Chapter Seventeen: The Mutant Rat Swarm?

Four figures were making their way along the highway. At the head of the group strode a tall, powerfully built man. He was clad in russet leather, a large canvas duffel slung over his shoulder, and strapped to his back was a massive, dark-gold weapon—part sword, part blade—radiating a cold menace. Another hefty pouch hung from his waist, its weight apparent in the way he moved. Following him were a woman and two men, each carrying their own pack, their steps cautious and wary. Clutched in their hands were 1954-model pistols.

These four were Liang Jing and his newly recruited followers, recently emerged from the Desheng Steel Ball Factory. As for Lü Fengsheng and the others left inside, Liang Jing, satisfied with the spoils he’d gained at the factory, was in a generous mood—at least, generous by his own standards. He let them be, believing he’d already done them a favor by clearing out the mutated monsters in the workshop. At the very least, they were no longer trapped in that cramped little office, left to their own devices.

He twirled in his hand one of the steel balls he’d taken—a sphere forty millimeters across and weighing about half a kilogram. It was as heavy as a peach and no less deadly; in the hands of an ordinary man, it could cause serious injury if thrown with force, perhaps even death if it struck the head. But in Liang Jing’s hands, with the strength of twelve men combined, the effect would be far more devastating. And with his skill, Violent Throw, amplifying the attack, the result could be catastrophic.

Come, Dai Wu in black. Next time we meet, I’ll let you taste this “peach.” I hope your body is strong enough to withstand it.

With this, Liang Jing finally had a means of long-range attack, no longer so powerless at a distance. He was well aware that Violent Throw, a golden-grade skill dropped from the golden boss Baroque’s death, was not so limited in power. In truth, it was already formidable; Dai Wu, a threat to the protagonist’s life, had achieved near-human physical perfection through modern science even before the world changed. After the mutation, his body only grew stronger, closing the gap to Liang Jing’s own strength—Liang Jing then had the combined might of eleven men, while Dai Wu was not far behind with seven or eight. Yet, even so, when struck by an eight-millimeter steel ball hurled by Violent Throw, Dai Wu’s left shoulder had been shattered, bleeding profusely. Clearly, it was Liang Jing’s own expectations that were set too high.

In truth, Liang Jing had yet to unleash the full potential of this golden skill. Violent Throw was meant for weapons like javelins; imagine the havoc he could wreak if he launched a steel javelin weighing dozens of kilos with all his might. But Liang Jing insisted on using it as a dart-thrower’s technique, and with eight-millimeter steel balls, the mass was too small for significant kinetic energy—the power was inevitably limited.

“Hurry up! We’re almost at Hualian Supermarket,” Liang Jing called back impatiently to his three followers. Since the world’s mutation, his temperament had become more pronounced—never one to accommodate others, he found their “snail’s pace” exasperating. On his own, he could be several times faster; the time wasted was intolerable.

“Alright,” came the answer.

The three trailing behind, like most modern citizens of Huaxia, were of average fitness. Only the burly Zhang Hu managed to keep up; the other two were breathless, their lungs working at a furious rate, sweat soaking their clothes. It was true—most people in Huaxia were not in good shape: either cooped up at home gaming with no exercise, or endlessly working day and night shifts with no time to tend to their health, compounded by a diet riddled with subpar, even toxic, foods. Nationally, fitness levels were among the lowest in the world.

Liang Jing hadn’t originally planned to stop at Hualian Supermarket. He figured it had already been picked clean by others; even if there was anything left, he had nowhere to store it. Carrying a few extra bags was hardly worth the trouble—not when his own inventory still held enough provisions to last several people for years. Naturally, he had no intention of revealing this secret.

Currently, his eight-slot inventory contained rice, quilts, Dove chocolate, Jinhua sausages, salt, 2009 compressed rations, the corpse of the golden Baroque, and steel balls. The pickled chicken feet had long since been discarded to make room; only a few remained in his hiking pack. Since acquiring the steel balls, he was forced to carry Sorrow of Baroque on his back at all times. His haul from the Desheng Steel Ball Factory was considerable—over two hundred thousand steel balls, each forty millimeters in diameter and weighing half a kilo. That amounted to a hundred thousand kilos—fifty tons in all. If he’d had to haul it himself, who knew how long it would’ve taken. Fortunately, he’d stashed it all in his inventory. It was a stroke of luck; few factories would ever have such vast stockpiles. The Desheng factory had just received an urgent, massive order, which explained why the elusive Lü Fengsheng had come in person to catch lazy employees.

Suddenly, something felt wrong. Liang Jing’s senses sharpened in an instant; it was as if a thousand horses were thundering toward them. He felt the air stirring around him—a current brushing against his skin as he walked along the sweltering, oven-like highway. It was a feeling familiar to anyone who’d ever waited for a train at a station: the rush of wind as a locomotive approached, even at reduced speed, a force that was impossible to resist.

Danger!

A chorus of shrill, frantic cries and a rustling like a thousand dry leaves erupted behind them. Liang Jing spun around. In the distance, a dark, surging tide was advancing—an endless sea of gray-black, flooding the road as far as the eye could see. Ahead of the wave, several figures fled desperately. Those who fell behind were instantly swallowed by the tide, their bodies vanishing beneath it. In glimpses, Liang Jing could see pale skeletons bared by the oncoming flood—terrifying, harrowing, unspeakable horror.

“Tianming, no! Wang, let’s help Tianming!” cried a young man, his face twisted with grief and rage. In his hands he gripped a steel spear, two meters long, three centimeters thick.

“Go! Run! There’s no saving him! If you look back, you die! Run, now!” roared a man even larger than Liang Jing, wielding a heavy machete. His eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming from their corners, flung away as he sprinted, shouting hoarsely at the young man.

“Help! Save me…” Another of the three, bringing up the rear, was caught by the tide. He barely had time to utter a cry before he was overwhelmed—his body reduced to shattered bone and scraps of hair, twitching feebly in the dark flood. The two survivors’ grief and anguish deepened, but neither slowed their desperate flight; a moment’s hesitation would mean death. Perhaps they would be next.

The giant in the lead, fleeing for his life, spotted Liang Jing’s group in the distance. His eyes lit up—Liang Jing was a “mutant,” after all—but the hope died as quickly as it flared. Not even a mutant could last more than a few seconds against that onslaught. He shouted, “Run! Get out of here! They’re all monsters behind us—thousands, endless, without number!”

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