Chapter 46: The Thirteenth Day, The Ruthless Hunting Machine

Life always goes on, indifferent to human will. Whether we adapt or not, whether we are happy or not, everyone lives this way.

Time is like a sharp chisel, carving indelible scars into the stone of years. The pale blue sunlight of the afternoon filtered through the window lattice, falling across his face, offering little warmth.

Ren Zhong lay quietly in his chair, savoring a rare moment of peace and comfort. He had gradually grown accustomed to everything around him, even the strange blue sun. This was his home now. He didn’t need to count; the number thirteen surfaced unconsciously in his mind. He had been in this world for thirteen days.

Each day was so full that he barely had time to remember the past, let alone wallow in self-pity. By deliberately strengthening his memory, he could recall every day, every event, every person, every beast of the wasteland, every road with perfect clarity. As a guest from a distant, immeasurable past, traversing billions of miles to this foreign land, he exerted all his energy to understand and adapt to this world. Every memory was a precious resource for survival—losing even a drop would be a pity.

Ren Zhong rose from the recliner and walked to the window. From the not-so-high balcony, he looked out over the endless shantytown stretching beyond the horizon. Now, he had blended in well, moving through life with ease, his disguise so perfect that even he was sometimes deceived. He had almost forgotten the savagery of the Hunters. Yet, when left alone, a persistent confusion and anger haunted his gaze.

Even though he was doing well, he still loathed this world from the bottom of his heart. Others’ troubles seemed distant, but the mother and son living next door were ever-present. The old woman was not lazy; every morning, she and her son would lug their heavy sewing machine to the doorway and mend clothes for others, the rhythmic clatter echoing through the street. She charged 0.02 contribution points per piece, but with a 10% transaction tax, she had to keep accounts, settling debts by having customers pay for her purchases when needed. Yet this system was fraught with pitfalls. Some customers would default. Others would die happily, debts unpaid. It was common for her to work at a loss.

As for the boy, he drifted through the town like a ghost by day, scavenging for odd jobs or pitifully sneaking into the second-hand bookstore to read. He was on his third reading of "The Gunsmith’s Survival Guide of Spark Town." Yet, for all their effort, mother and son still lived in abject misery.

Below Ren Zhong’s mansion, clusters of unruly children would sometimes gather, scribbling graffiti or using his high-grade alloy walls as makeshift goals for soccer. Then frantic parents would arrive, dragging their children by the ears, spanking them bare-bottomed under his window while casting nervous, apologetic glances at him.

Many of the mothers wore ill-fitting, loose men’s clothes, clearly hand-me-downs, their bodies swimming in empty fabric. Whenever they bent down, Ren Zhong saw too many sights—ones that were neither alluring nor simply tragic.

And now, another scantily clad woman had come. She was tall, her carelessly managed hair slightly disheveled. With a bare face, she stood in the sunlight, craning her neck, lifting her chest, showing off what little beauty she possessed. It was her eighth time appearing beneath his window. Ren Zhong knew exactly what she wanted to sell. She was not alone. There were even men—some of them. All it took was a decent prefab house, a basic exoskeleton suit, or a new motorcycle to make these people flock like moths to a flame.

This was neither noble nor base, just the means by which the masses survived. Still, Ren Zhong took no pleasure in any of it. Having seen paradise, he could not look upon hell with indifference. His anger was a constant reminder that the world should not be like this. That anger only made him more aware of how out of place he was in this world.

Avoiding the woman’s hopeful gaze, Ren Zhong clenched his fists, spun around, and returned to his room. Tonight, he would push himself to the limit.

…

Since the eighth day, he had spent five more nights out working hard. From the ninth day, he had started to slack a little. Severely sleep-deprived, he quickly fell asleep with his head against the car window.

When he woke again, the team had just finished a hunt and was getting ready to get back in the car. Wen Lei was trying to move him to the front seat.

Rubbing his eyes, half-awake, Ren Zhong asked, “You’re done already? Sorry, why didn’t you call me?”

Zheng Tian replied with a cheerful smile, “Actually, we did call you, but you didn’t respond at all. The opponent wasn’t strong, so we figured we could handle it and let you sleep a bit longer.”

Ou Youning chimed in, “Yeah. Ren, you look just like you’ve been on night watch lately. Rest easy—we can handle it. Besides, in the mornings…”

“Ahem!” Zheng Tian coughed loudly, cutting off Ou Youning.

Ren Zhong looking so sleep-deprived in broad daylight was a bit odd, but not unacceptable. There was no rule saying you couldn’t nap during the day just because you slept at night. In fact, many wastelanders, even with a good night’s sleep via their wristwatch, still lazed around their homes all day. Being awake or asleep made little difference.

Ren Zhong thought for a moment and said, “Alright, then just wake me if you run into something you can’t handle—like a nest of wasteland beasts, or a level-two one.”

“Deal!”

So Ren Zhong spent that morning relaxing with a clear conscience. Which was just as well—by noon, the professional teams would always show up to collect their so-called “coincidence tax.”

With Ren Zhong slacking off, the team’s morning hunts were naturally lackluster. The sharp Zheng Tian quickly realized he was deliberately avoiding the professional teams’ extortion. She thought it might be risky and could get them into trouble, but then again, if this was the Inspector’s own decision, perhaps being found out wouldn’t be such a big deal.

By noon, Ren Zhong had been woken only twice and was fully rested.

In the afternoon, the team’s energy rebounded, and they began another round of sweeping hunts. Today’s target was once again Mouse Cliff Hill—a seemingly endless source of wasteland beasts. No matter how many times they cleared it, the beasts kept coming back.

On the ninth day, their harvest was again abundant.

…

Everyone’s indulgence only emboldened Ren Zhong further. On the tenth day, he climbed into the car and went straight to sleep. The others even lowered their voices to avoid waking him. He slacked off for five straight mornings.

Ren Zhong’s image as a relentless striver began to crumble. Perhaps this was the kind of comfortable corruption that wastelanders would never understand—a carefree existence reserved for the privileged, one with no worries, where living well was effortless.

He had cut back his daytime activities, but the team’s overall harvest did not diminish. The reason was simple: with growing wealth, no one stood still. The team’s strength was visibly increasing.

Zheng Tian got a new gun—still level one, but heavily modified for greater precision, faster reloads, and much improved burst fire and stability. Ou Youning finally started buying all the gear he’d only ever dreamed of, taking his “art is explosion” philosophy to new heights. Bai Feng began injecting pricey new serums, the black scales on his hands gleaming ever more brilliantly. Wen Lei doubled down on armor upgrades, adding new modules and swapping in better components.

Where once they would avoid or cautiously ambush level-two beasts, now, if they found one alone, a bit of planning was all it took to take it down. Even pairs of level-two beasts were manageable with a good plan—Ren Zhong holding one at bay while the other four ganged up on the other, a flawless strategy.

One day, the team even wiped out a trio of level-two beasts. Zheng Tian kited one, Ou Youning bombed the other two, Ren Zhong dragged off the most wounded, and Wen Lei and Bai Feng held the last at bay. After a few minutes of fierce combat, Ren Zhong killed his opponent first and went to support the others. By the time Zheng Tian brought her quarry back, the chips from the other two beasts had already been extracted by Chen Hanyu.

Of course, the team’s decisive edge was still Ren Zhong—his combat skills had improved at a staggering rate. In just a few days, he’d transformed from a green rookie into a seasoned, battle-hardened veteran.

At first, his moves against the wasteland beasts were flashy and effective, but consumed much stamina and armor energy. Gradually, he returned to basics—every strike precise, every movement efficient, achieving the best results with the smallest effort.

His stats, no measurement needed, were visibly skyrocketing.

Everyone began to gossip and wonder. Such rapid progress in fighting skills was terrifying. Was some master teaching him behind the scenes? Did he really mean it when he said he sparred with friends? Ju Qingmeng ran the arms mart—she should be a munitions management graduate, not some combat expert. Who else in town could it be? The town guard captain? The mayor’s daughter, Ma Xiaoling, reputedly the strongest level-four mecha warrior in town?

As wild speculation abounded, Ren Zhong’s daily earnings averaged an astonishing 73.77 points over these five days—mornings with the team netting 30 to 50, solo nights earning 25 to 40.

But Ren Zhong felt he was making a huge sacrifice—five nights without using his wristwatch to sleep meant he missed out on five contribution points of guaranteed startup funds. It pained him.

…

Everything was going smoothly, but now, in his room, Ren Zhong decided to go all out once more. It was five o’clock in the afternoon on the thirteenth day. After another successful hunt had been cashed in, his personal assets had reached the staggering sum of 430.66 points. But he was still 257.34 points short of buying "Sid Meier’s Armor Insights."

At this pace, there was no way he could raise the funds before the professional title assessment on the evening of the fifteenth day. He had considered slacking off—there was no need to push so hard. But his anger at the world had sharpened his vigilance.

He didn’t know when or how he might die. He could never forget the cold, indifferent expression on Bei Lihui’s face as he blasted him to pieces. That haunted him more than any beast or Hunter could, sending chills over his skin every time he recalled it.

He lacked any sense of security. If he didn’t fight desperately to get ahead, even survival would depend on luck and the whims of others.

Determined to obtain "Armor Insights" this time, he would not allow himself to slow down. Day trading had been shelved for now. Only after securing the book would his anxiety subside.

If he really wanted to take it easy, he could have chosen an easier path—slack off for a while, then end it all cleanly. Next time around, he’d cut all unnecessary expenses, hang on with the team for ten or fifteen days, play the stock market for some quick cash, then use the proceeds to buy "Armor Insights." Simple and sweet.

But Ren Zhong refused. His motto as a student had been, "What can be learned today must not be left for tomorrow." Now it had changed to, "What this life can accomplish must not be left for the next. If possible, I’d rather not die even once."

He pulled out his auxiliary onboard computer and began compiling information on the level-two wasteland beasts he’d encountered and spared, planning his route and strategy for the night.

Yes, he was going to challenge the wilds alone—and at a higher level, no less.

Forty minutes later, he got up, went downstairs, and rode his motorcycle straight to the arms mart.

“Manager Ju, here’s my shopping list. Thank you.”

Ju Qingmeng looked at the items: “A high-frequency plasma dagger, sticky acid spray, demolition fishing net… Mr. Ren, what are you planning to do with all these strange gadgets?”

Ren Zhong didn’t know how to answer. “I have some… unusual hobbies.”

“Oh… Mr. Ren, you really know how to have fun. But if your opponent is a professional, ahem… be careful not to kill anyone. And don’t let others find out.”

Ju Qingmeng got the wrong idea. Another over-imaginative gossip. This world is hopeless, thought Ren Zhong. Let it all burn.