Chapter 8: False Happiness, True Authority!

Talent?

On the bus home, Cheng Ye rubbed his aching ribs, abdomen, arms, and thighs…

Alright, every part of him hurt.

“This isn’t talent, it’s all my sweat and effort!”

Cheng Ye’s lips curled into a smile.

Though painful, he relished it.

Compared to endless stagnation, if pain brought such strength gains, what was a bit more pain?

But he quietly resolved to find a skill to quickly recover his physical condition.

Otherwise, even if his combat ability grew, he’d be a five-second hero, needing half a day to recover after one fight.

“Also, getting dragged into the East-West faction conflict so early is bad news.”

Thinking of this, Cheng Ye gritted his teeth in frustration.

Garcia was a genuine idiot, brainlessly used as a pawn and dragging Cheng Ye into the spotlight with him.

Now, beaten into the infirmary by Liu Bi, who in the checkpoint would stand up for him? Who’d dare?

Behind Liu Bi stood the entire Eastern faction, led by Station Chief Ding Yishan!

Deputy Chief Harlin? Would he dare send someone to put Liu Bi in the infirmary too?

Or target Cheng Ye to match Garcia’s fate?

Impossible. That would only give Ding Yishan more leverage to seize greater control.

The Western faction might be dominant, but not enough to trample the Eastern faction.

As long as Ding Yishan was station chief, the Western faction could only chip away slowly, building Harlin’s influence, never daring to spark open conflict.

Only if their roles reversed, Harlin as chief, Ding as deputy, would the balance shift significantly.

“Forget it, why dwell on this?”

“Big B’s right: no scheme beats raw strength. If I could hang Garcia up and thrash him, none of this would’ve happened.”

For now, the external duty in two weeks was his priority. Survive that, and he’d have time to figure out how to navigate and profit from the faction struggle.

Cheng Ye took two deep breaths, pushing faction politics aside, and looked out the window.

The rain intensified at night, with visible puddles forming on the roads.

Happiness City’s buffer zone was large compared to other sanctuaries, but the recent influx of survivors had exceeded its capacity.

Under the eaves of buildings offering shelter, canvas tents crammed with numb, hollow-eyed people stretched endlessly, no trace of hope for the future, no hint of the so-called “happiness.”

“Happiness… it’s fake.”

Cheng Ye recalled Edmond’s dying murmurs from yesterday.

Happiness might exist in this sanctuary, but not for these bottom-tier residents.

Only by clawing their way into the inner city’s high walls could they find a sliver of peace in this chaotic world.

Buzz.

The bus slowed, stopping five stations short of the Electronics Factory Workers’ Compound.

The middle-aged driver turned, shouting to the passengers, “Sorry, flood defenses have blocked the bus route through the main district. Everyone needs to get off here and walk.”

The doors opened, and Cheng Ye disembarked.

Less than a hundred meters from the bus stop, sandbags blocked the road, leaving only a narrow passage.

Four armed guards stood on either side, alongside two buffer zone workers.

“Sir, due to flood defenses, we’re strictly controlling foot traffic. After 8 p.m., entry to the main district requires proof of residence.”

This strict?

Cheng Ye was surprised but quickly understood.

The main district, formed by three intersecting old-era pedestrian streets, was packed with residences, malls, and shops. Its aging drainage system couldn’t handle a flood of refugees. If a severe flood hit, water couldn’t be cleared.

Controlling traffic now ensured order could be restored quickly if flooding occurred.

When his turn came, Cheng Ye didn’t pull out his room key for verification but instead flashed his checkpoint ID badge.

The round badge bore Happiness City’s Great Wall on the front, a bold “Inspector” character on the back, and an embedded chip for authentication.

“Oh, a checkpoint official!”

The worker scanned it with a defense comm, seeing the prompt, and became instantly deferential.

“With the rain worsening, if you need anything, call the Works Department via your comm. We offer 24/7 emergency services.”

“Thanks, you’re working hard.”

Cheng Ye nodded, taking back the badge and moving forward.

His black raincoat hid most of his face, but the pale skin on his forehead drew envious glances from refugees in roadside tents.

Even in the buffer zone, with its mere ten-kilometer span, there were divisions: outer suburbs, inner suburbs, urban areas, and the main district.

Young, living in the main district, Cheng Ye was a clear winner in life.

Passing through the gap, he pressed on.

The main district’s buildings were old, pipelines decrepit, yet puddles were scarce.

Shops along the street had stacked sandbags, some waist-high, with shredded vines stuffed in the gaps.

Every four or five hundred meters, a Works Department foreman led temporary workers, either shoveling clumped silt from drains or pulling debris from outlets with bare hands.

A tin megaphone hung around the foreman’s neck, hoarsely repeating calls to clear pipes, overcome hardship, and embrace a happy life.

The stark contrast made Cheng Ye feel this world was truly mad.

In his predecessor’s memories, the inner city’s technology, if even a fraction were shared, could transform the buffer zone.

Yet the higher-ups chose to restrict tech, letting the buffer zone languish in obsolescence, keeping residents teetering between barely fed and starving, clothed but not warm.

“Without stark contrast, there’s no desperate drive to enter the inner city.”

Cheng Ye saw the same numbness in the foreman’s eyes.

For those just getting by, the more they knew, the more hopeless the future seemed.

Hurrying through outer streets toward the main district’s center, foremen and work crews grew more common.

Suddenly, Cheng Ye paused.

Under a building marked “Tianyuan Mall” at the street’s end, a faintly familiar figure worked among the temporary laborers, hauling sandbags to block flood-prone spots.

Not far off, a woman shielded a child, huddling under a tent to escape the rain.

“A real man.”

Each flood-blocking sandbag weighed at least seventy kilograms.

Average workers, frail and weak, needed two to carry one.

Chu Yunfeng, however, shouldered one on each side, his expression relaxed, as if he had strength to spare.

“Pity, in the buffer zone, one person can’t support a family just by manual labor.”

Cheng Ye lingered in the street’s shadows, watching the crew for over ten minutes.

When Chu Yunfeng headed to the mall’s rear to fetch more sandbags, Cheng Ye approached the foreman.

“That big guy, strong one, what’s his deal?”

The middle-aged foreman, questioned by a young man, frowned, about to snap.

But seeing the badge spinning in Cheng Ye’s hand, his face changed instantly.

“Sir, he’s a refugee who arrived this afternoon. I saw his strength and him asking around for work, so I pulled him in.”

“He’s doing four people’s work. How many shares does he get?”

“Uh…” The foreman hesitated, gauging Chu Yunfeng’s relation to Cheng Ye.

A fresh refugee and a checkpoint official… if they were connected, Chu Yunfeng wouldn’t be here laboring.

Figuring this, he answered honestly, “Sir, you know the buffer zone’s labor rules. No matter how much work, pay’s per head.”

“His strength means he’s more likely to get picked. That’s fair.”

“Give him four shares.”

Cheng Ye waved, his tone firm. “Any issues, have the Works Department find me.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Cold sweat beaded on the foreman’s neck as he nodded hastily.

Even as he watched Cheng Ye leave, he didn’t dare ask to verify the badge or log his identity.

Why would he?

The checkpoint, the pinnacle of power in the buffer-isolation zone, controlled personnel movement, resource allocation, work scheduling, and external duties. A lowly foreman, even a Works Department head, bowed before an inspector. Verifying identity was asking for trouble.

Explaining the extra shares was simple: report it.

In the buffer-isolation zone, lying or embezzling might not kill you, but taking the fall for an inspector would lead to a thorough investigation and heads rolling.

“Qinghui, son, hungry, huh?”

Chu Yunfeng spread his coat, revealing five bags of nutrient paste and two pieces of malt candy. His stern face, unchanged since entering the city, softened with a faint smile. “That wandering merchant didn’t lie. In Happiness City, if you’re willing to work, you can earn food.”

“Dad, wasn’t it just two bags? How’d… how’d the boss give you so much?”

Adults could endure, but the kid, starving, grabbed the candy, munching happily, eyes sparkling.

Others in the tent, families of workers, licked their cracked lips enviously.

“No idea. The boss said pay’s per head, but just now he gave me four shares, saying I worked hard, didn’t slack, and made him look good… he’s pleased?”

Chu Yunfeng was puzzled.

Normally, he’d be paranoid, suspecting a conspiracy.

But today’s events had left his mind in chaos.

Happiness City, famed in the wasteland, was full of contradictions. One inspector extorted entry fees, pushing him to the brink of violence; another acted like an old-era philanthropist, treating them kindly, leaving him skeptical.

And that second inspector was holding back laughter the whole time, deepening Chu Yunfeng’s confusion.

Finding work was the same.

Some foremen scorned him, preferring scrawny refugees to dawdle and waste time.

Others, like this boss, were warm, hiring him after a few words and paying four shares.

Such stark contrasts dulled Chu Yunfeng’s wasteland-honed vigilance.

“Yunfeng…”

Yu Qinghui beckoned, whispering, “I saw a young man by the boss, who seemed very respectful to him. Could it be related to

him

?”

She emphasized “him.”

Their tacit understanding let Chu Yunfeng know who she meant.

“You sure? He was masked this afternoon.”

“Pretty sure. Couldn’t see his face, but his build, habits, posture, too many traits match. Only thing’s odd…”

“Odd how?” Chu Yunfeng pressed.

“I… his walk felt like yours. That power exertion, I wouldn’t have noticed him, but it was so similar…”

Yu Qinghui stammered, unable to say it felt like seeing a young, lean Chu Yunfeng from their early days. Too far-fetched.

“He’s like me?”

Chu Yunfeng was shocked. “I didn’t notice his walk this afternoon since he was sitting. He helped us—could we really be connected?”

“I don’t know if I misjudged. It’s night, raining…”

Yu Qinghui’s explanation sounded like a cover-up.

After years surviving the wasteland, their martial senses were sharp. Misjudge?

Chu Yunfeng fell silent, alternating between shaking and nodding his head, then handed a warm nutrient paste to Yu Qinghui.

“Drink. Whatever his motive, he helped us twice. We owe him.”

“I’ll find ways to repay him tenfold later,” he paused, “but for now, we focus on finding a place to stay before the storm hits and a steady job. Don’t overthink the rest.”