Chapter Seventy-four: The Refugee Camp

Fang Nian and Duan Rui exchanged glances, a faint bitterness reflected in their eyes.

“It seems your grandfather never intended to leave us an escape route. This mechanism is truly ingenious,” Duan Rui said with a wry smile. Having studied code breaking and design under her grandfather, she knew well his methods. Seeing their retreat blocked, she could only smile bitterly.

“If we can only move forward, let’s figure out how to open that iron door. It should be the only exit from this cold storage,” Fang Nian nodded in agreement. But after they inspected the iron door, his expression darkened.

“This door is incredibly thick and solid—there aren’t any cavities inside. It’s clearly not a mechanical door, just an ordinary iron door. There’s probably a simple padlock on the other side. That’s troublesome. We don’t have any tools; there’s no way to start,” he said.

Duan Rui knocked around the edges of the door and sighed helplessly, then looked at Fang Nian.

“Well... your fists are pretty tough, aren’t they? Why don’t you try hitting it a couple times?”

Fang Nian grimaced, unsure if Duan Rui was joking at his expense. The door could be broken, perhaps, but if it were a mechanical door, with the internal force he’d mastered, he might be able to disable the mechanism. But to strike such a solid lump of iron now—he’d probably break his bones before the door gave way.

He forced a smile and ignored her suggestion, beginning to search along the walls for any other exit.

Just then, sudden footsteps rustled nearby, accompanied by the clinking of keys.

“Someone’s coming,” Duan Rui whispered, alerting Fang Nian before he noticed anything. His enhanced hearing was already E-class, able to pick up the faintest sounds, but he hadn’t expected Duan Rui to notice as well. For a moment, he regarded her with renewed respect.

The sounds quickly approached the iron door. After a brief jangle of keys, the lock clicked, and with a creak, the door swung open. Two men in gray uniforms entered, pushing a metal cart, and began loading food from the shelves.

Fang Nian and Duan Rui waited until the men had moved away from the door. They exchanged glances, then slipped out of the cold storage behind the gray-uniformed workers, a wave of warmth washing over them as they finally escaped the cursed cold.

They found themselves in a corridor, flanked by metal walls lined with windows. Silver-white light streamed in through the panes. Looking out, it was much the same as before: the train raced across a frozen wasteland, surrounded by endless, icy snow.

Duan Rui stared out the window, lost in thought. Suddenly, Fang Nian grabbed her and quickly pulled her into a corner.

Her cheeks flushed as she struggled, whispering, “What are you doing?”

Fang Nian covered her mouth and pointed to the surveillance camera rotating above the corridor. Duan Rui realized the danger and gestured to a nearby iron door, slightly ajar.

Understanding her intent, Fang Nian watched the camera’s movements; when it swung away, they darted past its gaze and slipped through the door.

Inside, they stopped and stared. It was a boiler room carriage: a central passage flanked by dozens of boilers. In each compartment, two burly men in gray uniforms worked feverishly with huge iron shovels, tossing coal-like fuel into the boilers.

Fang Nian observed that the carriage contained at least a hundred rooms, all engaged in the same repetitive task—feeding fuel into the boilers.

Behind them, the clatter of a metal cart rang out. Fang Nian wasted no time. He leapt forward, crouched, and stealthily opened a glass cabinet, snatching two gray uniforms hanging on the rail and grabbing a lump of the black fuel.

“What are you doing?” Duan Rui asked, wrinkling her nose at the sweat-stained uniform Fang Nian handed her.

“Put it on,” Fang Nian ordered, smearing some of the black fuel across her delicate face before quickly changing into the uniform himself.

Duan Rui grunted in frustration, wishing she could strangle Fang Nian right then and there, but knowing he was only trying to help, she endured the foul smell and put on the uniform, tying up her hair to make herself appear more disheveled.

Soon, the two food transporters appeared behind them. One, a thin man, asked suspiciously, “Are you two from the power team?”

Fang Nian noticed the spoon-like insignia on their uniforms, while his own bore a boiler symbol. He understood and replied, “Yes... yes, we are.”

The man’s expression turned angry. “Then why aren’t you fueling the boilers? What are you doing here? Get back to your station, or you won’t get fruit cake tonight.”

Fang Nian and Duan Rui nodded and hurried to an empty compartment, mimicking the others as they shoveled fuel into the furnace.

They soon realized how difficult this work was. In each room, the heat from the flames pushed temperatures above thirty degrees Celsius, and the labor was grueling.

Once the food cart workers left, Fang Nian and Duan Rui stopped shoveling and slipped out, continuing toward the next carriage. They knew that only by moving forward could they find a way out.

By now, half an hour had passed; seven hours and thirty minutes remained until the arrival of the ice ring.

After walking three or four kilometers, they finally exited the sweltering power carriage and entered the next compartment, discovering it was a large dormitory carriage.

Inside were thousands of bunks, reminiscent of sleeper cars on a train, but even more cramped. Each bunk was less than half a meter apart, arranged in groups of five.

The carriage was packed with people. Everywhere, tattered clothes and old trousers hung to dry, and moldy sheets lay about, evoking the atmosphere of a refugee camp from a television drama.