The highway stretching across the grey plains was an eerie monument to a world that had theoretically ended just weeks ago.

Occasionally, the dim glare of the convoy’s headlights would catch the ragged, stumbling silhouettes of low-level zombies wandering aimlessly near the guardrails—their flesh decaying, their movements sluggish and clumsy.

Thankfully, at this early stage of the cataclysm, most of the infected were far too slow to pose any real threat to a moving vehicle. The heavy transport trucks didn’t even slow down, effortlessly leaving the grasping claws behind in the grey mist.

The landscape was empty, marred only by occasional patches of loose gravel, windblown debris, and the dark, static shapes of abandoned vehicles parked neatly along the shoulders. The apocalypse had stripped the world of life, leaving it preserved like a pristine, concrete museum of the pre-collapse era.

Inside the SUV, Han Zheng tapped a finger against the leather steering wheel, "There’s a registered agricultural village three miles off the secondary grid-road," Han Zheng stated, his deep voice cutting through the silence. "It’s a localized farming hub. If there are any supplies left in this district, they might be there."

Lin Qing sat calmly in the passenger seat, her left shoulder wrapped tight beneath her shirt. Her posture was relaxed, her high pain tolerance allowing her to handle the steady throb of her fresh stitches without a single flicker of discomfort on her deadpan face.

"Take the detour," she said flatly, her eyes tracking the empty horizon. "The local rural centers might not have been entirely picked clean by large-scale factions yet. Most refugees are still fleeing toward the military bases."

Han Zheng spun the steering wheel, turning the heavy three-vehicle convoy off the highway and onto the secondary road leading toward the settlement.

Minutes later, the village emerged from the grey mist. It was a picturesque, quiet settlement composed of neat, modern brick houses, concrete barns, and wide fields of winter wheat that had simply been left to wither.

The convoy pulled to a smooth halt in the center of the village square. Four soldiers stepped out of the transport trucks with fluid military precision, immediately establishing a rigid, outwards-facing defensive perimeter around the heavy baggage vehicles.

Han Zheng and Lin Qing stepped out of the SUV, their heavy combat boots crunching against the pavement. "Search the residential houses first," Han Zheng ordered the squad over his short-wave radio. "Look for tool kits, preserved canned goods, or intact water canisters."

The squad moved out, systematically checking the surrounding structures. Ten minutes later, the reports crackled back through the earpieces, all carrying the same conclusion: the houses were entirely empty. The pantries had been cleared out, the wardrobes were stripped of heavy winter clothing, and the garages were devoid of tools. The villagers had clearly executed a rapid evacuation when the first cataclysm alerts had dropped, packing their lives and fleeing.

"Nothing left in the houses, Commander," Old Wang reported, leaning against the frame of a clean, empty brick farmhouse. "They probably took everything that wasn’t bolted down before they hit the road."

"There’s still the general store," Lin Qing noted, her gaze locking onto the largest commercial building at the end of the paved square. It was a sturdy, two-story concrete cooperative shop with a faded green sign reading ’Village Agricultural and Supply Center’.

The glass front doors were still relatively intact. Han Zheng pushed the door open, the small metal bell above the frame letting out a clean, cheerful ’ding’ that sounded unnervingly loud in the absolute silence of the dead village.

Inside, the store was completely bare. The metal shelves had been wiped clean. The cash register sat open and empty under the dim natural light filtering through the windows.

Lin Qing walked down the center aisle, her eyes scanning the dust on the linoleum floor. But beside her, Han Zheng suddenly froze. His frame stiffened, his jaw locking as his high-tier sensory awareness picked up a minute anomaly in the immediate airspace.

"Breathing," Han Zheng whispered, his voice dropping into an icy, barely audible register. "Subterranean level. Multiple targets. At least twelve people."

Lin Qing didn’t hesitate. Bypassing the empty display cases, her eyes locked onto a heavy, rusted iron counter at the very back of the store. The thick dust on the floorboards around the counter was heavily disturbed, showing faint, circular scrape marks that didn’t match the general pattern of a frantic evacuation. Together, she and Han Zheng gripped the edge of the heavy counter, sliding it aside with a dull, scraping screech.

Beneath it lay a cleverly concealed, heavy wooden trapdoor, fitted with a flush iron ring-pull. It was a standard storm and storage cellar, built sturdy and thick.

The moment Han Zheng wrapped his massive fingers around the iron ring and yanked the trapdoor upward, the heavy click of a weapon echoed from the darkness below.

"Step back! Take one more step down those stairs and I’ll put a bullet straight through your skull!"

A harsh, booming voice exploded from the depths of the underground room. Standing at the foot of the concrete stairs was a man whose presence radiated a fierce, unyielding toughness. This was Guo Jiong. He was a broad-shouldered, weather-beaten hunter, his face hardened by years of tracking in the northern foothills. He wore a heavy, thick canvas hunting jacket, and his large, calloused hands were completely rock-steady as he raised a hunting rifle, the barrel pointed squarely at Han Zheng’s chest.

Behind Guo Jiong’s fierce, protective silhouette, the dim amber glow of a battery-powered lantern revealed a dozen terrified villagers huddled together on stacks of blankets. They looked visibly worn and exhausted by the sudden collapse of their world, but they weren’t malnourished; they had clearly been surviving off the basement’s hidden reserves.

"We are armed, and we have nothing left for you to steal!" Guo Jiong bellowed, his eyes flashing with a brave, desperate defiance as he stared up at the imposing military uniform of the Commander. "Turn around, close that door, and get out of our village!"

Despite the heavy hunting rifle locked onto them, Lin Qing didn’t draw her weapon, nor did her expression shift a single millimeter. She stood at the top of the stairs, her calm, flat voice cutting through the hunter’s aggressive adrenaline with precision.

"We are not here to loot your sanctuary," Lin Qing stated smoothly, her tone entirely devoid of threat. "We are an independent military convoy passing through. We are not violent, and we do not require your personal belongings. We are here strictly to trade."

Guo Jiong’s finger remained firmly on the trigger, his sharp eyes scanning her tactical gear, her bandaged shoulder, and the massive, radiating aura of the dual-awakened man standing beside her. He could tell within a fraction of a second that if these people wanted to slaughter his village, his single hunting rifle wouldn’t stop them. Yet, his posture remained fiercely unyielding.

"Trade?" Guo Jiong scoured, his voice tight with deep skepticism. "What could a military unit possibly want from a bunch of hiding farmers? And what could you possibly have that we need? We don’t need your luxuries."

"We have high-grade, sealed military rations. Pristine, uncontaminated bottled water and medical supplies," Lin Qing replied flatly, laying out her cards with mechanical efficiency. "In exchange, we require seeds. Non-hybrid, heirloom agricultural seeds of any variety you have preserved."

The moment the word ’seeds’ left her mouth, the tense, aggressive stance of the hunter noticeably wavered. Behind him, a low, frantic murmur erupted among the hiding villagers.

To the survivors trapped in the basement, the crates of seeds stacked against the back wall were completely useless. The apocalypse was only weeks old; the soil was highly unstable, the regional weather patterns were entirely unpredictable, and they were currently in no position to clear fields, construct irrigation, or wait months for a harvest while trapped in a cellar.

They couldn’t eat raw seeds. But medicine, water, and instant, calorie-dense military rations? That was the literal difference between life and death before the month ended.

Guo Jiong lowered the barrel of his rifle by a fraction of an inch, his tough face tight as he weighed their sincerity. "You truly have antibiotics? Real medical packs? Not the expired civilian stuff?"

"Step outside and verify the inventory yourself," Han Zheng said, his deep voice carrying an absolute guarantee.

Ten minutes later, the trade was executed with a seamless, quiet efficiency. Guo Jiong had cautiously walked out to the square, his eyes wide as he verified the pristine condition of the military ration crates and the sealed surgical antibiotic packs Old Wang brought down. Seeing their honesty, the tough hunter’s caution transformed into a profound, heavy gratitude.

He led Han Zheng and Lin Qing into the deep, cavernous rear sections of the concrete basement, where dozens of heavy burlap sacks were neatly organized. "Take them," Guo Jiong said, his voice gruff but sincere as he handed them a series of smaller, reinforced canvas bags. "These are pure, non-hybrid heirloom strains of winter wheat, root tubers, and medicinal flora. We kept them for the next spring cycle, but at this rate, we won’t live to see the spring without that medicine. Take a generous amount of everything."

Han Zheng nodded silently, his massive strength allowing him to easily hoist three heavy bags of grain onto his shoulders to carry them up to the transport trucks. Lin Qing followed closely behind, her dark eyes scanning the dim perimeter of the subterranean room as they walked past the villagers’ sleeping quarters.

In the furthest, darkest corner of the concrete cellar, a small, makeshift cot was set up beneath a heavy woolen blanket. Lying on the cot was a frail, seven-year-old girl, her pale face slick with sweat as she shivered violently, her breathing ragged and shallow. It was Guo Jiong’s daughter.

Guo Jiong quickly set down his share of the traded supplies, his tough, weathered face cracking with a sudden, heartbreaking desperation as he rushed to the cot. With trembling fingers, he tore open one of the freshly traded military antibiotic packs, desperately pulling out a high-density liquid medication vial to administer it to his weeping child.

"She’s been burning up for three days," the hunter muttered hoarsely, his fierce bravery completely vanishing in front of his dying daughter. "This medicine... this will save her."

He raised the vial to the little girl’s dry lips.

Slap!

Before the liquid could touch her mouth, Lin Qing’s right hand shot forward like a flash of lightning, her fingers clamping down around Guo Jiong’s wrist with an iron, unbreakable grip that instantly froze his movements mid-air.

Guo Jiong’s eyes snapped upward, a sudden, dangerous surge of protective rage igniting in his chest as he glared at the woman. "What the hell are you doing?!" he roared, trying to wrench his arm free from her grasp. "Let go of me! She needs the medicine!"

Lin Qing didn’t flinch, her dark eyes staring directly into the desperate father’s face without a single shred of emotion.

"Stop," Lin Qing said, her voice echoing with an absolute, chilling certainty through the silent basement. "If you give her that compound right now, her respiratory system will collapse. She will be dead in five minutes.".