Chapter 82: Echoes of the Past

The shrill hum of a propeller jolted the nocturnal assembly.

Inside the forested settlement, the few guards hurriedly grabbed flashlights; one leaped up and dashed out the door toward the source of the sound.

Unlike the grand and noisy Safe Zones, this place resembled a quiet village where everyone had long since fallen asleep.

On the only relatively flat patch of ground, several low-tier Awakeners and militiamen clutched their flashlights, repeatedly craning their necks to scan the sky.

Apart from merchant caravans that arrived every few months to trade supplies, outsiders rarely showed up here.

“Who’s coming our way?”

“Why, another plane?”

Speaking in his dialect, the roused leader stared blankly at the approaching armed helicopter, a chill creeping up his spine.

With hardly any electric lights around, the sight of a helicopter armed with a machine gun set everyone on edge.

“It appears to be Military, doesn’t it?”

“I spotted the inscription!”

“Hmm?”

The group paused in surprise, and the nearby survivors, awakened by the commotion, lifted their heads in astonishment.

In the beam of a flashlight, everyone could clearly read the white lettering painted on the aircraft’s side.

“Is it really the Military’s?”

He sighed softly in relief as the lead Middle-Aged Man narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath.

What could the Military possibly want here? There was nothing of value—no masses of corpses or monsters—just survivors eking out a living on cultivated lands and fruit orchards.

Before long.

A gust of wind hit as the helicopter gradually settled. Under the protection of several fully armed soldiers, a young man cloaked in a hunter’s short cape stepped out.

The impressive display made the Middle-Aged Man’s heart skip a beat as he realized that Yenir might very well be someone important.

But what would Yenir be doing here at such a late hour? Their settlement lacked resources—barely enough to keep them fed.

Nervously swallowing, the Middle-Aged Man edged into a slight bow with a forced smile:

“Officers, what brings you here at this hour?”

Holding his rifle, the soldier stationed on either side of Yenir spoke gravely:

“We are from the Zhenjiang Security Zone Second Group Army.”

“We’ve come to inquire about certain matters and hope you’ll cooperate with us…”

After a brief hesitation, the officer glanced toward Yenir:

“Please assist in answering this gentleman’s questions,” he added.

Like the survivors, they had been urgently dispatched by a high command, arriving overnight with Yenir in tow.

Frankly, they were very curious about Yenir’s identity.

Who is this influential figure’s descendant that can summon the Military’s meticulous attention, and yet remains incognito?

Taking a step forward, Yenir glanced at the Middle-Aged Man and softly began:

“Hello.”

“I’ve heard that about sixty years ago a batch of soldiers left this place,” he said.

“They fought in the defense of Zhenjiang’s frontline. Do you know where these men once lived?”

Time had blurred the details. Even though Chen Yong had tried his best to retrieve records from those days, both names and household registrations were lost after the apocalypse. The only useful information was an approximate idea of the recruitment area—too many had died in that brutal battle.

The Middle-Aged Man was taken aback, his eyes wide with surprise; he never expected such a question.

After a moment’s contemplation, he nervously began:

“Sixty years ago…”

“Are you talking about those mountain folk? The Zhuang…”

Scratching his head,

“Sir, I faintly remember that; it was mentioned by some of the older folks in the settlement,” he added.

“Maybe I should call them over. I wonder how many still survive…”

He offered an awkward smile.

The Middle-Aged Man rubbed his hands, careful not to offend the young man before him.

He’s only in his forties; sixty years ago, he wasn’t even born…

Yenir felt a small relief. On the way here, he had worried that after so many years, if no survivors remained, he wouldn’t know where to look. Yet, evidently, someone had made it.

Soon, amid a flurry of urgent exchanges, a group of younger survivors arrived carrying several elders.

Noticing their approach, Yenir stepped forward and scrutinized the elders carefully.

In contrast to other survivors, these elders still clung to old traditions—dressed in blue-black homespun clothes and wearing white headscarves.

Seeing their tired eyes and weathered, wrinkled hands, Yenir felt a surge of gratitude.

Surviving after the apocalypse was harsh. Although conditions had improved over the past twenty years, elders of this age were rarely seen.

“Grandma, do you remember the soldiers who left here sixty years ago?”

“They were part of the Zhenjiang defense!”

With a racing heart, Yenir nervously asked the eldest grandma, waiting patiently for her reply.

Next to her, a Middle-Aged Man of apparent minority descent offered a polite chuckle and said:

“Sir, my grandma’s hearing isn’t great. She can’t quite follow what you’re saying.”

Then the Middle-Aged Man raised his voice and leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

After a moment, the elderly woman’s hand quivered unexpectedly, and a spark seemed to flicker in her tired eyes. Suddenly, she grabbed Yenir’s hand tightly, as if sensing something:

“Mong dou pi lan…”

The translating Middle-Aged Man was startled and looked at Yenir in a daze:

“My grandmother said…”

“Sir… are they near you? Together…”

“They’re back…”

Under the cloak of night, Yenir’s heart skipped a beat.

For a fleeting moment, he felt as if the silent spirits of brave warriors were standing right behind him.

A voice, laden with bitterness, murmured:

“Yes…”

“I brought them…”

“Back…”