Chapter 15: The Incineration Plant, The Gift

The onboarding process was very simple.
Fill out an information form, sign a hazard consent form, and that was it.
I voluntarily accept the work of corpse incineration and agree to fully bear all risks involved in the process.
Signer: Feng Mu
Date of signing: March 22, 233

A brief line of explanation, signed and sealed with a red fingerprint.

“The hazard consent form from my previous life at least listed the dangers involved; here, there’s no explanation, nothing—just the word ‘all’ is enough, haha~”

Feng Mu glanced at Wang Jian, who didn’t find anything unusual.
Such is the awareness of the Blank Citizens.

“Besides contamination and disease, are there other risks in corpse incineration?” Feng Mu didn’t ask Wang Jian directly; he felt Wang Jian wouldn’t know either.
“Never mind. After all, who would’ve thought these cursed corpses could burn down to leave behind fragments of Yin Sha, Nine Nether Fiend Iron? A few unknown risks are bearable.” Feng Mu decided to put the question aside for now.

Wang Jian was glad Feng Mu came to keep him company and took him on a tour inside the plant.
“The plant is divided into nine zones, numbered. Zones 1 and 2 are for incineration, 3 is the corpse storage, 4 to 6 are for burning pollutants, 7 is the isolation area, and 8 and 9—I don’t know.”

Wang Jian kept chatting nonstop,
“In short, our daily job is to move cursed corpses from Zone 3 to either Zone 1 or 2 and burn them in an available incinerator.”
“The other zones have nothing to do with us and we’re not allowed in.”

Feng Mu listened quietly, suspicion growing in his heart: “It’s just an incineration plant, why is the regulation so strict, like a military factory?”

Of course, he was only suspicious, not curious, nor did he intend to probe further.
He thought, “Secrets don’t concern me. I just want to quietly incinerate corpses every day and open my [blind boxes].”

Incineration was pure manual labor, no technical skill required, just wear a mask and get to work.

That morning, they incinerated three cursed corpses.
Each differed in form: one’s head split open like a trumpet flower, another had a bulging tumor on its back, and one had a chest cavity shaped like a human face.
The commonality was a vague human silhouette and none produced any valuable output—only a puddle of white ash.

Both Feng Mu and Wang Jian showed a hint of disappointment.
“Usually, ten corpses yield one black core. Depending on quality, it can sell on the black market for tens to hundreds. Don’t worry, next time it happens, I’ll take you to sell it there.” Wang Jian said.

Feng Mu nodded and then gathered the ashes carefully.

The ashes had to be collected and sealed in special paper bags, then placed in an iron box at the entrance. Workers from zones 4 to 6 would collect and process them in the afternoon.
They dared not just scatter them around.

---

He asked, “Why do black market buyers want black cores? What’s so special about them?”

Wang Jian took off his mask and took a drag of his cigarette. “Don’t know. Anyway, they sell for money. If someone buys and sells them, that’s that.”

Feng Mu shrugged and smiled, “True enough.”

Lunch in the canteen was notably bad—cheap synthetic food, but all you can eat. Feng Mu pinched his nose and ate five bowls.
He had to pinch his nose because the air was thick with a stench that invaded his taste buds and made him want to vomit.

Wang Jian only ate half a bowl, staring at Feng Mu in disbelief, showing admiration on his face.

During the meal, they ran into Wang Jian’s father, an older man with graying temples who rarely spoke and worked in Zone 5.

“Why didn’t you go to the reunion yesterday?” Wang Jian suddenly asked while washing dishes.

Feng Mu froze briefly, then seemed to remember something and smiled bitterly. “I’ve been so muddled at home these days, forgot yesterday was the weekend.”

He had packed his schedule too tightly this week—corpse burning and training. Yesterday was finally a day off to catch his breath, and he truly forgot about the classmate dinner.

Wang Jian didn’t think much and started chatting, “Everyone’s changed a lot. Dong Ni got a tattoo on her arm, Tao Fei can’t find work and plans to join a gang, Luo Ji joined the vanguard and is heading into the Hidden Gate next week for exploration. No one knows if he’ll come back alive.”

“The meal was paid for by Luo Ji. He said if he dies inside, the money left behind won’t be of any use.”

“Oh, right, here, this is for you.”

Wang Jian pulled a folding dagger from his pocket and handed it over. “Luo Ji prepared gifts for everyone. He joked that if he doesn’t come back, we should burn paper money for him.”

Seeing Feng Mu hesitate, Wang Jian stuffed it into his pocket with a smile, “Take it. Everyone’s accepted theirs, and we agreed—if Luo Ji doesn’t return, next year we’ll all go burn paper money for him together.”

Feng Mu slid his hand into his pocket, gently grasping the dagger, silent.

A gift and a keepsake, a joke but also a resolve to face death.

Feng Mu had been transmigrated here for three years, and this was the first gift he’d ever received. The giver wasn’t even a friend.

They had barely exchanged a few words before, and yesterday might have been their last encounter—one he had missed.

The gift was a dagger, which would have seemed strange in his previous life but was fitting in this world.

What could be more appropriate than giving a Blank Citizen a knife, especially one who was heading toward death?

Feng Mu’s feelings were strange—not sorrowful or melancholic, but tinged with something else… a hint of anger!

He muttered under his breath, “This damn world!”

Wang Jian didn’t catch it clearly, “What?”

Feng Mu released the dagger, opening his hand, “Give me a cigarette.”

Wang Jian lit one for him and one for himself. The two sat on the steps outside the incinerator, blowing smoke rings without saying a word.

---

In the afternoon, two more cursed corpses arrived.

---

They got a hit—a black core the size of a red date, better quality than Feng Mu’s previous one.

Feng Mu gave it to Wang Jian. They agreed that whenever a core appeared, each would take one in turn, good or bad, all down to luck.

Wang Jian happily agreed and lent Feng Mu 300 yuan.

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back next month when payday comes,” Feng Mu said gratefully.

Wang Jian looked at the black core in his hand, then at his empty wallet, managing a complicated smile.

Two hours remained until the end of their shift.

With nothing to do, Feng Mu began practicing basic boxing techniques in the incinerator room.

He didn’t practice body conditioning exercises because his body lacked iron; training would be pointless. Now that he had a dagger, he suddenly felt motivated to practice boxing.

Why not train with the dagger?

Weapon training wasn’t free at school, and Feng Mu hadn’t learned it.

Basic boxing, like conditioning exercises, was free.

The difficulty level was low enough that even with his natural constitution, Feng Mu could perform the routines perfectly, even without following videos. Each movement was etched into his muscle memory.

Wang Jian was so startled he forgot to smoke, watching Feng Mu with a bewildered expression full of questions.

Wait, we all dropped out and gave up on exams. What the hell is he doing?

“First form: straight punch.”

“Second form: thrust punch.”

“Third form: elbow strike.”

“Fourth form: short stab.”

Feng Mu practiced methodically, as usual—stiff and lifeless. But he could feel something was different.

“Movements still rigid, punches slow, footwork uncoordinated, but…”

He threw a punch; his chest expanded like a drawn bow, his spine twisted with a cracking sound, as if an iron rod was being forcibly wrung.

In the next moment,
a crisp snap echoed through the air.

“Damn, pulled a muscle.” Feng Mu gritted his teeth in pain. He felt his arm was strained, and the skin on his wrist burned fiercely as if congested with blood.

Wang Jian was stunned, the burnt-out cigarette falling onto his shoe, whispering in disbelief, “The air… cracked?!”