Countdown

A middle-aged woman walked quickly to the entrance of Fulai Supermarket. She looked at the old man and said, "Grandpa Zhang, why is Qing Chen here to play chess with you again?"

It was clear from their conversation that they knew each other.

However, Grandpa Zhang's tone was less polite, "He's your own son, you're asking me? He's out of living expenses, so he has to rely on playing chess to earn a little money to eat."

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

This statement also surprised Grandpa Zhang. "Then I don't know what's going on."

Grandpa Zhang pondered. Zhang Wanfang wasn't poor, and it seemed she gave Qing Chen a decent amount of living expenses. So why was the young man living so frugally?

Qing Chen didn't seem like a prodigal son; he was meticulous about his daily expenses, never even drinking a soda.

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

Grandpa Zhang then remembered, "He seemed to say he was waiting for someone."

"No, I have to go home and check," Zhang Wanfang said.

As she spoke, she was about to hurry away with the cake when the man beside her suddenly said, "Wanfang, it's Haohao's birthday today. We've already booked a table, and we have to take him to see a movie after dinner!"

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

"He's seventeen, he can take care of himself. Besides, he has his father," the man said, then softened his tone. "Actually, it's fine to go see him on the weekend. Can we accompany Haohao today first?"

Zhang Wanfang frowned upon hearing this, but after a few seconds, she sighed. "Alright, we'll celebrate Haohao's birthday today first."

On a tree-lined path in the West City Government Family Courtyard, Qing Chen walked silently under the camphor trees.

Unlike the high-rise buildings of the modern city, this courtyard consisted of four-story low-rise buildings from the 1970s. There were no elevators, no gas, and the sewage system would occasionally get clogged.

High-power appliances couldn't be used at home because they would trip the circuit breaker.

Qing Chen walked into the dim entrance, ignoring the "locksmith" and "real estate agent" advertisements plastered on the wall like psoriasis. He took out his key and opened the door to the first-floor apartment.

The 76-square-meter apartment had two bedrooms and one living room. The first-floor unit had poor natural light.

He took out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed. "Hello, Dad..."

The voice on the other end interrupted him, "If you need living expenses, go ask your mother. I don't have money. She's got plenty right now."

As he spoke, the sound of mahjong could be heard from the other end of the line.

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

"Then what is it?" the man asked impatiently. "Are you going to school for a parent-teacher conference again? Go ask your mother. This kind of thing..."

Before the other person could finish, Qing Chen hung up the phone himself.

He leaned lightly against the closed apartment door and then lifted the sleeve of his school uniform.

He stared blankly at his forearm, where white numbers and symbols, like a liquid crystal display, were visible: Countdown 5:58:13.

The white numbers were like luminous tattoos embedded in his flesh and skin. No matter how much he rubbed them, he couldn't erase them.

Looking closely at them, Qing Chen noticed intricate and fine patterns within the numbers, like mechanical parts meshing together, exuding a sense of futuristic technology.

The numbers were changing silently.

Countdown 5:58:12.

Countdown 5:58:11.

With 5 hours, 58 minutes, and 11 seconds remaining, it all seemed to be a reminder to Qing Chen that something incredible would happen in 5 hours and 58 minutes.

Although there was no sound, Qing Chen clearly heard the ticking of a second hand in his mind.

Qing Chen glanced at the phone he had just hung up, then at the empty room.

He didn't know what kind of life awaited him in 5 hours and 58 minutes. He only knew that he could only rely on himself.

Time is a very heavy unit of measurement. The length of life, the breadth of civilization, are all marked by it.

The concept of time exists in everyone's life.

Therefore, when a countdown appears in your life, regardless of what it's counting down to, it will create a sense of urgency.

There are 5 hours left, and no one knows what the end of this countdown signifies.

Could it be danger?

Or perhaps another life?

Qing Chen couldn't be sure, so he had to prepare for the worst.

He needed to prepare some things before this countdown ended.

If danger truly came, he wanted to ensure he had at least some ability to resist it within his capabilities.

Qing Chen changed into a clean gray jacket, using the shadow of the hood to obscure his appearance.

Taking advantage of the night.

He went out and walked towards the direction of the farmers' market. In Luocheng, the October sky darkened very early.

The sound of cooking came from the residential building, the crackling of vegetables and oil colliding, followed by an enticing aroma wafting out.

The smells of eggs, pork, and lamb flooded Qing Chen's mind like streams of information, like archived data he could retrieve whenever he needed it.

He had bought pliers and a shovel at the hardware store, a bag of rice, a bag of flour, and salt at the grocery store.

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

When he didn't know what he would face, he could only prepare as thoroughly as possible.

These items had almost used up all of Qing Chen's savings.

After carrying his purchases home, Qing Chen went into the kitchen. He first placed all the usable knives on the cutting board in the most accessible spots in the house.

The cleaver went under his pillow, and the boning knife was placed on the nightstand.

Countdown: 2 hours, 43 minutes, 11 seconds.

He confirmed that the doors and windows were all shut tight, then sat on the edge of the bed and began to ponder: Should he look for help?

Who should he ask?

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

Actually, when Qing Chen discovered the countdown on his arm a few hours ago, he, being only 17, had instinctively wanted to seek help from his parents.

But he dismissed the idea.

Qing Chen took out his phone, trying to take a picture of the white countdown on his arm, only to find that the white pattern, which was clearly visible to his naked eye, did not appear on the phone screen at all.

The dim room was unlit, and the windows were not soundproof. Since it was the first floor, he could often hear the footsteps of pedestrians passing by outside.

The footsteps outside, his own breathing inside, the faint glow of the phone screen – everything was so tranquil yet so bizarre.

With such a strange and absurd thing happening, asking ordinary people for help would likely be useless, and he didn't have any particularly close friends at school.

Even if he did, he shouldn't drag ordinary people into something like this, right?

So, if he wanted help, he would have to find another way.

Wait, Qing Chen seemed to have thought of something. He got up and walked into the living room to search.

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

Then he placed it seriously in front of him and kowtowed nine times.

The last preparatory step was complete.