The chat channel blazed with unprecedented fervor.
In the early stages of the post-apocalyptic island survival game, even the slightest disturbance could seize everyone's attention—let alone the news of someone trading survival supplies.
According to the game's rules, the starting islands were utterly devoid of food and water. This design was intended to compel all players to embark on their island drift as soon as possible.
Yet such drifting carried immense peril.
No one could say for certain what terrors lurked within the fog-shrouded wilderness of the outer islands.
As the number of active players dwindled, fewer and fewer dared to set sail toward the unknown.
Everyone knew what going offline truly signified.
It meant death—utter, irreversible death.
Most players thus remained rooted on their initial islands, clinging to the hope of a miracle, praying for rescue.
What they lacked most was sustenance—food and clean water.
With those two essentials, they could continue to eke out a fragile existence on their starter islands.
So when Meng Hao's trade notification appeared, the collective excitement was palpable.
"Someone's trading survival supplies—instant noodles and bottled water!"
"My god, look at his inventory—ten tubs of noodles, ten bottles of water!"
"How did this guy, Meng Hao, manage that? How could he have so many supplies?"
"Must be some top-tier player!"
"He wants iron ore? What's that supposed to mean?"
"No clue. What kind of game is this—are we supposed to start mining now?"
"I'm broke. Can I trade on credit?"
The regional chat boiled with chatter. Though they possessed nothing, people clung to the fantasy of acquisition.
Meanwhile, private messages began flooding Meng Hao's inbox.
"Brother Meng, will you take cash? I'll give you fifty million for a tub of noodles!"
"Meng, my man—I'll pay a hundred million for a single bottle of water!"
"Meng-gege, I want it so badly… If we meet up, I'll do anything you ask!"
"Hey handsome, you must recognize me—I'm that trending pop sweetheart. Give me one bottle of water, and I'm yours."
"Lord Meng, I'm begging you—please, just one bowl of noodles. I'm starving!"
"Grandpa Meng, a drop of water, please—I'm dying of thirst."
…
On the drifting island, Meng Hao moved slowly into the mist, his brow gradually furrowing.
The flood of private messages overwhelmed his game interface, bursting across his screen.
Among them were names he recognized—celebrities, tycoons, government officials.
Most pleaded pitifully, hoping to trade money for supplies.
Others, confident in their looks, tried to seduce him with beauty.
Meng Hao ignored them all.
He was no savior—he did not possess enough resources to rescue the masses.
What he needed now was iron ore. He was determined to forge weapons to protect his family.
No iron ore, no trade.
He immediately muted all private messages and turned his attention away from the chaos.
After the upgrade, his island's drifting speed seemed to have increased.
Roughly ten minutes later, the island slowed as another emerged from the mist—an uncharted mass roughly two kilometers across.
It lay shrouded in heavy fog, its details obscured.
The entire island was cloaked in haze.
Moments later, the two islands gently drew near. They halted at a ten-meter gap—silent, without a ripple of motion.
At the same time, the red directional arrow on his base island turned green. The status now read: 1/3.
[Uncharted Island Reached. Do You Wish to Land?]
The prompt glowed in blue, awaiting Meng Hao's choice.
This time, he hesitated.
During his last landing, at least part of the island had been visible, allowing him to prepare.
This time, the island remained entirely veiled.
What if, the moment he stepped ashore, a horde of zombies rushed him?
Gripping his 98K tightly, Meng Hao felt a pang of anxiety.
As far as he could tell, the island's mist would only lift upon landing.
But once he confirmed the action, there would be no going back.
He glanced at his drift status—he had one more attempt left today.
In the early phase of the game, every drift opportunity was precious.
To squander it through hesitation would be a bitter regret.
"Screw it. I've got a 98K. If death greets me at the door, I'll shoot my way into a new world."
After a brief deliberation, his resolve was firm.
"Land!"
Meng Hao tapped the blue prompt.
At once, a stone bridge two meters wide extended, linking the two islands.
The instant the connection was complete, the fog on the opposing island began to dissipate, revealing the terrain beneath.
Scorched earth. Charred woods. Crumbling buildings. Abandoned vehicles.
It resembled the ruins of a post-apocalyptic city.
But Meng Hao had no time to study the surroundings—for two zombies had already turned to face him.
"Sh*t!"
He cursed instinctively.
Though mentally prepared, coming face-to-face with two zombies sent a jolt of fear through him.
They had already spotted him. Less than ten meters separated them—one leap, and they'd be on top of him.
Without hesitation, he raised his 98K and fired.
Bang!
-100 HP
One zombie dropped instantly. The other shrieked and lunged at him.
"Roar!"
Its terrifying howl shook the air. Meng Hao could feel the foul wind stirred by its charge.
Its dark claws reached for his neck—mere inches away.
The stench of decay enveloped him, dulling his senses.
"Poison?"
Panic flared, but he forced himself to remain steady. His fingers moved swiftly—bolt, load, raise, fire.
Bang!
Point-blank. The bullet blew its skull apart like a ruptured melon. Black blood sprayed across Meng Hao's chest.
-100 HP
The zombie collapsed. Its deadly claws slackened. Its headless body thudded heavily to the ground.
Meng Hao leaned against the stone bridge, gasping for air.
His heart pounded wildly. His veins felt frozen. His clothes were soaked in cold sweat.
Too close.
Had he hesitated even a second, he'd be a corpse beneath those claws.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly looked up.
Across the island, glimmering amongst the wreckage, were treasure chests.
His furrowed brow relaxed.
A smile even crept to his lips.
Heh.
Fortune favors the bold—the ancients never lied.