“16:28.”

Two minutes to the cutoff.

The convoy engines were already idling, a low rumble vibrating through the desert floor. They were ready to move at a second’s notice.

Despite the chorus of objections, the decision was final. The convoy was leaving.

Panic began to set in among the remaining survivors. Some lost their composure entirely, throwing tantrums or threatening to lie down in front of the wheels to block the departure.

But nothing could shake Chu Che’s resolve.

The Captain stood like a statue, his expression an impenetrable mask of indifference. To the terrified masses, he looked stone-hearted—a ruthless leader abandoning his flock. Curses were muttered under breathless whispers, branding him cold-blooded.

Chu Che ignored the noise. The unrest was irrelevant.

Inside, however, his mind was a storm of anxiety.

As a [Sequence Beyonder: Pathfinder], his sensory perception was supposed to be his greatest weapon. He should have been able to map every heartbeat within a mile. But right now? He was blind.

He tried to extend his senses into Longevity Village, but he hit a wall. Since the moment they had arrived, a suffocating barrier had severed his connection to the interior. He could only feel a vague, chaotic static—countless Anomalies swarming in the dark.

The village standing before them felt like a mirage, a skin painted over a rotting carcass.

He had no idea if the people inside were alive or dead.

Perhaps the rescue team was already gone. Perhaps the peaceful village facade was hiding a slaughterhouse paved with corpses. Or perhaps they were fighting for their lives at this very second.

Chu Che strained his mind, trying to pierce the veil.

Nothing.

Then, the air shifted.

The space at the village entrance warped violently. A massive shape smashed through the invisible barrier, crashing into reality like an intruder from another dimension.

Boom.

It was a mountain of muscle.

As the dust settled, the crowd gasped. The “mountain” was a three-meter-tall giant carrying a backpack the size of a small car.

Before their eyes, the giant began to shrink, his unnatural bulk condensing rapidly until he stood just over two meters tall.

Collapsing alongside the giant were a man and a woman.

They looked like they had been chewed up and spat out by hell itself. The woman’s face was paper-white, her lips grey from exhaustion, her hair a matted nest of dust and sweat. The man was in tatters, his forehead slick with grime.

A flicker of relief passed through Chu Che’s stoic eyes.

The survivors erupted. The convoy dissolved into chaos.

“Uncle Abao! Old Li! They made it!”

“My husband! Has anyone seen my husband?”

“Big Brother! You’re back!”

“Son! Where are you?”

The silence of the desert was shattered by a cacophony of weeping and cheering. More figures stumbled out of the village ripple, dragging their feet.

“Honey!~”

A woman screamed, her tears falling like broken beads as she threw herself at a ragged man. He caught her with bloodstained hands, a weary, blissful smile breaking through the dirt on his face as he held her tight.

Nearby, a brother ruffled his sobbing sister’s hair. “I told you I’d come back. Stop crying, dummy.”

But not everyone was celebrating.

One survivor walked silently to his bicycle. He carried a bulging backpack of supplies, but no one was there to greet him. He leaned against the frame, lit a cigarette with trembling hands, and stared at the sand.

His family was gone.

Others stood on their tiptoes, craning their necks toward the village entrance, their eyes desperate. But beyond the ripple, there was only gray haze. No more figures appeared.

Among the survivors were the Zhou sisters, Zhou Lan and Zhou Xiaoxiao.

They were supporting each other, limping and broken. Zhou Lan’s ponytail had unraveled, her hair plastered to her neck with sweat. She had lost a shoe somewhere in the chaos, hobbling on one bare foot.

Zhou Xiaoxiao was in worse shape.

Two deep gashes ran down her thigh and arm, the blood soaking half her outfit in crimson. In the dim light of the village, it had been hard to see, but under the harsh desert sun, the damage was visceral.

Her top had been torn open during the escape, a large rip exposing the pale swell of her chest.

Only then did the surrounding survivors realize the truth. The rough-and-tumble “boy” was actually a girl.

The realization shifted the atmosphere instantly. Eyes that were previously indifferent now gleamed with predatory hunger. Men licked their cracked lips, their gazes sliding over her torn clothes with undisguised greed.

The sisters ignored them. They had survived a nightmare, and they hadn’t come back empty-handed. Their backpacks were stuffed to the bursting point, and they were dragging a third bag they had scavenged along the way. They hauled their loot toward their vehicle, heads down, moving fast.

Time was up.

Chu Che could smell the rot on the wind. The scent of Anomalies.

They had lingered too long at the threshold. His [Pathfinder] senses picked up movement—several distinct threats had noticed the commotion and were closing in.

The convoy moved with practiced efficiency. Several men hoisted the unconscious Iron Lion into the bus, while others shoved his massive cargo bag into the undercarriage storage. That loot would have to be divided later, in safety.

Chen Ye didn’t waste a second. He was no longer a rookie; he knew the rhythm of survival.

He strode to his motorized tricycle and tossed his backpack into the cargo bed. His hand went to his pocket, fishing for a cigarette.

“Chen Ye. From A-Che.”

Uncle Abao walked over, holding a red jerry can.

Chen Ye paused. His tank was bone dry. He had planned to negotiate with Chu Che for fuel—Captain Chu was one of the few with a stockpile, and as a [Sequence Beyonder], he was a man of resources.

Chen Ye hadn’t expected Chu Che to be this proactive.

He didn’t feign politeness. He took the can immediately. “Thanks. I’ll pay him back.”

Uncle Abao nodded once and walked away.

In the Fairness Convoy, there was no charity. A debt was a debt.

Chen Ye popped the cap. The can held about 15 liters (approx. 4 gallons).

He poured the fuel, the amber liquid glugging into the tricycle’s thirsty tank. It took about half the can to fill it.

Tank capacity is roughly 7 liters, Chen Ye noted mentally. Too small.

[System Analysis: Vehicle]

Current Status: Functional.

Fuel Capacity: Low (~1.8 Gallons).

When he had the [Slaughter Points], upgrading the fuel tank was a priority. In the wasteland, range was life. Running dry in the middle of a red zone was a death sentence.

He secured the remaining half-can in the cargo bed. Having a reserve was just as important as a full tank.

He didn’t have time to check his rewards yet. The run through Longevity Village had been a bloodbath; the [Slaughter Points] notification log was probably backed up.

Should be a decent harvest, he thought, checking his crossbow. He was down to his last few bolts dipped in [Black Dog Blood].

The engines around him roared to life. The convoy began to roll.

Chen Ye lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag and exhaling a stream of blue smoke. He kicked the starter, and the tricycle sputtered to life.

At the village entrance, a few stragglers still lingered. They stared into the gray haze, their eyes wide with a hope that was rapidly dying.

Minutes passed. The haze remained empty.

One man was muttering a name over and over, refusing to blink.

Beep-beep!

The modified off-road vehicle at the lead blasted its horn—a harsh, piercing command. Move or die.

The convoy surged forward.

Under the light of the apocalyptic sunset, long, lonely shadows stretched out from the village entrance, pointing toward a darkness that would not answer back.