Apocalypse Ground Zero: Refusing To Leave Home-Chapter 52: Maybe We Should Have Listened

With a silent gesture from Jian Yuche, Wei Lingyun walked into the kitchen and found Chenghai laid out on the floor.

He crossed the space in three steps and dropped to one knee beside him, his hand moving to Chenghai’s neck. The pulse was there—steady, strong. Breathing even. No blood visible.

"Zhou Chenghai." Lingyun’s voice was low, controlled as he tried to get Chenghai’s attention. "Can you hear me? I need a response."

Chenghai’s eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as awareness returned. He tried to sit up, winced, and Lingyun caught his shoulder.

"Easy," Lingyun murmured softly, his eyes scanning the other man’s face. "You took a pretty nasty hit."

"I know." Chenghai’s voice was rough. He pushed himself up anyway, one hand braced against the floor, the other gripping Lingyun’s arm for support. "How long was I out?"

"Not long." Lingyun helped him to his feet, keeping one hand on his arm as Chenghai steadied himself. "Can you walk?"

"Yes."

They moved together toward the living room, Chenghai’s steps uneven but functional. Lingyun guided him to the couch and lowered him down carefully, watching for signs of concussion or worse.

Chenghai leaned back against the cushions, his jaw tight, his breathing controlled but labored. "Where’s Rouxi?"

Lingyun straightened, his gaze sweeping the room. The survivors were scattered throughout the main hall, eating, talking, occupying space with casual ease. None of them looked at Chenghai. None of them acknowledged what had just happened.

"Rouxi," Lingyun called, his voice carrying through the house.

But there was no answer.

He moved toward the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her door was closed. He knocked once, hard. "Rouxi."

Nothing.

He pushed the door open. The room was empty. Bed made, desk clear, no sign of her anywhere.

Lingyun checked the other rooms upstairs—bathroom, guest rooms, storage areas. All empty.

She was there either.

The realization settled over him with cold weight. She’d left. Or hidden. Or, like she had promised them, decided this wasn’t her problem anymore.

He descended the stairs and walked back through the living room without stopping, his attention fixed on the kitchen doorway ahead.

Qiao Ren was still there, leaning against the counter with a fresh plate of food, eating like nothing had happened. Like knocking out the head of security was just part of dinner preparation.

Lingyun didn’t slow down. He crossed the threshold and closed the distance in four strides, his posture shifting from controlled to ready.

Qiao Ren looked up, his expression calm, unbothered.

Lingyun’s fist came up fast, aimed at the man’s jaw.

Qiao Ren blocked it cleanly, his forearm meeting Lingyun’s wrist with enough force to deflect the strike. He set his plate down on the counter behind him without looking, his movements efficient and practiced.

Lingyun adjusted immediately, driving his other hand toward Qiao Ren’s ribs.

The man twisted, absorbing the impact on his side rather than taking it full force, then countered with a sharp jab toward Lingyun’s face.

Lingyun ducked, felt the air move past his ear, and came up with an elbow aimed at Qiao Ren’s temple.

Blocked again. Qiao Ren’s hand caught his arm, redirected the momentum, and shoved him back two steps.

Lingyun reset his stance, breathing controlled, his mind processing the fight with tactical clarity. This wasn’t like the movies. No dramatic exchanges, no pauses for dialogue. Just movement, reaction, pressure.

Someone moved into his peripheral vision—another survivor stepping in from the left, hands raised, posture aggressive.

Lingyun shifted his weight, dividing his attention between two opponents now instead of one.

The second man came in fast, throwing a punch toward Lingyun’s shoulder. Lingyun blocked it, countered with a strike to the man’s ribs, felt the impact land solid.

The man grunted but didn’t back off. He grabbed Lingyun’s arm, trying to lock it in place.

Qiao Ren moved in from the other side, his fist driving toward Lingyun’s exposed flank.

Lingyun twisted, pulling free from the second man’s grip just enough to deflect Qiao Ren’s strike with his forearm. The impact jarred his bones, sent pain radiating up to his shoulder.

A third person joined—one of the women, stepping in behind Lingyun, her hands reaching for his other arm.

Too many. Too close. Too coordinated. There wasn’t enough room for him to move at all.

With a last ditch effort, Lingyun drove his elbow back, felt it connect with something soft, heard a sharp exhale of pain. The woman who was holding him loosened her grip just a bit, but didn’t let go completely.

Qiao Ren came in again, this time aiming low, his fist driving toward Lingyun’s stomach.

Lingyun blocked it, barely, his forearm taking the brunt of the force. The second man grabbed his shoulder from behind, pulling him off balance.

He spun, breaking the grip, his fist coming around in a wide arc that caught the second man across the jaw. The man staggered back, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"Stop."

Zhenlan’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and authoritative.

But Lingyun didn’t stop. He drove forward, his fist aimed at Qiao Ren’s face.

Qiao Ren blocked it, countered with a strike to Lingyun’s ribs that landed hard enough to force the air from his lungs.

"Stop this now," Zhenlan said again, louder this time, stepping into the kitchen.

One of the survivors—not Qiao Ren, not the second man, someone else—turned and swung.

The fist caught Zhenlan across the cheek, snapping his head to the side with enough force to send him stumbling back against the doorframe.

Blood appeared immediately, a thin line running from his split lip down to his chin.

Zhenlan’s hand came up to his face, his fingers touching the blood, his expression shifting from authority to shock.

The kitchen went still.

Lingyun stood there, breathing hard, his ribs aching, his forearm bruised from blocking strikes. Qiao Ren remained in position, his posture relaxed but ready, his expression suggesting he had no concerns about what came next.

The second man wiped blood from his mouth, his eyes fixed on Lingyun with cold assessment.

The woman who’d grabbed Lingyun’s arm stepped back, her hands lowering, her attention shifting to Zhenlan.

Zhenlan stared at the blood on his fingers, then at the survivor who’d hit him. The man didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Just stood there, waiting to see if this would escalate further.

In the living room, Chenghai pushed himself upright on the couch, his hand braced against the armrest, his face pale but his eyes sharp and focused.

Lingyun’s breathing slowed, his mind processing what had just happened with brutal clarity.

They’d lost.

Not the fight—that was still unresolved, still hanging in the air between them. But the house. The control. The illusion that they had any authority here.

Chenghai on the couch, beaten unconscious for trying to enforce rationing.

Zhenlan bleeding from a split lip, hit for trying to stop a fight in his own kitchen.

Lingyun standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by survivors who’d just demonstrated they could coordinate, escalate, and strike without hesitation.

Rouxi was gone. She’d seen this coming and removed herself from the equation entirely.

And they’d ignored her warnings.

Lingyun looked at Zhenlan, then at Chenghai, then back at the survivors still occupying the kitchen like they owned it.

"Maybe we should have listened to Rouxi."