Chapter One: The Purifier

Year 2055 AD, the twentieth year after the outbreak of the apocalypse. Early spring.

In Purification Room of the First Military Hospital at Zhongyuan Base No. 3, Huaguo, Qi An gazed through the one-way glass at her ninth patient of the day.

He was a burly soldier, clad in filthy camouflage fatigues, sitting on the only round stool in the empty room, seemingly gnawing his nails.

Qi An had just turned a corner when the alarm blared in the purification chamber.

The man wasn’t chewing his nails—his eyes were vacant, his mouth agape.

With a sharp crack, he bit off his own left thumb!

Crimson blood gushed from the severed stump. He stuck out his tongue to lick it, then crunched on the half-thumb in his mouth, chewing with a crisp, sickening sound.

“Warning! Patient No. 09, Liu Wenle, contamination rising rapidly. Current contamination level: 45%... 52%... 59%! Level Three Mutation Alert!”

Qi An shoved open the door and rushed inside, her blue ID badge fluttering as she ran.

[Qi An, age 20.
Physical Enhancement Rating: D. Neuro Domain Rating: B.
Occupation: Purifier. Work Rating: 3 stars. Qualified for routine and emergency non-combat purification.]

Her face was grave and cold as she dashed behind the soldier, injecting a vial of potent inhibitor before he could lash out in his panic.

The man’s body stiffened; the contamination level froze at 59% on the chamber’s monitor.

Qi An risked her hand to pry the severed digit from between his mutating fangs, ignoring the sharp pain as she was bitten, and gripped the soldier’s hand firmly.

She cradled his hand gently, but her voice was steady and calm: “Initiating mental resonance.”

The soldier’s wild expression faltered again, as if a raging fire was suddenly doused by cool rain. His battered will trembled, clutching at the soothing clarity.

On the monitor, the contamination level started to fall. Meanwhile, the reading on Qi An’s own contamination-detecting wristband crept upward, albeit more slowly.

Minute by minute, sweat beaded on Qi An’s brow. Her pupils began to split, and multiple strange, secondary irises appeared in her eyes.

Signs of mutation.

But in the end, both contamination values settled at 32%.

The soldier calmed, his body returning to normal. Now, at last, he felt the searing pain of his lost thumb, but clung all the more to the gentle energy that had soothed his shattered mind.

He threw his arms around Qi An, his burly frame enveloping her slender form, his fuzzy head nuzzling and sniffing her neck with childlike dependency.

Qi An, whose face had just started to regain color, turned pale again. She struggled and shouted in protest.

Two security guards, summoned by the alarm, hurried in and dragged Liu Wenle away.

It was not uncommon for patients, after purification, to develop an attachment to their purifier—sometimes even attempting inappropriate intimacy. But such incidents seemed to happen with unusual frequency around Doctor Qi.

Perhaps because she was beautiful?

The guards handled the minor disturbance with practiced ease.

Liu Wenle was restrained, his longing gaze fixed on Qi An until she left the room, only then dropping in reluctant, dejected defeat.

Qi An filled out the treatment report with a frosty expression. Through the one-way glass, she watched the guards wrap up the thumb before it could be further damaged.

There was still some hope it could be reattached.

Qi An smoothed her white coat and returned to her small, private resting room at the end of the corridor.

She dabbed a bit of iodine on her freshly washed wound—such minor injuries were hardly worth wasting gauze on, not in this world.

As soon as she finished disinfecting the cut, she left it exposed to the air and closed her eyes in meditation.

Qi An had been born the very year the apocalypse began. Her only family, her father Qi Wanquan, had died eight years ago. Now she lived alone in the base.

From her general studies at the base, she knew the apocalypse began with the discovery and subsequent leak of an ancient virus.

The virus, named “Black Tide,” supposedly emerged after a magnitude-9 earthquake in the southeastern plateau of Huaguo tore open the earth and revealed a prehistoric subterranean lake.

The Black Tide virus rewrote the genes of humans and a significant portion of Earth’s existing life.

The transformation was swift and brutal. Over 80% of humanity perished during the pandemic; the remaining 20% coexisted with the virus and, unexpectedly, gained enhancements.

Human enhancements came in two forms: physical and neuro domain. The latter had two measures: spirit and intellect, both rated from 1 to 10.

Qi An had her stable job at the military hospital, even a twenty-square-meter apartment in the secure residential district, all because her neuro domain rating was B. Her intellect rating was 4; her spirit, an impressive 7.

Anyone with a spirit rating of 6 or above could become a purifier—a rare and precious profession.

The wound on Qi An’s hand clotted and healed rapidly—an ability granted by the virus.

But the true horror of the apocalypse was this: just as humanity began to regain hope, an alien pollution—an informational anomaly from beyond the stars—descended upon the blue planet, defying all human comprehension.

This pollution was not a physical substance, but a strand of information. Neither humanity nor the most advanced AIs could decipher its meaning, yet it could inhabit and propagate through any medium.

A twisted geometric symbol, a snatch of melody, a scent—anything perceivable by human senses.

Once detected, it would parasitize the mind like a brain worm, forever remaining in the brain, waiting for a moment of weakness to devour reason, mutating the body, turning people into monsters—slaves to the will behind that information.

The pollution, and the mutant legions it spawned, were humanity’s greatest threat.

Ironically, the mental enhancements granted by the virus became humanity’s only defense against the pollution.

Thus, the number and ability of purifiers at a base determined its very survival.

Qi An meditated for an hour. Her wristband’s contamination reading dropped back to 25%, returning to the safe, healthy green.

Such was the resistance and suppressive power of a professional purifier.

Of course, even among her peers, Qi An’s ability to suppress contamination was exceptional—her recovery time could have been even shorter.

After changing clothes, she filled out her daily work report on her phone and prepared to head home.

It was the weekend; she could purify one or two fewer patients and finish her shift by six.

The new year had just passed, and the base was well stocked with supplies. She planned to buy some potatoes and a couple of pieces of chicken for stew on her way home.

She had no holidays. The work was exhausting and occasionally dangerous, but she was content with her lot.

Compared to most people in the apocalypse, her monthly salary of 300 contribution points, two meals in the unit canteen, and occasional material subsidies meant her days were stable and abundant.

If she dared grumble, she’d surely be struck by lightning.

Qi An’s steps were light as she prepared to leave, when suddenly she received a message.

Her superior wanted her in the office.

Qi An’s heart skipped. She glanced back at her little room.

It was neat and tidy. She had completed all her tasks for the day, made no mistakes, and it was rare for her superior to call a meeting after work on a weekend.

Confused but unable to refuse, she replied, “Understood,” and, with a trace of anxiety, knocked on her supervisor’s door.

The office had a window. Outside, the deep blue twilight pressed close; inside, a tall, poised woman sat under the yellow glow of a desk lamp, reviewing a stack of files.

This was Sister Qu, head of Routine Purification Department Group 2, Qi An’s direct superior.

A sense of foreboding rose in Qi An’s chest.

Sister Qu’s expression was complex—pleased, yet tinged with regret and worry.

Sure enough, Sister Qu beckoned her to sit, paused, then smiled and said, “Qi, congratulations! Your physical enhancement test results from last week just arrived—you’ve been promoted from D to C!

“Headquarters also reviewed your year and a half of purification records at the military hospital. Average purification value: 20%. Error and refusal rates both under 10%. Patient satisfaction: 99%. Outstanding performance!”

Sister Qu rose and offered her hand solemnly.

“Purifier Qi An, starting the day after tomorrow, you’ll be transferred to field duty—as an official battlefield emergency purifier!”