Are You Aware of the Dragon’s Transformations?

August, the year of Xin Si. The wind howled.

Gao Tangxian and his refrigerated truck were stuck in a bottleneck near Shanhaiguan on the Beijing-Harbin highway. They were caught in a storm, a hailstorm to be exact. Tangxian loathed the rainy weather. It made navigating these high-speed arteries a nerve-wracking dance.

Inside the Shanhaiguan bottleneck, a cacophony erupted. Hail hammered against the roofs of a hundred different vehicles, each material producing its own unique tone to this bizarre symphony.

Stuck in gridlock, Gao decided to put the time to good use and had a video call with his family. His wife told him that Harbin, too, was under a deluge. Temperatures had plummeted to twenty-six degrees, prompting locals to dust off their stewpots and claypots. Apparently, the influx of southern aurora-chasers in Northeast surged, which kept the local restaurants booming.

The super aurora of the millennium hadn’t faded yet, but a new anomaly gripped the planet: relentless rain. Across the nation, downpours morphed into torrential storms, punctuated by thunder and lightning. Flights were grounded. Whenever it rained, people were in for a prolonged downpour—either continuous days of moderate rain, or a week or more of gloomy skies interspersed with thunderstorms. Farmers everywhere were on high alert.

Gao Tangxian was kicking back, watching a livestream. Meteorologists, usually relegated to the background noise, were thrust into the spotlight. Tech-savvy citizens flooded the web with viral videos. The internet itself faltered, its once-reliable flow replaced by erratic surges and unexplained dropouts. Wi-Fi connections sputtered and died, even mobile signals seemed to have gone rogue.

Staring at the live feed in his truck, Gao Tangxian noticed his phone’s internet connection had dropped. He chalked it up to the relentless storm, the fury of nature no doubt messing with cellular signals. He couldn’t help but think of Zhou Tongyu, the enigmatic master of cosmic electromagnetic feng shui. What was he doing lately?

Three agonising hours later, the gridlock on the highway finally eased. Reaching the distribution depot outside Shanhaiguan, Gao Tangxian’s phone sputtered back to life. A message blinked from his boss: “Call the company landline when you’ve got your phone signal back!”

The call crackled through, his boss’s voice sounded rough with overuse. “Gao Tang, good news! This rain’s a goldmine! Flights are grounded, roads are king! How about you ditch the shifts and double down on deliveries? Raise’s on the table.”

Raise! The word echoed like a song in Gao Tangxian’s ears. The rain wouldn’t last forever, and he aimed to milk it for all it was worth—for each extra day he worked, he would pocket an extra 2,000 yuan! He could push the speed a little on these rainy highways, where traffic was always lighter. Even a two-kilometre-per-hour bump could snowball into a hefty payday.

But on the last day of August came an unexpected curveball: snow in the Northeast. Gao Tangxian was on the way from Shanghai to Changsha, hauling a bizarre cargo—super-spicy hotpot base from a suburban Shanghai factory, destined for the hot pot haven of Changsha…

His wife called him, bringing the news that a sudden blizzard had pummelled the Northeast. With central heating still offline, people were shivering indoors. Gao’s jaw dropped. Summer’s grip had barely loosened, and now this? He wondered if the bizarre weather would impact long-haul refrigerated trucking rates.

The whole thing felt off. Embarrassment gnawed at him, but the situation demanded answers. Gao sent a text message to Master Zhou, hoping for some insight:

“Master, any chance you have a minute?”

As a knot of unease was tightening in Gao Tangxian’s gut, Master Zhou called him. “Hey Tangxian, snowball in summer got you curious, eh? You hit the jackpot. Let me tell you, I’m heading north now, even further—Siberia. Earth’s magnetic field has gone haywire. Snow’s just the beginning. My prediction, barring unforeseen circumstances…is a full-blown magnetic flip! The Arctic Ocean might be melting in a heat wave. I’d advice stocking up on shipping shares, ditch the airlines. The whole world’s about to turn upside down!”

Gao Tangxian, overwhelmed by Zhou’s outlandish explanation, could only manage a weak “Be careful in Siberia, Master.” The global shockwaves of this winter that came ahead of time and its economic fallout were a distant echo compared to the concrete realities of his job and the miles stretching endlessly before him.

Zhou Tongyu’s trek north wasn’t just fuelled by curiosity. A distress call from Lin Yuansu had him packing his bags. Back in the day, Zhou, a coding prodigy, cashed in on the metaverse boom at the age of 22. Flush with time and credits, he dove headfirst into the fringe—supernatural science. He built his own school of thought and established himself as the cosmic electromagnetic feng shui master. It was equal parts genuine passion for science and an ambition to explore fantastical and futuristic realms. He craved the edge of the unknown.

Knowledge, as Zhou believed, was power. Intelligence, the ultimate currency. This led him to build and expand a vast social and intelligent network all these years—consisting not just mega-rich people clinging to fortune-telling straws, but also those under-the-radar researchers, the ones toiling away in labs and universities. They each have their own social network, well-connected classmates, or even a whisper of a classified national project.

Even masters have their idols. Zhou Tongyu knew he was a fringe enthusiast at best. Real respect went to the scientists with hard-earned degrees. Lin Yuansu, a top-tier researcher, was about as high up the academic ladder as Zhou dared reach. Having consulted with his own fringe network, Zhou Tongyu reached out to the esteemed Professor Lin, a figure he usually treated with great deference.

Lin chased anomalies across the country, the Qinghai Observatory her stomping ground; skies there were clearest and data flowed easily.

“Professor Lin, this is Zhou, Zhou Tongyu here. Any progress on your project? My recent donation —the institute must have mentioned it?” Zhou’s voice brimmed with enthusiasm.

“Oh hi, Master Zhou, I did get it. Busy times lately, right? More people seeking your guidance?” Lin Yuansu found Zhou Tongyu quite likable.

“Indeed,” Zhou admitted, “but their questions leave me stumped. I wouldn’t dare offer solutions myself. What’s your take, Professor?”

“First the auroras went out of control, and now the atmosphere’s on the brink. Not my usual turf, but I’ve got a hunch —a theory that needs validation. How much money can you squeeze out of your network? This isn’t an investment. This is sink-or-swim funding.” Lin Yuansu’s voice was grave, a stark contrast to her usual indifference towards donations.

“Nobel Prize territory, Professor?” Zhou’s voice buzzed with excitement. The prospect of funding a groundbreaking discovery fuelled his enthusiasm.

Lin Yuansu sighed, a weary exhalation that resonated through the phone. “This is a chance to save the world.” She didn’t relish the weight of that mantle. Disasters, like avalanches, start small—a stray gust, a wisp of a snowflake. By the time the storm gathers, the odds are stacked against humanity. Humans are ants, facing a planetary tremor.

“Forget an ice age blip like the late Ming Dynasty had. A big one is upon us,” Lin Yuansu warned. “A planetary deep freeze. Humanity won’t shiver it out…And fighting a disaster this size demands international cooperation. Territorial lines will turn into battlefields before countries agree to budge an inch. We need a rogue initiative, a global civic organisation, to pave the way before the world unites.”

Zhou’s eyes gleamed. “Save the world! Imagine the bragging rights for generations! Our names etched in history, revered by our descendants!”

“Saving the world…might also mean destroying it. My plan to stop the freeze is a resource guzzler, a logistical nightmare. We’ll defy coordinates, borders and natural barriers. We’’ll require mountains of gold and copper, the ability to cross oceans like our highways, the sacrifice of countless lives. And all that for a world that might not survive the transformation. Our digital civilisation, for instance, would be a casualty. Right now, people can’t stomach the cost. But when the abyss stares them in the face, they might just pay the price.” A flicker of fierce resolve danced in her eyes. “Master Zhou, by the time history remembers this, if it does, we might not be remembered fondly.”

Zhou Tongyu’s spine went rigid. His heart skipped a beat, a surge of excitement coursing through him. “Professor, if your plan can truly save the world, even if it means wiping out our digital age, you’ll be a legend! I’m all in. Let me set up the organisation. I might not be much, but I know plenty of high rollers itching to leave a mark on a world going belly-up.”

Lin Yuansu, gazing out the observatory window at the endless night, chuckled. Humans were a fascinating menagerie after all. A lighter tone entered her voice. “First stop, Siberia. Dig up every scrap of data you can from the northern observatory there—the older, the dirtier, the better. I need to refine my model and calculate how much time we…well, how much time Earth has before the sun becomes a distant memory.”

September, the year of Xin Si.

Lin Yuansu’s orders were clear: high latitudes first. The trek to the Arctic Ocean, gateway to the Northern Hemisphere, wouldn’t be a joyride. Siberia’s reputation for bone-chilling cold preceded it, but Zhou Tongyu felt the adventure was a must, and a drop in the bucket compared to the coming catastrophe Lin Yuansu had predicted.

The journey wasn’t for the faint of heart. Due to the completely disastrous infrastructure, constant rain and subzero temperatures had turned Siberia’s highways into muddy nightmares. Thankfully, Zhou Tongyu, ever the pragmatist, had prepared for the worst. Instead of a single car, he rolled in with a three-vehicle convoy and a team of six local guides.

Earth’s magnetic flip wasn’t exactly news for Zhou Tongyu. Whispers of it had been swirling through online science forums for decades. But Lin Yuansu’s dire warnings and audacious plan lit a fire in Zhou Tongyu. Fear and a thrill of anticipation gnawed at him as he ventured north. Time to activate his network of “misplaced geniuses.” Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to be the saviour of humanity?

Of course, not everyone bought it whole hog. Zhou’s ambitious friends peppered him with questions. What exactly was this catastrophe? How bad could it get?

Zhou Tongyu had no clue too. The specifics—the glacial creep, the timeline of Earth’s descent into another ice age—eluded him. But the signs were undeniable. Rain lashed the tropics and subtropics, a bizarre phenomenon. Snow choked the mid- and high-latitudes. Was this a dress rehearsal for a full-blown glaciation? He needed to get back to Lin Yuansu, fast.

The meteorologists’ reports were grim. A rogue wave of cold air had infiltrated the atmosphere, triggering a global downpour. Coastal regions braced for a tropical cyclone onslaught; brewing storms churned in distant oceans.

The culprit? An ever-growing shroud of dust in the atmosphere, its origin a mystery. Not only did it generate countless rain clouds, but it also choked the atmosphere, dimming the sun’s embrace. Such a phenomenon usually followed a colossal volcanic eruption. But this level of atmospheric dust hadn’t been seen since a legendary asteroid smacked into Earth; no recent tremors had rattled the planet.

Zhou Tongyu recalled whispers from science enthusiasts. Meteorology, a spindly branch of human science, rarely yielded groundbreaking discoveries. Few saw glory in studying clouds.

All the best minds were chasing oceans of stars and energy revolution. Who cared about the weather? Making a weather forecast app barely paid the bills.

Sure, everyone knew the basic principle: more dust equals more rain. But sceptics and conspiracy hounds still clung to their theories. No recent volcanic tremors, yet a global dust storm? Maybe, they whispered, some superpower was brewing a weather weapon.

Zhou Tongyu’s real worry was the sky itself. The ionosphere was going haywire, scrambling WiFi, jamming radio frequencies, and grounding flights. This was the real emergency, a global crisis brewing in the upper atmosphere.

Since August, airlines had been pulling planes left and right, all thanks to increasing occurrences of lightning storms erupting inside clouds, throwing navigation systems into chaos. The ionosphere, the very cradle of radio waves, was unstable like never before in the history of flight.

The atmosphere in high-latitude regions choked on dust, dimming the world. Cold air masses churned as rain lashed the planet. Friction from countless rain clouds ignited the heavens with a relentless barrage of lightning. The ionosphere flickered and sputtered…

Was this the harbinger of the digital apocalypse Lin Yuansu had warned of? Anxiety gripped Zhou Tongyu. He desperately wanted to obtain the astronomical data from Siberia, burning to hear Lin Yuansu’s plan—a plan that promised salvation for the world, yet threatened to shatter the foundations of modern civilisation.

The public remained blissfully ignorant, even as the weather took a turn for the strange. Meanwhile, meteorologists in the affected regions were getting roasted by their bosses. “You weather people study clouds all day,” they’d yell, “how’d you miss this? Snowing sideways and you’re just figuring out about dust in the air? What were you doing all year?”

Weather forecasting—that’s all most people saw meteorology as. A belated guessing game. The cost of running all the world’s weather stations was a pittance compared to the space race’s annual budget. People preferred to live in a bubble, blissfully unaware of the brewing doom.

October, the year of Xin Si. A meagre harvest.

As a frontline logistics worker, Gao Tangxian could feel the pulse of the supply chain. The fluctuating freight rates were a harbinger of doom. He knew that from this October until the Chinese New Year, prices would skyrocket across the board.

By August, an unnatural snowfall had settled on the planet. Unsurprisingly, by October, a chorus of grim pronouncements echoed across the global networks: crop yields were down a staggering thirty-five percent.

Official feeds showcased the cold hard statistics: a fifteen-percent food price hike in developed nations, a figure artificially low thanks to national stockpiles being drained. Meanwhile, in the developing world, crop and heating costs skyrocketed, painting a bleak picture of a winter unlike any before.

For Gao Tangxian, however, the hardship meant opportunity. His truck groaned under heavier loads, his routes stretched to previously uncharted hubs. The economic intricacies of it all escaped him; he just knew one thing—inflation demanded hustle, and hustle he would.

Currently, the government has started churning out propaganda, sweet lies about a “temporary cooling trend” reversing by next year. Gao Tangxian, a man who hadn’t wasted bandwidth on state broadcasts for a long time, found himself tuning in to them online.

To combat the sudden global chill, research hubs across the planet pooled their data. Analysing the atmospheric data and comparing them to previous cycles, scientists concluded that the current dust load within the atmosphere was a critical factor. For at least half a year, most of Earth would endure heavier rainfall and a lower sunlight exposure.

Luckily, there was still a glimmer of hope that flickered. Earth’s atmosphere, they claimed, had a “self-cleansing system.” With the tropics and subtropics bathed in sunlight, high atmospheric temperatures would cause massive evaporation from the oceans. This moisture would, in turn, replenish lower humidities in the skies above high-latitude regions. Essentially, the planet would utilise rainfall to purge itself of these rogue dust particles, a natural filtration process.

Gao Tangxian had never seen the TV weathercaster’s smile seem so reassuring. He yearned for the day the damned cooling would finally break.

The real winter arrived. After three months of relentless rain and perpetual lack of sunlight in the temperate zone, precipitation dwindled to a trickle. By the official start of winter, snowfall in the north had ceased entirely.

A shroud of leaden skies hung heavy. The remnants of snow glistened on the ground. Private vehicles crawled through the city, their progress hampered by poorly cleared roads. By 4 p.m., darkness had descended, forcing residents of the north to resurrect ancient warming technologies. Thick cotton curtains, remnants of a bygone era, were dusted off and hung over windows, casting the interiors of buildings in perpetual twilight.

A few oblivious people even posted photos online, comparing the Northeast to a bleak, monochrome Russian oil painting. Gao Tangxian’s wife lamented the death of nightlife. Takeout deliveries were a relic of the past; people were rediscovering forgotten skills like coal-stoking and home-made heaters.

Winter’s icy grip tightened. Spring felt like a distant dream. The spectre of a long, brutal winter loomed, and everyone knew it was time to tighten their belts. Conservation became the new mantra. Official pronouncements promised a swift end to the cold wave, but whispers spoke a different truth.

April, the year of Xin Si, a brutal spring chill.

Even Gao Tangxian, a man not known for his intellectual prowess, couldn’t ignore the whispers any longer. As a long-haul trucker crisscrossing the nation, he had his finger on the pulse of the climate.

By mid-April, the Northeast remained locked in a cold grip. The chill had spread, regions with similar latitudes experienced temperatures that mirrored those in the north of the Yangtze River. The national average temperature plummeted by two degrees compared to previous years. Even regions south of the Yangtze weren’t spared, gripped by a dry, bone-chilling cold. Prices skyrocketed across the board.

Yet, humanity’s spirit remained undimmed. Hardworking people were throwing everything at the problem. Farmers scrambled to expand food production. Fruit growers, who had seen a windfall year, were now feverishly preparing their orchards for the relentless cold. Mega-farms everywhere were taking on loans to expand their heated greenhouses. In abandoned cities, enterprising individuals were renting vacant floors for hydroponic agriculture. Others were securing subterranean spaces, transforming basements into mushroom farms. Everyone understood the coming year would see even tighter supplies. But as long as there was a chance to plant and cultivate, there was a chance to catch up. The booming pork industry stood as a testament to that resilience.

Urban consumers were drowning in a sea of rising prices, a stark contrast to the steely resolve gripping rural communities.

The highways felt like a ghost town. Fuel prices had skyrocketed, chasing away private vehicles. Southerners, unused to navigating frozen roads, stayed put. Even in the north, drivers hoarded fuel, venturing out only when absolutely necessary. The once-bustling arteries were reduced to lonely stretches of asphalt, punctuated by the occasional freight truck crawling beyond Shanhaiguan. Every twenty to thirty metres, a solitary vehicle broke the desolate scene.

Chaos was strangling communication networks. Radios sputtered, satellite signals flickered, and undersea cables coughed. Mobile phones were as reliable as a rusty weather vane. GPS, the crutch of modern travel, lay defunct. Flights to mid- and high-latitude destinations were grounded. The veil of normalcy had been ripped away, the truth laid bare—something monstrous had gone wrong.

Pulling into the Changchun distribution hub, Gao Tangxian was flagged down by the familiar face of the manager there.

“Tangxian!” the man boomed, a hint of envy flickering in his eyes. “Landline calls came in from the Wudalianchi depot across the network! Said a Master Zhou is waiting for you at Mohe. Wants you specifically, lucky you, man!”

Gao Tangxian had a lot to ask Zhou Tongyu, and was pretty pleased to get the job. “Don’t just chat me up,” he countered. “Patch me through to dispatch. Gotta deliver this haul to Harbin first. Any cargo for Mohe from there?”

The manager grinned. “You got it, man. Round trip, full of goodies! Now, eat before you hit the road.”

Three days later, Gao Tangxian pulled into Mohe’s Da Dong distribution depot. The last time he’d been here, it was to deliver Zhou Tongyu. Recognising Tangxian, the manager there practically sprinted him towards a guest room.

A wave of dampness slapped Gao in the face as he entered Zhou Tongyu’s quarters. It had only been a few months, yet the man before him was barely recognisable. His hair, once neatly kept, was a tangled mess. A thick beard shadowed his face, his skin weathered and etched with scratches. His eyes, once filled with gentle wisdom, now held a terrifying cocktail of madness and raw fear.

“Tangxian, my friend!” Zhou Tongyu offered a fist-and-palm salutation. “Braving this infernal cold to get here, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Master Zhou, what’s gotten into you? Did your Siberian expedition go south?”

Zhou shook his head. “Holy smokes, something big has gone down! Remember when I told you to invest in shipping stocks? Did you?”

“I picked up a few shares, but with my new self-employed gig, cash flow’s been tight. Couldn’t afford to invest too much.”

“I miscalculated,” Zhou Tongyu admitted. “It wasn’t the magnetic field after all. But Professor Lin’s worst-case scenario might be playing out. An ice age, and whispers of war brewing in the southern bloc.” He was sorting out the many damp pamphlets littering the room, the source of the persistent smell.

Zhou Tongyu jabbed a finger at the damp pamphlets. “These…Professor Lin tasked me with retrieving them. Black market finds from Siberia. Observation logs, pre-digital era, from abandoned astronomical and meteorological stations there. Priceless data. But here’s the kicker—I can’t reach Professor Lin. I heard whispers of military control in her region. That’s why I need to deliver these in person. Professor Lin’s our beacon. We’re all counting on her, waiting for her lead.”

Gao Tangxian listened. Zhou’s rambling was a dense thicket of jargon and danger. The journey back from Siberia—if it was entirely by road—must have been a nightmare. Still, he couldn’t grasp the specifics of Zhou’s investigation.

“Master Zhou,” Gao Tangxian finally admitted, “most of that went right over my head. Why do you need me? I mean, you could afford a driver, right? And who’s this Professor Lin, anyway?”

Zhou Tongyu chuckled. “Destiny, my friend! Look at it this way. I left behind my peaceful life and set off to Siberia, just like the heroes in those old adventure stories. You were there, my first companion. Now, the world’s gone mad. And if I’m going to fix it, what better way than another epic journey with my partner? You, Tangxian, are that partner. Join me. We’re delivering these pamphlets to Qinghai. Professor Lin, a conceptual and celestial physicist—basically a modern-day stargazer—is there. Trust me, she holds the key to saving the world!”

A flicker of flattery warred with a dose of scepticism in Gao Tangxian’s mind. Master Zhou was rolling in dough, even amidst the skyrocketing prices, but Gao Tangxian had a family to feed. Mentioning money felt awkward in this situation.

Noticing Gao’s hesitation, Zhou pressed on. “Look, I know fuel costs are sky-high. I checked. But don’t worry, I’ll pay. And besides, once we decipher these data in Qinghai and the government realises what we’re sitting on, there’ll be a national payout for sure, and I’ll give you my share!”

Gao squirmed. “Master…you shouldn’t…I mean…” Zhou grinned. “Nonsense! We’re in this together! Now, let’s go for that fierce and unequal combat!”²

June, the year of Ren Wu.

As Gao Tangxian drove them south from Mohe towards Qinghai, Zhou Tongyu bombarded him with bleak predictions.

“The ice age is coming, Tangxian. And when it does, the world will erupt in war. The rich and powerful in the southern hemisphere, desperate to secure resources, will clash with tropical and subtropical nations overflowing with crops.”

“Seriously? The subtropics are our planet’s breadbasket. A war there would mean global famine,” Gao Tangxian replied. The world was already on the brink of chaos, and this news felt like a final push over the edge.

Their journey south was punctuated by a bombshell. Reaching Shanhaiguan, they were met with a media firestorm. The United Nations had announced sanctions against “uncooperative countries.” News channels online and offline were abuzz with reports of a newly formed “Global Atmosphere Investigation Centre (GAIC).” Member states were expected to submit national and regional weather data, and those lacking the capacity would have scientific teams dispatched by the Centre to their territories.

A major subtropical food exporter called for unity amongst other resource-rich nations in the region. A “New World Alliance” formed, demanding three permanent Security Council seats for tropical and subtropical nations, a defiant rejection of mid-latitude hegemony. Over thirty countries signed on.

The UN was quick to flex its military might this time by deploying troops in early May.

“The Elephant Nation blundered again. The rules of civilised warfare have been thrown out the window.” Zhou Tongyu’s prophecy came true. He looked at Gao triumphantly. “But this is a tipping point, Tangxian. Sceptics will finally wake up with a jolt to the reality.”

Gao sighed, the weight of the world pressing down on him. Just a year and a half ago, life felt idyllic. Now, it seemed like a lifetime.

The distant war in the subtropics was a constant echo through the market. Every distribution hub Gao passed became a snapshot of the conflict’s ripple effects. He tracked the volatile swings in commodity prices, the erratic flow of supplies.

Southern sea products saw inflated prices once again. Foodstuffs, however, had dipped slightly. A sliver of optimism flickered in the market—a belief that the UN, if they could contain the subtropical alliance, could stabilise global food prices. The glut of stockpiled goods from those greedy food magnates might even ease the pressure on ordinary folks’ wallets…for a while at least.

The market’s resilience was nothing short of miraculous. National economies flexed their control muscles. Major powers implemented “inward flow only” policies for crops and materials. In China, state stockpiles were open to stabilise the market, plugging the supply gap in the north. At least, for now, prices in the three Northeastern provinces started to cool. Panic subsided, and a fragile economic recovery sputtered to life.

As Gao Tangxian and Zhou Tongyu reached Qinghai, change was in the air. As if appeased by the war’s bloodshed, spring finally arrived in the temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere.

Although it was supposed to be spring, a chill lingered in the air compared to previous years. But the thaw of ice and snow from the brutal winter allowed for a semblance of normalcy. Plowing began, a flicker of hope igniting across the globe. The fight against the climate crisis and spring’s tentative arrival both lifted the collective mood.

As Gao navigated towards the observatory, a noticeable surge in activity pricked his interest. More vehicles dotted the desolate landscape, a steady flow of people and supplies. The iron fist of military control had its perks, it seemed. In this era of scarcity, an observatory nestled in such a remote corner wouldn’t have lasted long without a lifeline.

The Purple Mountain Observatory’s Qinghai outpost was now the Qinghai Data Centre, a hub for the GAIC’s China branch. Its perimeter was expanded and now bristled with activity. Pre-fab structures clustered around the original building; razor-wire fences and watchful sentinels completed the transformation.

As Gao Tangxian pulled over, Zhou Tongyu hopped out and approached a sentry.

“Professor Lin sent me to gather information, and here I am to deliver it,” he announced. “High-latitude meteorological data from Siberia. My name’s Zhou Tongyu…and I used to be a programmer.”

The sentries were grim-faced. One kept Zhou Tongyu pinned with a steely gaze and Gao Tangxian’s truck in his sights, a gun in his hand. The other retreated back into the guard post as he made a call. Finally, the sentry emerged. “Hold here,” he said. “The Ministry is sending an information transport. Your truck can’t enter.”

Zhou swallowed hard. “Alright, alright. Can we enter then?”

“Yes.” The sentry replied, his voice flat.

Gao Tangxian realised this information delivery had brought him closer to the heart of this new, unsettling world order.

Ten minutes crawled by. A van materialised from the direction of the observatory, pulling up to the gate. Several figures clad in grey uniforms disembarked. The leader, a tall man in his fifties, stepped forward. “Thank you for bringing the data. I’m Director Chang Lvye of the Third Research Lab, GAIC. Professor Lin briefed me. Your information is critical.”

Zhou Tongyu introduced himself to Chang, as Tangxian led the rest of the team to unload the pamphlets and Zhou’s toolbox from the truck bed. The data packets were transferred to the waiting van. They all piled in, entering the newly established China branch.

Chang Lvye, impressed by Zhou Tongyu’s perilous journey to retrieve the information, offered a reward. Zhou hesitated. “This might seem sudden, but…could I join your team? I have some knowledge of electromagnetism…” The weight of Chang Lvye’s title settled on Zhou. This new China branch must be a top-down operation. Lin Yuansu was likely just a cog in the machine, with Chang Lvye the parachuted leader. So much for Lin’s plan of a regressing civilisation. It seemed the higher-ups had other plans.

Chang Lvye nodded thoughtfully and said, “We’ve reviewed the data you brought in—it’s quite intriguing. Us weather people spend a lot of time cooped up in labs. Back in my day, there were plenty of folks outside the system doing groundbreaking work. In these extreme times, diverse perspectives are crucial. I can’t offer you a research position, but you can join Professor Lin’s field investigation team. Sound like a deal?”

“Sure! Marvelous!” Zhou exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with excitement.

Chang Lvye’s gaze flicked to Gao Tangxian, silently inviting a request.

Gao said, “I’m heading back for work. Just, what’s happening with this cold wave? Is an ice age really coming? I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Chang Lvye considered it. “The country will initiate a full-scale national mobilisation in two weeks. That’s when the truth comes out. Yes, a Mini Ice Age is coming. Save money, stock up, and follow the government’s lead.”

The weight of the news pressed down on Gao Tangxian. Zhou Tongyu, sensing his despair, clapped him on the shoulder. “Head back. I’ll have my contacts reach out. If you need anything, just ask them. They’ll have work for you. Remember, we fight. We survive.”

With a heavy heart, Gao shouldered the secret and returned to his job. First order of business: securing a delivery gig from a nearby distribution depot. Even if a mini ice age loomed, a man still had to work.

GAIC had become a global brain trust. Top minds in astrophysics, theoretical physics, organic chemistry, and even social engineering had been conscripted by desperate governments. A network of twenty-six data centres, each strategically positioned across the globe, ingested real-time hourly data from a staggering 3,600 atmospheric observation stations. Each centre boasted a holographic Earth, a display of our planet’s ever-shifting atmospheric currents. The tireless hunt continued—research flights crisscrossed the skies, collecting crucial atmospheric samples.

The choice of Qinghai’s Purple Mountain Observatory for the China branch wasn’t random. The region’s natural conditions were ideal for celestial and meteorological observation, particularly atmospheric studies. But it was also a nod to Lin Yuansu’s early “Disaster Early Warning Report” that had caught the eye of the top brass. Procedural hurdles and a desire to keep her focused meant Lin wouldn’t lead the China branch for now.

Zhou Tongyu followed Chang Lvye into the research institute; Chang promptly told the admin staff to find Zhou a dorm bunk and some basic admin work. An hour later, after the paperwork was done, Zhou located Lin Yuansu’s stand-alone data analysis room. Inside, only Lin and her two students worked there. Lin was poring over the Siberian data Zhou had delivered. “Professor Lin,” Zhou said softly, “Zhou Tongyu here.”

Lin glanced up. “Good work on this. What about the other business?”

“Progressing,” Zhou hedged, glancing nervously at the other two figures in the room. “But it needs more momentum.”

Lin reassured Zhou. “Spit it out. They’re my students, my trusted team.”

“The heavy hitters I contacted,” Zhou explained, “They’re on board with a major disruption, willing to invest resources. But they want details. Details about this world-altering plan. Only then will they commit and leverage their networks. So, Professor, if you wouldn’t mind…what exactly is your plan?”

Lin replied. “Government’s peddling the self-cleaning atmosphere fairytale. It works for localised volcanic dust, but not a planet-wide chokehold. The plummeting temperatures are tanking seawater evaporation, leading to less rain for a long, long time. And the worst case is the cycle sputters out before the atmosphere cleans itself. Tropical visibility’s plummeting. Once the tropics start snowing, it’s curtains for natural evaporation, and the atmosphere’s screwed. They’ll announce the truth soon enough.”

Zhou nodded. “Whispers are already swirling. That’s why we need a plan, Professor. What are you planning to do?”

“My plan,” Lin said, “is to wean Earth off sunlight for its water cycle. We need the planet to generate its own heat. That means a stronger magnetic field. A supercharged magnetosphere will kickstart a self-cleaning process, plunging the planet into a geomagnetic fever. But there’s a catch. This amplified field will kill modern digital civilisation. Circuit boards and chips will be completely out.”

Zhou Tongyu’s eyes widened. “A geomagnetic fever? Theoretically, yes. But how do we crank Earth’s magnetic field?” Lin turned to her student. “Xia Chongbing,” she said, “show Mr. Zhou the details.”

Xia Chongbing, the student, nodded and tapped a tablet, an animation video shimmering into display for Zhou Tongyu. “The science is elementary,” he explained. “Remember basic electromagnetism? Wrap a wire around a nail, zap it with electricity, you get a magnetic field that magnetises the nail. Same principle, only writ large. We create a continuous loop around the entire planet, pump it full of power, and then, Earth’s magnetic field gets a supercharge. The expanded field heats the planet and generates electromagnetic storms—the dust in the atmosphere will start to clump together or burn up. The tiny particles will vanish, the larger ones will fall. The entire atmosphere will clear up, and Earth will have a clean sky again. Of course, this plan requires global cooperation, sea-based power transmission, a massive amount of electricity, construction materials, and a colossal investment.”

Zhou studied the animation, jaw slack. He blinked, a slow and confident grin spreading across his face. “Crazy,” he finally admitted. “But to get the whole world on board with this rogue plan, it needs…pizazz. Chongbing, you did this animation, right? Ever been to the Forbidden City? Seen those majestic dragon pillars? Let’s ditch that boring wire and wrap the Earth in a freaking dragon! That’s the image I need to rally support for this plan!”

July, the year of Ren Wu. The month frost and ice turned conqueror.

Professor Chang Lvye’s grim prophecy materialised as governments around the world issued a chilling synchronicity: a “Mini Ice Age” warning. National mobilisation became the new normal.

Official broadcasts splashed the truth across every screen. “Citizens,” the sombre announcers intoned, “we bear heavy news. The sudden global chill is not a natural fluctuation. A vast cosmic dust cloud, trapped by Earth’s weakened magnetic field, has poured into our atmosphere, obscuring sunlight. Humanity, with its current technological prowess, is helpless against this cosmic intrusion. We cannot shield our planet from this dust, nor can we intervene in space to deflect it…Our only hope lies in nature’s cleansing process, the precipitation cycle. But the relentless cold has crippled this vital mechanism. Evaporation is dwindling, rainfall is faltering. Even in the tropics, visibility is deteriorating. Once snow falls, the Earth’s natural cleansing will cease entirely, locking us in a Mini Ice Age. Our survival hinges on a collective effort. We must mobilise, industrialise food production, stockpile supplies, and prepare for a prolonged struggle. The United Nations will coordinate global food aid, ensuring we endure this crisis together and avoid the abyss of societal collapse…”

The announcements, delivered in different languages, echoed the same grim message. While the specifics varied by nation, the call to action was clear: mobilise. China, a titan of infrastructure and power, unveiled a daring plan—Project Frozen Earth.

Instead of a mass southern migration, the government established an Ice Age Response Bureau and championed the Great Northern Construction Plan. In the food-scarred north, development of indoor farms and artificial light hydroponics ramped up. Their goal was to restore northern crop yield before the south’s harvests dwindled. This holistic approach meant to be a shield against the Mini Ice Age’s bite. Even if China became a perpetual twilight zone, this plan could sustain its people.

Retreating south with every frost was a losing game. The national plan, however, was a defiant stand. Gao Tangxian found it a Herculean feat rivalling Yu the Great’s taming of floods, the Foolish Old Man’s mountain relocation, or Jingwei’s tireless sea-filling. To wrestle with nature itself—now that was a fight worth waging!

But on second thoughts, the logic made sense. If the cooling front kept creeping south, mass migrations wouldn’t work. The government couldn’t just cram the entire population onto its southernmost Hainan Island after all!

In this era of industrial renaissance, where possessions held great value, Gao Tangxian noticed a newfound respect and perhaps a touch of envy directed towards long-haul truckers. He was astonished by the global transportation crisis. New trucks were scarce, a shocking revelation. He inquired with suppliers, only to learn that car manufacturers were racing against time to fill the void. Yet, production lines groaned under the strain, plagued by static electricity that punctured circuit boards, raising scrap rates and slowing production.

Whispers, not official pronouncements, filled the internet. Cosmic dust, rife with metallic content, was wreaking havoc on Earth’s ionosphere, triggering magnetic storms. Electronics production and devices worldwide sputtered under the onslaught.

The year of Ren Wu was a harrowing aftermath. Global morale plummeted, expectations for a comfortable life dwindled. The economic shockwaves spurred a shift towards industry. By summer, the major countries seemed to collectively jolt back to life.

Hope bloomed for a protracted spring—a chance to stockpile supplies and reduce heating costs. But the response to the “Mini Ice Age” warning varied widely across the globe. Wealthy nations and individuals began a silent exodus, a scramble for subtropical and tropical havens. Even in northeastern China, the affluent initiated a first-mover advantage.

It suddenly dawned on people that years ago, many from the Northeast had quietly snatched up apartments on balmy Hainan Island. Now, in the southwards exodus, these Northeasterners became the hottest landlords. Rents skyrocketed in Hainan, a single room fetching an exorbitant price.

Two years after the governments across the globe issued their general mobilisation orders, the creeping frost line mocked their efforts, pushing further south each day. Beijing experienced a brutal July winter.

Heeding the national call, many turned to high-tech agriculture. Northern China, despite its frigid embrace, boasted vast tracts of arable land. The government initiated a “city merging” project, relocating rural populations to hub cities. A great number of vertical greenhouses sprouted on the city outskirts. Existing state-run farms were consolidated, centralising management across the region. Across the Northeast, vertical greenhouses now dominated the landscape.

Gao Tangxian was still on the road, hauling cargo across the country. His family and company shareholders wanted to expand his fleet, but new trucks were hard to come by.

Massive infrastructure upgrades across the north had choked the state’s transportation arteries. In response, the government loosened the reins on the private sector, hoping market forces could regulate the flow of non-essential materials.

Gauging the changing climate firsthand, Gao Tangxian navigated the northbound route. The north’s once-abundant snowfall was a fading memory. Greenhouse farms relied heavily on centralised water systems for irrigation. Fog hung thick across the nation, the wind itself seeming sluggish. The air felt stagnant and heavy.

In transitional zones like Guangzhou, where subtropics meet the temperate, the air seemed like a suffocating glue. Visiting a distribution station there, Gao Tangxian felt like he was wading through fog, an unsettling swim on solid ground.

The sky remained perpetually shrouded, with only fleeting glimpses of sunlight breaking through the oppressive clouds.

An unexpected casualty of this prolonged chill? The cosmetics industry. Sales of sunscreen, whitening creams, and makeup plummeted. Sun exposure was a luxury, complexions grew pallid, and despite readily available food, a lack of sunlight began to cast a pall over the population, whispering the winter blues.

Local governments and health organisations scrambled. Artificial sunrooms sprouted across China. Those without access were encouraged to bask in heated greenhouses, a pale substitute for the real sun.

The world was enveloped in a cold, cloudy silence. No storms raged, no snow fell, and the wind was still.

Civilian flights were a relic of the past. Only military aircraft carved through the gloom, conducting atmospheric sampling and testing dust removal methods. The ionosphere’s turmoil, coupled with the incessant cloud buildup and electrical discharges, had rendered useless ninety-nine percent of high-altitude weather drones. Short videos circulated online of silent fireworks—drones exploding high above cities, their brief flashes swallowed by the leaden skies.

As crisis unfolded, the line between science and war blurred. Research institutes across the globe turned to the military. Governments worldwide issued unwavering orders to their militaries: send pilots into the churning atmosphere to collect dust samples. Sampling the dust meant braving electrified clouds, a suicide mission for even the most disciplined veterans. Big nations, fuelled by ironclad command structures, forced their pilots to comply. But smaller countries faced a different enemy: disobedience. Their only recourse? Civilian volunteers.

The skies once patrolled by sleek jets became a spectacle of time travel. Ancient agricultural planes, dusty biplanes, rickety trainers—all piloted by a motley crew of volunteers. Some were altruistic citizens, and others were “thunder chasers” lured by hefty bounties. Still others were researchers thrust into the cockpit, forced by circumstance.

Lin Yuansu submitted the “Earth Electromagnetic Enhancement Plan” to her superior. “Humanity’s puny strength can’t wrestle with Earth’s climate tantrum,” she declared. “Project Frozen Earth might buy us time, but it’s a gilded cage. Other nations will come for our resources, triggering wars and shattering our fragile peace. We have a choice: cling to the hope of miracles—free nuclear fusion power, endless electricity, a life-support for greenhouse farms—or take a gamble. Pool the world’s resources to fortify Earth’s magnetic field…”

The plan was audacious. Theoretically sound, yes, but it reeked of regression—a global civilisation taking a giant leap backwards. Not to mention, did the Chinese branch have the authority to make such a call? Would the world even listen?

As expected, rejection wasn’t immediate. The plan plunged into a mire of feasibility discussions.

October, the year of Geng Zi. Humanity’s wireless lifeline sputtered and died. Satellites, space probes, space stations—all fell silent and cut off from Earth. Electronic devices started coughing their last, succumbing to a silent plague of shorts. The Chinese Abacus Algorithmic Centre, once hailed as a human miracle, became a project that the few remaining research institutes were forced to consider reviving.

The rhythmic clack of abacuses grew louder across the globe, a symphony of clicks and calculations in all kinds of languages. The year of Gui Wei dawned, a year of quiet desperation. Humanity’s spirit flickered like a dying ember. The spectre of war, a fight for dwindling resources and living space, loomed large on the horizon.

April, the Year of Jia Shen.

Enter the Dust Eaters.

When science failed, force became the only option. A desperate coalition of nations formed a joint air force tasked with burning off the atmospheric plague. Squadrons of fighters roared into the gloom, spewing fire to clear the skies. But for hundreds of lost jets, the oppressive grey remained.

Data, a cold and cruel truth, confirmed the worst fears of scientists. A cosmic deluge of dust poured from the poles, fuelling a new Ice Age. Online, a chorus of science enthusiasts clamoured for a global “atmospheric hoover,” a super-vacuum to cleanse the atmosphere. GAIC quickly doused their hopes. Humanity lacked the technology for such a planetary vacuum cleaner.

The vastness of Earth’s atmosphere dwarfed human efforts. Rain, it seemed, remained their only hope. The self-cleaning cycle of the planet, if it still functioned, was their only salvation.

Evaporation had plummeted. Even the tropics shivered under snowfall. Humanity teetered on the precipice of a dark age.

Global leaders scrambled. Underground cities and a rapid shift to nuclear heating became the mantra. The clock ticked. Scientists predicted the global water cycle would seize up entirely within five years. Mankind’s thirst wouldn’t be quenched by dwindling groundwater reserves for long. Ten years, that’s all they had before the oceans plunged into an “aphotic zone,” a graveyard for shallow marine life. The Mini Ice Age would officially arrive.

This was the year the dam broke. Mass migration, a tide of desperate humanity, surged towards the tropics—a last gasp for survival. The ignorant masses clawed their way south, oblivious to the hungry eyes of motivated nations eyeing China’s verdant greenhouse havens.

The truly perceptive held their breath, waiting for the first shot of the inevitable war—the war of Armageddon.

On a seemingly ordinary afternoon, the 9th day of the 9th lunar month, a whisper pierced the static of the barely-breathing global internet. An organisation emerged on the few remaining LANs, broadcasting a message: a plan for salvation.

The news boomed across the digital wasteland. Wherever flickering connections held, people huddled around screens. In isolated pockets, cut off from the web, individuals lugged bulky laptops, their long cables snaking across streets, the video message projected on the screens.

Interpretations of the video flooded the fractured web. Some boasted elaborate graphics, others subtitled in a dozen languages. The video itself echoed in every major language. This mysterious organisation was a force prepared; it was no small operation.

“Listen up, wretched refuse of a choked Earth! You were born under a cursed sky. This meteorological ice age has stolen more than warmth and sunlight. Suspended particulates now choke the atmosphere at six parts per thousand globally. The air itself is a bomb. We’ll drown in our own phlegm before hunger claims us.”

“While greenhouse farms, hydroponics, and nuclear furnaces can offer a temporary reprieve, how long can we cheat this inevitable frost? The sun, our lifeblood, is a stranger. Without its kiss, the Earth will harden further. Groundwater will turn to ice. Our greenhouse havens will become barren wastelands. Eventually, the social order will crumble, leaving less than a hundred million to starve in the dark.”

“We will all perish, slowly and painfully, as the world descends into decay and cannibalism.”

Chang Lvye recognised the voice instantly—the Chinese narrator, calm yet forceful. It was Lin Yuansu. He flicked through the languages, the timbre shifting with each.

A knock. Lin Yuansu entered Chang’s office. “Professor Chang,” she said. “Each language track has a local voice—online personalities, trusted figures. You’re more aware than most that international cooperation for the electromagnetic enhancement plan is dead. So, we’re taking matters into our own hands.”

Chang stared. “You? The China branch?”

Lin Yuansu smiled. “In times of crisis, Professor, every pifu, every ordinary citizen, is a soldier. We, the Chinese branch, call ourselves ‘Pifu.’ This video is not propaganda. Watch closely, and you’ll understand.”

Chang was dumbfounded, unsure if it was Lin Yuansu who was crazy, or the world itself. He decided to watch the video and see where it led.

“The water cycle’s collapse triggers a familiar nightmare—an ice age. The sun’s warmth is a lifeline for civilisations. But there’s a way to break this cycle. We can fortify Earth’s magnetic field. No longer a passive recipient of solar heat, Earth will become its own furnace. In the absence of sunlight, a strengthened evaporation system will churn, water returning to the sky in a cleansing rain. This won’t just purge the choking dust; it will ensure humanity’s survival when similar threats loom in the future.”

“Imagine Earth’s magnetic field cranked up tenfold. The poles would ignite, glaciers melt, unleashing a torrent of rain. Cosmic dust, currently seeping through the polar gaps, would be caught in this downpour, forming a swirling grey curtain at the poles before dissipating. At the current rate, within two decades, the South Pole will be blanketed in a wasteland of alien dust. The Arctic Ocean, a potential host to a monstrous new island. But with a fortified magnetic shield, Earth’s natural evaporative cycle will kick back into overdrive. Even without sunlight, the atmosphere can cleanse itself, scouring away the existing dust and restoring Earth’s ability to soak in the sun’s warmth. Rain-making particles will plummet, and the once erratic seasons will settle into a predictable rhythm.”

“Earth’s magnetic field is a double-edged sword. The poles will ignite, while the equator chills. Coastlines will morph, but the ice age will be banished forever. Food production belts will shift, requiring adaptation, but no mass starvation. Humanity will survive. War and hunger won’t claim our lives.

However, this comes at a cost. Strengthening Earth’s magnetic field unleashes electromagnetic tempests. The ionosphere would become more volatile. Our circuit board civilisation? Gone. Wireless, broadcasting, computers, the internet—all fried by these storms. We’re talking a potential regression to the 1930s. But remember, it’s a price we pay for survival.

This isn’t a suggestion, it’s a notification. Whether you’re on board or not, the ‘Light Dragon Plan’ launches in five minutes.

Regress or face oblivion. Choose.

Someone has to play the villain in this tragic scenario. It looks like that role falls to us.

If you’re curious, step outside. Look up. The Light Dragon will rise soon.

Sincerely,

Pifu“

A scowl spread across Chang Lvye’s face as he finished the video. “Light Dragon Plan, huh? Isn’t that just a fancy name for your electromagnetic pipe dream? You and your team—who are you kidding?! We’re talking about a planet-wide grid! Cables, relay stations, a power drain that could suck the Earth dry! How do you even plan to maintain it?”

Lin Yuansu countered, a smile playing on her lips. “Professor Chang, have you ever heard of the transformations of the dragon?”

Gao Tangxian, far from the flickering web, couldn’t access the “Light Dragon” video when it was uploaded. But as a loyal member of “Pifu,” he knew he was in the fight, toiling tirelessly for his wife and kids.

His trusty friend, the retrofitted refrigerated truck cobbled together countless times, rumbled down the road. Was it the endless miles that forged its remarkable resilience, or perhaps Master Zhou’s blessing, branding it as a vessel of fate? Whatever the reason, its circuits remained stubbornly functional, a marvel in a world where breakdowns were commonplace.

The catastrophe had decimated the long-haul fleet, their circuits fried husks. Old agricultural and industrial tractors lumbered back onto the scene, while car-mod enthusiasts ran de-electrification factories. Every sleek, modern model was being stripped back to its bare bones, a desperate return to the era of the gasoline engine. But Gao Tangxian? His truck still held onto a sliver of luxury. Every now and then, the dusty tape deck would whir to life, blasting pop music into the air.

This haul could be his last. His truck was running on, a vital relay station set nestled in its cargo hold. Seven thousand two hundred more like it were scattered across the globe, each a critical node in the “Light Dragon Plan” network.

He still remembered the jolt of disbelief when the distribution depot owner, a long-time friend, had yanked him into the “Pifu” fold. Secretive and enigmatic, the organisation was one of many in the post-collapse chaos. There were the snake oil preachers, hawking salvation; the ragtag survivalist groups; and “Pifu,” seemingly no different.

But then the depot owner, eyes alight, had dropped the bombshell: “Gao Tang, the world needs saving. We gotta protect our families. There’s a scientist’s plan to call forth the ‘Light Dragon,’ a world-saver…”

The internal “Pifu” recruitment video featured a grizzled scientist, the embodiment of the public’s image of a scholar, who pointed out that the Light Dragon Plan was a monumental undertaking and would demand a mountain of supplies and an army of volunteers.

“Friends, there are no saviours. Our fate rests in our own hands…To fortify Earth’s magnetic field, we need a monumental effort. The science is there, but the cost is astronomical. Earth’s magnetic field is a three-layered shield: the core, the ever-shifting outer layer, and the electromagnetic aberration in between. The outer layer is constantly fluctuating, influenced by sunspots, ionosphere disturbances, and the interplay of magnetic storms and artificial magnetic fields.”

“To combat the prolonged cooling caused by the influx of cosmic dust, we must supercharge Earth’s magnetic field. This requires radical measures: altering the Earth’s core to intensify its convective currents and electromagnetically fortifying its metallic heart. The answer? ‘Coiled Dragon.’ Imagine a planet-sized electrical coil, wrapping the Earth from pole to pole. This isn’t just a web of wires; it’s a dragon, an electric behemoth capable of reshaping Earth itself. Have you heard the ancient tale of the Coiled Dragon capable of purifying the world? It’s a myth born from the dreams of an earlier civilization that dared to imagine reshaping the planet.”

The simulation on the screen was breathtaking. A frozen wasteland—snow-covered Earth, black skies, people huddled against the cold, dying fires. Then, a spark. Countless nodes across the globe lit up, starting from the South Pole. A ribbon of electricity shot out, circling the Earth like a luminous dragon, growing thicker, brighter, until it fully encircled the planet. The Earth roared, a surge of power coursing through its core. Winds whipped; heat returned. The sky…the sky turned bright! People emerged, their faces bathed in light. Frozen rivers thawed. Life, flickering on the edge, roared back.

Gao Tangxian watched, tears welling in his eyes.

“Imagine a colossal electric coil wrapped around the Earth, its pulses generating a magnetic field so powerful it rewrites the planet’s very core. It permanently magnetises the hard magnetic material placed inside, a principle as basic as that. It’s like magnetising an iron nail, only writ large—a nudge that unleashes a dormant force within Earth itself. Our magnetisation merely serves as a beacon, a catalyst. The surge in magnetic force Earth unleashes might be a primordial state. Yet, scaling this project to planetary proportions—a solitary magnetic field amplification encompassing the entire planet—demands astronomical power reserves. Wrapping the entire planet with this coil, spaced strategically every 300 kilometres, and then pumping a monstrous current through it across the poles at mind-blowing voltages…”

At the Purple Mountain Observatory, Chang Lvye asked Lin Yuansu with scepticism. “Just how many people and wallets did you tap into for this? Do they grasp the sheer audacity of this plan? A global power grid? Even if nations weren’t teetering on the brink, it’s ludicrous!”

Lin nodded. “Initially, I envisioned ‘Pifu‘ as a scouting party, gathering data. But as scientists and specialists from all walks of life joined, this group has taken on a life of its own, exceeding my wildest dreams. Fuelled by the ‘Light Dragon Plan’ and the looming apocalypse, Pifu has amassed a staggering amount of private funding. Our technical team has crunched the numbers, and believe it or not, we can pull this off—with some risks, though. We named it ‘Light Dragon Plan’ for a touch of drama, but now with power engineers and construction specialists on board, the plan has a sense of holy purpose.”

“There’s this old quote about the dragon: ‘It can expand or contract, soar or descend. In its grandest form, it conjures clouds and exhales mist, while in its most diminutive guise, it conceals itself within the tiniest crevices. It can ascend to the celestial realms or descend to the depths of the ocean.’ Sounds fantastical, doesn’t it? But like the dragon itself, this planetary magnetisation project mirrors that description.

Electricity, like the mythical beast, can be vast or minute, visible or hidden. Thankfully, we have electromagnetic engineers to design a reinforcing structure for the entire system. This tames the technical hurdles of this global power grid.

When it comes to crafting the ‘super magnetic field,’ there’s a faster and riskier solution: harnessing super electromagnetic field capture technology to directly fortify the poles. This tech, derived from nuclear fusion research, allows us to create an artificial electromagnetic entity—in 2020, we achieved a temporary field exceeding Earth’s own by 500,000 times!”

“Building an artificial electromagnetic body is a constant energy balancing act. Can the manufactured field capture more power than it takes to create it? That’s why fusion research has become the holy grail for our hyper-electromagnetic field gurus.

Sure, this magnetic field won’t last forever, but it’ll be a jumpstart for Earth’s own magnetic field. The aftermath, however, will be a period of intense instability.”

Lin Yuansu paused. “Director Chang, let’s head to the roof. Soon, our entire facility’s power will go haywire. Look up, feel it.” Chang Lvyu sighed and grabbed his coat on the chair. Together, they ascended to the rooftop. From there, they gazed up at the sky.

September 9, the year of Jia Shen.

Those who watched the “Light Dragon Plan” video were the first to step outside, their eyes scanning the sky with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

Confusion mingled with a flicker of anticipation hung in the air. Then, a voice ripped through the crowd. “Light!” It was a truth universally acknowledged—in every corner of the world, a keen observer always existed. Eyes followed the pointing finger, drawn to a single bolt of lightning. In the dust-choked sky, its brilliance was a beacon, a spark against the dying embers of Earth.

Meanwhile, a squad from the “Light Dragon Plan” embarked on their mission. An icebreaker carried a small nuclear reactor. Part of this energy would jolt the global grid awake. The rest would fuel the monstrous system capturing the super electromagnetic field.

From Victoria Land, Antarctica, the power cable snaked north-east across the frozen Ross Sea. A repurposed mega cruiser served as the first relay. It then dipped north, recharged at Thurston Island, and embarked on a six-circuit odyssey around the southern high latitudes. Its final destination: the Cape Horn transformer substation in South America.

From there, the cable pulsed with life. It sliced through the Falklands, traversed the Argentine Basin, clinging to a network of substations reborn from offshore platforms in the temperate zone. By the time it touched land again, it hummed with renewed purpose, coursing through the heart of Melbourne’s nuclear power station.

Across the Tasman Sea, it found Auckland in the East Pacific. Dozens of repurposed drilling platforms, now humming substations, became its stepping stones. South America welcomed it back, then it traversed the Mid-Atlantic, a lifeblood feeding the colossal nuclear substation of Cape Town. Africa, Asia, and Europe felt its thrumming energy as it pulsed north, finally linking with another lone icebreaker, its nuclear heart a beacon in the Arctic Ocean.

This global power cable, a dragon coiling the Earth, would have ignited awe in the most jaded globetrotter. Its construction wasn’t a monolithic task. Regions strategically piggybacked on existing grids, tapping temporary relay stations and splicing into old power lines as the system operated.

Where grids were non-existent, the railway system transformed into a makeshift power conduit. Trucks, carrying transiting relay equipment, bridged areas utterly devoid of electricity. Ships, turned into temporary relay stations, docked at designated points on the day of operation. Aircraft, like metallic birds, strung cables, connecting the ship’s grids.

This entire network was undeniably crude and fragile—a mere skeleton for the first surge of power.

“Light Dragon Plan” commenced across the globe. In a beautiful act of global unity, teams from every region relied on the most primal of tools—their watches. In autumn On the ninth day of the ninth month of the year of Jia Shen, at precisely 12:15 PM Beijing time, power nodes worldwide roared to life!

These individuals, once programmers, pianists, fighters, fitness enthusiasts, and geeks, now shared a singular title across the globe: Pifu. Alongside them, legendary names like La Fronde, Camicie Rosse, Fekete Sereg, and Ippatsu³ echoed in every branch the world over.

The global power grid hummed with anticipation. The interconnected systems surged with energy, reaching their maximum capacity. The “Light Dragon Plan” had been initiated. Ocean-bound “adapter ships” thrummed as massive cables, thicker than a fist, began to bake with heat. The same searing energy crackled through subsea lines. With a final nod, staff at critical power nodes retreated upon activation.

The “Light Dragon” grid, a web of cables snaking across the globe, was more than just conduit. Every few hundred metres, a light winked to life—a signal to the crew and a spectacle for the audience. These points of light, scattered like distant stars, pulsed with power, seemingly merging into a continuous ribbon from afar.

In that instant, Earth transformed. Imagine a giant potato, pierced by metal rods and wrapped in electrical coils—a makeshift planetary battery, generating a momentary electromagnetic surge.

This makeshift system wasn’t built to last. The sheer energy and time demanded by the plan to magnetise the planet were enough to trigger two levels of hyper-electromagnetic field capture. As the initial grid strained under the monumental task, nature intervened with a spectacle of its own.

Temporary lines, unable to handle the raw power coursing through them, blazed and vaporised. But something unexpected unfolded. The collective electricity, a global current now self-sustaining, and the colossal wire encircling Earth—all coalesced into a true dragon of lightning. The uneven terrain, varying temperatures, and diverse electrical conditions across the globe painted the dragon in a dazzling display of colours and shapes.

“I saw a dragon, a fiery monster. It was made of lightning and flew across the empty plains, lighting up everything around it. Even from far away, the cold air was hot because of it.”

“Dragons are real. Mine came up from the ocean. It was a huge beast, covered in swirling mist, and it glowed green. There was thunder, and the ocean looked like it was splitting apart under the dragon…”

“It came out of the Earth. The air smelled like burning metal, like a bad kitchen fire. I couldn’t breathe because it was so hot. Sand, dust, and smoke filled the air as this thing tore through the sky. When it was gone, the ground was covered in melted lava.”

“The light dragon! So brilliant it blinded you. It’s a shame you stayed indoors and missed it. Even from a distance, it seemed impossibly large. If there had been a sun, the dragon would have overshadowed it. How bright…”

The colossal lightning dragon encircled the globe for a few dozen seconds, but for those humans awestruck by its presence, time stretched into eternity. Each witness held the image of the light dragon etched deep within their hearts.

The Earth’s magnetic field, a far more sensitive sentinel than its tiny human inhabitants, thrummed in response. The ionosphere, Earth’s upper atmosphere, erupted into a magnificent magnetic storm.

Across the globe, eyes turned skyward. It mattered not if it was night or day, clear or cloudy. Countless bolts of lightning erupted, intertwining with the colossal dragon that encircled the planet. Earth became a glowing sphere, bathed in the continuous electrical dance.

A frantic voice pierced the sudden silence. “Cover your ears!” The thunder, a savage echo of the lightning’s fury, shattered glass with a deafening boom.

Light, then sound, then the wind. A long-dormant shift in temperature awoke, stirring the air. A breeze turned into a gale, a symphony of wind rising across the planet. It felt as if Earth itself was about to take a mighty sneeze.

Unknown to many, the original power route was intentionally laid far from cities, a safety measure to prevent the untamed power from wreaking havoc on surrounding areas.

Hundreds of metres away, Gao Tangxian watched as his beloved truck, a loyal companion for years, melted into slag alongside the substation system. The overclocked grid unleashed temperatures that turned metal to molten tears. Casualties were inevitable across the relay points. This plan demanded sacrifice, a truth all participants bore with heavy hearts. Yet, they had to gamble.

The Earth thrummed with change, an instinct, a yearning on the verge of fulfilment. As more and more people ventured outside, their eyes couldn’t help but drift upwards, anticipating the spectacle that had been promised.

Then, the heavens opened. Not rain, but a grotesque snowfall—black, grey, and pale blue flakes peppered Gao Tangxian and the rest. These weren’t snowflakes, but cosmic dust, shaken loose from the atmosphere. With radio waves and satellite signals falling silent, humans were isolated, unaware of the global spectacle unfolding.

Across scattered settlements, cheers erupted. The “Light Dragon” had materialised before people’s eyes. The gamble had paid off.

Survival was the primal instinct for people like Gao Tangxian. Far from the city’s embrace, human settlements scattered across the wilderness. Some nursed injuries from debris, others bore the scars of explosions. Desert dwellers huddled together, while mountaintop communities braced against the elements. They were all stranded, tens of kilometres from the nearest cities…

And now, it was snowing.

Purple Mountain Observatory in Qinghai plunged into darkness—all electronics fried. Yet, cheers erupted from the blinded crowd.

Chang Lvye, too, witnessed the colossal electric light in the sky. Disbelief etched on his face until the first snowflake landed on his forehead. He turned to Lin Yuansu. “So, your plan…It worked?”

Lin Yuansu could barely stand. “Listen to them cheering. It’s snowing.”

Indeed, the cheers grew louder as more people spilled out of the building.

“A world bathed in a supercharged magnetic field…” Chang Lvye muttered, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Earth’s core will become a colossal magnet. The poles, once frigid wastelands, will bake under the heat of this new reality. Humanity will be thrown back to the Stone Age. Metals, unsafe. We’ll be wielding sticks and stones again…” Lin Yuansu tried to picture this future. “Maybe the penguins will finally have their day in the sun.”

Spring, Year of Jia Wu. March. A new dawn.

Humanity’s great migration was in full swing, an exodus mirrored by a nascent evolution. After the rain that began last September, people had adapted to the transformed world.

The dirty snow marked the first precipitation after the colossal lightning storm, a byproduct of heat melting atmospheric ice crystals. Patchy sunlight peeked through thinning clouds, offering a glimpse of a forgotten warmth. Many, emerging from underground cities or greenhouses, basked their gloveless hands in the meagre rays. That faint heat was a whisper of a bygone era.

Ten hours later, the second rain arrived, black in some regions, acidic in others. This downpour was even more torrential than the first. Humans, hunkered down on the ground, felt only the distant rumble. The oceans, however, bore the brunt of the storm’s fury. Not just from the rising temperature, but from the newly active atmosphere birthing countless hurricanes across the globe.

The wind howled, the clouds writhed.

A flicker of hope. Sunshine, wind, rain—a semblance of normalcy.

But humanity’s reprieve was short-lived. After a month of purifying rain, the twenty-first shower cleansed the sky, but a peculiar scent lingered in the global atmosphere.

Some speculated it was the lightning’s wrath, supercharging the atmosphere with ozone. The air grew thick and humid, punctuated by ever-lengthening dry spells. Scientists confirmed: the cleansing rains had stripped the atmosphere of rain-making particles. The new normal was a scalding sky, resistant to precipitation.

The feared coastal inundation, thankfully, wasn’t catastrophic. Yet, an endless tide of moisture was clinging to the air.

The “Light Dragon” had plunged humanity back into a pre-electric dark age. Every electrical device, from the smallest appliance to the largest machine, was rendered inoperable. Wired networks and power supply systems were obliterated. Phones and computers ground to a halt.

Lin Yuansu hadn’t foreseen the magnetic storm’s full fury. Engines sputtered and died, bicycles a useless tangle of magnetised metal. Every scrap of metal on Earth had been magnetised. The bicycle’s bearings, now locked in a magnetic embrace, refused to budge.

Sunless nights offered little respite. The air crackled with a strange heat, leaving people parched and longing for a cold beer. But factories were silent, fridges long gone. Survival demanded a return to the past. People re-embraced beasts of burden—horses, donkeys, even lumbering carriages. Rowing became a coveted high-paying skill.

Gao Tangxian now navigated the waterways as a boatman, his heart filled with the hope of a reunion with Zhou Tongyu amongst the rippling currents.

Post-Dragon Light Plan, Tangxian learned from his boss that Zhou Tongyu had volunteered for a critical mission in Antarctica. Back when Zhou sided with Professor Lin, his rallying cry to his rich friends was a two-pronged attack: “This is our legacy, etched in generations to come.” and “I’ll be the first to burn.”

From the outset, every bigwig who funded the plan knew the Pifu‘s leader, Zhou Tongyu, would personally stand at the Antarctic “ignition point” of the global power grid. If it failed, he’d be a martyr.

Since that day, no one had heard of him. Antarctica, like the Arctic, was rumoured to be a simmering sea now. The planet was in throes of ecological upheaval. Currents shifted, coastlines reshaped. The future was a swirling enigma.

Hope, however, was here to stay. A “New Old Age” dawned. Gao Tangxian didn’t build a memorial for Zhou Tongyu, but each month, his family prepared a special—blood sausage stewed with pickled Chinese cabbage. An extra bowl and chopsticks awaited Zhou Tongyu. Perhaps, Gao mused, the brilliant Master Zhou would one day reappear and join him at the dinner table.