Apocalypse: I Can Upgrade Everything

Chapter 206: A Resurgence of Greed

As the Big Head Village Chief told it, their group had also ventured into the heart of Dawu City.

They had led a party of twenty survivors into the urban sprawl, hoping to scavenge for high-value supplies. They entered with a full roster; they retreated a mere half-day later. In those six hours, fifteen lives were snuffed out.

Chu Che and the Chief exchanged notes on the Mist Thralls. They traded theories on attack patterns and behavioral triggers with the grim focus of generals discussing a losing front.

“My working theory,” the Chief said, his large head tilting slightly, “is that the heart of that fog acts as a gateway to an abyssal dimension. It’s the only way to explain the sheer, inexhaustible volume of those anomalies. Those poor souls who are dragged off don’t just die; they are overwritten. The Mist Thralls we see are likely just biological projections from that other side.”

The Chief recounted the expedition with practiced, harrowing detail—how the great serpent of the Wu River had risen, its shadow cast over the survivors like a death sentence. He claimed the Shenxiang wasn’t “made of mud” and had successfully driven the beast back, allowing for a dignified retreat.

Naturally, the Chief’s narrative was draped in peril and heroism. Chu Che played his part perfectly, nodding at the right moments and asking leading questions to keep the old man’s ego fed.

Chen Ye, however, found the tale tedious. He had survived too many “nine deaths and one life” scenarios to be impressed by a story that ended with the storyteller still breathing. He focused on the food and drink, maintaining a mask of casual indifference.

“Tell me,” the Chief said, his voice dropping as the Baijiu began to take hold. “Did your group encounter the Lamp-Shadowed Anomaly in the city?”

“The Lamp-Shadowed Anomaly?” Chu Che repeated.

“Ah… for that, you should hear from Daoist Zhan.”

The group turned to the sloppy Daoist. His perpetual, oily grin vanished, replaced by a look of sharp, clinical sobriety.

“We encountered it in the commercial district,” Zhan Youdao said. “It manifests as a figure—man or woman, it varies—standing perfectly still beneath a streetlamp or any localized light source. It is a Rule Anomaly.”

“Its lethality far exceeds the Mist Thralls,” the Daoist continued. “It possesses high-fidelity vocal mimicry and can replicate the appearance of those you trust. The rule is simple and absolute: if you respond to its call, it latches onto you. It becomes a parasitic haunting that ends only with your expiration. We lost the bulk of our men to that thing. If I hadn’t possessed a few Five Thunder Talismans to disrupt the light field, I wouldn’t have made it out myself.”

He leaned forward, his shifty eyes locking onto the group. “If you see a light in the fog, and a familiar voice calls your name from beneath it, do not answer. Not even a god can save you once the connection is made.”

The monk beside him remained a silent, stoic statue. Chen Ye thought back to the blurred shapes he’d seen in the fog during their own escape. He hadn’t seen a lamp, but the “familiar voices” had been there, scratching at the edges of his mind.

Chu Che was already mentally filing this away for his notebook.

Clap. Clap.

The Village Chief clapped his hands, shattering the grim atmosphere. He looked at Chen Ye and the others with a smile that was a touch too smug.

“Professor Liu has recently stabilized a few new strains of grain,” the Chief announced. “Since our distinguished guests are here, I thought it only right to ask for your professional… opinions.”

Opinions? Chen Ye thought, lighting a cigarette. I’m a mercenary with a blood-eye, not an agronomist. What am I going to tell you? ‘Yes, this potato looks very potato-like’?

Despite his skepticism, he remained quiet. Sun Qianqian and Iron Lion exchanged confused glances.

Moments later, the young assistant, Xiao Zheng, entered the square. He carried a silver tray with the reverence of a priest hauling a holy relic. A heavy red cloth draped the contents.

The Chief’s smile widened. He pulled the cloth back, revealing two items nestled in the dirt.

One was a raw, unpeeled potato, its skin caked in dark soil. The other was the base of a lettuce stalk.

The Chief stepped forward, his voice taking on a sterile, authoritative tone. “You might look at these and see common produce—things that were ubiquitous before the Apocalypse. But these represent the pinnacle of our agricultural efforts. Allow me to introduce the architect: Professor Liu was a Dean of Agriculture before the Fall. He has since awakened to the Botanist Sequence. He is currently Sequence 3: Little Shennong.”

Little Shennong? Chen Ye narrowed his eyes. Using the name of the Divine Farmer was an act of extreme hubris—or extreme confidence.

“This tuber,” the Chief said, pointing to the potato, “is officially identified as the New Century 72-Type Potato No. 1. It was stabilized six months ago. It is drought-resistant, immune to high-frequency soil tremors, and possesses a 400% caloric density increase over pre-Fall varieties.”

“And this,” he continued, gesturing to the lettuce, “is the New Century 36-Type Lettuce No. 1. It was an accidental byproduct of a growth-acceleration experiment four months ago. It requires minimal sunlight and can filter heavy metal toxins from the air during its growth cycle.”

Chen Ye’s boredom evaporated instantly.

He understood the subtext. In a world of wandering refugees, these weren’t just vegetables. They were a foundation. A group with these seeds didn’t need to scavenge; they didn’t need to risk their lives in fog-choked ruins for a can of moldy peaches. They could build a civilization.

As the Chief spent the next ten minutes droning on about soil pH levels and nitrogen fixation, Chen Ye felt a familiar, manic itch behind his left eye.

The greed began as a spark; it quickly became a forest fire.

Chen Ye inhaled a deep lungful of smoke. Behind his sunglasses, the runic sigil in his blood-red pupil began a slow, rhythmic, grinding rotation. It emitted a faint, predatory hum that only those close to him could sense.

He was already running the numbers. How many guards? What were the monk’s and the Daoist’s ranges? Could he seize the Shenxiang and the Professor in one move? He hadn’t felt this urge for a “black-on-black” raid since he’d slaughtered the camel caravan.

Chu Che felt the shift in the air. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees as Chen Ye’s intent sharpened into a blade. The Captain cursed inwardly.

Are you insane, Chief? Chu Che thought, his heart hammering. You don’t show a starving wolf a prime steak and then turn your back. You’re practically begging for a massacre.

Chu Che moved first, subtly stepping in front of Chen Ye to break his line of sight.

Sun Qianqian sensed the danger as well. She moved under the guise of wanting a closer look at the “legendary” potato, positioning herself firmly to Chen Ye’s right.

Ding Dong, ever the pragmatic protector, stepped to his left.

The three of them formed a physical cage, locking Chen Ye in place. They weren’t protecting the Chief; they were protecting the convoy from Chen Ye’s worst instincts. They knew that if he drew that Heavy Machete now, there would be no going back.

“Chen Ye,” Sun Qianqian whispered, her voice barely audible over the Chief’s lecturing. “Don’t you even think about it.”

Only Iron Lion remained oblivious, staring at the New Century 72-Type Potato No. 1 with genuine, wide-eyed wonder.