Blue Year 2022. Desertification claimed over eighty percent of the Blue Star’s soil. The world turned to dust.

Blue Year 2027. Stellar radiation bombarded the atmosphere. Global temperatures skyrocketed, triggering a mass extinction event. From the parched earth emerged a drought-resistant terror: mutated insectoids. They swarmed the planet, and the human population collapsed.

Blue Year 2028. Humanity discovered “Cores” inside the bodies of these monsters. Within these crystalline hearts lay a new element—one capable of evolving the human physique beyond its natural limits.

Blue Year 2037. To survive the endless waves of claws and mandibles, humanity established fortified settlements. They erected Defense Towers, massive structures engineered specifically to slaughter the insectoid hordes.

Blue Year 2040. The calendar was reset. The Era of the Wasteland began.

Wasteland Year 11. The Frozen Wastes, outside Redrock Bastion.

A dry, scorching wind swept across the barren landscape. The heat rising from the cracked earth distorted the air, making the towering Sentry Towers of Redrock Bastion shimmer like mirages in the distance. They stood over ten meters tall, silent sentinels guarding the northernmost point of the Quicksand Continent.

Redrock Bastion was the gateway to the Northern Frontier, the largest human settlement in the region, and dangerously close to the main insectoid nests.

Clang. Clang.

The rhythmic, heavy sound of iron dragging against stone echoed through the wasteland.

A dozen cavalrymen mounted on black-scaled horses—mutated beasts with hides like armor—escorted a line of over a hundred prisoners.

Inside the walls of Redrock Bastion, there were cars. But in the Apocalypse, where the population had crumbled and resources were worth more than life itself, fuel and parts were luxuries reserved for the apex of society. For everyone else, there were beasts of burden, or walking.

The prisoners were chained together in a long, wretched file, heavy shackles weighing down their wrists and ankles.

Their lips were cracked and bleeding, parched from the relentless sun. They hadn’t tasted a drop of water in twenty-four hours. Even their meager rations had been cut from once a day to once every two days.

Most of these men were deserters. Half a month ago, an Insect Swarm had erupted. Faced with a suicide mission against an endless tide of chitin and acid, they had chosen to run. But in this world, cowardice was a capital offense. Today, they were marching to the execution grounds.

Jax walked silently in the middle of the column. His body was there, trudging through the dust, but his mind was far away, lingering in a mysterious dimension within his consciousness.

[User Candidate: Jax, Male, 21]

[Bio-Score: 55 (Pathetically Weak)]

[Architect Level: Unranked]

[Owned Defense Tower Types: None]

[God-Tier Architect System Binding Task: Incomplete (Time Remaining: 10 Days)]

It had been over a month since Jax had transmigrated into this hellscape. He had finally come to terms with the transition from an urban white-collar worker to a piece of wasteland refuse.

Thirty days was enough time to understand the golden rule of this era: only the ruthless survive.

To activate his “God-Tier Architect System,” he had to complete a specific task. Only then would the system bind to him and grant him the “Newbie Gift Pack.”

Jax knew from years of gaming in his past life that the starter pack was everything. It contained the foundation, the critical resources that would determine whether he rose to power or died in the dirt.

Redrock Bastion boasted over a thousand Defense Towers. Seventy percent belonged to the city’s government. The remaining thirty percent were owned by powerful private factions. These tower owners were the aristocracy of the wasteland; they were the only ones who didn’t worry about starving or dying of thirst.

Jax wanted a tower. He craved it.

In a world where clean water was liquid gold, a Defense Tower was an infinite money printer. It slaughtered bugs, and bugs dropped Cores. Cores were wealth.

But the barrier to entry was suffocating. First, you needed a blueprint. Then, you needed a mountain of Cores to exchange for construction materials.

A single Tier 1 Defense Tower blueprint cost a million Credits. The materials cost even more—an astronomical figure for a refugee.

The average annual income for a commoner in Redrock Bastion was barely a thousand Credits. For someone like Jax, buying a blueprint wasn’t just difficult; it was a fantasy.

Cores were a resource “with a price but no market.” The government hoarded them. Occasionally, a powerful private faction would buy them up, but they were rarely sold back to the public.

And if you wanted to use a Core to strengthen your body? Tough luck. Without specialized, exorbitant extraction equipment, a raw Core was useless rock.

A Tier 1 Core could sell for about a thousand Credits on the black market. Maybe a bit more if someone was desperate for building materials.

But right now, none of that mattered. Fate had handed Jax a different kind of opportunity. A dangerous one.

Jax felt a sharp tap on his spine. He glanced back.

A lean, bald man with eyes like a vulture winked at him.

Is it starting already?

Jax felt a knot of tension tighten in his stomach.

“Get ready,” the bald man whispered, his voice low and laced with palpable Killing Intent. “Wait for the signal.”

Jax gave a microscopic nod, keeping his eyes forward.

The plan was simple: kill the cavalrymen, break the chains, and run for The Sprawl.

The Sprawl was a lawless market town outside Redrock Bastion. It had grown too powerful for the city to control and had effectively declared independence. It was a chaotic hive of gangs, mercenaries, and black markets. It was a paradise for adventurers and the only sanctuary for condemned men.

A few hundred meters ahead, a small relay station appeared—a simple pavilion with a few tables and chairs. An old man and a youth were waiting there.

The cavalrymen saw the rest stop and visibly relaxed. Their grim expressions softened into anticipation.

Seeing their destination within reach, the guards kicked the flanks of their black-scaled horses, urging them into a trot toward the shade and water.

The bald man tapped Jax again.

“Jax, I’m warning you,” the man hissed. “If you hold me back, I’ll kill you before the guards do.”

In his hand, hidden from the guards’ view, the bald man produced a key. He deftly clicked open his wrist shackles, then bent down and unlocked his leg irons.

“Boys! Get ready to move!”

He slipped the key into Jax’s palm, his eyes manic with urgency.

Jax didn’t hesitate. He stole a glance at the guards, who were fixated on the pavilion, and carefully unlocked his own chains. He passed the key to the prisoner in front of him.

Within seconds, the metallic clinking of chains stopped being a constraint and became a ruse. Hidden in the hands of the prisoners were sharpened wooden spikes—ten-centimeter shivs crafted in secret.

The formation held. The guards noticed nothing.

Jax turned his head slightly to look at the massive figure walking behind him.

His name was Barnaby. He was sixteen years old, but he had been shadowing Jax for five years.

Barnaby was a giant, standing a full two meters tall, rippling with muscle. But his face bore a perpetual, vacant grin.

Years ago, during a desperate defense against Sandworms, Barnaby had fallen from the city Wall. He survived, but his mind didn’t. He was left with the intelligence of a toddler.

Seeing Jax look at him, Barnaby’s face lit up. He opened his mouth in a wide, goofy smile.

“Hehe.”

Barnaby reached under his shoe and pried out a crude wooden spike. “Brother Jax, look! Uncle Baldy gave it to me!”

The bald man leaned in, whispering to the giant. “Barney! Listen to me. When we go, you charge first. If you pin down the leader, Uncle will take you to The Elysium Lounge to find your sister!”

Barnaby clapped his hands, giggling like a preschooler. “Hehe! Find sister! Find sister!”

“Barney, don’t listen to him!”

Jax snapped at the giant, then turned a glare on the bald man. “Baldy, he’s just a kid. You’re sending him to die? Isn’t that crossing a line?”

The bald man sneered, his expression twisting with contempt.

“A kid? He’s sixteen years old. You call that a child?”

He spat on the dry ground. “Jax, this is the Apocalypse. If you want to live, shut your mouth and do what you’re told.”