Translator: AnubisTL
Under the cloak of night, the train continued its relentless journey into the distance. Chen Mang sat in the swaying carriage, his mind adrift. The rhythmic clattering wasn't the sound of wheels on rails, but the earth itself. Over the past few days, he'd noticed something peculiar: this train wasn't running on tracks at all, but simply gliding across the ground, a truly unique mode of transportation.
Suddenly—
"Hmm?"
Chen Mang paused, startled. The birthmark on the back of his hand, a constant companion, felt unusually hot. He glanced down and saw a translucent panel materialize before him.
"You have survived for three days. Activating the Train Conductor Panel."
"Newbie Reward obtained: a gls Pistol with 18 rounds of 9mm ammunition."
"Newbie Train Conductor Missions triggered:"
"Mission 1: Acquire your own train within three months. Reward: Unknown."
"Mission 2: Within three months, recruit three thugs and acquire ten slaves. Reward: Unknown."
"Mission 3: Within three months, kill ten zombies. Reward: Unknown."
"The faster you complete these missions, the greater the rewards."
"Upon completing all three Newbie Train Conductor Missions, the full Train Conductor Panel will be officially unlocked."
The strikingly futuristic scene before him left Chen Mang momentarily stunned. The pale white glow of the panel was particularly jarring in the pitch-black carriage, and he instinctively scanned his surroundings.
Yet no one else seemed to notice anything unusual.
It was as if...
the panel was visible only to him.
"..."
Chen Mang remained silent for a long time before finally lowering his head to examine the birthmark on the back of his hand, which was no longer burning. He gently traced it, lost in thought.
His name was Chen Mang.
He had chosen it himself, having grown up in an orphanage without ever knowing his parents. The unique birthmark on his hand resembled the Chinese character "莽" (Mang).
Over the years, he had often wondered if it was a memento left by his estranged parents, which had inspired his name.
But he never imagined that this lifelong companion would reveal its purpose in this strange world. Perhaps his parents had already transmigrated here, forced to abandon him but leaving this token behind?
A wry smile crept across his face as he shook his head, dismissing such absurd notions from his mind.
After some experimentation, he roughly figured out how to use the panel. It materialized or vanished at his will. When he placed his hand inside his coat, he felt the solid weight of a brass-handled gls Pistol and a stack of bullets.
The reward had indeed arrived.
But there was a problem.
He tucked the gls Pistol into the back of his waistband, concealing it beneath his clothes, and stuffed all the bullets into his pockets. Only after securing everything did he breathe a sigh of relief. This reward wasn't entirely good news.
If the thugs in the next carriage discovered that a slave like him possessed such a weapon, the consequences would likely be dire.
Even with perfect marksmanship, he couldn't possibly withstand so many thugs in a direct confrontation. Moreover, the heavy weaponry mounted on the train posed the real threat—no pistol could counter that.
Once we reach the mine...
I'll find a secluded spot to examine this more closely.
That's the plan.
Lost in a daze, he felt the train rumble on for what seemed like four or five hours. As the eastern horizon began to lighten with the pale glow of dawn, the train gradually slowed down, finally coming to a halt in the middle of the desolate wasteland with a metallic clang.
The next moment—
BANG!
The carriage door burst open. A group of thugs in steel-toed boots, pistols holstered at their waists, and batons in hand stood shouting angrily at the entrance. They herded the slaves out of the carriage, while designated guards handed each of them a pickaxe at the door.
Every slave received one.
Only three men were exempt: Chen Mang and two other burly men from the slave cars, who looked distinctly fierce and menacing. They were clearly designated as overseers.
"Everyone, line up straight!" a furious roar shattered the morning air.
The slaves, weakened and huddled together, crowded onto the desolate wasteland. Chen Mang and the two other overseers stood at the front of their respective groups. The middle-aged man who had recently led the group to "teach Chen Mang a lesson" was now perched atop a carriage, assigning tasks.
Chen Mang casually surveyed his surroundings, savoring the cool, fresh air that invigorated his senses. After three days trapped in the stifling carriage, its nauseating stench had worn down everyone.
He wore a thin jacket over a short-sleeved shirt and long pants. The morning chill of the wasteland seeped into his bones.
The wasteland stretched endlessly in all directions—a barren expanse devoid of trees or ruins, its cracked earth looking desolate. Beside him, a small earthen mound, no more than a few meters high, had a distinct mine cave carved into its sloping side.
This must be the mine.
The operation was clearly non-compliant, with almost no safety measures in place. Their survival depended entirely on luck.
Meanwhile, the middle-aged man in steel-toed boots, standing atop the carriage, had finished assigning tasks. Three slave teams would enter separate zones of the mine to begin excavation. But first, each slave needed a full meal.
Thugs dragged out several crates of moldy bread slices and muddy water from the carriage and began distributing them.
The slaves eagerly craned their necks, stood on tiptoe, and lined up to receive their rations, terrified the food would run out before their turn.
That day, each slave received ten slices of bread and three cups of water—far more than their usual meager rations. They needed to be well-fed before undertaking such strenuous labor.
The three slave leaders, however, received six warm, moldy steamed buns each, along with two packets of pickled vegetables, two bottles of mineral water, and a walkie-talkie.
While they worked underground, the train and thugs would remain stationed outside the mine cave. In case of an emergency, they would contact the leaders via walkie-talkie, who would then need to evacuate all the slaves as quickly as possible and flee back to the train.
After the announcement dismissing them for free time, with instructions to eat quickly and head into the mine,
The slaves scattered, finding spots on the ground to devour their food.
"Here," Chen Mang said, turning to the middle-aged man who had been shadowing him. He tossed him a steamed bun and half a packet of pickled vegetables before settling into a quiet corner himself.
He chewed slowly and deliberately. He wasn't particularly hungry, having eaten a late-night snack not long ago. But in the wasteland, every meal was a blessing, and maintaining his strength was always wise.
As he casually observed the other two slave overseers, he murmured, "Do you have a name?"
"Thank you, Big brother! Thank you so much!" The slick-looking middle-aged man carefully accepted the warm bun, showering Chen Mang with gratitude. When he heard his newly acknowledged Big brother ask for his name, he paused briefly before whispering with barely concealed excitement, "Big brother, I'm called Old Pig."
"Old is your surname?"
"Yes, yes, it's quite uncommon."
Chen Mang shook his head, chuckling softly. "What kind of parents name their child Pig?"
"When I was little, my family was very poor. My parents hoped I'd live happily like a pig—never worrying about food or drink, waking up naturally every day."
"My mother had intellectual disabilities. She lost all four limbs in a car accident when she was young and only married my father after they met. He was deaf and mute and worked manual labor on construction sites."
"We lived in an abandoned shipping container."
"My mother died in a fire shortly after I was born while she was home alone. My father fell from scaffolding and died when I was nine."
"But thinking about it now, maybe it's better they're gone."
"If they had lived to see the Apocalypse, their suffering would have been unbearable."
"..."
The smile on Chen Mang's face slowly froze. He didn't say anything, just expressionlessly took another bite of his steamed bun and chewed.
Old Pig, however, remained cheerful, a wide grin still plastered across his face.
In the Apocalypse, names carried significant weight. Asking someone's name was a preliminary step toward acknowledging their existence, a form of initial acceptance. For instance, the thug leader on the train had never bothered to ask big brother's name.
After all, what was the point of knowing the name of someone who could be replaced at any moment?
(End of Chapter)
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