Iron Lion’s convoy was the largest, and naturally, it held the largest stockpile of supplies.

Since the beginning, whenever a survivor died, their belongings became Iron Lion’s private property. Furthermore, anything his passengers scavenged during stops was considered communal assets under his control.

Through this aggressive accumulation, Iron Lion had become the undisputed tycoon of the fleet.

Of course, being the boss came with overheads. He was responsible for feeding everyone in his vehicle. If the harvest was good, they ate well. If times were lean—like recently—everyone survived on two bowls of watery gruel a day.

It was a fair trade: they gave him their labor and loot, and he gave them safety. The three motorcycle riders who had refused to join a convoy might have lived freely for a few days, but by now, they were likely just dried jerky on the roadside.

Iron Lion’s goods were spread out across a large tarp.

The most eye-catching items were crates of brand-new, latest-model smartphones.

Before the apocalypse, these were hard currency. A status symbol costing over ten thousand yuan a pop. Who knew where Iron Lion had raided to get so many? Now, they were nothing more than shiny bricks. Still, they drew the eye, reminders of a civilization that had vanished overnight.

Naturally, no one was actually stupid enough to trade food for them.

Next to the electronic waste were piles of clothes, some canned food, bottles of liquor, and cartons of cigarettes.

As soon as the tobacco and alcohol hit the tarp, Chen Ye noticed Old Man Mo’s nose twitching. The old fox drifted over, drawn by the scent like a shark to blood. Like Chen Ye, Mo Huairen was a heavy smoker, and in this wasteland, a good cigarette was rarer than gold.

Sun Qianqian’s stall was modest compared to Iron Lion’s, but her merchandise was lethal.

She displayed a row of gleaming knives.

In the old nation of Daxia, firearms were strictly controlled, making cold weapons the next best thing. These knives were “sought-after” items. While they might be useless against a horrific Anomaly, they were terrifyingly effective against humans.

And in the apocalypse, humans were often scarier than monsters.

Captain Chu Che’s inventory was a mixed bag of oddities. The centerpiece, however, was undeniable: the two harvesting materials from the Human-Faced Scorpion.

Chu Che had consulted the team before listing them. Everyone wanted to keep the materials to craft future Artifacts, but survival came first. The water crisis was critical. Reluctantly, they put their long-term power upgrades on the market to buy another day of life.

Then there was Chen Ye.

His stall was the saddest of the bunch. The sandstorm had claimed most of his loose cargo. He scraped together some spare food from the cockpit and a few bottles of white liquor he had scavenged back in Apricot Blossom Town.

He also had cigarettes, but those were his personal lifeline. Unless it was an emergency, they stayed in his pocket.

With his own meager goods displayed, Chen Ye went shopping. He wandered through the Camel Team’s market like a tourist.

Most of the goods here belonged to the Beyonders. The “slaves” had no property rights, though emaciated figures stood guard at every blanket, serving as sales clerks for their masters.

While Captain Chu and Mo Huairen huddled in the command tent negotiating the bulk water trade, Chen Ye, Iron Lion, and Sun Qianqian browsed the retail section.

“How much for these?” Chen Ye asked, pointing to a pair of red-and-white high-top sneakers.

They were designer basketball shoes. Limited edition. Before the world ended, scalpers would have demanded two or three thousand for a pair like this.

Chen Ye needed them. The desert heat had melted the soles of his previous shoes, leaving him shuffling around in cheap flip-flops. Flip-flops were fine for sand, but if he ever had to run on concrete or debris, he’d be crippled.

The stall keeper was a young man with cheeks so hollow they looked carved out with a scoop. He lifted his head weakly.

“Size 43,” the youth rasped. “Two jin of rice. Or ten packs of instant noodles.”

He eyed the cigarette dangling from Chen Ye’s lip and quickly added, “Or one pack of cigarettes. Any brand. I don’t care.”

“These are the collab edition,” the kid insisted, a flicker of pride in his dull eyes. “Guaranteed authentic. You can check the stitching.”

Chen Ye sneered. “Are you out of your mind? You want two jin of rice for a pair of useless shoes?”

In the old world, spitting in someone’s face would have been a polite response to such a lowball offer. But the world had changed.

The young man flushed with agitation. “I spent three thousand on these! I queued all night! Is two jin of rice really too much to ask?”

“Do you know what time it is?” Chen Ye scoffed. “One pack of instant noodles. Take it or leave it.”

“One… one pack?”

The young man’s chest heaved. He looked at the pristine sneakers, then at Chen Ye. Tears welled in his eyes. It wasn’t just a trade; it was the final shattering of his old-world values.

He gritted his teeth, the words dragged out of his throat like jagged glass. “I… I’ll trade.”

Chen Ye walked back to his truck, grabbed a packet of noodles, and tossed it over.

The young man caught it. He looked at the purple packaging, and his face twisted like he had swallowed a lemon.

“Sour Cabbage flavor?” he wailed. “Can’t you at least give me Braised Beef? I hate Sour Cabbage!”

“Take it or starve. That’s all I got.”

Chen Ye didn’t wait for a reply. He snatched the box of high-tops and walked away.

Behind him, a middle-aged overseer from the Camel Team stepped forward, snatched the noodle packet from the young man’s hands, and marched off with a cold sneer.

The young man watched his “salary” disappear, his mouth twitching uncontrollably. He had sold his prized possession for the worst flavor of instant noodles, and he wouldn’t even get to eat them. Tonight, he’d be lucky to get a spoonful of the leftover broth.

Chen Ye moved on to the next blanket.

He spotted the small desktop fan he had seen earlier.

He bought it for three cigarettes.

Without electricity, the fan was just plastic junk to these people. To Chen Ye, it was AC.

Next, he found a crate of old cassette tapes. He tossed the seller a single cigarette and walked away with dozens of albums.

In the age of Bluetooth and streaming, tapes were garbage even before the apocalypse. Now, they were less than garbage. Only hipsters and hoarders had players for these.

But Chen Ye had the System.

He had already checked the prices. A retro-fitted vehicle tape deck cost only 80 Slaughter Points.

It was a luxury, sure. But driving through the endless yellow waste in silence was maddening. 80 points was a small price to pay for music.

Chen Ye hummed to himself, pleased with his haul. He was finally moving up in the world—worrying about entertainment instead of just survival.

“Hey, little brother…”

A raspy, ingratiating voice whispered in his ear.

“How are you trading that white liquor?”

Old Man Mo stood there, grinning, his eyes glued to the bottles on Chen Ye’s blanket.

The old lush had emerged from the tent and made a beeline for the booze. He looked like he wanted to drink the bottle with his eyes.

Chen Ye smirked. He had been waiting for this.

“Simple,” Chen Ye said, meeting the old man’s gaze. “I’ll trade it for that ox bone.”