"Don't, don't, don't! I'm coming out right now! Don't shoot!"

A pitch-black thing popped out from behind a cryogenic capsule, looking just like a round-headed mop... the kind that's been soaking in a mud pit for two years.

Scott Harris squinted, trying to make it out, and with some effort managed to find a pair of eyes on that mop—that was someone who hadn't taken care of their hair or beard in who knows how long.

"Anyone else?" Scott Harris's finger was still hooked on the trigger.

The mop hesitated for a moment, kept his hands raised in surrender, and muttered something as he turned his head.

Another, smaller mop cautiously poked its head out.

The little mop glanced at the big mop, then imitated him and raised its hands as well.

"Calm down, calm down. It's just the two of us, no one else." The big mop stared at his gun as he spoke.

"I'm very calm," Scott Harris replied.

"Honestly, I don't really believe that. After all, when I first crawled out of the cryogenic capsule, I was so hungry I wanted to eat people." The mop's voice carried a hint of suspicion.

Scott Harris looked indifferent. "If I can't find anyone cleaner than you two, I'd probably rather starve to death."

The mop was at a loss for words, and even seemed a bit regretful. "Actually, it's only been half a year since we last cleaned up. Could you maybe point the gun somewhere else?"

In fact, the gun had been frozen in the cryogenic capsule for so long, who knew if it would even work. But Scott Harris was a bastard; he didn't mind scaring this mysterious big guy a little longer, so he said, "Depends on my mood."

"So how's your mood now?" the mop asked.

"Not great. It's too stuffy in here," Scott Harris said calmly.

To be precise, the air here was so stifling it made people irritable—a physical reaction.

The mop drew out an "oh" and instantly deflated. "That's a shame, then. Nothing we can do about it. We've been stuck in here for a long time already."

He glanced at his own wrist.

Only then did Scott Harris notice something on his wrist was glowing with a faint blue light, like the screen of a smart watch.

"Do you mind if I touch it?" The mop stared fixedly at Scott Harris's gun, afraid it might go off.

Scott Harris gave no clear answer, so the mop mustered his courage and gingerly tapped the watch screen.

A cold electronic voice immediately sounded, clear enough for Scott Harris to hear:

Surface temperature: New Celsius 5°

Humidity: Dry

Warning: Oxygen level severely below normal, 32 minutes and 57 seconds until critical threshold.

This kind of alert was nothing new to Scott Harris; he'd heard these terms in all sorts of safety experiment briefings. The so-called oxygen critical threshold meant the survival limit. Once it dropped below that, people would quickly suffocate to death.

The mop's voice was a bit dejected. "See, even if you don't shoot, we've got less than 33 minutes left to live."

Scott Harris's eyes flickered at these words.

That shouldn't be.

The design concept of these cryogenic capsules was very special—their energy all came from exhaust conversion, and the gas they emitted actually contained oxygen. The whole point was to maintain survival to some extent.

All these principles and functions had been made public before.

The mop noticed Scott Harris's gaze and followed it to the cryogenic capsules on the ground. "I know what you're thinking, but it's useless. It's been fifty years—the balance couldn't be maintained that long ago."

A trace of expression finally appeared on Scott Harris's face. "How many years?"

The mop seemed to have found a breakthrough, and decisively tapped the watch screen again. The mechanical electronic voice sounded once more:

"It is now New Common Era 5763, April 29th, Galo time—"

Before it finished, the mop cut off the time report, muttering, "Gotta save power, you know."

But Scott Harris wasn't paying attention to what he was saying at all.

5763?!

He remembered perfectly what the evening of December 27th, 5713 was like—the golden-red sunset softened even the cold black pine forest. He stood by the window, chatting with the rehab doctor while flipping through his private communication channel.

One second, he was looking at a message forcibly sent by a dangerous inmate from the space prison; the next, he received an alert—

The geocore energy reaction process had suddenly accelerated for unknown reasons, gone out of control, and the expansion rate far exceeded the upper limit. Estimated evacuation time: 3 minutes 11 seconds.

In plain terms: the planet was about to blow up, everyone needed to run.

He would never forget those three minutes of utter chaos—how the ground shook and cracked, how they raced against time to initiate the Fragmentation Plan, and how they evacuated from the villa to the cryogenic capsules in the pine forest...

Everything was vivid in his mind, as if it had happened just yesterday, as if he'd only slept one night in the capsule.

But when he woke up, fifty years had passed?!

Maybe that moment of shock made his heart rate spike, increasing his oxygen consumption. After the initial astonishment, Scott Harris only felt the air around him grow even more stifling.

Seeing his expression, the mop said, aggrieved, "Don't take deep breaths! Seriously, don't! There's barely enough for a few more! Don't forget, we've only got a bit over thirty minutes left... Do you have any ideas? I'm not that smart—been awake three years and haven't come up with anything. I really don't want to die so soon. Suffocating is a terrible way to go."