Her mind churned over the new development. A wedded match? Was this an unexpected quest objective? What were the parameters? Would it require any manual labor? The thought alone made her ‘energy bar’ flicker precariously. Zhou Hanchen, however, seemed to deflate slightly, the flush on his cheeks deepening to an alarming crimson. He cleared his throat, avoiding Qinyu’s unblinking gaze. “Liang, with all due respect, this is… rather abrupt.” “Abrupt?” Old Ma scoffed, shaking her head. “Young man, you were practically caught in the act! What other explanation is there for such closeness in a storage shed? Our village cannot have such loose morals spreading amongst our youth. This is for the good of everyone. You have three days to report to the administrative hall and formalize this union. Any delay, any hesitation, and the public trial proceeds. Got that?” The team head shot a sharp glare toward the gawking onlookers, who scattered into the yard, their murmurs drifting off into the dust. Hanchen merely nodded, his shoulders slumping. He looked at Qinyu, a complex mix of exasperation and something softer in his eyes. “Come on, Qinyu. Let’s go home.” Qinyu allowed him to gently guide her out of the shed, her legs still feeling like jelly after her ordeal. Her ‘HP’ was too low for confrontation. As they walked, she mused, “So, tying the knot is the next step in this survival game? Does it grant a temporary shield? Or perhaps a ‘lazy buff’?” Rulan watched them from behind a stack of sorghum stalks, teeth grinding together. Her vision of securing Hanchen—the future titan of private enterprise—lay in tatters because of Qinyu’s ridiculous posturing. A public trial would surely separate them, but a registered union was ironclad. She pressed her fingernails into her palms, rapidly recalculating. The next morning, a red placard was tacked to the team's public notice board, notifying the hamlet of the pending paperwork between Zhou Hanchen and Fang Qinyu, with orders for both parties to report to the government bureau within three days. Rulan feigned sisterly goodwill, volunteering to deliver the placard down toward Qinyu’s mud-brick hut. Instead, while the pathway was empty, she tucked the notice into her coat and substituted a weathered sheet stamped with red ink: a petition for ideological labor correction against 'Fang Qinyu' for chronic idleness. It urged her relocation to remote Silverpeak Mountain, where quarries broke granite beneath blistering suns. She sealed the original marriage notice in her tunic, a wicked smile playing on her lips. That afternoon, Hanchen found Qinyu sprawled on a weathered bamboo recline chair outside her shack, enjoying the languid breeze. Xiaobo was dutifully chasing chickens, an activity Qinyu approved of, as it seemed to keep his ‘stamina’ high without involving heavy lifting. “Qinyu,” Hanchen said, brow furrowing, “We need to reach the village hall. It’s the second day already. We can’t delay filing.” Qinyu merely shifted into the split-cane weave, letting out a faint breath. “The hall? That’s at least two li away. My ‘energy levels’ are far too low for such a march. The ‘risk of elimination’ is far too high. Can’t they send a representative?” Hanchen frowned, bewildered by her persistent ‘game talk’. “That’s not how it works, Qinyu. We have to go.” “Nonsense,” Qinyu waved a dismissive hand. “Tell them I’m in ‘recovery mode.’ Tell them I’m ‘afk.’ A true survivor knows when to conserve resources.” Hanchen could only shake his head. He knew arguing was futile when Qinyu got into one of her ‘game’ phases. He knew her stubbornness was unshakeable. He decided to try a different approach. He’d fetch the clerk himself. It was better than forcing Qinyu and risking her ‘game over’ tantrum. True to his word, Hanchen returned an hour later, not alone. Trailing behind him was clerk Lin from the registry desk, round wire frames slipping down the bridge of his sweaty nose, ink-smudged dossiers tucked beneath his elbow. Lin stared at Qinyu, who remained stretched horizontally beneath the eaves, viewing her with weary bafflement. Idleness during working hours was practically unheard of in Wutong. “Fang Qinyu,” Lin said, clearing his throat, “I am told you are indisposed. I brought the paperwork for your quarry assignment.” He held out the yellowed sheet. Qinyu opened one eye. “Correction camp? Is this a new ‘skill tree’ unlock? Does it grant passive income?” She eyed the paper with squinted suspicion. “What does it entail?” “It entails,” Lin adjusted his wire frames, “a haul up to Silverpeak Mountain for field restructuring. Put your mark here.” He extended a metal nib. “And here, confirming you accept the terms.” Qinyu recoiled slightly. “Sign? Me? Clerk Lin, my ‘wrist stamina’ is critically low. Any sudden exertion could trigger a ‘system malfunction.’ My ‘physical stats’ sit near zero. I cannot risk such strenuous motion. Surely you realize the delicate balance of a survivor’s ‘health points’?” She waved her hand vaguely, as if demonstrating the fragility of her being. Lin stared at her limp fingers, then down at the nib. “Your brush mark is already on the petition right here. Look.” He pressed his thumbnail against two crooked scribbles. “Both dated yesterday.” Qinyu squinted at the blue ink. “That is not my stroke. My ‘dexterity’ stat is far higher, even near zero HP. I haven’t touched an inkpot all month. That’s forged!” Her voice lifted in crisp annoyance. “Someone sabotaged my quest line!” Lin took off his spectacles and held the sheet up to the sunlight. He retrieved the authentic union registry documents he had brought from the file cabinet, comparing the neat administrative entries to the sloppy brushwork on the petition. The script was clearly traced by another hand. Lin wiped his brow with a gray handkerchief, glancing toward Hanchen, whose jaw was set as hard as pig iron. Within two hours, the truth broke wide open. Lin marched straight to the production team leaders with the fraudulent paper. Rulan was summoned to the village hall, cornered with the matching ink stains on her fingers, and quickly unraveled under cross-examination. Her claims of wanting to help Qinyu were swept aside. Liang declared her penalty before the entire squad: thirty days of docked labor credits for deceit, gutting her year-end grain allotment. As Rulan was led away, her eyes, usually shimmering with fake tears, blazed with pure hatred. She caught sight of Qinyu, who had been brought to witness the pronouncement, now idly picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. The injustice, the humiliation, ignited a dangerous spark in Rulan. She stopped, wrenching free from the cadre’s grasp, her voice raw with spite. “Fang Qinyu! You think you’ve won? You think wedding him will save you? Fool! Do you even know who you’re tying yourself to? The Zhou family is buried in debt! His father threw away their savings, and they owe our production team a massive cash quota! If they don’t pay it by month’s end, the leadership will seize their house! His house, Qinyu! And then where will you and your precious Xiaobo go?”

A Forged Destiny