Wang Xiaohua died in the seventh year of the apocalypse.
When she opened her eyes again, she had become a farm girl in an ancient dynasty suffering its third year of drought. Thirty-some people lay waiting to die in a dilapidated temple, and the air reeked of decay. The good news was that there were no mutated creatures around. The bad news was that people had nearly chewed all the bark off the trees.
She felt at her waist. The lighter from the apocalypse had come with her!
That night, in front of the whole village, she flicked it on and lit a pile of dry branches. In the firelight, the starving villagers fell to their knees. “Heavenly fire! The gods have answered our prayers!”
Wang Xiaohua didn't explain. She only said, “If you want to live, come with me into the mountains tomorrow.”
From then on, she led the group in making lime, repairing the temple, and digging irrigation channels. The lime-treated earth really did grow crops. Wooden pipes carried water for miles, and spring water flowed into the village for the first time in three years.
Thirty-seven people grew into a community of more than a hundred and fifty. Earthen houses sprang up beside the dilapidated temple, a brick kiln beside the houses, and a twelve-meter-high wall beside the kiln.
It seemed like life might finally get better.
But thriving attracts trouble. The county's brokers set their sights on the people, refugees fleeing disaster eyed their grain, and the northern barbarians sharpened their blades...
In seven years of apocalypse, she had seen too many people die. But never before had she remembered every face.
Later, she brought a man she found on the mountain back with her...
I stayed up late and saw it now. It looks great.