The Winter Walker

In the year 2103, on the planet Oklara, it was the 5840th day of the nuclear winter.

The cold wind was like a knife, and on the icy wasteland, the lonely figure of Rakien struggled through the snow. Each step made a "crunch" sound, as if the sound itself was about to freeze. He tightened his worn-out coat, which had accompanied him through countless cold nights, trying to ward off the piercing cold. The wind howled in his ears, as if countless whispering spirits were murmuring, but his gaze was fixed only on the endless desolation.

On the horizon, the sun hung weakly, its light devoured by the relentless nuclear winter, leaving only a faint orange glow, struggling on the edge of darkness, trying to bring a bit of warmth to this silent land.

Every step Rakien took was as heavy as lead. He carried not only hunger and cold but also the heavy burden buried deep in his heart—the模糊的记忆 (blurry memories) of dreams and confusion about the future. In his mind, fragments of memory flickered like an old movie, interweaving into a chaotic picture, making it impossible for him to distinguish what was real and what was a nightmare.

"Is it all my fault..." he muttered to himself, his voice so soft it seemed only the cold wind could hear.

Just when he was about to lose hope, a faint light appeared ahead. It was the only sign of life he had seen in days. His heart raced, and his steps quickened involuntarily.

As he approached, he saw a large underground shelter, with light shining through the broken watchtower window, and several figures seemed to be moving inside. He cautiously approached, wanting to knock on the door, but stopped just as he raised his hand.

Blurry fragments of memory surged again—countless nights of war, where such shelters became the burial grounds for countless innocents. And he had been the high-ranking official who ordered it all.

Rakien stood in front of the door, his hand hovering in the air. His body was exhausted, but his soul seemed to carry an even heavier burden.

The door suddenly creaked open, and a pair of wary eyes stared at him. "Who goes there?" a hoarse voice asked.

Rakien trembled and whispered, "…Just passing by."

The sound of Rakien's feet in the snow made a slight "crunch," as if the silence of the world belonged only to him. He stood in front of the iron gate leading to the shelter, panting, while the guard stared at him closely, his face devoid of any emotion.

"What's your name?" the guard's voice was deep and cold, as if he had become numb to the constant stream of strangers begging for refuge.

"Rakien," he tried to make his voice sound steady, although his body was trembling slightly from the cold and hunger. The guard's gaze swept over his torn coat, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

"Where are you from?"

"The Northern Mountains," Rakien replied in a low voice, avoiding eye contact with the guard. He knew lying would be useless; he just hoped he wouldn't be turned away.

The guard was silent for a moment, his eyes still cold, but he waved his hand, signaling to let him in. "Go ahead."

The iron door let out a sharp creak as it slowly opened. As Rakien entered the entrance of the underground shelter, it was as if he had entered another world. The air inside the shelter was damp and cold, mixed with the smell of sweat, mildew, and the rusty scent of metal. The metal floor under his feet echoed with each step, as if countless footsteps had been here before, leaving indelible marks.

He looked around; dim light hung from the ceiling, illuminating the narrow passage. The peeling paint on the walls revealed the cold, rusted steel skeleton underneath. Some people were huddled in the corners, wearing tattered cotton clothes, staring at him expressionlessly. Their eyes were hollow, as if life had been drained away by the long ordeal of hunger and cold.

"What's your name?" another guard nearby took over the questioning, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. Rakien repeated his name, receiving only a cold snort and a simple iron badge with the number 976 engraved on it. That was his identity in this shelter; his name no longer mattered.

He continued down the passage, and more and more figures emerged from the darkness. There was no light in the shelter, only dim yellow light flickering. The air was mixed with the smell of sweat, the stench of rotting food, and the stuffy odor of long-unventilated spaces. The aroma of food? No, it was another smell, a strong, pungent liquid scent, like some kind of fermenting substance, lingering.

He looked down and saw several children sitting in the corner, their sparse hair clinging to their sunken scalps, their eyes deeply set, so hungry they could barely move. They were only six or seven years old but seemed to have endured too much suffering, resembling the elderly who had been stripped of their youth and vitality.

"They were born after the nuclear war," a woman said, her voice hoarse, as she noticed him staring at the children. Her gaze fell on the children, filled with deep sorrow. "They have never seen the sun."

Rakien was stunned, his throat dry. He had seen countless deaths and sufferings in the war, but this scene made him feel an indescribable pain—these children had never seen sunlight, and perhaps they never would.

As he continued forward, the space gradually opened up, but the air seemed even more oppressive. People gathered in a large room, with a few crude wooden tables in the center, scattered with some pebbles. In front of a few people were bowls of thin soup, and in their hands, they held a small piece of dark, doughy bread. The food looked as if it had spoiled, but everyone clutched their small piece as if it were a treasure.

A thin, dusty-faced man looked up, and upon seeing Rakien approach, his eyes showed no warmth. He briefly sized up Rakien's clothing before returning to nibble on the dry food in his hand.

Rakien frowned and continued to observe. Everyone looked like survivors who had crawled out of hell. Their eyes, movements, and expressions all revealed exhaustion and despair, as if merely surviving had already drained all their energy.

"These people..." Rakien muttered softly, a sour feeling welling up inside him. In the harsh winter outside, they were still struggling against nature, and inside this shelter, they had no guarantees. Survival was the only goal, yet it seemed so difficult.

Rakien sat quietly against the wall, leaning against the cold iron. The air was filled with the scent of despair and death, yet it also carried a faint will to survive. In this wasteland, everyone had a story, and each story bore witness to the deepest struggles and the meaning of survival in humanity.

He closed his eyes, his mind constantly replaying everything he had seen.

Outside the shelter, the cold of the nuclear winter continued, and in this broken world, life persisted in a weak yet stubborn manner.

"You! Come here!" a guard called out, and Rakien followed the guard deeper into the shelter, where he was met with an even stronger mix of sweat, mildew, and the pungent smell of fermentation. The dim yellow light around him seemed to flicker on the verge of going out, and the walls were covered in cracks and stains. The air was damp and oppressive, as if the entire space was silently rotting.