CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

The night was inky black, a viscous darkness that threatened to swallow the world whole. Across a boundless wasteland, a steel behemoth of a train hurtled through the night. The clatter of its wheels against the tracks created a relentless symphony in the dark, and the carriage shuddered with every impact.

Inside, Chen Mang was curled up on a straw mat in a corner, trying to sync his body with the train's constant jolting. It was the only way to stave off the nausea—much like riding a ferry on rough seas.

The carriage was nearly pitch-black, lit only by two dim bulbs on the ceiling. There were no windows. A putrid stench hung heavy in the air—a vile cocktail of sweat, filth, excrement, and vomit. It was worse than a latrine, even surpassing that of a summer outhouse.

He had managed to claim a relatively clean spot, but despite his efforts, a sickly pallor clung to his face.

It had been three days.

For three days, his only sustenance had been two cups of gritty, muddy water and two slices of moldy bread. Nothing else.

The carriage—maybe ten feet wide and thirty feet long—was crammed with over a hundred souls. Everyone's eyes were red with starvation. If he hadn't been fiercely guarding the straw mat he sat on, the ravenous wolves around him would have devoured that too.

They were no different from zombies.

It was his third day in this new world—a post-apocalyptic wasteland where all order had collapsed.

Just then—

A hulking, ragged man reeking of filth shuffled over to him. His eyes were fixed greedily on the straw mat beneath Chen Mang. "Hey, buddy," the man rasped, "scoot over. You can't possibly use all that straw by yourself, can you?"

When Chen Mang didn't move, the man licked his lips and turned to the crowd. "Am I right, everyone? He should—"

His words were cut short.

Chen Mang exploded from his corner, slamming the larger man to the floor and pinning him. Before the man could even register what was happening, Chen Mang gripped a sharpened branch and plunged it straight into his eye socket.

Once. Twice. Three times.

After the fourth strike, Chen Mang stopped. He was low on energy and had to conserve it. The man thrashed beneath him like a chicken with its throat slit. Wordlessly, Chen Mang sat on his chest, hands clamped around his neck, squeezing the life out of him. After nearly a minute, the body went limp. Only then did Chen Mang lift his head, his gaze sharp and savage, sweeping over every single person in the carriage.

He held his stare until every last person looked away.

Only then did he kick the corpse aside and reclaim his spot on the straw mat. He forced his breathing to slow, hiding any sign of weakness or exertion.

Under the dim light, everyone had witnessed the brutal display. A dead silence fell over the carriage. The flicker of greed in their eyes died out, replaced by fear. People instinctively shuffled away.

Suddenly, in the cramped carriage, a bubble of space formed around Chen Mang.

Leaning against the cold metal wall of the carriage, Chen Mang slid the sharpened branch back under his mat. Any slower, and he would have been the one on the floor. These weren't people anymore; they were a pack of ravenous demons. The moment one person made a move, the malice in their hearts would multiply. He was a decent fighter, but he couldn't take on a whole mob.

It was his first kill. Harder than he'd expected, yet simpler too.

Truthfully, his heart was pounding, and a slight tremor ran through his limbs. But he couldn't afford to show it. Any sign of weakness, and they would swarm him like hungry wolves. The mat wasn't the only prize. His flesh—cleaner and healthier than theirs—was also a target.

The man's death plunged the carriage back into silence. No one had the energy to speak. Better to save what little strength they had. But then—

The connecting door at the end of the car swung open.

Blinding light flooded in. Three men entered, their faces expressionless. They carried batons, with pistols holstered at their waists. Their steel-toed boots stomped indiscriminately on the bodies packed onto the floor, but no one dared cry out in pain or protest.

They made a direct path to Chen Mang.

The leader glanced down at the corpse, then up at Chen Mang. "You did this?" he asked, his face devoid of expression.

Before Chen Mang could answer, the leader gave a curt wave of his hand. The two men with him stepped forward and began to rain blows down on Chen Mang with their batons, each strike delivered with brutal force.

Chen Mang curled into a ball, shielding his head as best he could. He bit down hard, refusing to make a sound.

The beating lasted for nearly a minute before the men finally stopped.

The leader stared at the silent, curled-up Chen Mang, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He let out a cold snort. "Everyone in this car is Master Kun's property," he rasped. "Killing one of them... you've got guts."

"Tough one, aren't you?"

"But it's your lucky day. Master Kun has taken an interest. From now on, you're in charge of this lot."

"They're your responsibility now. If anyone slacks off or causes trouble, it's on your head."

With another wave, one of his men ducked back into the brightly lit car. He returned with a bag of pickled vegetables, two warm, slightly moldy steamed buns, and a bottle of water, tossing them onto Chen Mang's mat.

Then, right in front of everyone, they dragged the body to the doorway and heaved it out into the night. The door slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed the carriage once more. Only the relentless clack-clack-clack of the wheels remained as the train sped toward an unknown fate.

Once they were gone, Chen Mang gritted his teeth and forced himself up. He leaned back against the cold metal wall, tore open the bag of pickles, and began to slowly eat the warm, if slightly moldy, steamed buns.

They were warm. It wasn't a delicious meal, but the warm bun and salty pickles were a world away from the cold, moldy bread he'd been eating. The moment the bun touched his tongue, his palate ached slightly—he was so dehydrated that even chewing the dry food was painful.

He twisted open the bottle of water and downed nearly half of it in one go.

One bun down. He didn't feel full, but he could already feel some strength returning to his battered body.

Chen Mang's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the connecting door. When it had opened, he'd gotten a glimpse of the car ahead. It wasn't just brightly lit; it had rows of actual seats, occupied by twenty guards or so. While he was getting beaten, they had been turned around in their seats, laughing and chatting as they watched the show.

He had guessed right.

His violent outburst hadn't just been about self-preservation. It was a calculated risk. He knew that in a setup like this, the ones in charge always needed someone to manage the grunts, and he hadn't seen anyone playing that role in this car.

He needed that position.

This position would give him access to more information. From the moment he'd been thrown onto this train and heard their destination was a mining camp, he'd gambled that the guards wouldn't kill him, even if he took a life.

After all, killing him meant losing two slaves. This way, they only lost one.

Back in the darkness of the carriage, Chen Mang could feel dozens of hungry eyes locked on the steaming bun in his hand. The sound of saliva being swallowed was a constant, desperate chorus.

But this time, no one dared to move.