Iron-Blooded Apocalypse

“I’m not dead?”

Fang Xia jolted awake on the bed.

Everything before his eyes was both achingly familiar and impossibly distant—he had seen it countless times in his dreams.

He pinched his thigh, hard. It hurt—truly hurt.

This was real. Had he been reborn?

He hurriedly grabbed his phone. November 10th, 2040, 9:00 a.m.

He couldn’t recall much about this date, but the next day—Singles’ Day—he could never forget. That was when disaster struck.

November 11th, an otherwise unremarkable day, had become a shopping frenzy under the machinations of capitalists. That night, countless people lost sleep, never imagining that just a dozen hours later, at 11:11 p.m. on November 11th, the world would be irrevocably changed.

The apocalypse arrived.

It was as if the sky had been torn open by an unseen hand—a torrential rain, the likes of which had never been seen, crashed down. Within an hour, Baicheng, the provincial capital, was transformed into a vast ocean.

And the rain did not stop.

It lasted for three days and three nights. By the time the city was almost entirely submerged, only those who had taken refuge above the twentieth floor survived.

But that was just the beginning. After the deluge came a rain of fire.

Red droplets fell from the sky, rapidly evaporating the floodwaters and bringing with them a scorching heat—sixty degrees Celsius.

In such extreme conditions, it was impossible for anyone to venture out for food. Countless people starved or perished in the heat.

Again, three days passed.