On January 20, Year 244 of the Newland Calendar, the entire nation was wrapped in the festive spirit of the approaching New Year. Schools were on holiday; malls and supermarkets were packed with shoppers; streets and alleys were decorated with lanterns and banners, alive with bustle and excitement. People shopped for holiday provisions, visited relatives and friends, gathered for parties and entertainment—carefree and content. After a year of hard work, smiles of relief and joy lit up every face.
On that very day, the Newland CDC reported the first case of a novel respiratory illness. In the days that followed, more and more cases emerged, rapidly seizing headlines across every media outlet.
The most distinctive symptoms of this outbreak were cough, fever, and difficulty breathing. Severe cases could quickly progress to respiratory failure, multi-organ failure, and death. Medical experts at the CDC soon determined it was caused by a novel RNA virus and sequenced its genome. The virus spread through respiratory droplets, making it highly contagious. Initially, the Ministry of Health designated it "244 Novel Coronavirus" in accordance with medical convention, but this cumbersome name was quickly drowned out by the media frenzy. Eventually, the public settled on something simpler and more memorable—a name that would go down in history alongside the extraordinary times of Year 244.
They called it the Newland Flu.
Shi Zhenji was thirty years old, the only son of Shi Mujin, Newland's rising tech tycoon. He held doctorates in both physics and economics and served in the Office of the President as one of Zhao Wenlong's secretaries—a true golden boy.
Yet even this golden boy found himself struggling. Among Zhao's secretaries, Shi Zhenji was the only one with a science background—and the only one willing to sit through medical briefings, even when he barely understood half of what he heard. He was also the only one willing to admit he didn't understand, then go look up the jargon. Regardless, as the Newland Flu spread in Year 244, all medical intelligence eventually funneled through him, to be reported to the President.
There was just one problem: Zhao Wenlong didn't listen to briefings.
Shi Zhenji had been in the President's Office for half a year now, long enough to get a sense of Zhao's temperament. Zhao was not a typical politician—his thinking was erratic, his attention span short. In briefings, he could only absorb the first sentence and the last; anything with technical jargon or data in between would make him zone out, and within minutes he'd lose his temper, ranting about something completely unrelated. Reporting on an infectious disease outbreak to such a leader was no easy task.
Zhao had another quirk. As president, he was supposed to reside in the Presidential Palace. But he preferred to work remotely from his mansion in Lizhou State, directing affairs from there. The most direct way for officials to brief him was, absurdly, by video call. When the Health Secretary called to warn him about the outbreak, Zhao cut him off mid-sentence and pivoted to questioning the federal government's recent crackdown on vaping.
"That's a major industry," Zhao said. "Vaping boosts consumption and creates jobs."
Earlier, starting in Peace Town, a wave of "EVALI" cases had been reported around Jinshui. Health Department experts concluded it was caused by substandard materials used by certain vape companies, and ordered recalls. Liberal Party lawmakers used this as grounds to push for a total ban on vaping and the industry—but the tobacco and alcohol sector was a Civic Party stronghold, and the two sides were locked in a tense standoff.
By now, two-party conflict was an open secret in Newland. What had once been a functional, cooperative dynamic had degenerated, under Zhao Wenlong, into an all-out, no-holds-barred struggle. Take the "Phonegate" scandal currently plaguing Zhao: the recording of his call was leaked, and before the President's Office could even investigate the source, the Liberal-controlled South Chamber launched impeachment proceedings, accusing Zhao of "using foreign influence to interfere in elections and attack political opponents"—making him only the third president in Newland history to be impeached. Such a move had been unthinkable before.
The impeachment battle had consumed the administration. Zhao had no energy for distant threats. But the outbreak waited for no one. As the New Year festivities brought families and friends together, the virus spread faster. Deaths climbed from a handful to dozens. Shi Zhenji received the CDC's projection: if no measures were taken, the death toll could reach 100,000—mostly the elderly and vulnerable.
A hundred thousand lives was no small number, even if the victims were old and sick. But when Shi Zhenji presented the figure to Zhao, the President brushed it off: "A hundred thousand elderly—how much Medicare spending would that save?"
For a moment, Shi Zhenji couldn't tell whether it was a genuine question or a cynical taunt. His double-doctorate brain stalled. He stared blankly at Zhao—seventy-three, white-haired, tall but noticeably overweight, perpetually high-strung, his eyes gleaming with restless energy. The more Shi Zhenji looked, the more unsettled he became. A torrent of thoughts flooded his mind, drowning out even his shock and anger. One question looped obsessively: Did he not count himself as old?
"Mr. President, this might not just be about medical costs..."
But Zhao had lost interest. He told Shi Zhenji: "Our priority is the impeachment, and after that, the economy. The market has been strong, unemployment is low—that's what matters. As for the outbreak—if the elderly die off, maybe it'll even ease the burden on the state."
Shi Zhenji finally confirmed he'd understood correctly. He'd prepared a full containment plan—mask-wearing, school closures, the works—but after hearing that, he swallowed every proposal.
On February 5, after a protracted impeachment process, the Civic-controlled North Chamber voted—by a narrow margin—to acquit Zhao on both articles. At last, the President could breathe and turn his attention to the outbreak.
But by then, after two weeks of uncontrolled spread—especially through the New Year holidays—the outbreak was spiraling. Cases jumped from dozens to thousands, with a staggeringly high fatality rate. New projections raised the estimated death toll from 100,000 to 1.5 million.
The administration finally rolled out containment measures: school closures, cancellation of mass gatherings, work-from-home orders, self-isolation. The goals were to slow transmission and prevent healthcare collapse. In the early days, with few cases and little public awareness, panic buying was minimal; the economy remained largely unaffected—in fact, consumer spending had even grown over the holidays. But by mid-February, infections had surpassed ten thousand, and deaths continued to climb. The pandemic hung like a sword over every head. People began hoarding masks and medicine. Nationwide, masks sold out, drugs ran short, and prices started to rise.
All of this, Shi Zhenji had anticipated. What he hadn't expected was that Chen Meng—the girl Chen Li had brought from Yanzhou, rescued from the Egoless Sect and entrusted to Du Juan—would fall ill.
Du Juan had discussed the arrangement of Chen Meng with him, and he'd agreed. Now, not even two months later, this had happened. Shi Zhenji felt a pang of guilt toward Chen Li. Xiao Meng's health had always been frail; her diagnosis of childhood asthma and anemia meant low immunity. So when she contracted the virus, she quickly developed severe breathing difficulties and was admitted to the ICU. Doctors warned Du Juan of the worst-case scenario—respiratory failure and death—and mentioned the possibility of ventilator or ECMO support. ECMO alone cost 200,000 just to start, plus tens of thousands per day. Du Juan had merely nodded and said: "No need to consult me on such small expenses. Do everything to save her."
It was the second day of Xiao Meng's ICU stay. Shi Zhenji and Du Juan came to visit. Before they even reached the ICU doors, they were met by a cacophony—a crowd of family members jostling outside the ward, arguing and shouting. A doctor stood blocking the entrance, yelling: "Pick one representative to talk to me! And put on masks! Do you want to end up in here too?"
The chaos subsided briefly. Then the ICU door swung open again, and a doctor burst out, followed by two nurses, shouting into his phone: "Suction his sputum first! The ICU? It's full! You expect me to kick someone out?"
"Trouble indeed," Shi Zhenji muttered. "Healthcare collapse is underway."
Du Juan wasn't listening—she was scanning the corridor. "Li said he was already here."
They found him in the stairwell, sitting next to a young woman—exhausted, disheveled, dark circles under red, bloodshot eyes, wearing a mask. They were talking in low voices. Chen Li was saying: "You've been up all night. If you stay any longer, you'll burn out. Go home during the day—we've got it covered. Sister Du Juan has people posted here too."
The woman sighed softly: "Xiao Meng has had such a hard life. Just when things were looking up, this hits. But she's lucky too—if not for Sister Du Juan, she wouldn't even have a hospital bed."
Du Juan had met Xia Yu several times before, so she dispensed with formalities and asked directly about Xiao Meng's condition.
"The doctors have her on ECMO now. It'll be touch-and-go for the next few days. But at least she's conscious."
That reassured Du Juan. Her tone relaxed a little: "Xia Yu, you've been here all night?"
Xia Yu nodded. Chen Li pointed to a cot nearby: "She slept on the floor last night. I found out this morning and brought her breakfast."
"That won't do." Du Juan was serious. "Xia Yu, your health is important too. If you fall sick now, we'll have even more trouble."
"I'll be fine—school's closed anyway because of the outbreak. I just wanted to be here, in case anything changes."
They chatted, and inevitably the conversation turned to the pandemic.
"I saw on the news that the President's Office ran a nationwide pandemic exercise over three months ago," Chen Li said. "So why is Zhao Wenlong's response still so poor?"
"I'm more curious about the timing of that exercise," Xia Yu said, then shook her head. "It seems President Zhao didn't take it seriously either."
"Blame the impeachment. He even called the virus a Liberal hoax." Chen Li glanced toward the chaotic corridor. "Looking at this, the healthcare system won't hold much longer."
"Yes—I already registered as a medical volunteer. The hospital has been planning to call us in."
"There's something else I find strange," Chen Li said to Du Juan. "Sis, your household has good isolation and plenty of masks. Why was it Xiao Meng who caught it first?"
Xia Yu squinted tiredly but interjected: "The infection is everywhere now. Many people don't seek treatment, don't isolate, just wander around. I don't think anyone's safe from it."
"Those people really should stay home if they're sick."
"Without central coordination, you can't expect everyone to self-isolate voluntarily."
Du Juan thought back. "Xiao Meng arrived in mid-December. She had a fever last month—mild symptoms, she recovered after some medicine. But now that I think about it, over the past two months, quite a few household staff and security guards have taken sick leave due to flu-like symptoms."
"So the outbreak was already spreading back then," Chen Li said.
"Perhaps." Du Juan nodded. "No one was tested, so we don't know for sure. I actually think the outbreak started earlier than the official date suggests."
At that, Shi Zhenji finally spoke: "According to the reports I've seen, the patient on January 20 was the first confirmed by nucleic acid testing. But some hospitals have tested earlier samples and found cases as early as early January."
"I don't think the exact start date matters as much," Chen Li said with resignation. "What matters is Zhao controlling it. Even if he could just organize patient isolation—keep them from infecting others."
When it came to Zhao's response to the pandemic, Shi Zhenji could only sigh and shake his head. "A couple of days ago, Zhao met with senior military officials. I don't know what they told him, but after that meeting, he kept insisting the virus would disappear by summer—no need to worry."
"He's that confident? Does the virus die in heat?"
Shi Zhenji smiled bitterly. "Even if it does, it's not something you can just ignore."
"From the news, both parties seem more interested in blaming each other for poor response than in actually responding. I don't see anyone trying to manage the outbreak."
"Zhao's priority is the economy," Shi Zhenji explained. "He believes aggressive containment means sacrificing growth and the stock market. And if the market tanks, he loses his edge in the election. As for the Liberal Party—whatever Zhao supports, they oppose; whatever Zhao opposes, they support."
Xia Yu finally couldn't contain herself: "People are dying—how can there be economic data? He'll likely end up with neither containment nor the economy."
"Quite possible." Shi Zhenji nodded, then mentioned something seemingly unrelated: "People are hoarding supplies—you know masks and drugs are sold out. But do you know what's flying off the shelves the fastest?"
"Rice and flour?" Chen Li answered instinctively. Stocking up on food made perfect sense.
To his surprise, Shi Zhenji shook his head. "Toilet paper."
"Toilet paper?" Even Du Juan, who'd been silent, was taken aback. "Why?"
"The reason is absurd." Shi Zhenji couldn't help but laugh. "There's a rumor that masks and toilet paper are made from the same material, and that mass mask production will cause a toilet paper shortage."
They stared at one another, then burst into helpless laughter. Xia Yu said: "The panic-buying has begun—there's no rationality left."
Shi Zhenji looked at her with approval. "Zhao wants to save the stock market, but he's trapped in his own world, unwilling to listen to anyone. Something is going to go wrong."
Shi Zhenji's concerns didn't take long to materialize. With the administration's laissez-faire approach and almost no effective measures in place, the outbreak exploded nationwide within just half a month. By early March, even aircraft carriers reported infected sailors. Against this backdrop, Liberal-led states began implementing their own containment measures—Bizhou, Baizhou, Genzhou and others declared states of emergency, effectively abandoning federal policy.
The once-booming Newland economy hit a wall at full speed—the change happened so fast it left everyone dizzy.
At 9:34 a.m. on March 9, just four minutes after stock market open, the benchmark index plunged 7 percent, triggering a circuit breaker—the second trading halt in Newland history. The index closed down nearly 8 percent.
Three days later, at 9:36 a.m. on March 12, the index plunged another 7 percent, triggering a second circuit breaker in the same week. The close saw an over 9 percent decline—the largest in history. Stock markets in over a dozen countries around the world also hit circuit breakers.
On March 16, panic deepened. The index opened down 8 percent, triggering a third halt. The daily decline exceeded 12 percent.
On March 18, financial panic showed no sign of abating. All indices opened lower; by midday, losses again exceeded 7 percent, triggering the fourth circuit breaker in ten days. The gains of the past three years were wiped out—all economic achievements since Zhao Wenlong took office had been erased.
Faced with unprecedented circuit breakers, the feuding parties briefly united, swiftly passing a stimulus bill and launching unlimited quantitative easing. Zhao went further, ordering a pause on student loan payments and approving special relief payments. To ease financial risks and stabilize the markets, the central bank flooded the system with liquidity. The price was nationwide inflation, which, against the backdrop of the pandemic, sent prices soaring.
The Newland economic crisis had arrived.
