"Damn it! Why am I in a coffin?"
"Uncle Qin, are you kidding me? You swore tomb raiding was safe! Said all that ghosts-and-gods nonsense was just superstition!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Anybody out there? Even a friendly ghost—I don't care! Just let me out. I'd rather freeze to death than rot in here! Ch-ch-chatter—"
Lin Xinghai's teeth clattered uncontrollably. The coffin wasn't wood at all—it felt like solid ice, the cold stabbing straight into his marrow.
He should never have gotten greedy. Sure, Uncle Qin promised any antique in this tomb could sell for hundreds of thousands, but what good was that if he froze to death?
If he could do it again…
He'd have hired a proper tomb raider, not tagged along blind.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He pounded on the lid, knowing it was useless but unable to lie still and wait for the end.
Creak!
The lid suddenly cracked open.
Blinding light spilled in, stabbing his eyes. A voice thundered above him:
"Damn it, the thaw cycle's not even done yet! You trying to reincarnate early?"
Lin Xinghai froze.
A figure loomed over him—heavily armed, armored head to toe. A soldier? No, impossible. Soldiers were supposed to look steady, disciplined. This guy's expression screamed: I'm about to deck you for existing.
Before Lin Xinghai could react, the world around him registered.
He wasn't in a coffin—it was some kind of high-tech capsule. And above—was that a drone? Flying with someone standing on it?
Thud. Thud. Thud. Heavy footsteps shook the floor.
Turning his head, he saw a towering machine stride past. Metal plating, humanoid form—like a miniature Gundam straight out of anime.
Then—pain.
A needle jabbed into his arm, pumping glowing red liquid into his veins. The coffin itself had sprouted it. Heat surged through him, chasing the cold away.
A mechanical voice droned from the soldier's wrist projector. A holographic screen shimmered to life, displaying his details:
"Lin Xinghai. Earth Federation, Huaguo District, Linhai City. Entered Refuge No. 83 in 2200 AD. Entered cryosleep in 2210 AD due to energy depletion. Age at dormancy: 21. Genetic rating: B. Training potential: acceptable."
"B-rank genes, huh?" The armored man grinned. "Kid, wanna join my mercenary group? We're always short on—uh—warriors. Stick with me, I'll cover you. Name's Roger."
Lin Xinghai blinked. "Yeah, sure. 'Cannon fodder,' I heard that slip."
But his brain was spinning too fast to dwell on it.
That file—aside from the name—wasn't his.
Wait… did he just… cross over?
Two hundred years into the future?
His head felt like it was stuffed with glue. He barely remembered climbing out of the capsule and glimpsing rows of identical pods—cryosleep chambers, not coffins. Roger herded him toward an armored troop carrier with reinforced plating.
One by one, more survivors were loaded onto the carrier until it was full. The heavy hatch slammed shut, lights flickered on, and everyone's eyes turned toward Roger.
He leaned against the wall, smirking. "Alright, pigs, listen up. We're leaving Vault 83. Before we roll out, here's the situation topside."
"Who the hell are you calling a pig?" A hulking two-meter brute shot up, glaring at him.
Roger casually walked over, drew his pistol, and pressed the barrel against the man's cheek. "All of you. Every single frozen sleeper. That's what the outside world calls you—white pigs. Problem with that?"
The big man's face flushed with rage, but the cold muzzle silenced him.
Roger swept the crowd with his eyes. "Don't take it personally. It's not my insult—it's just what survivors call you cryo relics."
The word apocalypse dropped into the air like a stone, and the cabin went tense.
"What? The catastrophe's still not over? Wasn't the Earth Federation supposed to rescue us?" someone asked, voice shaking.
Roger barked a short laugh. "Rescue? The Earth Federation's been dead for years."
The cabin erupted in gasps. Lin Xinghai sat blankly, still trying to figure out what the Earth Federation even was.
Roger went on. "Technically, the catastrophe ended a year ago. Temperatures stabilized, and the floods receded. But the ecosystem's ruined. Worse—new predators rule the surface. Man-eating monsters. We call them zombies."
Piece by piece, the picture came together in Lin Xinghai's mind.
2200 AD—population exploding, resources collapsing, nations on edge. World War III nearly broke out, but cooler heads formed the Earth Federation. Warp drive tech matured, humanity looked to colonize the stars.
The migration never happened.
Instead, disaster struck.
Meteor showers killed one-tenth of the population in a single night. Polar ice melted, and seas swallowed lowlands. Tornadoes tore across continents. Then came the decade-long freeze.
That was the Catastrophe. Humanity burrowed underground to survive.
But days after Vault 83 sealed, the real horror appeared—creatures of blood, impossible to kill. Blow them apart, and they reassemble. Worse, their virus twisted every living being into shambling corpses. Zombies.
Roger smirked, crossing his arms. "That's your new world. Hard to imagine from just words, I know. But don't worry—our road to Starshield Refuge is long. Plenty of time for you white pigs to see it firsthand."