From the outside, the Doomsday Pickup didn’t look much different after the upgrade.

The only visible change was a sleek solar panel mounted on the roof of the cockpit. Inside, however, the dashboard now sported a new array of switches and a digital battery display.

By connecting the roof panel to the internal port, the vehicle entered “Charging Mode.”

This meant Chen Ye could finally utilize the 2kWh power bank he had traded from Iron Lion, as well as the Fruit-brand smartwatch he had scavenged from the Longevity Village Chief’s house.

In a world where time had lost its meaning, having a functional watch was a luxury. Unfortunately, it was currently night; charging would have to wait until the sun rose.

Chen Ye could wait. He had a more pressing priority.

It was time to force the System to deduce a cultivation method for his Sequence.

“System, begin deduction!” Chen Ye commanded mentally.

[Request Acknowledged. Blueprint: Martial Arts Internal Energy Cultivation.] [Beginning Deduction…] [Estimated Time: 36 Hours.] [Deducting 10,000 Slaughter Points.]

[35:59:59] [35:59:58]

…

Chen Ye watched his Slaughter Point balance plummet. He had scraped together nearly thirty thousand points through hard fighting and scavenging, and now, in the blink of an eye, he was back down to five thousand.

He ground his teeth so hard they practically sparked. The pain of spending points was worse than physical injury.

Money flows out like water, he lamented.

Still, the investment would pay off. Starting tomorrow, the pickup could switch to a hybrid oil-electric mode.

It would take two full days of sunlight to fully charge the battery. Theoretically, that charge provided a range of 100 kilometers. Realistically, given the terrain and the weight of the armored truck, he’d be lucky to get seventy. Maybe less.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a lifeline. It meant he wouldn’t be completely stranded if the fuel tank ran dry. And if he earned more Slaughter Points later, he could upgrade it again to eliminate fuel consumption entirely.

But for now, the tank was dry.

And since the battery was empty, the electric motor was useless.

Chen Ye had no choice. He put on his thickest skin, swallowed his pride, and went to find Captain Chu Che to borrow another thirty liters of gasoline.

As the old saying went: When you have too many lice, you stop itching. When you have too much debt, you stop worrying.

What was another thirty liters on top of everything else?

“Captain, just how much fuel are you hiding?” Chen Ye asked as he siphoned the gas. “It feels like your team has a bottomless pit of supplies.”

Chu Che sighed, looking weary. “After lending you this much, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel myself.” He shot Chen Ye a sharp look. “And remember to return the jerrycan.”

Chen Ye nodded, his expression the picture of innocence, though he didn’t believe for a second that Chu Che was actually out of fuel. The Captain was a squirrel; he always had a stash.

“Heads up,” Chu Che said as Chen Ye turned to leave. “We expect to make contact with the other convoy tomorrow. Get some rest tonight. And when we meet them… keep your guard up.”

“Tomorrow?” Chen Ye paused. “That fast?”

“Just be ready.”

Chen Ye lugged the fuel back to his truck. Thirty liters would keep him rolling for a while.

In the distance, under the eerie glow of the blood moon, he saw a flash of silver.

Sun Qianqian was atop a sand dune, practicing her sword forms. Her blade moved like a swimming dragon, reflecting the crimson moonlight with a cold, lethal shimmer.

She was definitely getting stronger.

Chen Ye fueled up the pickup, returned the can, and settled in for the night.

The next morning, the atmosphere in the camp had shifted.

Chen Ye noticed it immediately. Captain Chu was wearing a fresh set of clothes, his face scrubbed clean of grit.

Sun Qianqian looked sharp and energetic, her gear tidied and her hair bound tight.

Even Iron Lion had groomed himself, looking less like a wild beast and more like a professional soldier.

“What’s with the fashion show?” Chen Ye asked, blinking.

“First impressions matter,” Chu Che replied, straightening his collar. “We can’t let them look down on us.”

Fair enough.

Chen Ye, feeling the peer pressure, poured a precious half-cup of water onto a towel and wiped the grime from his face.

As for his clothes? He was out of luck. His spare outfit had been claimed by the sandstorm. He was stuck in his current rags.

And his shoes?

He looked down at his trusty flip-flops.

Style is a state of mind, he told himself.

The convoy set off, heading due east with purpose.

Chen Ye activated the solar panel.

BEEP!

A crisp tone sounded, and the dashboard indicator lit up: [CHARGING].

Seeing that little green lightning bolt icon gave Chen Ye a sudden, dizzying wave of nostalgia for civilization.

As the sun reached its zenith, turning the desert into a broiler, Captain Chu signaled a halt.

He stepped out of his vehicle, grabbed a handful of sand, and chewed on it thoughtfully, like he was tasting a fine wine or a handful of broad beans.

After a moment, he spat the grit out and tossed the remaining sand into the wind.

“This spot is safe until tomorrow morning.”

The survivors immediately began setting up camp. Tents were pitched, stoves were lit.

Chu Che, however, walked barefoot up the tallest sand dune. He shaded his eyes with his hand, staring intently at the horizon.

He was looking for the rendezvous.

It had been months since the apocalypse began. This was the first time they would encounter another group of humans. Chen Ye felt a mix of anticipation and dread.

Chu Che didn’t spot anything immediately. Being a leader meant delegating, so he assigned the glorious task of “Standing in the Sun and Watching” to his assistant, Xiao Wang.

The Captain then retreated to a shaded canopy Chen Ye and the others had set up.

Today, Chu Che was feeling generous. He brewed a pot of his treasured tea leaves, and the core team sat in the shade, sipping tea and chatting, while poor Xiao Wang stood on the dune, baking in forty-degree heat under a tattered parasol.

“They’re coming!” Xiao Wang shouted suddenly, his voice cracking with excitement. “Captain, they’re here!”

The tea party disbanded instantly.

Everyone rushed up the dune. Even the regular survivors scrambled out of their tents, their faces filled with desperate hope.

Chen Ye crested the ridge and looked in the direction Xiao Wang was pointing.

Far in the distance, a long line of black dots was moving slowly across the sands.

They were too far to make out clearly, but something felt wrong.

“That… doesn’t look like a vehicle convoy,” someone muttered.

“Yeah,” another voice agreed. “They’re moving way too slow.”

“Look at the size of the line though. That’s a lot of people.”

The line stretched for hundreds of meters, a dark scar against the yellow sand.

Ding-a-ling…

A faint sound carried on the wind. Bells.

Bells?

Chen Ye narrowed his eyes. Is that a…?

As the line drew closer, the mystery resolved into a bizarre reality.

It was a camel train.

A massive caravan of camels was leisurely swaying toward them. It felt like a hallucination—a tear in the fabric of time. One moment they were driving modified off-road trucks with solar panels, and the next, they were staring at a scene from the ancient Silk Road.

If not for the modern plastic tarps covering the cargo and the mishmash of contemporary clothing, Chen Ye would have thought he had time-traveled to the past.

There were over thirty camels.

Only the lead animals carried riders. The rest were heavily laden with supplies—mountains of boxes and bags. Their haul was even more impressive than what the Fairness Convoy carried.

Did they just raid a supply depot? Chen Ye wondered.

But as the caravan closed the final distance, the details became horrifyingly clear.

At the head of the train sat an old man, barefoot and cross-legged atop a camel. A sunshade protected him, and he puffed contentedly on a long, dry tobacco pipe.

He was likely the counterpart to Chu Che—their Pathfinder.

Behind him, a few other privileged individuals rode.

But trailing the camels was a long, stumbling line of people walking on the burning sand.

Men and women, dressed in rags that barely covered their shame. Their cheeks were sunken, their complexions sallow and green with malnutrition. Their eyes were dull, void of light or hope. Their bodies were skeletal, thin as grasshoppers.

And connecting them all was a long, thick rope.

Their hands were bound. A burly guard at the rear held the tether.

Seeing them, a single word cold-cocked Chen Ye’s mind.

Slaves.