The second rule for survival in the apocalypse: Always reserve 30% of your strength to deal with unexpected situations!

Stepping out of the dilapidated house, groups of villagers were walking towards the small stream outside the village, each carrying various containers—a chipped earthenware pot, a cracked gourd, and even curled leaves.

Jiang Chan quickened her pace and soon saw the dried-up stream, its riverbed completely exposed, with a few clumps of withered yellow reeds growing sparsely on the cracked soil.

The larger puddles that the villagers were frantically fighting over yesterday have now seen their water levels drop by half. The already small water surface is now just a basin-sized amount of murky liquid.

But Jiang Chan didn't react much. There was a water purifier in the space—her treasure from the apocalypse. It could filter the dirtiest and most toxic sewage into drinking water. This sewage, which did not contain radiation, was nothing to her!

In the few seconds that Jiang Chan was investigating, five or six more villagers rushed to the edge of the puddle. They scrambled to push their containers into the water, making the already murky water even more filthy.

"Line up! Line up!" Jiang Fu shouted at the top of his lungs, while he himself was forcefully shoving the can into the water.

When Jiang Chan arrived carrying the pottery jar, there were already seven or eight people gathered around each puddle.

Jiang Fu was at the forefront, using a chipped ladle and a broken earthenware pot to scoop the murky muddy water into the containers he had brought, splashing muddy water that soaked their trouser legs.

"Get out of the way! Don't block my way!" Jiang Fu rudely shoved aside a thin villager who was approaching with his elbow.

"What's the rush... there's always a first come, first served order..." The villager who was hit dared not speak out and muttered under his breath.

Jiang Shou, taking advantage of his height and strength, managed to grab a good spot. He was using a large gourd ladle to pour water into a wooden bucket, his movements were rough, and he stirred up the silt at the bottom of the puddle, making the water even more turbid.

Widow Zhang, clutching her broken earthenware pot, anxiously stood on tiptoe on the outskirts of the crowd, her face full of worry.

Aunt Zhao was also there. She was a little slower and was squeezed at the back. Looking at the rapidly dropping water level and the water surface that was churned into mud, she frowned and looked at the deep helplessness in her eyes.

With each inch the water level dropped, the invisible pressure in the air increased, and the pushing and shoving and low curses began to rise.

Jiang Chan's arrival only added a silent participant to the tense scene. She held the pottery jar and did not rush forward like the others.