Chapter 1181 Kyoto Gathering Place 2
Ground floor residential area - midday
The hazy sunlight struggled to penetrate the permanent smog that shrouded Tokyo Bay, a haze composed of dust, moisture, and unidentified spores, and sparingly shone on the lower reaches of this vast sea prison.
The light, squeezed between the narrow passageways and the densely packed shacks, appeared even dimmer, like the gaze of a dying person.
Thud—thud—thud—
The dull metallic clanging echoed precisely in the labyrinthine alleyways, signaling the start of lunch rations, like the tolling of a countdown clock to sustain life.
People who had already worked hard at their posts all morning and were starving were like puppets being pulled by invisible strings, silently gathering from all directions to the designated distribution point.
The line was very long, slowly crawling forward like a giant, dying worm.
The air was filled with an indescribable, complex odor—the smell of sweat, mildew, the salty tang of the sea, and a faint, sour, putrid smell emanating from people due to long-term malnutrition.
A skinny little boy, about seven or eight years old, named Masao, tightly gripped his mother's rough, cracked hand.
His clothes were made from some kind of gray, rough industrial fabric, too big for his body, making him look even more frail.
His eyes were large, but lacked the sparkle a child should have. He stared intently at the gradually shortening queue at the rationing window, his throat unconsciously swallowing non-existent saliva.
"もう小しだ, まさお. すぐだよ..." (Hold on, Masao. We'll be here soon...)
The mother's voice was hoarse and tired, and she clutched her aching stomach tightly with her other hand.
Her long-term diet consisting mainly of algae and hydroponically cultivated fungi has severely disrupted her gastrointestinal function.
Finally, it was their turn.
Behind the window was an expressionless administrator wearing the same dark blue uniform.
Mechanically, he scooped a clump of sticky, dark green algae paste from the large bucket with a spoon and placed it in the metal lunchbox his mother handed him. Then, with a smaller spoon, he added half a spoonful of what looked like cooked, grayish-white mushroom chunks.
"Next!" the administrator shouted without looking up, his voice devoid of any warmth.
This is the food ration for the mother and child for today.
"おてすうをおかけしました" (I'm causing trouble for you!) The mother bowed to the end while holding the lunch box, showing great humility.
The food server didn't react at all, not even lifting an eyelid, as if a mosquito had just buzzed in his ear.
Masao's mother was already used to this and didn't expect a pleasant response. She only hoped that the other party wouldn't deliberately reduce her and her son's food rations next time she was served food because of her rudeness.
Then, the mother silently pulled Zheng Nan aside, her careful demeanor as if she were guarding the most precious treasure in the world.
Masao couldn't wait to scoop out a little algae paste with his finger and put it in his mouth. The familiar, fishy and bitter taste made him frown, but hunger forced him to continue swallowing.
“It’s so hard to eat…” he muttered under his breath, but dared not waste a single bite.
Just then, a static crackled from the rusty loudspeaker mounted above the shed, followed by a cold, monotonous female voice that began broadcasting on a loop:
"Attention, all citizens. I am working hard and reviving the Fuso nation. Those who do not want to be fooled are , all the enemies are the same, the order is the best, the hard work is the future.
(Attention all citizens! Our efforts are the cornerstone of the revival of the Japanese nation. Those who utter complaints are enemies of all. Observe order and work diligently. A glorious future lies behind our patience and sacrifice...)
The broadcast echoed in the oppressive air, creating a sharp and cruel irony against the scene of people struggling for food.
Not far away, a middle-aged man named Matsumoto, dressed in worn-out work clothes, his face covered in grease and showing signs of fatigue, was squatting in the corner, quickly stuffing his ration into his mouth.
He is one of the workers who maintains the filtration system around the settlement, and every day he risks being slightly infected while working in an environment full of polluted seawater and strange spores.
His fingers were ulcerated from prolonged contact with an unknown substance, but he dared not rest.
"ちっ、まずいにも成がある．こんなもの、dolphin foodわねーぞ." (Yes, there has to be a limit to how unpalatable it is. Not even pigs can eat this thing.)
He muttered a complaint to his coworker beside him, who was also wolfing down his food, his voice extremely low.
"黙れよ, Matsumoto. Hear the words "Ideological Guidance" and "Ideological Guidance"." (Shut up, Matsumoto. If you are overheard, you will be dragged to "ideological guidance" again.)
The workers nervously looked around, afraid that they might be overheard by patrolling soldiers or informants.
From the other end of the passage, a suppressed sob and a stern rebuke suddenly came.
A frail woman fainted while queuing due to exhaustion, accidentally knocking over her rations. The sticky algae paste and fungal blocks spilled all over the ground, mixing with the filthy muddy water.
“My…my food…!” She knelt on the ground in despair, tears streaming down her face, as she futilely tried to scoop up the inedible food with her hands.
A patrolling "Controlled Army" soldier strode over, impatiently tapping the ground with the butt of his rifle.
"Evil! Let's go! Tomorrow's ration has been confiscated!" (It's blocking the road! Get out of the way! Tomorrow's ration has been confiscated!)
Most of the people around him watched expressionlessly, their eyes blank.
Sympathy is a luxury here; everyone is struggling to survive. Occasionally, a flicker of pity might cross someone's eyes, but they quickly lower their heads and hurried away.
Whistleblowers are everywhere, and any excessive sympathy or expression of discontent could lead to utter ruin.
In some slightly secluded corners, one or two elderly people wearing faded, even patched old-fashioned kimonos can be seen trembling as they clasp their hands in prayer before a simple shrine with an indistinct image of a deity.
"どうか...どうかこの suffering is over soon..." (Pray... pray that this suffering will pass soon...)
Their lips moved silently, their cloudy eyes filled with deep confusion and pleading.
This ancient ritual, in this desperate, apocalyptic prison, appears so pale and powerless, like a faint last vestige of mourning for the peaceful years of the past, yet unable to bring any real comfort.
The entire ground floor residential area is like a huge and intricate anthill, where everyone plays their assigned role under harsh rules and survival pressure, repeating a hopeless day.
They lived simply to live, breathing oppressive air, chewing unpalatable food, and amidst the brainwashing broadcasts, the soldiers' shouts, and their own fear and numbness, waiting for a different tomorrow that might never come.
However, at this moment the sunlight above the dome seemed to brighten a little, as if it could not bear to witness the suffering of "humanity" forgotten in the corner of the ruins of civilization.
Waaaaaahh ...
The next second, piercing air raid sirens blared throughout the entire Kyoto settlement!
