Seeing Bai Mei in the wheelchair with red-rimmed eyes from worry, and Jia Wu standing beside her clearly troubled, Nan Muran’s heart gave a small pause.

Having lived through the apocalypse, she understood well the treachery of human nature—so she could easily read Jia Wu’s thoughts.

Or perhaps, apart from Guo Fei, this was the first time in years someone had genuinely worried about her to the point of tears. That softened her heart a little.

She pulled Da Fu out of her backpack. Tank, who had just been bouncing around happily, instantly looked sulky. Nan Muran knew he was jealous and could only crouch down, damp and all, to begin explaining how she had met Da Fu.

Bai Mei watched her flailing arms as she tried to coax Tank and let out a sigh of relief with a smile.

“Make her something to eat,” Jia Wu suddenly said.

Having known her for a while now, he’d come to understand that Nan Muran was a pampered girl—picky with food and completely hopeless in the kitchen. This time, she’d been out for more than a week and surely hadn’t eaten properly.

Bai Mei looked at her husband in surprise. “So you do know how to care about her. I thought your heart was made of stone.”

“Muran, your clothes are still wet. Stop fussing over him. Go upstairs and take a hot bath first, or you’ll catch a cold. Come down for dinner after that,” she said.

Jia Wu smiled silently. To him, Nan Muran wasn’t just their savior or his student—she felt more like… a daughter.

Even if their real daughter had survived, she wouldn’t have been this old. But somehow, the couple had made an exception for Nan Muran in every way.

The second floor had been fitted with a temperature-controlled bath when they renovated. Though it was only about ten square meters, it had everything one could need.

She poured in some essential oil, lit a scented candle, and sank into the warm water. It enveloped her body, washing away every bit of exhaustion.

Setting a timer, she closed her eyes, soon dozing off in pure comfort.

The villa’s temperature control allowed her to change into lighter clothes afterward.

When she came downstairs, the dining table was filled with dishes that made her mouth water: sweet and sour ribs, beer duck, Longjing shrimp, garlic abalone, crab roe egg, cold cucumber salad, scallions with tofu, and a plate of stir-fried greens. They were all homestyle dishes—but every single one was her favorite.

“Come, try my cooking,” Bai Mei said, placing an abalone in her bowl.

“Mei-jie, when did you start cooking? And where did all these fresh greens come from?” She didn’t remember putting anything like this in the fridge.

“I started after my hand recovered—I actually enjoy cooking.

While you were gone, your Brother Wu got bored and built a hydroponic box in the cave using materials from the basement and the hot spring. The leafy greens grew like crazy,” Bai Mei replied with a smile.

Everything tasted amazing, and since it was all food she loved, Nan Muran ate happily.

After dinner, she returned to her bed on the second floor and fell asleep not long after.

In the small lounge upstairs, Tank glanced disdainfully at palm-sized Da Fu. But Da Fu’s enthusiasm was undeterred—it meowed and cozied right up to Tank.

Eventually, Tank gave in, and the big one and the tiny one curled up on the sofa and fell asleep.

Downstairs, Jia Wu loaded dishes into the dishwasher while chatting with his wife.

“Honey, I think Muran has something weighing on her mind,” Bai Mei said, frowning slightly.

Jia Wu nodded. “She’s someone who has a plan in her heart. Don’t worry too much.”

“How can I not worry? If it weren’t for her, I’d still be lying in bed waiting to die, and you’d be half a ghost of a man.

Thanks to her, we’re even able to live comfortably in this kind of world. But now that she’s troubled, there’s nothing we can do to help—just worry helplessly. And look how dangerous it is outside now. It’ll only get worse.”

“She won’t leave the villa until she’s capable of protecting herself,” Jia Wu said firmly.

And he was the kind of man who meant what he said.

Back in the underground training room, Nan Muran could clearly tell that Jia Wu had become even stricter with her.

His strikes were more ruthless, his teachings more lethal—every move meant to kill.

From the moment she opened her eyes each day, Jia Wu would drag her down to the training room. Strength, stamina, speed, reflexes—none of it was watered down.

After a whole day of training, Nan Muran would be so sore by nightfall that it felt like she was dying.

At first, Bai Mei dared to watch, but later she couldn’t bear it—her heart ached too much.

For twenty days straight, no matter how much Nan Muran ate, the intense training caused her to grow leaner and more toned by the day.

Then one day, after exchanging over fifty moves with Jia Wu, she spotted an opening and, for the first time, threw him off balance and sent him flying.

“I did that?” Nan Muran stared at Jia Wu on the ground in disbelief.

“Not bad,” the always-stoic Jia Wu gave a rare compliment.

Though she was happy, Nan Muran didn’t slack off in the slightest.

That night, lying in bed and listening to the rain intensifying outside the window, her heart felt surprisingly calm.

Judging by the timeline, the water at the apartment complex must’ve reached the tenth floor by now.

Half a month into the apocalypse—on the fifth day after she left—the security team had already begun informing residents that they were taking over resource control.

They barged into multiple homes. One post in the group chat said that the food vlogger ended up becoming the security captain’s mistress—gave him all her supplies and even herself.

Some called her a slut; others said they understood.

By Day 20, word spread that a couple living with the guards on the 21st floor—originally from the 5th floor—ended in tragedy: the man was dead, the woman had gone mad.

No one was stupid. Even if they didn’t witness it, they could guess what had happened. But everyone was too busy surviving to stand up for justice.

That was the last bit of news from the apartment complex. Staring at the now-empty signal bars on her phone, Nan Muran sighed.

It looked like she’d have to pass her assessment and head down the mountain soon.

The next day, when Jia Wu brought her into the training room as usual—

She saw a whole row of guns in the armory—of all shapes and sizes, along with their matching magazines.

He didn’t ask where she got them. Instead, he picked up a Ruger MK4 pistol and said, “With your current ability, you’ll need this kind of weapon as support. If you get good with guns, your combat power could increase tenfold.

Ever handled one before?”

Nan Muran answered honestly, “Yes. Practiced at a civilian shooting range.” (Of course, she’d also trained when buying from that Russian guy—but she wasn’t going to mention that.)

“To really master a gun, you need to understand it, feel it—even fall in love with it,” Jia Wu said, beginning to teach her about each gun’s structure, characteristics, performance, and usage.

Only after she fully understood firearms did he finally start guiding her through live shooting practice.