Chapter 12-I Clean Up Garbage in a Wasteland World
Chapter 12 The Man-Eating Hotpot Restaurant-1
Garbo was dead set against it at first. In the end, Zhu Ning had to use "Money talk." Ten thousand NewCred later, the custom service was hers.
She friended Garbo and told it to send her every video it found within the next month, no matter what. Garbo, succumbing not to Zhu Ning's charm stat but to pure cash power, agreed.
After leaving the garbage shack, Zhu Ning decided to walk home. She always liked strolling in new environments—it helped trigger the original owner's memories.
The main streets were covered in dense layers of cameras. That abandoned shack was one of the few places near her home with no official surveillance. Whatever reason the original owner had for dying, choosing a garbage shack had to be deliberate.
The walk home was desolate: shuttered shops, no street cleaners even in this slum district. Piles of trash and dead leaves littered the road. When the wind blew, garbage rose up like it had a life of its own and lunged at people.
The wind was strong tonight; the trash flew chaotically, alive. Zhu Ning dodged sideways—one bag whooshed past her. She'd barely recovered when a paper cup slid right under her foot. Honestly, it was kind of fun. The entire walk turned into a real-life garbage dodgeball game.
Old, broken speakers tied to utility poles blared bird calls, trying to simulate nature. Cicadas in summer, different birds in other seasons.
To Zhu Ning's ears it was just noise pollution. These natives had never heard real birds. How pitiful.
She wandered like a street punk, dodging trash while memorizing the neighborhood. By the time she reached the complex entrance, not a single extra memory had surfaced.
The complex was called The Hive. From afar it looked pitch-black and radiated a sinister chill. High density, mixed population, half the windows dark—either empty or the tenants had special hobbies. All in all, prime haunted real estate.
If the original owner didn't live here and she hadn't already paid a full year's rent, Zhu Ning would never set foot inside.
Down at the unit entrance she ran into Auntie Wei. The tiny old lady had just finished collecting rent and was hobbling down the stairs on her cane.
Zhu Ning, ever respectful to elders, stopped to let her pass. For some reason, every time she saw Auntie Wei she instinctively felt uneasy. Auntie Wei said "she often goes crazy"—definitely referring to the original owner, not the current Zhu Ning.
How exactly did the original owner go crazy? Psychic contamination?
Auntie Wei definitely knew something. Zhu Ning was trying to figure out how to smoothly pry information when she opened her mouth—and immediately closed it. She couldn't trust Auntie Wei yet.
If Auntie Wei was involved in her death, speaking up would be walking into a trap.
Auntie Wei glanced at her and said in that passive-aggressive snark, "So where'd you get the money? Latched onto a golden ticket, huh?"
Zhu Ning: "???"
Could you not make it sound like she married into royalty?
Auntie Wei: "Your luck's insane. Actually got into the Sanitation Center. Stable job."
Zhu Ning: "…Thanks?"
Auntie Wei paused, then snapped, "Someone from the Sanitation Center is looking for you. Waiting right at your door."
That explained how she knew about the new job.
But why were they looking for her? Zhu Ning barely knew anyone there—just Li Nianchuan and Xu Meng. And Li Nianchuan was still in medical being treated for psychic contamination.
Zhu Ning: "I'll head up now."
She started past Auntie Wei toward the stairs.
Suddenly Auntie Wei spoke from behind: "Be careful."
Zhu Ning froze, turned around. Auntie Wei stood at the bottom of the stairs leaning on her cane. Zhu Ning was higher up the steps, and with Auntie Wei's dwarfism the height difference was huge.
Logically, Auntie Wei should be looking up. But she didn't raise her head—just lifted her eyes, revealing large expanses of yellowed whites, staring straight at Zhu Ning. The Hive's lighting was dim, no other tenants around. Just the two of them on the stairwell. The stare made the back of Zhu Ning's neck prickle. Auntie Wei looked exactly like a ghost from a horror movie.
Be careful.
Careful of what? The Sanitation Center? People in The Hive? Was the building manager really suspicious?
Zhu Ning wanted to ask more, but Auntie Wei had already hobbled away. Zhu Ning shrugged and silently climbed the stairs.
Sure enough, just as Auntie Wei said, a man was waiting at her door.
He wore a full Sanitation Center uniform with the logo, carrying a massive black suitcase—like a delivery guy.
"Miss Zhu," he smiled. "I'm here for the contract."
Fang Ying had mentioned someone would come collect the signed contract once she officially joined. Zhu Ning checked his ID, then verified again with her wristband.
Legit employee.
She handed over the contract. He took it, then passed her the huge black suitcase—tied with an enormous red bow.
"Miss Zhu, congratulations on joining. This is your welcome gift."
Welcome gift? The suitcase was big enough to stuff an adult inside. Zhu Ning immediately thought of horror movies. There wouldn't be a corpse in there, right?
The man left the second his task was done—no small talk.
Only after he was gone did Zhu Ning examine the suitcase. Her apartment was barely twenty-odd square meters; this thing would take up all walking space. She cautiously opened it.
She went silent.
A complete set of standard-issue weapons. Totally different from the air rounds she'd used on missions—four guns, a full set of military knives, explosives too.
Underneath lay a Cleaner-exclusive protective suit: black leather jacket and helmet, contamination spore containment tools, even MegaHeal and other high-grade meds.
In other words, with this box Zhu Ning could go fully rogue and never need the Sanitation Center again.
She loaded a magazine—no lock, no restrictions. She could use these weapons without ever asking permission.
This was completely against Sanitation Center style. Even after restructuring, this was too drastic. Zhu Ning opened the employee forum and searched "welcome gift." Tons of posts popped up.
Most were thermos cups, chrysanthemum-goji kidney tea, or straight cash. She scrolled two full pages—nobody else got a box of military-grade weapons.
Who sent this? Prometheus?
Why would it send her a "gift" box? To help it blow up Sanitation Center HQ?
The box felt like a hot potato. Her first instinct was to contact Fang Ying—she'd know if this followed protocol. But when Zhu Ning opened the chat, she froze.
Can't tell her.
She had no idea whose side Fang Ying was on. One more person knowing meant one more risk—for both of them.
She'd barely typed when Fang Ying messaged first: "Congratulations on joining. Welcome to District 103 Sanitation Center."
Zhu Ning paused, then: "Thank you for your guidance."
Playing the perfect new hire.
Fang Ying: "Your choice surprised me."
They exchanged a few pleasantries. Zhu Ning asked, "Did the contract arrive?"
Fang Ying: "Just now."
So the guy really was only here for the contract.
Zhu Ning: "Any missions soon?"
She still hadn't found the truth about her death. Garbo would need time to dig up surveillance. She couldn't just sit at home picking her feet.
Fang Ying: "No rush. I applied for seven days paid leave for you."
Zhu Ning, who wanted to 996 for the company: "?"
What kind of company forces you to take leave? One day on, seven days off?
Fang Ying explained: "Center regulation. Minimum seven days between missions as a buffer—mainly to protect employee sanity."
The rule didn't really apply to Zhu Ning, but rules were rules.
Fang Ying: "You still can't take missions after seven days though. The Center is restructuring right now. I'll notify you for training in a week."
Sounded like an internal earthquake. Little grunts like her didn't need to know the details.
Zhu Ning sent a monkey nodding GIF and closed the chat.
Accustomed to her old world's exploitation, suddenly getting generous leave felt alien. Forced to stay home and pick her feet.
She did what every shut-in does when bored—scrolled the forum.
The Sanitation Center employee forum was insanely active. Zhu Ning always assumed even if it wasn't serious, topics would at least be scientific.
Wrong. The vibe was pure occult. She stumbled on a thread: "Those who've seen a dead post at midnight, come in! Newbies stay out!"
Dead post?
In her memory it meant ancient threads necro'd years later. Hopefully the same here.
Two pages in, she understood: after midnight, employees sometimes refreshed to gray pages—dead posts.
Gray meant the original poster was dead.
Logically, dead people don't post. Even pre-death posts get buried under new content.
But seeing a dead post meant receiving a message from the deceased. One guy claimed he got a message from someone dead seven years.
So creepy… Wasn't this a world that maxed the tech tree? Sanitation workers believed this stuff?
Dead post legends had been around forever in the Center. Consensus: locations mentioned in dead posts were contamination zones. The posts were sent by contaminants.
Opinions split on what to do when you received one.
Some saw it as a cry for help from the dead—go purge the contaminant, get rewards, maybe even private gigs.
Others called it a trap: contaminants lure you in, turn you into one of them. Many who went never returned. Dead posts were just a feeding method.
Deep into the night, Zhu Ning was getting hyped—like a terrifying yet thrilling freshman party.
11:59 PM. One minute until dead-post o'clock.
Refresh—
12:00 sharp. She smashed the button.
The homepage refreshed—still colorful titles. No gray.
She refreshed like a madwoman trying to snag a flash sale. One minute, nothing. As expected—pure luck-based occult.
Just as she was about to close the page, she froze. Among the rainbow titles appeared one gray post.
Title: "Hidden gem in District 103 alley—must-try hole-in-the-wall joint for spice lovers!"
Looked like a normal food rec. She clicked.
The screen stuttered for two seconds, then loaded. Under the long title: posted in New Calendar Year 50.
Eighty-plus years ago the world suffered a catastrophe, high walls and a new era rose. Details unclear—radiation or massive contamination—but they restarted the calendar. Year 50 was fifty years after the disaster.
Thirty-plus years old. Zhu Ning didn't know if her luck was god-tier or trash-tier. First try and she hit a post from three decades ago. The whole page was gray, including the food photos.
In the washed-out images, even the best hotpot looked cursed. Tripe and duck blood now resembled horror props.
The OP raved about how amazing the place was—must-orders: spicy beef and spicy squid. But the gray photos killed all appetite, radiating pure dread.
At the end: restaurant name—Hao Zailai Hotpot Restaurant.
Zhu Ning was still thinking when—ding—
[Congratulations! Random mission triggered: The Man-Eating Hotpot Restaurant
Objectives: Clear the contamination zone, contain contamination spores, rescue survivors, assist in uncovering truth of death.
This is a random mission—non-mandatory. Accept? Y/N]
[The mission will auto-close at dawn. Choose carefully.]
Zhu Ning: "…"
Two missions in one day? The side quest about her death wasn't solved yet, and the system dropped another?
Wait.
The objectives were complex. "Rescue survivors" meant live people inside. And "assist in uncovering truth of death"—did the restaurant hold clues to how she died?
Any connection?
She glanced at the weapon box on the floor. Was all that gear prepared for this mission? Not from Prometheus, but the system?
Impossible—the system could just put stuff directly in her interface inventory.
Also, the system's rewards were usually overkill (last bomb could level a thirty-story building). A box of guns felt too modest.
But this one was optional. Zhu Ning was starting to understand the system: main quests, long-term side quests, mandatory short-term side quests, and now random missions.
Logic matched reality. Fang Ying said she was short-lived—she desperately needed health.
She clicked Yes.
[Mission accepted. Must complete before dawn.]
…
Hao Zailai Hotpot Restaurant.
The place was packed, aroma drifting a whole street away. The main hall was full. At the center table sat four young people.
A girl with neat bangs was eating and complaining, "Where's my tripe?"
She fished around the boiling red oil with her chopsticks—expert technique—but caught nothing.
"Who stole my tripe?"
"I didn't. Try the ladle."
Just as she reached for it, she froze. Illusion?
Something in the pot… was tugging her chopsticks.
She looked down. Half her chopsticks in her hand, half in the oil, wrapped by a thin black tentacle.
The black tentacle's suckers gripped tight. Common sense said anything in boiling oil should be cooked, yet she clearly felt its strength.
"Who—who ordered squid?"
"Squid? I didn't, you did—AAAAAHHH!"
"What the hell? Help!"
The girl in the red T-shirt didn't finish her sentence. A wrist-thick tentacle shot out of the red oil, wrapped around the bangs girl's arm, and yanked her straight into the pot.
The restaurant was instantly filled with screams and blood.
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