Thirty-five thousand Contribution Points had appeared out of thin air in his personal account.
The number made Han Feng's mind buzz.
'I'm rich!'
This huge sum was enough for him to buy out all the junk he had his eye on in the Airplane Graveyard.
He could fly in the sky until the end of time, fly until his engines melted!
But before that wild joy could even rush to his head,
a trembling cry came from a female team member at the rear of the convoy, her voice strained and unnatural.
"Captain! Brother Wang... he's gone!"
The scene fell silent in an instant.
The lively atmosphere vanished without a trace.
The smile on Han Feng's face froze.
He looked toward Feng Biao.
The big man's body went rigid.
The hand that had been reaching for a cigarette froze in mid-air.
Two seconds later,
he slowly drew his hand back.
He wiped it forcefully on his dusty pant leg.
"Oh."
Feng Biao responded, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"The wound was too big. The jostling of the vehicle just now tore an artery. We couldn't stop it."
Sister Ling's voice, mechanical and numb, drifted over from a distance.
"Understood."
Feng Biao turned and looked at the armored vehicle carrying the wounded.
The door was ajar, and several guards were silently and slowly zipping up a black body bag.
No one spoke.
And no one cried.
Their movements were so practiced it was heartbreaking.
Moving the body.
Cleaning the bloodstains.
Inspecting the vehicles for damage.
Someone even found the time to check their ammunition and re-oil the cold chamber of their gun.
Han Feng stood to the side, unable to find any words, watching it all unfold in silence.
To him, the deceased Brother Wang was just a name, a symbol.
He didn't feel any grief.
But he could feel a certain pressure.
It was the Law of the wasteland—cold and direct.
Out here, death wasn't the end; it was just part of the process.
The departure of a companion wasn't even enough to make them stop checking their equipment.
Because the living had to keep on going.
Feng Biao pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.
His lighter went CLICK, CLICK a few times, but it just wouldn't light.
He cursed, slammed the cigarette onto the ground, and crushed it under his heel.
"Take Old Wang's dog tags, and his portable music player. His daughter likes it."
Feng Biao said to Sister Ling, his voice hoarse.
"Already taken care of."
Sister Ling patted a small pouch on her waist.
"Good."
Feng Biao nodded, turned around, and walked back toward Han Feng.
The light in his eyes had dimmed considerably, and he was shrouded in an indescribable exhaustion.
"Sorry you had to see that, little brother."
Feng Biao pulled at the corners of his mouth, his smile ugly and strained.
Han Feng shook his head, not bothering with useless platitudes like "my condolences."
In front of a man like this, any attempt at comfort would be pale and powerless.
"In our line of work, ending up in a bag is just a matter of time."
Feng Biao turned, waved to his team members, and his voice regained its harsh edge.
"Don't just stand there! Check the vehicles, load the cargo! We move out in ten minutes!"
"This place reeks of blood! If you don't want to end up as dog food, then get a move on!"
"Yes, sir!"
The team members responded in unison, their voices holding the ferocity of those pushed to the brink.
Grief was swiftly packed away, hidden in the depths of their hearts, replaced by the instinct to survive.
This was the reality of the wasteland.
Human life was as cheap as grass. To be alive was the greatest victory.
Feng Biao looked at Han Feng one last time, his massive, fan-like hand clapping heavily on his shoulder.
He was incredibly strong.
"Little brother, looking at your age, you must be a student at the Martial Arts University, right?"
"Take a piece of advice from an older brother."
Feng Biao pointed to the silent vehicle carrying the corpse behind him, then to Han Feng's battered Initial Training-3.
"Now that you have money, get rid of this piece of junk."
"Doesn't matter how good your skills are. If your gear can't keep up, you're just heading for a dead end."
"You only get one life."
With that, Feng Biao didn't linger.
He strode back to the convoy and waved his hand.
"All units, listen up! We're leaving in five minutes!"
"No one falls behind!"
His voice had returned to its former crisp, cold professionalism.
Only Han Feng noticed that as he turned, his broad back seemed to sag just a little.
The roar of engines sounded once more.
Several off-road vehicles, riddled with bullet holes and dents, kicked up a cloud of dust and sped toward East Sea City, never looking back.
Leaving Han Feng alone on the empty highway.
The wind whipped up sand and dust, stinging his face.
The bloodstains on the ground hadn't yet dried, and the bodies of the five Iron-Winged Crows had already been efficiently carried away.
Everything that had just happened felt like an illusory dream.
But it had taught Han Feng a lesson in the cruelest way possible.
In this world, only having enough power was the fundamental basis for survival.
"The wasteland..."
Han Feng muttered to himself, his gaze holding not a trace of confusion, but instead a clarity he had never felt before.
Without further hesitation, he climbed back into the cockpit.
He piloted the damaged aircraft, slowly ascended, and began the return trip to the Airplane Graveyard.
...
「Airplane Graveyard.」
When Uncle Sun saw the wobbly Initial Training-3 land with a huge hole in its wing, he forgot to even put down the teacup in his hand.
He darted over in a single bound and circled the plane, the wrinkles on his face twisting into a knot.
"You little brat!"
Uncle Sun was about to let loose a stream of curses, but when he saw the look on Han Feng's face, he swallowed all his words.
Han Feng jumped down from the plane, his face pale—a side effect of over-expending his Qi Blood.
But his eyes had changed.
Gone was their previous ease, replaced by a cold and firm resolve.
"Ran into some tough customers?"
Uncle Sun asked, his tone holding less blame and more curiosity.
Han Feng nodded.
"Took down five Iron-Winged Crows. A Mercenary died in front of me."
Uncle Sun was stunned.
He looked Han Feng up and down, a complex expression flashing in his cloudy eyes.
He didn't ask for details about the fight, nor did he bring up the damage to the plane again.
He silently pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and lit it with a slightly trembling hand.
"Hmph. Dead men."
He took a deep drag, and the smoke he exhaled blurred the wrinkles on his face.
"In this godforsaken place, when does a day go by that someone doesn't die?"
The old man's voice had a rusty quality to it.
He walked over to Han Feng, and his hand, covered in calluses and grease, clapped heavily on his shoulder.
"Kid, figured it out?"
Han Feng gave him a slightly surprised look.
"I can tell just by looking at your eyes."
Uncle Sun tossed the half-smoked cigarette butt to the ground and viciously crushed it out with the tip of his boot.
"Before, when you came here, kid, your eyes were full of play."
"Today, they're full of blades."
He looked up at Han Feng, his gaze more serious than ever before.
"This old man doesn't know why you love flying this thing so much."
He pointed at the battered plane.
"But listen to an old man's advice: you can't make a living just by flying a plane."
"Instead of burning money on this, you'd be better off buying some cultivation resources and focusing on your martial arts practice."
"In this era, the only way to live like a proper human being is to be strong enough yourself. Understand?"