Apocalypse: I Can Upgrade Everything

Chapter 180: You Are a Good Person

Just as Chen Ye began to suspect that the cannibal girl had lied to him, the world froze.

Without warning, every Mist Thrall on the street ceased its movement simultaneously, as if a cosmic pause button had been struck. Chen Ye and Iron Lion stood back-to-back, their chests heaving, eyes darting warily through the gloom.

In that singular heartbeat, the monsters began to fail.

Like elaborate castles built of dry sand, the Mist Thralls collapsed. They didn’t fall; they simply disintegrated into puddles of stagnant, thick fog that dissipated silently into the toxic air. There was no sound—no shrieks, no rushing wind—just a vast, pantomime of vanishing ghosts.

Three minutes.

The rule had been upheld.

Chen Ye collapsed onto the asphalt, his legs giving way as an uncontrollable tremor took over his body. His hands shook so violently that his grip on the Heavy Machete faltered, the steel clattering against the pavement.

Since he had Awakened as a Cultivator, Chen Ye’s entire combat philosophy had been built on cutting corners, hoarding trumps, and being the first one out the door at the first sign of trouble. This was the first time he had been forced into a sustained, high-intensity slugfest.

If the siege had lasted even thirty seconds longer, he and Iron Lion would have been added to the fog’s collection.

Rule-Based Anomalies were the undisputed kings of terror. Just 180 seconds of contact had nearly ended the journey of two Sequence 2 Cultivators.

If the Doomsday Pickup hadn’t flipped, Chen Ye would never have stood his ground. If he hadn’t known there was a time limit, he would have vanished into smoke at the start. He’d been careless, and he knew it—especially during that final “arms race” of fog-spawning. He had burned through his Qi like it was tap water; now, his internal reserves were bone-dry.

Iron Lion was in no better shape. The dark green tactical vest he always wore was heavy with sweat, and his hair was plastered to his skull in grimy clumps. His secondary head was a mangled ruin of exposed bone and frozen gore.

His Flesh Armament had deactivated, his arm returning to its natural state. The skin along his forearm was a lattice of burst capillaries and open fissures—the price of using his body as a high-pressure cannon barrel. He sat on the ground like a fallen mountain of meat, gasping for air.

“Yezi… i-is… is it over?”

“Should be…” Chen Ye wheezed, the sound of his own thundering pulse the only thing in his ears.

He fumbled with a fresh pack of Huazi Cigarettes, his fingers clumsy. He managed to light one and took a long, shaking drag. This time, it wasn’t about the simulation or the power; he just needed the nicotine to kill the edge of the exhaustion.

“Hey, Big Dummy,” Chen Ye grunted, leaning his head back. “Want one?”

Iron Lion shook his head weakly. “Smoking is bad for you, Yezi. You should quit while you’re ahead.”

“Typical,” Chen Ye muttered, leaning his weight against the giant’s broad back. As the smoke hit his lungs, he felt a wave of relief so profound it was almost physical. He didn’t even care that his sweat was soaking through the filter.

Ten minutes passed in heavy silence.

Then, Chen Ye’s ears twitched. A low, rhythmic rumble vibrated through the road.

The fog ahead parted as the reinforced bull-bar of an SUV shoved through the gray wall. Captain Chu Che’s detestable, familiar face loomed through the windshield.

“Hey, you two! Rested enough yet?” the captain’s voice crackled through the air, dripping with its usual blend of authority and irritation. “We’re on a schedule. Or did you plan on making this street your permanent residence?”

“Son of a…” Chen Ye’s eyes snapped open, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by pure fury.

With Iron Lion back in the fold, the tiny convoy felt a great deal more crowded.

The reinforced school bus was still functional, carrying over 30 survivors. According to Old Li, they had started with nearly double that number before the Mist Thralls had begun their harvest.

As the survivors peeked out the windows and saw Chen Ye’s truck, an audible hush fell over the crowd. The Doomsday Pickup was empty. To these people, who had watched Chen Ye flee Rong City with his own “tails,” the lack of passengers meant only one thing: he had fed them to the city to save himself.

They looked at him with a mix of visceral fear and total alienation, as if he were a monster more dangerous than the thralls.

Chen Ye didn’t give a damn. He ignored their stares. He knew that in this world, not everyone could be a suicidal saint like Iron Lion. If he and Chu Che hadn’t performed that last-second rescue, the “hero” would be a ghost and these survivors would be dead.

“Mr… Mr. Chen!”

A small, timid voice called out from the side of the road.

Chen Ye stopped, his hand on the door of his truck. He turned to see the pregnant woman he had helped pull from the horde. She was stroking her belly, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes.

When he locked gazes with her, she flinched and took a half-step back, her instinct for self-preservation warring with her intent.

Chen Ye’s face remained a mask of cold apathy. He hadn’t saved her for a reward, and he certainly wasn’t going to start caring about her now. He had zero interest in her gratitude.

He turned to leave.

“Wait! Thank you!” the woman shouted, suddenly finding her courage. She dropped into a deep, respectful bow. “Thank you, Mr. Chen. If it wasn’t for you… I and my little treasure… we wouldn’t have made it.”

Chen Ye paused, his back to her. “Don’t waste your breath on me. Thank Iron Lion. If it weren’t for that big idiot refusing to move, I’d have left you both to rot.”

“Whatever your reasons,” she said stubbornly, her voice trembling but firm, “your hands were the ones that pulled us out. I owe you my life. Thank you.”

She looked at him with a terrifying, earnest sincerity. “You are a good man.”

Chen Ye didn’t respond. He climbed into his cab and slammed the door.

The word “good” sat in his stomach like a lead weight. It felt wrong—like a beam of pure sunlight hitting a creature that belonged in the deep, dark cracks of the earth.

The news of Uncle Bao and Xiao Wang’s deaths rippled through the survivors like a shockwave.

The newcomers didn’t know them, but for the veterans of the convoy, the grief was heavy. Most survivors rarely interacted with the Cultivators; their world revolved around the logistics team. Uncle Bao and Xiao Wang had been the face of the convoy’s authority—the ones who settled disputes, managed the rations, and kept the peace.

It was their quiet, thankless work that had kept the convoy from devolving into a barbaric slave-camp like the one run by Mo Huairen.

Chu Che had to fill the vacuum immediately. He selected a college student named Little Fu to take Xiao Wang’s place as the assistant.

Little Fu was a strange choice. He was well-liked in the convoy but was widely considered a bit of a pushover—too simple, too naive. Before the city, people would frequently bully him for his water rations or trick him into doing their chores. He never got angry; he just laughed it off and kept working. The fact that he’d survived the desert at all was a testament to sheer, dumb luck.

But Chu Che needed someone the people trusted.

For the role of Convoy Supervisor—Uncle Bao’s old job—Chu Che chose a man who inspired the opposite of trust.

Xue Nan.

The former “pretty boy” was now a nightmare to look at. Since his disfigurement, he had become a brooding, sinister shadow of his former self. Most survivors avoided eye contact with him entirely. Rumors swirled in the back of the bus that he was Chen Ye’s “attack dog,” and that he had begun mimicking the driver’s ruthless mannerisms and cold speech.

When the announcement was made, the mood in the bus soured instantly. The survivors looked at Xue Nan’s scarred face and realized their days of “easy living” were officially over.

Chen Ye checked the system clock. His Heavy Machete upgrade had seven hours left.

The weapon had served him well today, but its current power ceiling was too low for what lay ahead. He needed that top-2,000 ranking.

He glanced at Chu Che’s SUV. He still hadn’t gotten his hands on those Mechanic guns.

But as he looked at the Slaughter Point balance he’d earned from the Mist Thrall massacre, a small, cold smile touched his lips.

The city was far from finished with them, but at least he was getting paid.