The Liew Family Village was built in a small river valley—flat in the middle, surrounded by gentle slopes. On those slopes, villagers had cleared fields for farming.
A small river ran east to west through the village, and towering mountains and dense forests stood around it, forming a natural barrier.
It was hard for outsiders to get in, and just as hard for the villagers to leave.
The Liew family's land was upstream along the river, hidden beyond a hillside.
Clara followed the riverbank upstream until she reached a valley entrance, then turned and entered the forest.
Having survived the apocalypse for years, searching for food had become second nature to Clara. To her, this vast forest was a natural granary.
In autumn, wild animals fattened up for winter, making them especially tasty. Here, she didn't have to worry about mutated plants or animals suddenly attacking, nor zombies leaping out unexpectedly.
But Clara had overestimated her current physical strength. After just ten minutes into the forest, her legs began trembling uncontrollably, barely able to support her.
Alarmed, she quickly found a sturdy tree to lean on. She set down one of the heavy clay pots she carried, and drank from the other.
Her stomach churned painfully, and her mind was almost too foggy to think. Looking at the withered yellow leaves hanging from the branches, she even considered plucking one to eat.
She was frightened by her own desperate thought. If this kept up, hunger would drive her mad. She had to find food—fast.
With that realization, Clara gulped down all the water from her pots. Though the burning sensation in her stomach didn't fully subside, she regained some strength.
Rustling noises came from nearby. Though her vision was blurry, Clara grabbed the hoe leaning against the tree and gave chase.
But the creature was much faster.
At dawn, Clara could only watch helplessly as a plump wild pheasant flew away from her feet, leaving behind a colorful feather—seeming to mock her failure.
In her heart, she cursed Lester fiercely.
If it weren't for that useless husband who had emptied the house—leaving not a single grain of rice—would she be starving so badly that she couldn't even catch a wild chicken?
Then she thought of the four children at home.
If even she, an adult, was struggling like this, how much worse must it be for them?
Images of the twins' slender necks in the morning mist and Deb's hopeful gaze flashed before her eyes.
Suddenly, a surge of strength filled her body. She threw down the feather and pressed on.
Fortune smiled on her—not a pheasant caught, but she found a large patch of taro.
The villagers didn't know how to prepare taro properly. They thought its sticky sap was poisonous and caused itching. No one dared to dig it up and eat it unless they were starving. This ignorance worked to Clara's advantage.
The broad, dense leaves of the taro looked like boats. Clara used her hoe to dig a few times and unearthed several fist-sized taro bulbs—the better-tasting variety called multi-head taro.
Her heart lifted. She kept digging and gathered nearly twenty pounds.
Without delay, she collected kindling and dug a fire pit to roast the taro.
Without matches or lighters, she used the traditional method of drilling wood to start a fire.
Clara advised ordinary people not to try this—without skill, it just hurts your palms.
But in the apocalypse, everyone in the base had to master fire-starting this way.
Her palms thick with calluses, she wrapped her sleeve around her hand for protection. She drilled a pointed stick into a grooved wood piece, placing some pine needles as tinder.
Soon, smoke rose from the friction.
She blew gently, and the pine needles ignited.
She placed the fire under a carefully arranged pile of twigs.
Since they were on the forest edge, with plenty of dry grass and short trees, she dug a circular firebreak around the fire pit to prevent a forest fire, watching it carefully.
The aroma of roasting taro soon filled the air.
Clara swallowed her saliva, forcing herself to wait until the taro was fully cooked before eagerly tearing off the skin and biting into one.
The soft, slightly sweet taro was warm and tender, making her eyes water despite the heat.
She ate five or six in one go. Her burning stomach eased considerably, and she slowed down.
After twelve taro were roasted, Clara ate eight and saved four—not daring to eat more suddenly after long starvation.
She set the remaining four aside, extinguished the fire with soil, and resumed digging taro.
Her hunger sated, about seventy percent of her strength returned. She even felt her mysterious strength ability slowly recovering.
With each powerful strike of the hoe, the tool sank deep into the earth. One strong pry brought up a whole cluster of taro with leaves intact.
If anyone had seen this, they'd be stunned.
A frail woman's strength rivaled that of a strong grown man.
Clara finished digging all the taro, forming a small pile of around fifty to sixty pounds.
As the sun rose higher, the mountain swarmed with poisonous insects and mosquitoes. Unprepared, Clara didn't dare to stay long.
She found several vines nearby and fashioned a simple net bag to carry the heavy taro. Using the hoe as a pole, she balanced the load on her shoulders, tying the clay pots to the bag with vines.
On the way back to the village, villagers working in the fields saw her burden and looked at her with pity and whispers.
That new woman, Clara, was so miserable—how could a young girl marry a deadbeat like Lester and be reduced to eating poison like taro?
So tragic!
Clara ignored their looks—whether pity or disdain. She just wanted to get home quickly and see how her four stepchildren were doing.
Though no one cared for them, they had survived so far. Still, Clara worried.
Even in the apocalypse, she had never seen children so weak. The base's welfare policy meant children under six might not be fully fed but wouldn't starve.
Clara clutched the warm taro in her arms and hurried along the familiar path toward the Liew home.
But before she reached the thatched hut, angry shouts and frightened cries of children rang out.
Her expression hardened. From afar, she saw a crowd gathered in front of her house.
There, the useless Lester was being chased wildly by several villagers wielding hoes and sticks.
Alex, eight years old, and Ben, six years old, tried to protect their wretched father. The two boys rushed in front of Lester, trying to block the fierce villagers.
Their father might be a scoundrel, but he was still their dad — and children's love is pure. Their actions were understandable.
But the father's behavior was baffling.
Instead of stopping the boys or worrying about their safety, he suddenly darted behind his sons, skillfully dodging the angry men wielding hoes and sticks, shouting at them to block the villagers and cheer him on:"Alex, Ben, fight for your dad!"
But this was like a mouse trying to stop a lion. The two frail boys were shoved aside roughly, falling hard and convulsing in pain.
The twins stood at the doorway crying loudly, shouting, "Don't hit my brothers! Don't hit my brothers!"
(End of Chapter)