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The luxury cruise ship "Star" encountered a century-old storm. Lin Ye, a sophomore in high school, became the only male survivor. He was trapped on the Crescent Beach of "Canglan Island" with more than 20 people including his class teacher Su Qing and classmate Xia Yao. Supplies are exhausted and coconuts are scarce. Former company boss Zhang Biao also covets Su Qing and snatches resources. In a desperate situation, Lin Ye clenches his fists - he will never let his female teammate be bullied. He relied on his swimming skills to break into dangerous shoals, retrieved ropes from the overturned lifeboat and transformed them into fishing nets, and caught the first moray eel; he refused Zhang Biao's dirty request to exchange dried fish for Su Qing, and used glass slag to set up a trap to repel the net thieves. However, the resources of Crescent Beach could not sustain it, so he led the team to Qianwan Beach, where he met Chu Yue, a native survivor, learned to identify poisonous weeds, set up hunting traps, and used desert island materials to make a "suppressed bamboo gun", gradually transforming from a "oil bottler" to the backbone of the team. The outer island tribe covets Canglan Island. Zhou Feng, the leader of the Chiyan tribe, seizes his lost teammates. Lin Ye pretends to be a trader and infiltrates into the tribe. He joins forces with the "foreign gang" who are dissatisfied with Zhou Feng and uses a common bamboo gun to break the monopoly and rescue his teammates. When winter comes, he leads a team to fight giant pythons on Black Snake Island and find guano for heating. He resists the onslaught of two hundred people from the Lantau and Black Snake Island tribes and relies on traps and cooperation to defend his homeland. From the desperate situation of lack of food and clothing to the integration of 300 survivors to establish the "Canglan Alliance", Lin Ye used responsibility and wisdom to lead the female team to find a way to survive on the desert island, and even repaired the signal tower to attract rescue - this is not only a battle for survival, but also the transformation of young people from cowardice to responsibility, and a passionate legend of the team protecting each other in desperate situations.

Countless midnights, I was always awakened by the same scene: the last person sitting alone after the end of the world, and the silence was cut open by a knock on the door. This knock is like a rusty key, twisting out countless possibilities in my mind - alien greetings, whimpering in space and time, and questions about the end of AI. So these auras are forged into micro-novel, each article is less than 10,000 words, so that the story becomes a prism, reflecting the different spectrums of doomsday, technology and human nature. The stories shine like scattered stars: either the mechanical nightingale hums the memory fragments in the ruins, or the time vending machine seals the unspoken confession, or the clone's pupils flashing with code when facing the tombstone. They start with a knock on the door, but they don't end with loneliness - I plant buds of hope in the desperate frozen soil, salvage human warmth from the torrent of data, and return to the code in the wreckage of civilization. Inspiration surges like a spring stream: the next knocker may be a migratory bird carrying the earth's genes, or a code that travels across dimensions. These words will eventually be compiled into "Memorandum of the Door-Knocker", which contains the curiosity that is still beating at the end of the world and the questions and answers of the soul that is burning in loneliness. When the last page falls, every knock on the door is a soft call to the unknown - the most tenacious will of mankind is hidden in the first glimmer of light in the eyes when the door is opened. Writing is essentially a long conversation with myself in parallel time and space, knocking on doors across the years.

In December, there was freezing rain in the capital. The fine rain was carried by the north wind, splashing countless ice crystals on the bluestone slabs. The hem of Shen Guhong's Feiyu suit was already soaked, and the dark-patterned brocade had absorbed moisture and hung heavily below his knees. His hand holding the knife was as steady as a rock, with three fingers clasping the ivory tangs of the Xiuchun Knife, and his thumb caressing the carved lines of "Qingluan Qiwu".