Chapter Two: The Scavenger’s Bargain

The howl of the Corrupted finally faded on the seventeenth floor, as if something else had captured its attention. Tao Zui remained hidden behind the toolbox for a full ten minutes, only daring to move once she was certain that absolute silence had settled in.

She didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she took a small scrap of cloth from her backpack, moistened it with a makeshift disinfectant—rainwater mixed with sterilization tablets—and meticulously wiped the tip of her rebar spear. Her grip had been so tight a moment ago that sweat from her fingertips might compromise the weapon’s effectiveness.

Caution was another secret to her survival.

After slinging the rebar across her back once more, she continued downward. This time, she moved faster and with heightened vigilance. Every few floors, she paused to listen for any sign of movement, only proceeding when she was certain it was safe.

By the time she finally reached the first-floor lobby, there was a faint pale glow on the horizon. The acid rain had ceased at some point, the metallic tang in the air had lessened, but the ever-present scent of decay seemed stronger than before.

The lobby was a scene of devastation—collapsed ceiling panels, shattered floor tiles, and several withered skeletons scattered in various corners. Sunlight filtered through the broken dome overhead, casting fragmented patterns of light and shadow that made the place appear all the more desolate and forbidding.

Tao Zui didn’t pause. She quickly crossed the lobby and slipped out through a side door that had been forced open.

Outside was a narrow alley, choked with piles of refuse and abandoned items. She navigated these obstacles with practiced ease, moving as agilely as an antelope.

She was heading for one place—the Rust Market.

It was the largest black market in the region, the only place where scavengers could trade goods and exchange information. She needed to barter what little hard currency she possessed for more food and medicine; with luck, she might even secure some ammunition.

Of course, she carried nothing resembling traditional currency. In the post-apocalypse, the most valuable items were clean water, unexpired food, medicine, weapons and ammunition, and certain precision components from the old world.

Her “hard currency” consisted of two Corrupted Cores—crystal-like stones the size of pigeon eggs, found within the chest cavities of the Corrupted. They were hard and emitted a faint glow in darkness. Though useless in themselves, it was rumored that the research departments of some large settlements were buying them for unknown purposes. That didn’t matter; what mattered was that they could be exchanged for supplies.

She had risked her life for these two cores only days ago, prying them from the corpse of a mature Corrupted. She had nearly been surrounded by others, drawn by the commotion.

After passing through three alleys and climbing over a wall more than two meters high, Tao Zui arrived at a relatively open space. Once a vast parking lot, it now served as the Rust Market.

Dozens of makeshift stalls fashioned from scrap metal and wooden planks dotted the ground, each piled high with goods of dubious origin. Scavengers in ragged clothing milled about, their faces a mixture of wariness, apathy, or greed. They exchanged glances, speaking only in low, distrustful voices.

The air was thick with an unpleasant mélange—burnt food, cheap alcohol, sweat, and blood.

Tao Zui’s arrival drew immediate attention.

It wasn’t her attire—there were plenty here in worse shape. What drew stares was the mask on her face.

Few wore masks in the Rust Market. Those who did were either formidable figures wishing to remain anonymous, or shady types afraid of being recognized. And for someone with a clearly feminine build like Tao Zui, covered so completely, it was even rarer.

A few predatory gazes lingered on her, brazenly raking over her figure. Even with the oversized work jacket, her slender form was unmistakable.

She was long accustomed to this. With an impassive face, Tao Zui ignored the looks and strode straight toward the deepest stall in the market.

This stall was larger than its neighbors. A rusted sheet of iron hung at the entrance, two crooked red characters scrawled across it: “General Goods.”

It was the largest general store in the Rust Market, run by a middle-aged man known as One-Eyed Dragon, rumored to be an ex-soldier with access to good merchandise and a reputation for cunning.

As she reached the entrance, a burly, scar-faced man blocked her path.

“What’s your business?” he growled, eyes hard and unfriendly.

“Trade,” Tao Zui replied, her voice muffled but steady behind the mask.

Scarface looked her up and down, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. “Take off the mask. Maybe the boss will give you a better deal.”

A few low laughs sounded nearby.

Tao Zui’s eyes turned cold as she gripped the rebar at her back. She didn’t move, only fixed Scarface with an icy stare. “Move aside.”

“Heh, got some attitude, haven’t you?” Annoyed, Scarface reached for her mask. “Let’s see what you’re hiding under there—”

Before his hand could reach her, a rough, calloused hand seized his wrist.

“Third Brother, don’t cause trouble,” a raspy voice called from inside the stall.

Scarface—Third Brother—immediately withdrew his hand, his aggression fading as he spotted the newcomer. “Dragon,” he muttered.

Tao Zui looked up, seeing a one-eyed man emerge from the stall. Clad in a black leather jacket over an army green t-shirt, with a black eyepatch over his right eye, his left was clouded yet sharp as he sized her up.

This was One-Eyed Dragon.

“This way, please,” he said, his tone unreadable as he stepped aside.

Tao Zui nodded briefly and entered. The inside of the stall was much larger than it appeared, with supplies organized by type: food, medicine, guns and ammo, tools and parts—all showing signs of wear or damage.

One-Eyed Dragon followed her in, signaling for Third Brother to stand guard outside.

“What do you want to trade?” Dragon asked, settling into a battered chair and lighting a cigarette. The scent of cheap tobacco filled the air.

Without preamble, Tao Zui retrieved a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth from her backpack, placed it on the table, and unwrapped it.

Two pigeon-egg-sized crystals, glowing faintly blue, lay before them.

Dragon’s eye narrowed, a glint of interest piercing the usual haze. “Corrupted Cores. Mature ones, too.” He picked one up, turning it between his fingers. “Good quality.”

“Food, medicine, and ammunition,” Tao Zui said. “Seven days’ worth of compressed rations, a box of broad-spectrum antibiotics, and… a working handgun. At least thirty rounds.”

It was a steep demand. While Corrupted Cores were valuable, exchanging them for so much—especially a gun and ammo—was difficult. In the apocalypse, firearms were the hardest currency and the most coveted weapons.

Dragon exhaled a plume of smoke, smiling faintly. “You’re ambitious, girl. For these two, you get three days of food, a box of anti-inflammatories, and as for the gun…” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

“They’re pure,” Tao Zui replied evenly. “Untainted. I harvested them only yesterday. You know what that means.”

If exposed to air or pollutants too long, a Corrupted Core lost its luster and became worthless. Fresh, pure cores fetched much higher prices.

Dragon drummed his fingers on the table, weighing his options. At last, he nodded. “Five days of rations, a box of antibiotics, an M1911, and twenty rounds. Final offer.”

The M1911—a classic of the old world. Effective, but with a low capacity and rare parts. Still, better than nothing.

“Thirty rounds,” Tao Zui insisted.

Dragon studied her for a moment, searching her eyes, but ultimately sighed. “Deal.”

He fetched the requested items from the shelves: five days’ worth of compressed rations in a small bag, a sealed box of antibiotics, a handgun wrapped in cloth, and loose rounds.

Tao Zui checked everything carefully—no expired food, genuine medicine, a functioning handgun, proper ammunition—before packing them away.

“A pleasure doing business,” Dragon said, pocketing the two cores.

She offered no reply, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Dragon called after her.

Tao Zui paused, wary, and looked back.

He gestured to her mask. “Wearing that out there keeps some trouble away, but it also makes you a target. The Hyena Gang has been active nearby—they love preying on loners, especially… women.”

The Hyena Gang was notorious, infamous for their brutality, greed, and utter depravity.

Tao Zui’s eyes flickered, but she said nothing and walked out.

She knew Dragon was telling the truth. But she had no choice. Far more terrifying than the Hyena Gang was the thought of what might follow if she ever removed her mask.

By the time she left the Rust Market, the sun was higher, shrouded by thick clouds but offering a hint of warmth.

She didn’t return directly to her hideout. Instead, she circled to a back alley behind the market to ensure she wasn’t being followed.

After half an hour in hiding, certain she was safe, she set out.

Her return route was different—more concealed, but also more dangerous, cutting through an abandoned residential district where Corrupted were rumored to roam.

Danger, after all, often meant safety—few scavengers dared tread such paths.

The area was in utter ruin. The apartment buildings were tilted, crumbling, their walls pockmarked with black stains and bullet holes. Weeds grew waist-high along the road, rustling with hidden movement.

Tao Zui moved even more quietly, eyes scanning every shadow. Her right hand gripped the newly acquired M1911—the cold metal offering a sliver of comfort.

As she reached a crossroads, she caught a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision—a shadow at a second-floor window in a nearby building.

Her heart clenched. She stopped and turned.

The window was empty.

Had she imagined it?

She frowned, staying alert. In a place like this, even the smallest anomaly could mean death.

She took two cautious steps back, planning to skirt the building.

Suddenly, a piercing scream split the air, followed by the heavy thud of something falling inside.

Tao Zui’s pupils contracted.

A human voice.

And—it sounded like a child.

She hesitated.

Second rule of survival: mind your own business.

This was more important than the first. In this world, compassion was the most dangerous and costly luxury. Risking oneself for a stranger was pure folly.

She told herself to leave, to pretend she’d heard nothing.

But the scream echoed in her ears, saturated with terror and despair.

A blurry face surfaced in her mind—a little girl from her childhood neighbor’s family. They’d been close, but in the chaos of the Great Cataclysm, the girl had been trampled to death by a panicked crowd.

Tao Zui’s hand trembled.

Taking a deep breath, she made a decision—one that went against all her survival rules.

She gripped her M1911, crouched low, and crept cautiously toward the building.