Huh? Where is this?"
A shack?
Could it be… I had a high fever from the flu and hallucinated everything?
Tang Wen's head pounded like war drums. The nausea, the vertigo—it all swirled together. He groaned and nearly slumped back down. Should I just rest today? Skip work?
It's only 150 yuan…
But even that thought felt distant, disconnected—alien.
"No, forget it… I should still go…" he muttered, instinctively reaching for the familiar.
Tang Wen grumbled to himself, "Earn money in Nanzhou, spend it in Nanzhou… Don't even think about taking a penny home." The phrase tumbled out of his mouth like muscle memory as he pushed himself upright—only to freeze mid-motion.
The head of the bed?
It didn't feel like wood. It felt like… grass.
His eyes snapped open. He was instantly stunned.
Faint morning light crept through gaps in the ceiling—no, not a ceiling, a makeshift roof. A shed roof. The light was uneven, filtered through patched leaves and dried reeds.
Through the dim glow, he took in his surroundings.
A triangular space. Rough, uneven. A primitive hut barely qualifying as shelter. A tent-shaped lean-to constructed of twine, mud, and woven foliage. No furniture, no mattress. Not even a single stool.
The walls? Hardened clumps of dirt, mottled with decay and moisture. The door was a joke: a few jagged planks haphazardly tied together with twisted vines and bent nails.
To the side sat a crude earthen stove, just a mound of clay and brick, its surface cracked and flaking. An iron pot rested on top—rusted, blackened, but still a pot. Somehow, its presence brought Tang Wen a shred of solace. At least there was something resembling a household item.
The ground was layered with dry straw, yellowed and poking. That's what he'd been sleeping on. Near him sat a couple of unevenly shaped pottery jars, sunbaked and coarse. Primitive.
Then he spotted it.
In the opposite corner, hunched in shadow, a figure.
Long hair. Frail frame. A girl?
No—a woman.
A very thin woman. Malnourished. Fragile.
Buzz.
His temples tightened.
Memories surged. A torrent crashing through his mind.
That girl—she was the older sister of this body.
This wasn't a fever dream.
This… was the wasteland world.
A place where civilization had long since shattered.
A world ravaged by an unnatural shift in the ecosystem. Rivers ran dry. Forests turned to dust. Cities crumbled.
With order lost, people reverted to ancient survival—fishing, farming, bartering, hunting. Every bite of meat came at a risk to one's life.
Even the air had changed. The environment warped both beasts and humans, unlocking strange, sometimes violent awakened abilities.
The camp they now lived in? It had been carved out of chaos by an overwhelming force—a woman known only as the Flame Queen. She ruled the camp with absolute authority, her name whispered with awe and fear.
Tang Wen's new body was that of a frail fourteen-year-old, stuck in the outermost fringe of the camp. No status. No skills. Not even awakened.
The only thing the previous soul had possessed was a childish fantasy—a delusional hope that the stunning Flame Queen would one day notice him.
As more memories slotted into place, Tang Wen's expression grew darker.
The original owner's greatest wish?
To kneel naked before the Flame Queen and offer himself.
Tang Wen winced.
The memories were vivid. Too vivid.
Had he… really transmigrated?
Grimacing, he pinched his forearm—hard.
Pain flared. Real pain.
This was real. All of it.
He had become a sickly, underdeveloped child trapped in a hellish wasteland—with a sister even weaker than him, and nothing but dry grass and cracked clay to call home.
Why?
Why had he been thrown into this broken world?
He lay there on the straw, overwhelmed by a tide of bitterness. His eyes blurred. Tears spilled silently, flowing into his neck and leaving a tickling trail.
As he reached to rub his face—
The air in front of him shimmered.
A soft, translucent gray screen materialized from nothing.
[Name: Tang Wen]
[Age: 14 years, 9 months]
[Strength: 0.3]
[Spirit: 0.7]
[Skills: Farming Mastery (719/1000)]
His heart skipped a beat.
A system?
He stared at the data. No change. No flicker. Not an illusion.
Was this his golden finger?
Before he could even test it—
Bang!
The wooden door rattled violently.
A coarse voice boomed, "Still alive in there? Then get out here!"
Tang Wen's breath caught. He slowly sat up. No way to hide. The ramshackle door had visible gaps, and the dirt walls were practically transparent under daylight.
"I-I'm coming!"
A trembling voice whispered behind him.
"Xiao Wen…"
The girl—his sister—was curled up, arms around her legs, body shaking.
Her voice was like cracked porcelain.
Tang Wen sucked in a breath, turned to the door, and unlatched the wooden stick holding it shut.
Outside stood a bearded brute, thick arms crossed, impatience written across his face. Behind him, two knife-wielding guards flanked him like wolves. On the brute's armband: two large, crude characters stitched in white—
Management.
Tang Wen immediately recognized him: Brother Li.
He hunched over, voice submissive. "Brother Li, good morning."
"Good morning, my ass! Where's next month's rent?"
Rent?
In this dump?
His mind raced. But the memories rushed in again—and his stomach sank.
They did charge rent here—not for the hut, but for the privilege of not dying in the wild.
Fall behind, and you were out.
Out into the wasteland. Where mutated beasts roamed. Where scavengers hunted their own kind. Survival rate: zero.
The Flame Queen's camp was brutal, but it had rules—rules she enforced without mercy. No stealing. No killing. Inside the camp, there was order.
Outside? Anarchy. Cannibalism. Blood.
Tang Wen and the girl would be devoured within a night.
"Cat got your tongue?" Brother Li growled. "No rent, no camp. Get lost!"
"Yes, yes, I have it!" Tang Wen blurted, voice cracking. "I'll go get it!"
"Ten pounds of grain," Brother Li said coldly. "Not even half a pound less."
Tang Wen darted back inside. His sister was crying silently, her thin arms tightening.
Avoiding her gaze, he knelt and parted the straw. Beneath it: two jars, sealed with burlap. He shook them.
One was full. The other—half.
Seven pounds of millet in one, three in the other.
Exactly ten pounds.
But it was everything they had.
If he gave it away, they'd have nothing to eat.
His lips tightened.
He picked up one jar. From beneath the grass, he retrieved an iron rod, about half a meter long.
He returned to the doorway.
"Brother Li," he said, hands trembling, "I only have seven pounds of rice. I'll offer this to make up the rest. It's forged iron."
Brother Li grabbed the rod, tested its weight with a smirk. Tang Wen bowed lower.
The rod hovered ominously above his skull.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't even lift his eyes.
Clang!
It tapped his shoulder. Not hard, but enough to sting.
He staggered.
"I'll spare you this time," Brother Li sneered.
"Thank you, Brother Li, thank you!" Tang Wen said, voice shaking.
"Just this once."
"Of course, of course…"
The guards took the jars, dumped the millet into their sack.
Brother Li pulled out a red seal, grabbed Tang Wen's wrist, and slammed it down.
A stamp. Done.
Tang Wen watched them move to the next hut.
Only after they vanished did he look down at the back of his hand.
A red circle. Inside, two bloody characters: October.