John Foster noticed James York sizing him up, but the gaze was merely curious, without any malice, so John Foster paid it no mind. He chose the most economical items from memory—three thumb-length sealed bars. Though small, they felt as heavy as iron in his hand. Low-end compressed food.

James York withdrew his gaze and glanced at what John Foster had picked. “That’s nine yuan in total. Do you want them decompressed?”

Decompression meant unsealing the compressed food, turning those hard blocks into an edible form.

“Yes. And a cup of tea,” said John Foster.

“Decompression is fifty cents, tea is fifty cents, so ten yuan in total.” As James York spoke, he unwrapped the three compressed foods and put them into the decompression machine. About ten seconds later, he took out the tray, which now held three items about twenty centimeters long and seven or eight centimeters wide, resembling steamed cakes and still steaming hot.

“To go?” James York asked.

“No, I’ll eat here.” John Foster took the tray and asked James York, “Mr. York, can I take a chair outside?”

“Don’t take it too far,” James York replied without looking up. He wasn’t worried about this kid stealing his chairs—there were few on this street who’d dare steal from his shop.

John Foster set the dog down not far from the shop entrance, then brought a chair out from inside and sat down.

With the three compressed cakes, John Foster gave one to the dog at his feet and ate the other two himself. If this were the apocalypse, he would never have been so generous as to share food with a dog he’d just met. But now, reborn in the new century, John Foster was in a good mood and willing to share. Since the original owner had picked it up and it hadn’t died, he’d keep it for now.

The compressed cakes didn’t taste great, and the tea was a cheap artificial powder brew—no wonder it was so inexpensive. But as someone who’d survived the apocalypse, John Foster found it delicious enough. He’d experienced hunger in the early days of the apocalypse; later, though food was no longer a worry, he couldn’t afford to be picky.

Compared to the rough, basic food and the tense atmosphere of war, these compressed cakes were practically gourmet. Now, being able to sit here and enjoy lunch in peace made John Foster very satisfied.

Chapter 3: Your Friend Has Made It

By noon, the sun was shining on this street, driving away the chill of Black Street.

The shop owner, James York, had also brought out a lounge chair to nap in the sun at the entrance. He rarely had business during the day; Black Street was most active at night, so he seldom slept at night and used the day to catch up on sleep. This was the routine for most of the big shop owners on Black Street.

After wolfing down the two compressed cakes, John Foster glanced at the dog lying at his feet. The cake he’d given it was already gone, and the dog was licking up the crumbs on the ground. Animals with rich experience living on the streets seemed to know exactly what was edible and what wasn’t—those without survival skills wouldn’t have lasted this long on Black Street.

Full, John Foster felt every moment was a pleasure. Sitting on Black Street, he looked up at the sky. Above, the sky was like a bright blue ribbon, with dazzling sunlight hanging high and looking down on the earth. There was none of the murkiness or blood-red hue of the apocalypse.

“So nice.”

The apocalypse hadn’t truly brought an end.

What they once called the end times had become what people of the new century referred to as the “Extinction Era.” After enduring long years of mass slaughter and species extinction, the world was reborn, as if through a phoenix’s nirvana. Humanity still ruled the planet.

The world had finally entered a new era of prosperity.

It had been so long since things were this peaceful. Creative inspiration began to surge uncontrollably again.

John Foster’s fingers, resting casually on his leg, tapped lightly. Few would ever notice this, and even if they did, they wouldn’t understand what it meant.

James York stared for a long time but couldn’t make sense of it. As a retired soldier, he’d carried out many missions and learned all sorts of codes, but whatever John Foster was tapping wasn’t any code he knew.

After watching in confusion for a while, James York gave up and went back to sunbathing at the shop entrance.

Some people unconsciously tap their fingers when thinking, but only those who truly knew John Foster would realize that this was his way of composing. When inspiration struck, John Foster would start creating. During the apocalypse, there was no time or space for peaceful creation, let alone pen and paper, so John Foster invented his own way of composing music. Coupled with his extraordinary memory, he developed a unique creative method. In a way, it was a kind of code—a musical cipher only John Foster could understand.

The sunlight didn’t linger long on Black Street—less than an hour before it gradually retreated.

Without the sun, the temperature on Black Street dropped by several degrees. But since it was already late May, the weather in Yanzhou was still mild, so some of the elderly, after sunbathing, didn’t go back right away but stayed to chat with old friends. This was their liveliest time of day.

John Foster didn’t plan to stay any longer. He returned the tray, cup, and chair to the shop.

Just then, the voices of people talking on Black Street suddenly grew louder, and there was the sound of something flying overhead.