A final, jerky video of a young woman dancing finished downloading onto Michael's smartphone. As the notification flashed, a separate, more profound sensation clicked into place within his mind: a cool, silent certainty that the portal had cycled through its cooldown period and was once again dormant and ready. He glanced idly at the phone's screen, where a folder now bulged with over a hundred such… educationalvideos. A grim, pragmatic smile touched his lips. He had every confidence that Lynda and Faye, once they'd studied these… ahem… richly illustrative materials, would significantly improve the production quality of their future recordings.
Satisfied, he pocketed the device and nimbly hauled himself up into the cab of the small truck. The moment he swung the door shut, a wave of putrid, stomach-churning air—a thick cocktail of souring garbage and rancid decay—assaulted his senses, forcing him to grimace and pinch his nostrils. Miscalculation.A serious one. During the frenzied collection run with the formidable 'Auntie Fatty,' who had negotiated with the ferocity of a warlord, he'd inadvertently acquired a surplus of slop barrels. Not only was the truck's cargo bed filled to bursting, but three additional, reeking containers had been forced into the passenger footwell. The resulting aroma was uniquely offensive, a testament to overzealous procurement.
Gritting his teeth and holding his breath, Michael turned the key. The diesel engine coughed to life. Simultaneously, he reached out with his will and nudged the newly stabilized portal into activation. Without a second to lose, he slammed the gearshift into drive and steered the groaning vehicle towards the shimmering, invisible threshold just ahead of the hood. In the seconds before the telltale light of translocation flared, he closed his eyes, a practiced ritual by now. But this time, his mind, instead of emptying, raced with a tumble of anxieties.
Foremost was the truck itself. Its payload capacity was laughably inadequate. This trip, hampered by a tight budget, had been lean. Had he purchased all the necessary supplies, he'd have needed a vehicle twice the size. The cost of a proper heavy-duty truck was a looming, unknown dread. Did that used car saleswoman, Xiao Juan, have anything affordable on her lot? He should have called her. Something with better off-road capability was essential; a larger truck would be impossible to push over obstacles. And a larger truck necessitated a larger warehouse. The solution was simple, in theory: rent the adjacent unit from the logistics park management and knock down the wall. The reality was the demand for a six-month rent prepayment—an absurdity! Surely, given their… familiarity… they could negotiate it down to three months?
These chaotic, mundane worries swirled in his head as he felt the familiar, nauseating twist of spatial distortion. He floored the accelerator. A moment later, the Wasteland greeted him with its own special brand of stillness and dust.
Stepping out of the makeshift lean-to that served as a garage, Michael was immediately met by a voice. "Hail, Lord Harry Potter! May your gold coins pave the floors of your chambers!" It was Onil, the dark-skinned warrior, his teeth a brilliant white against his skin, a grin splitting his face. He was slinging a heavy Garand rifle over his shoulder while casually resting a hand on the hilt of a katana. Well, well,Michael thought, a genuine flicker of amusement cutting through his fatigue. After all this time, they've finally figured out I have no use for bottle caps.He found it almost endearing that they attributed his preference for "useless pretty paper notes" to the eccentricity of a great man, a quirk to be humored.
The successfully delivered sycophancy lifted his spirits. "At ease," Michael said, his voice rough from swallowed dust. He fished in his pocket, his fingers closing around two fruit-flavored hard candies—the kind given as pesky change in supermarkets—and tossed them to the man. "A little sweetness for your trouble."
Onil caught them as if they were diamonds, his grin widening impossibly further. "My thanks, Lord!"
"Report," Michael commanded, brushing past him. "What news since my departure? Anything of note?"
"The news? Plenty, Lord! The good kind, mostly," Onil said, falling into step beside him, unwrapping one of the candies with reverence. "The wounded… I'd say eight out of ten are still breathing. Those who didn't die on the spot are showing strong signs of recovery. Also, Zach, Old Gimpy, and that pointy-eared fella, Richard, they've all woken up." He paused, his expression clouding slightly. "But those folk with the black hair and eyes, like yours… they haven't returned. You don't think they meant to cheat us, to make off with the van, do you?"
The words sent a jolt through Michael—a mixture of profound relief and sharp anxiety. The resilience of the Wastelanders was staggering. He'd been hopeful, but an eighty percent survival rate, with only saline washes and cool compresses as treatment, bordered on miraculous. The survivors would be tougher, hardened. And the awakening of his key lieutenants and the mysterious archer was the best possible outcome. The anxiety was reserved for Zhang Tiezhu and his men. He refused to believe they'd abscond over a beat-up minivan; without fuel, it was less useful than a bicycle. He decided to table that worry for a day or two.
"Gather a few trustworthy hands," Michael ordered, his tone brisk. "Unload the truck. There's a pedal tricycle in there. Don't stow it away. It's a gift, a token of my gratitude for Richard's intervention. Once the unloading is done, we will pay a visit to our… guest. My own men can wait."
Onil's eyes widened comically at the mention of gifting a tricycle. The sheer extravagance of it seemed to rob him of speech. For a moment, a wistful, almost pained look crossed his face, as if he were thinking, If only I'd had a leader this generous in my youth. With a tricycle, I could have charmed any woman, instead of ending up with my battle-axe of a wife.He simply nodded, a gesture of deep respect, and hurried off to assemble a work detail.
Ten minutes later, Onil was pedaling the brand new, slightly cumbersome tricycle with a peculiar mix of pride and awkwardness, Michael seated in the cargo basket behind him. Their destination was a relatively intact shack on the southwestern edge of the settlement, where the half-elf Richard was convalescing. The man had regained consciousness just long enough to request a patrol retrieve his wife and daughter from their hiding spot several kilometers away.
The ride, though short, was a spectacle. Onil, under the gaze of envious onlookers, felt like the most important man in the Territory of Meili. Were it not for the fear of a reprimand—or a boot—from his Lord, he would have gladly taken the long way around the entire perimeter. All too soon, they arrived. Onil, under Michael's pointed gaze, reached out and knocked gently on the weathered door.
It creaked open after a moment. The woman who stood there, no longer shrouded in a protective cloak against the harsh sun, was slender, with features that held a delicate, almost ethereal sharpness. Beside her, peeking from behind her legs, was a girl. Even by Onil's own pragmatic standards—which favored broad shoulders and thick arms, the hallmarks of a good laborer—he had to admit they were striking. The girl, in particular, was like something from a pre-Collapse storybook, a delicate doll with sharply pointed ears that betrayed her mixed heritage. Too skinny,Onil thought critically. No strength in those arms. Wouldn't last a day in the fields.
Michael, however, clearly did not share this assessment. He clambered out of the tricycle basket, his face breaking into an expansive, uncharacteristically warm smile. "Well, hello there! What a utterly charming young lady! Your name is Annie, isn't it? Come here, my dear, don't be shy! Let your Uncle Harry have a look at you!" His voice was booming, overly cheerful.
A sense of profound foreboding washed over Onil. He knew that tone. It was the sound of impulsive, extravagant generosity. His suspicions were confirmed instantly.
"Blast it all!" Michael exclaimed, slapping his forehead with theatrical dismay. "The大人 has come empty-handed! No gift for my new favorite girl! This simply won't do… Onil! Those candies! The ones I just gave you. Hand them over. Immediately."