Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Should I Recharge and Go Back to Check?

At eight-thirty that night, just before the mall closed, Tu Hua finally hauled the last of her supplies home.

All the way back, she kept replaying Xie Yu Chuan’s weird reaction at the supermarket.

When she’d asked, it had turned out to be nothing. A false alarm.

And yet… she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something in him had shifted, just a hair, sometime that evening.

Was it something he couldn’t say?

She sank into the living-room sofa and stared at the ceiling. It felt like he’d suddenly become stingier with words—more careful, more guarded.

The thought drifted through her mind, then slipped away like mist.

She sat up and stared at the mountain of supplies devouring half her living room, plus the packages she’d picked up earlier. She scratched her head. Sorting all this was basically a workout.

Last time, she’d gotten stuck between time and space. This time, she’d bought with emergencies in mind—things that would still work when everything went sideways.

She’d even gone online, pulled up an official “household emergency supply reserve checklist,” compared it with the versions netizens posted, then tailored everything to the Xie family’s actual situation on the exile road.

In the end, she’d built a simplified, portable Xie Family survival supply list.

Core principles: light, complete, and idiot-proof.

She changed into comfy athletic clothes, grabbed a box cutter, and started cracking open packages. After being trapped in ancient times for half a month, she’d honestly forgotten what she’d ordered.

Half the deliveries were work supplies—art materials and albums. The other half was daily necessities.

Two boxes, though, were impossible to ignore.

Tu Hua’s eyes lit up.

How had she forgotten these?

Back when flooding had cut off parts of the city and residents were trapped with supplies running low, people online had been scrambling—posting guides, organizing help, arguing in the comments. Someone had said that with disasters happening more and more often, every household should keep emergency stock.

Tu Hua had lurked in that thread, seen recommendation after recommendation, and—like a responsible adult who absolutely never learns—ordered two boxes without thinking too hard.

One box was Brand 900 compressed rations. The other was a top-selling fifteen-day emergency survival food kit that cost nearly two thousand yuan.

Perfect for Xie Yu Chuan and the others on the road.

The supermarket only carried loose compressed rations. Nothing like a full kit with variety.

She opened the emergency box. The fifteen-day menu was printed right on the inside—compressed biscuits, canned food, ready-to-eat meals, sealed emergency water, even sugar packets for quick energy. Whoever designed it assumed you’d be miserable and planned accordingly.

She pulled out a self-heating instant fried-rice set, read the instructions, and added water to test one on the spot.

Fifteen minutes later, steam curled up, and the smell hit her like a warm slap.

She took a bite.

Way better than she expected.

Buy more.

Tu Hua immediately opened the official store and ordered two more boxes of instant rice.

Her bank balance dropped like a rock.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. Living like this was not freedom. Tomorrow, she needed to figure out how to make money.

The supermarket haul was easy enough: fridge stuff into the fridge, packaging off anything that needed it, her daily food and drinks into the kitchen. Everything else she stacked along one side of the living room to move later, once her arms stopped trembling.

Food wasn’t enough. Water mattered just as much.

On the way home, she’d passed the little supermarket outside her complex and ordered ten cases directly from the shop owner. Delivery would come soon, so she didn’t rush.

After the food, she inventoried the medicine.

The Xie family had elders and children, so at the pharmacy she’d bought extra—things suitable for seniors and kids. For adults, basic everyday meds would do.

Walking forty to fifty li a day would crush the body. She’d also bought additional glucose solution for quick energy and hydration.

And other things—pain patches for sprains and bruises, hemostatic and anti-inflammatory meds, “bring-you-back-to-life” pills meant for sudden heart attacks. A little of everything.

Not huge amounts. Just enough to have options.

By the time she’d been at it for hours, her waist was aching. She stood, braced a hand against her lower back—and the doorbell rang.

The shop owner had arrived in a small pickup. He carried box after box inside… then froze when he took in the scene.

“Um… are you…?”

His gaze slid to the two military-style emergency crates, and his expression turned complicated.

He pointed at the green boxes. “This is professional. Are you preparing for a disaster… or a war?”

Tu Hua laughed, half amused and half exhausted. “No. Just stocking up for emergencies. You know. Just in case.”

The shop owner nodded slowly. “Honestly, you’re not wrong. Disasters keep happening these years. Stuff like this looks pointless when life is normal, but when something actually hits, people panic and don’t know what to do.”

“With food in hand, you don’t panic,” Tu Hua said lightly, dodging the topic.

The shop owner looked like he’d just been handed a business plan. You could practically see the gears turning—how to pitch “emergency readiness,” what inventory to stock, how much profit to squeeze out of fear and good sense.

Those green crates really caught his eye. He tested the waters. “Those are expensive, right? Are compressed rations any good?”

“Not bad,” Tu Hua said. “There’s self-heating rice. Super convenient.”

As for the price… of course it wasn’t cheap.

When he finished unloading, he handed her a business card. “We just moved here and opened shop, and we live in this complex too. If you need anything later, call or add me on WeChat to order. Orders over fifty, we can deliver.”

Tu Hua accepted the card, and the shop owner left.

She stuck the card on the memo board by the wall.

Food: stocked. Medicine: stocked. Water: on the way.

For Xie Yu Chuan’s side, at least the basic survival supplies were ready.

By the time she looked up, it was after nine. Her phone stayed quiet.

Clothes and tools still lay scattered on the floor. Tu Hua poured herself a glass of water and sat at the dining table to catch her breath.

“Why is Xie Yu Chuan so quiet tonight?”

She opened their chat with one thumb. His last message sat there at 7:39 p.m.

“Xie Yu Chuan: &@#%#%…”

Tu Hua blinked.

She’d been busy paying and hadn’t replied. After that—nothing.

At this hour, he was probably asleep.

She had no idea where they were bedding down tonight.

[Host, do you want to recharge and go back to take a look?]

Tu Hua opened her balance.

1,800 yuan left…

Since when did money become this fragile?

She didn’t answer. The System went quiet for a moment, then suggested, [Why not try the lottery?]

Tu Hua, moving with the speed of someone who had never learned a lesson, opened the lottery pool.

Three pulls in a row—

Thank you for participating. May good luck always be with you.

Tu Hua slammed her thumb on the screen. “Damn!”

She turned around and angrily recharged the entire 1,800.

Ding—

[Congratulations! You have recharged 18 yuan.]

Tu Hua, newly promoted to penniless, hissed, “Switch me back to Great Liang!”

Her vision swam.

The next second, she opened her eyes.

Outside the villa windows, it was pitch-black, with only a few scattered dots of firelight in the distance.

Tu Hua walked to the bed, stunned.

Where was this?

It didn’t feel like the city, and it didn’t feel like the wilderness either. Even the moonlight seemed blocked, as if something overhead swallowed it whole.

She asked the System, “Where has the Xie family reached?”

The System answered, [The city gate of Song Jiang Town.]

“The city gate?” Tu Hua frowned. “Why haven’t they left the city yet?”