The earth groaned.
It wasn't loud, but it was enough to tighten the nerves of the entire convoy. It felt as if something massive was turning over deep underground, the vibrations traveling through the muddy road and into the soles of everyone's boots.
"Hold formation! Fall behind and you're dead!"
A rough roar, accompanied by the crack of a whip, tore through the dusk's silence.
Lucien pulled his cap lower, his gaze locked on the dark treeline ahead. This refugee convoy had been crawling across the wasteland for three days like a dying snake.
"Hey, Number 103," the guard next to him, Number 98, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and tightened his grip on his compound crossbow. "Smell that? Rotten sulfur."
Lucien's nostrils flared slightly, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the grip of his rusty iron rod. "And blood."
"Damn it," Number 98 paled. "There's something big nearby."
Before his voice could fade.
Snap.
The bushes exploded. A black lightning bolt slammed into the flank of the convoy. It was a Mutant Hound the size of a sedan, muscles exposed raw under torn skin, scarlet compound eyes flashing with hunger.
"Ambush—!!"
Amidst the screams, the beast crushed an old man's shoulder with one bite. The crowd erupted into chaos, stampeding backward in a frenzy.
Only Lucien moved against the current. No shouting, no running start. He exploded forward the moment his thigh muscles tensed.
The hound caught the dark blur, roaring as it turned to pounce on this new prey.
Lucien executed a side-step in mid-air that almost defied physics. The crude iron rod, ground sharp as a razor, traced a grey arc through the air.
Thud.
The dull sound of metal slicing through bone. The massive dog head spun away, its headless body sliding several meters before crashing into Lucien's combat boots.
The world went silent. Lucien flicked the black blood off his rod, glancing at a new chip on the blade. "Cheap junk."
Number 98 ran over with his crossbow, voice trembling. "Was... was that a Tier 2 Mutant Beast? How did you do that?"
Lucien didn't answer. He grabbed the headless carcass weighing hundreds of kilograms with one arm and threw it like a sandbag in front of the shell-shocked refugees. Mud splashed. Hunger instantly replaced fear in their eyes.
Lucien pulled out a rag to wipe his weapon, his cold gaze sweeping over the crowd.
"Eat."
Night fell like a shroud.
"Light the fires! All squads, light them up!"
At the command, the dragon-like convoy lit up with countless torches. Light was their only defense, but it also made the shadows in the darkness seem even more grotesque.
Lucien leaned against a wrecked armored vehicle, static crackling from his walkie-talkie: "Zzz... Calling all scavengers. We need meat. Search radius: one kilometer."
He sighed, tucked the iron rod back into his belt, and walked into the dark.
Leaving the circle of light, the temperature plummeted. Chewing sounds filled the air, and dozens of small green eyes lit up in the ruins.
"Rats again," Lucien whispered, disgust in his voice. "At least the meat is firm."
The next five minutes were a silent massacre. He moved like a ghost, weaving through the ruins, using the hard soles of his boots for precise stomps. Every dull pop meant a Mutant Rat had been turned into paste.
When he dragged a net of dead rats back to camp, a middle-aged man nearby was staring blankly at a torn newspaper.
"What are you looking at, Old Zhang?" Lucien dropped the rats on the ground.
Old Zhang's fingers trembled as he stroked the bloodstained paper. "Look at the date, Lucien... February 3, 2200. Only half a year has passed. Back then, we were celebrating the 'East-5' landing on Neptune."
Lucien glanced at the headline. The photo showed Astronaut White in a spacesuit, waving from a blue planet. The smile was brilliant, as if humanity had already conquered the stars.
"That belongs to a dead era," Lucien said coldly, snatching the newspaper and stuffing it into the dying fire. "Neptune can't save us."
Flames swallowed White's smile, illuminating Lucien's cold profile.
"How do you think... those arsenals exploded?" Old Zhang seemed to need conversation to fend off the fear. "Every missile base in the city, gone in one night. Like someone didn't want us using thermal weapons."
"Maybe God thought we were too loud," Lucien poked the fire, sending sparks flying. "Or something wanted us to return to the primitive age. Using teeth, claws, or this piece of rusty iron."
He didn't tell Old Zhang the truth. About that night. About the golden figure floating in the sky.
"Eat," Lucien kicked the bag of rats. "This is the new era."
Dawn brought light, and deeper despair.
As the first rays of sun pierced the clouds, the ground let out a muffled groan.
"Earthquake?" Old Zhang jumped up in terror.
"No," Lucien stood up abruptly, the earth vibrating beneath his feet. "It's underground!"
Boom!
The asphalt ahead crumbled like a biscuit. A green tentacle as thick as a skyscraper burst from the soil, shooting into the sky with a spray of foul slime.
It was a Mutant Vine that defied all botanical logic. Like a furious python, it coiled around a heavy truck and crushed it flat in mid-air. The screech of twisting metal pierced their eardrums.
"Sky... Sky Class!" Number 98 dropped his crossbow. "We're dead..."
Lucien's pupils contracted. Against a monster of this level, even a hundred of him would just be appetizers.
The crowd broke. Screams drowned out the roar as people scattered like ants.
Just as the chaos was about to turn into a stampede, the raspy voice on the broadcast sounded again, trembling with fanaticism:
"Hold your ground! Warden Mountain is coming! That is his prey!"
"The Warden is coming! We're saved!"
Despair instantly turned into fanatical cheering. In this era, a powerhouse like Warden Mountain was a god walking among men.
Lucien didn't cheer. He subconsciously pressed his left arm. There lay a horrific burn scar. Whenever he heard the names of those "big shots," the scar would burn with phantom pain.
God? He sneered internally.
Memories of that night surged like poison. The burning city, the millions of abandoned civilians, and that golden figure floating in the sky—Lumen. The look in that man's eyes as he watched ants die... Lucien would never forget it.
"I will drag you all down from your altars," he swore softly.
Night fell again, the atmosphere in the camp oppressive. A woman's cry broke the silence.
Lucien frowned and turned. A hundred meters away, a dozen burly men surrounded several ragged girls, laughing unscrupulously.
"Don't be ungrateful!" A bald man slapped a resisting girl to the ground. "We protected you all the way here. Collecting some interest is only fair, right?"
Bystanders watched coldly. The law of the apocalypse—the weak didn't even own their bodies.
The bald man was undoing his belt when he suddenly felt a chill on his neck.
Lucien was standing behind him. The rusty iron rod rested lightly against the bald man's carotid artery.
"Scram."
The bald man froze. He could feel the bottomless indifference radiating from the man behind him.
"Who are you?" The bald man gritted his teeth. "I'm one of Captain Law's men..."
Squelch.
The sharp edge of the iron rod sliced through the skin. Blood trickled down.
"You're too loud."
The bald man turned pale, clutching his neck as he stumbled back. "Maniac!"
Lucien retracted his rod and walked back into the shadows without a glance.
Half an hour later, a scent of cheap perfume wafted over.
A woman in revealing clothes swayed her hips as she approached Lucien. She was Captain Law's mistress, known as The Vixen.
"You've got guts, handsome," The Vixen blew a smoke ring, her finger tracing Lucien's chest. "Daring to touch Captain Law's men."
Lucien grabbed her wrist.
"Ah!" The Vixen felt her bones creaking.
Lucien opened his eyes. His gaze was a freezing pool. "Tell your master, if he wants trouble, come himself. As for you... stay away from me."
He let go. The Vixen stumbled back, the flirtatiousness in her eyes turning to venom.
"You'll regret this," she whispered. "Captain Law is waiting for you. Tonight."
Watching her leave, Lucien closed his eyes again.
Tonight would be a sleepless one. The prey was in the net; it was time for the hunter to sharpen his blade.