The skirmish between the coal magnates commenced as dusk began to settle. By the time Chakra conceded defeat and both sides hastily cleared the battlefield, retrieving their wounded under the cover of deepening twilight, night had fully descended. Thus, the forces had no choice but to bivouac where they stood, postponing their return until the following morning.
No sooner had the camp been arranged than a night wind, fiercer than usual, began to howl long before midnight. Its chilling breath swept across the plain, cutting to the bone and exacerbating the misery of those already wounded in the fray. Fortunately, a brilliant, pearlescent moon hung in the sky, casting its radiant glow over the vast wasteland and providing ample illumination.
"Ah! Gently, gently—yes, just like that, that's the way..." came the peculiar, muffled groans from the young man Michael, who was shirtless inside a tent. His contorted mouth released these odd sounds as his companions tended to his injuries. Do not misunderstand—this was merely the aftermath of a brawl, with two young women administering treatment. During the earlier conflict, Michael had sustained several solid blows from steel pipes and wooden clubs across his left shoulder, back, thighs, and arms. While adrenaline had initially numbed the pain, relaxation now brought forth a throbbing, unmistakable swelling. Removing his clothes revealed extensive bruising, though he was fortunate to have escaped broken bones.
Seeing their esteemed "Harry Potter" in such a state, Linda and Kaoru devoted themselves entirely to his care, setting aside all other concerns. They diligently applied medicated liquor to his wounds, striving to disperse the congealed blood. Hence, those strange, involuntary noises ensued.
The so-called medicated liquor was a concoction Michael had improvised after accidentally stepping on a rattlesnake during his last visit. He had steeped the serpent in strong, unbottled liquor of over 50% alcohol by volume. True to tradition, such a remedy requires an assortment of herbs, but in the post-apocalyptic world, Michael could not source the full range available in modern times. He had to make do with what the wasteland offered: a bit of Cistanche deserticola, morel mushrooms, and artemisia, which were locally gathered and added to the mix. He had deliberately brought this jar on the expedition, and it had now proven unexpectedly useful.
Astonishingly, though the liquor had infused for less than a week, its efficacy was remarkably potent. As the women's slender hands, slick with the potion, kneaded his bruises, a wave of comforting warmth spread through the afflicted areas, bringing palpable relief. Encouraged by the results of his makeshift remedy, Michael's curiosity prompted him to taste a small amount—about twenty to thirty milliliters. The ruddy liquid, upon hitting his tongue, delivered an intensely fiery kick; as it coursed down his throat, it blazed a trail all the way to his stomach. Almost instantly, a feverish heat enveloped his body, beading his forehead with fine sweat. The liquor's potency was far beyond what he had imagined. Simultaneously, he sensed a strange vitality stirring within the dantian region of his lower abdomen—his cultivated aura seemed to grow more active. Could this liquor indeed enhance one's combat energy? At this revelation, Michael's eyes lit up with excitement; uncovering this unexpected benefit felt like the true reward of the entire conflict.
Just as he instructed the women to safeguard the precious jar and allow no one else to partake, Old Lameleg hobbled into the tent, his uneven steps marking his entrance. The one-eared old man had been fortunate today, emerging unscathed. Disregarding Michael's less-than-dignified, half-naked state, he announced bluntly, "Sir, the casualty report is ready." Michael silently gestured for him to continue. "We lost three men. Twenty-one suffered broken limbs, and seven took too many blows to the head—they seem dazed now, and it's uncertain if they'll recover their wits." A sharp hiss escaped Michael's lips; he was stunned that even a relatively restrained clash could inflict such losses. Had it been an all-out battle with lethal weapons, casualties could have easily surpassed half. Moreover, by the wasteland's harsh standards, Michael's own injuries were considered trivial and typically went unrecorded. Including such minor wounds would have swelled the casualty count by over a hundred.
Some consolation came as Old Lameleg added, "The Soru Town side fared worse—they carted away more than twenty corpses, and their total casualties are at least double ours." As long as they had emerged victorious without significant disadvantage, the outcome was acceptable. Upon hearing this, Michael stepped out of the tent, hoping to glimpse through his telescope whether that scoundrel Chakra had perished in the Soru Town camp two miles away. Such news would have been a most welcome boon.
However, as he raised his binoculars toward the upwind direction where Soru Town was encamped, his expression abruptly shifted to one of horror. "By the heavens! What is that?" he stammered in alarm. Old Lameleg snatched the telescope and peered in the same direction, his face likewise darkening with dread. In a hoarse, desperate shout, he bellowed, "Disaster! A horde of tumbleweeds—a massive wave of them! Everyone, take cover in the vehicles now if you value your lives!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the old man, with surprising agility, seized Michael's arm and sprinted toward the vehicles at the camp's edge. As his frantic cries echoed, all eyes turned upwind to behold a dark, avalanche-like shadow sweeping rapidly toward them. Panic ensued; people scrambled to carry the wounded and flee toward the convoy. Only when they had crammed into the vehicle cabins or huddled safely beneath the chassis did their tense expressions slowly ease.
…
Tumbleweed, also known as Russian thistle, is an annual herb relatively common in the wasteland. Before the Great War, it was already a notorious invasive species, despised for its propensity to break free from its roots during droughts or winter, curling into spherical shapes that roll and bounce with the wind, dispersing seeds far and wide. These wandering balls spread pests, block roads, and disrupt travel—Michael even recalled a news story where a driver's car was buried under a ten-foot pile of tumbleweeds, requiring a rescue team to dig him out. Yet, these nuisances paled in comparison to the perils they posed in the post-apocalyptic era.
After the war, tumbleweeds mutated into monstrous versions: larger, denser with sharp spines, and now tipped with paralytic toxins. According to the survival wisdom of the wasteland's natives, the only safe recourse when encountering them is to seek shelter behind windbreaks and crouch in covered corners. To be caught in the open plain is to invite catastrophe, for while the impact of these rolling masses may not be fatal, repeated stabbings from their venomous spines spell certain doom.
Crouched in the cab of a small truck, Michael felt the vehicle shudder under the relentless impacts. Fortunately, the crowded cabin added enough weight to prevent it from overturning. As the initial fear subsided and a semblance of safety returned, Michael noticed Old Lameleg's still-grim countenance. "What troubles you?" he asked uneasily. "Haven't we escaped unscathed?" The old man stared out at the tumbleweeds for a long moment before uttering grimly, "Something is amiss. This year, the tumbleweeds have arrived at least three months early. I fear great calamity approaches the wasteland."