Months ago, mobile phones had turned into useless bricks.

Later, after the fall of Shanghu, the radios fell silent, catching nothing but static.

The survivors in the convoy were effectively blind and deaf to the outside world. They had no idea what was happening beyond the horizon.

So, when Chu Che revealed he had obtained intelligence on another convoy, it came as a shock.

Perhaps this was a unique ability of the Pathfinder Sequence.

It was just a guess, of course. Chen Ye’s understanding of the Sequence system was still in its infancy. With hundreds of potential Sequences, each granting unique powers, anything was possible.

Chen Ye didn’t ask how Chu Che made contact.

Just as Chu Che didn’t ask how Chen Ye—who clearly wasn’t a Mechanic Sequence Beyonder—could transform a rusted tricycle into a heavy-duty Doomsday Pickup.

As Chu Che had said, in this apocalypse, everyone had secrets.

Chen Ye didn’t even suggest avoiding the strangers.

First, the convoy was critically low on water. Without a fresh source, trading with another group was their best survival strategy.

Second, contact meant intelligence.

Without the internet or satellite networks, information was the most valuable commodity after food and water. What was the global situation? Did the government have contingency plans? Were there established Survivor Bases?

For people accustomed to stability, this migratory life was a living hell. Only by settling down could they restart production, rekindle the spark of civilization, and perhaps eventually retake their cities.

The convoy might look stable, but it was practically an isolated island drifting in a sea of sand.

Contact was dangerous, yes. But for water and answers, it was a risk worth taking.

Chen Ye spent some time inspecting Chu Che and Sun Qianqian’s vehicles.

Neither car had major mechanical failures, but the sandstorm had forced grit into every crevice. Fortunately, they caught it in time. In the wasteland, a minor issue ignored today became a fatal breakdown tomorrow.

The desert remained an oven.

Heat waves distorted the air, turning the distant dunes into rippling mirages.

Captain Chu’s modified off-roader led the formation, maintaining a steady, unhurried pace. Faint thumping bass leaked from his closed windows—music.

It was enough to make anyone jealous.

Chen Ye looked at his own ride. Not only was it technically a wreck held together by the System, but it also lacked a roof. He was baking in the sun while Chu Che enjoyed AC and tunes.

Among the entire fleet, his Doomsday Pickup looked the most dilapidated. The others might be dented and scratched, but at least they were whole.

Occasionally, Chu Che would stop to get his bearings, sometimes doubling back to retrace the morning’s path.

Supplies were tight. The convoy had cut rations to two meals a day.

The few members who had been overweight at the start of the journey had long since shed their bulk. Now, everyone looked like a refugee—gaunt, malnourished, and thin as bamboo poles.

In the apocalypse, no one needed a gym membership to lose weight. Hunger did the work for you.

The morning congee had burned off hours ago.

Chen Ye found a small, dry roll in the backseat and nibbled on it slowly to make it last. He drained the last drop of water from his bottle, moistening his cracked lips. He wasn’t full, and he certainly wasn’t quenched, but he couldn’t bring himself to crack open a fresh bottle of mineral water.

He carefully stowed the empty plastic bottle. Even trash was a resource now.

Lighting a cigarette, he took a drag to soothe his nerves. The heat made people irritable; the nicotine kept the edge off.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw it.

The Elderly Mobility Scooter.

Dozens of people had died in the sandstorm. Proper off-road vehicles had been buried. Yet this flimsy, boxy electric tricycle—what the locals called an “Old Man’s Joy”—was still there.

It was trailing steadily behind his pickup.

The luggage rack on its roof wobbled precariously, looking like it would collapse at any bump, yet it defied gravity and held on.

Chen Ye held the cigarette between his teeth, staring at the bizarre sight.

That thing ran on a small battery. It should have died days ago.

Yet the old man driving it was alive. The car was moving.

While younger, stronger survivors had perished, this old man was living comfortably.

There is definitely something wrong with him, Chen Ye concluded.

But Chen Ye had no intention of investigating.

This was the apocalypse, not a horror movie. In those films, the protagonists always investigated the creepy noise or the mysterious stranger, and they always ended up dead.

Knowing the old man was suspicious was enough.

Chen Ye’s choice was simple: stay far away and observe. Until he knew the old man’s bottom line, he wouldn’t make a move.

5:00 PM.

Captain Chu signaled for the convoy to halt behind a massive dune. The slant of the setting sun provided a few precious hours of shade.

Dinner was served. It was plentiful enough to fill the stomach, but dry.

The water shortage was affecting everything.

The regular survivors were in bad shape. They received only a mouthful of water a day—just enough to keep their organs from failing. Their lips were split and bleeding, their bodies shriveled like withered flower buds.

Chen Ye spotted Xu Lina.

When the woman saw him, she forced a dry, cracking smile.

“Do you… want a sip?” Chen Ye asked, shaking his half-empty water bottle.

Xu Lina’s eyes locked onto the bottle like a starving wolf. Her throat bobbed.

But then, with visible effort, she shook her head.

“I know… your supplies are low too,” she rasped, her voice like sandpaper. “I’m not thirsty yet.”

God only knew how much willpower it took to say those words.

But Chen Ye understood. She didn’t want a sip of water.

She wanted the passenger seat of the Doomsday Pickup.

There was an idiom: “If one does not covet small gains, they must have great ambitions.” Xu Lina was the living embodiment of it.

Compared to the other women in the convoy who traded dignity for a piece of bread, Xu Lina was playing 4D chess. She was investing in a long-term asset.

Chen Ye gave her a deep, appraising look, but said nothing.

As for the incident with Sun Qianqian the other night, the entire convoy knew about it. Yet Xu Lina didn’t send a single resentful glance his way.

Even stranger, Chen Ye and Sun Qianqian acted completely normal. They spoke professionally, efficiently, as if they were just colleagues.

This lack of drama was torture for Captain Chu, whose eyes burned with the fire of gossip, but he found nothing to feed it.

The night passed without incident.

The countdown on the Pickup’s upgrade timer was ticking away. By Chen Ye’s calculation, it would finish by evening.

The morning migration began.

Chen Ye noticed the pink-haired girl returning to the convoy, drenched in sweat.

Had the “High School Alcoholic Delinquent” evolved into the “High School Motivated Warrior”?

Judging by her exhaustion, she had spent the entire night practicing her sword forms.

Since the incident, Sun Qianqian had changed. The booze was gone. She spent every spare moment training or meditating in the car, according to her cousin Little Yu.

Before they set off, Iron Lion finally woke up.

His external wounds had closed, but his complexion was sallow.

“The Human-Faced Scorpion’s poison is nasty,” Iron Lion rumbled, his voice muffled and thick. “It won’t kill me, but I can’t circulate my energy properly. I’m operating at half capacity.”

“How long to recover?” Chu Che asked.

“At least a week.”

“A week…”

The group fell silent.

According to Captain Chu, they were very close to the other convoy.

They had been maneuvering carefully, trying to find an approach that wouldn’t attract Anomalies. Two convoys meeting meant a massive heat signature and noise footprint.

Entering a potential negotiation—or conflict—with their heavy hitter, Iron Lion, out of commission was dangerous.

The day’s travel was erratic. Captain Chu led them in zig-zags, seemingly trying to avoid certain areas while correcting course toward a specific rendezvous point.

Finally, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, a notification chimed in Chen Ye’s mind.

[System Notification: Vehicle Power Upgrade Complete.]

Chen Ye let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The upgrade was done. The system task slot was free.

Now, he could finally begin the deduction for the cultivation method.