like psoriasis, took out his key, and opened the door to his first-floor home.

The apartment was seventy-six square meters, with two bedrooms and a living room. Being on the first floor, it received very little sunlight.

He took out his phone, opened his contacts, and made a call. "Hello, Dad..."

The voice on the other end cut him off. "If you want living expenses, ask your mother. I don't have any money. She's loaded these days."

The sound of mahjong tiles being shuffled came from the other end of the call.

"I don't want money," Qing Chen said quietly. "I haven't asked either of you for money in a long time."

"Then what is it?" the man asked impatiently. "Another Parent's Association meeting at school? Go find your mother. Things like this..."

Before the other party could finish, Qing Chen hung up first.

He leaned gently against the closed front door, then rolled up the sleeve beneath his school uniform jacket.

He stared blankly at the white digits and symbols on his forearm, like those on an LCD display: Countdown 5:58:13.

The white numbers were like fluorescent tattoos embedded in his flesh and skin. No matter how hard he rubbed, he could not erase them.

Looking closer, Qing Chen could see intricate, unusual patterns within the digits, like mechanical components interlocking with one another, full of a futuristic technological feel.

The numbers changed soundlessly.

Countdown 5:58:12.

Countdown 5:58:11.

There were 5 hours, 58 minutes, and 11 seconds left. Everything seemed to be reminding Qing Chen that something unimaginable would happen 5 hours and 58 minutes from now.

Though there was no sound, Qing Chen could distinctly hear the ticking of a second hand in his heart.

Qing Chen glanced at his phone with the call disconnected, then at the empty room.

He did not know what kind of life awaited him in 5 hours and 58 minutes. He only knew that the only person he could rely on was himself.

Time was a weighty unit of measurement. The length of life and the breadth of civilization were both accustomed to being marked by it.

The concept of time existed in everyone's life.

So whenever a countdown appeared in your life, no matter what it counted down to, it gave you a sense of urgency.

There were 5 hours left. No one knew what lay at the end of the countdown.

Maybe danger?

Or perhaps another kind of life?

Qing Chen could not be sure. He could only prepare for the worst.

So before the countdown ran out, he had to prepare a few things.

If danger truly came, then at the very least, within the limits of his ability, he needed some means to resist it.

Qing Chen changed into a clean gray jacket and hid his face beneath the shadow of its hood.

Under the cover of night.

He headed out toward the farmers' market. October nights in Luo City had already begun to fall early.

The sounds of cooking came from the residential buildings—the crackling of vegetables colliding with hot oil—followed by enticing scents drifting through the air.

The smells of eggs, pork, and lamb flooded Qing Chen's mind like pieces of information. If he needed them someday, he could retrieve a particular "record" from his memory.

At a hardware store, he bought pliers and a shovel. At a grain and oil shop, he bought a bag of rice, a bag of flour, and table salt.

He also bought several boxes of antibiotics at a pharmacy, then batteries, a flashlight, and compressed biscuits at a supermarket.

Without knowing what he would face, he could only prepare as thoroughly as possible.

These things used up nearly all of Qing Chen's savings.

After Qing Chen carried everything home, he went straight into the kitchen. First, he placed all the usable knives from the cutting board in the most convenient places around the room.

The cleaver went beneath his pillow, while the boning knife went on the bedside table.

Countdown 2 hours, 43 minutes, 11 seconds.

After making sure all the doors and windows were tightly shut, he sat by the bed and began to think: Should he look for help?

Who could he ask?

His mother had a new family, and his father was a gambler.

In fact, when Qing Chen had discovered the countdown on his arm a few hours earlier, the seventeen-year-old him had instinctively wanted to seek help from his parents.

But he dismissed the idea.

Qing Chen took out his phone and tried to photograph the white countdown on his arm. Yet he discovered that although he could clearly see the white markings with his own eyes, they did not appear on the phone screen at all.

The dim room had no lights on. The windows offered little soundproofing, and because he lived on the first floor, he could often hear the footsteps of passersby outside.

The footsteps outside, the sound of breathing inside, the faintly glowing phone screen—everything was tranquil, yet strange.

For something this bizarre and absurd, asking ordinary people for help was probably useless. Besides, he did not have any particularly close friends at school.

Even if he did, he should not drag ordinary people into something like this, should he?

So if he wanted help, he could only think of another way.

Wait—Qing Chen seemed to think of something. He rose and went into the living room to search through things.

Two minutes later, he silently looked at the Guanyin pendant in his hand.

Then he solemnly placed it before himself and bowed to it nine times.

The final preparation was complete.