Chen Ye secured his cut of the loot: two cartons of Huazi, two cartons of Tazi, and a chaotic assortment of stray packs from lesser brands.

Stacked beside the tobacco were two bottles of high-proof Baijiu and a survivalist’s holy grail of condiments: two jars of Lao Gan Ma chili crisp, soy sauce, vinegar, and salt.

The distribution was slightly skewed—Chen Ye received priority on the premium Huazi cigarettes—but the other team members didn’t object.

Chen Ye nodded, accepting the pile. “Agreed. Twenty percent.”

He didn’t complain. The deal was transactional, and the books were balanced. If he burned through his stash, he could always trade for more later.

Among the four Sequence Beyonders, Chen Ye was the only habitual smoker. But in the wasteland, personal habits didn’t dictate value.

“Hard currency,” Chu Che had called it.

Nicotine and alcohol were universal languages. Even if Chen Ye didn’t smoke a single stick, these cartons could buy information, labor, or emergency supplies from other convoys. As long as human vice existed, Chen Ye held a bank in his backpack.

“Hey, Chen Ye,” Nana called out, waving a carton of Lotus cigarettes. “When you smoke through that pile, come find me. I’ll give you a teammate discount!”

Chen Ye smirked. “I’ll hold you to that, Sister Na. Try not to price gouge me too hard.”

“Hee hee…”

Nana beamed, clearly pleased with the deferential title. The dying sun caught her silhouette, lighting up her long black hair like a halo of dark fire.

Next up was Nana’s haul.

Her primary backpack was a monster—a professional-grade, 90-liter expedition pack that would have cost thousands before the collapse. On a normal adult male, it would be a crushing load. On Nana, it looked as light as a purse.

Chen Ye eyed the suspension system of the bag. He had dabbled in hiking before the world ended, and he knew the physics involved. That bag was heavy.

Sequence Beyonders, he thought. It’s not just the specialized combat types like the Titan Sequence. The base stat boost across the board is terrifying.

Nana grabbed the bottom straps and upended the bag.

Crash.

A mountain of colorful plastic wrappers spilled onto the sand, eliciting a collective “Whoa” from the onlookers.

But unlike Chen Ye’s focused stash of vices, Nana’s loot was… eclectic.

It was a junk food bonanza: spicy gluten strips, chicken legs, sandwich biscuits, chocolate bars, and a disturbing amount of potato chips.

Chen Ye suppressed a grimace.

Potato chips. The rookie mistake of scavenging. High volume, low calorie density, mostly air. A bag of chips took up the same space as a bag of rice but offered a fraction of the survival value.

But then came the hygiene products. Toothpaste. Shampoo. Feminine hygiene supplies.

Chen Ye’s critique softened. Fair enough. Dignity was a scarce resource, too.

The women in the crowd stared at the toiletries with the same feral hunger the men had directed at the cigarettes.

Nana wasn’t done. She swung her secondary pack—a front-loader—onto the table and unzipped it.

When the contents spilled out, the crowd’s expression shifted from envy to baffled silence.

Beer.

Wall-to-wall aluminum cans. The entire pack was nothing but beer.

The silence was heavy. In a world where water was life, carrying liters of dehydrating alcohol was borderline insanity.

Ah, Chen Ye realized. I get it now.

The convoy’s elite were a collection of addicts. Captain Chu Che was a tea snob. The Sword Immortal was a functioning alcoholic. Chen Ye was a chain smoker.

He glanced at Iron Lion’s representative, Old Li, wondering what the comatose giant’s vice was.

“Boo!” someone in the back muttered, likely upset at the waste of carrying capacity.

Nana’s eyebrows shot up. She scanned the crowd, her beautiful eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “This lady loots whatever the hell she wants!”

The heckler shrank back. Nobody argued with a Sequence 2.

“I’m keeping this,” Nana announced, snatching a box of hair dye from the pile. “The rest is up for grabs.”

Chen Ye didn’t comment. If the teenager wanted to dye her hair amidst the apocalypse, that was her prerogative.

The secondary split went quickly.

From Nana’s pile, Chen Ye walked away with four 500ml cans of beer, a bag of rice, over 11 lbs of potatoes and corn, and a set of shampoo and body wash.

He looked at the bottle of body wash in his hand.

He hadn’t bathed in a month. His skin felt like it was coated in a permanent layer of grease and sand. Before the end, he had been fastidious—a shower every day, even in winter. Now, he felt rancid.

Great, he thought dryly. I have the soap. Now I just need a lake in the middle of a desert.

Finally, it was time for the main event.

Iron Lion’s backpack.

It was a massive, jury-rigged sack, stitched together from canvas and leather, clearly custom-made to maximize the giant’s inhuman carrying capacity. It took three men to heave it onto the central table.

Uncle Abao undid the clasps.

The contents spilled out, and for the first time, Chen Ye felt a spark of genuine respect.

This was a survivor’s haul.

There was no fluff. No chips. No luxury items.

It was pure, dense calories. Bricks of instant noodles. Bundles of dried noodles—round, flat, thick, thin—enough pasta to feed a squad for weeks.

And buried beneath the carbs: water.

Chen Ye’s eyes locked onto the cases of mineral water.

They were in the desert. The water they had scavenged from Apricot Blossom Town was running low. These plastic bottles were more valuable than the gold or the cigarettes combined.

And the bottles themselves…

Storage, Chen Ye noted. If we get another freak rainstorm like last night, empty bottles are critical infrastructure.

The rest of the giant’s pack was filled with canned fruit, canned meat, and sacks of grain. It was boring, heavy, and absolutely beautiful.

Chu Che looked at the pile of noodles and water, a genuine, relieved smile finally breaking his stoic mask.

“Finally,” the Captain sighed. “Someone who actually knows how to pack.”